Hey nice Jewish boy
What are you doing here?
Hey nice Jewish boy
Nothing for you here, go home.
Hey nice Jewish boy
You go see some nice Jewish girl.
Hey nice Jewish boy
Go home.
It had never been clear to me who Meir Ariel was singing those lines to. An American soldier, a new immigrant come to relieve him on watch? Himself?
And when I wrote them in the dedication, in Hebrew letters, I wasn’t sure who I was writing to: Benjy? Myself? Both?
—
I saw him a week ago, the boy. At the Binyamina train station. There’s that moment when the doors open, and the people on the platform wait until the flow of disembarking passengers stops.
He was the last one off, wearing a uniform and red paratrooper boots and carrying a rifle, holding his cell to his ear and speaking.
He looked like he belonged. Did you ever do anything you’re ashamed of?
The first intifada broke out when I was in the officer training course. They sent my company to the territories and returned us to base, then sent us to the territories again and returned us again. That went on for thirty-five days, during which we never saw home. Even worse, I never saw Tali Leshem. I’d pursued her for the entire last two years of high school, and she’d finally let me catch her only a few months before I went into the army.
Which is what caused the first year of my army service to consist mainly of finding ways to go home so I could see her.
The moment when this story takes place, I felt—as I do now, with Dikla—that Tali was going to leave me.
Something in her voice was clouded over (we spoke on pay phones, there was no WhatsApp or texting).
Her letters kept getting shorter.
When I asked her if she was tired of waiting, she said no, but her tone said, Yes, I am.
In short, I felt that I had to see her, or else I would lose her.
But we had no leaves. For thirty-five days. And I felt I would go crazy. Go fucking AWOL. Nothing else mattered.
And then, on a Thursday, the platoon commander issued an order. Three members of the platoon, chosen by a lottery run by his current aide, could go home.
The aide was Dror, a career soldier from the navy who slept in the bunk above me. He was a few years older than us. Someone you could trust.
He waited until we were in the personnel carrier that would take us to field training, sat down in the seat closest to the driver, facing us, and asked each of us to write his name on a slip of paper and hand it to him. Then he put all the slips of paper in a hat and mixed them up.
I’ve never won a lottery. For years, my sister used to buy me scratch cards, and the only time I won—I won a free scratch card.
I had no expectations from that lottery. If anything, I had a feeling of defeat foretold.
And then Dror chose the first slip of paper and read out my name.
I was so happy. I could have jumped with happiness. I hadn’t felt such a sense of freedom and relief very often in my life.
The minute we got out of the van, Dror started walking toward me, and then took advantage of a moment when we were far away from the others and said: So, are you happy?
You bet I am, I said.
Great, he said. Thanks to me.
I turned pale. What do you mean, thanks to you?
When I folded the pieces of paper, I folded yours so it would be larger than the others. That way I could find it more easily.
But why?
I heard you talking to Sabo the other day about your girlfriend. I thought you needed this leave more than anyone else.
Thanks, I said. But I felt a heaviness in my heart. Because in terms of the officer training course, he had committed an offense, and had made me, against my will, an accomplice.
In the officer training course, only three things are important to your commanders: Trustworthiness. Trustworthiness. Trustworthiness.
Not only in the course. My father—I had never heard him lie or scheme.
The whole business ran counter to who I am.
What should I do?
During the night between Thursday and Friday, the guys from the platoon teased me about my good luck. After lights-out, Sabo came to my bunk and asked if I could take a letter he wrote to his mother, who was hospitalized. His brother would come to pick it up. I said, Yes, bro, sure. And I couldn’t fall asleep all night. Should I expose the deceit and get Dror into trouble, or should I go home at the expense of one of my friends? That is, go along with the deceit?
Friday morning I got up, dressed, and went home.
I wanted so much to go home.
But then, when I reached Haifa, the pressure apparently got the better of me and I just broke down. All that Saturday, I got out of bed only to eat. I ate very little and hurried back to bed. My parents understood that something had happened, but didn’t dare ask me. Tali Leshem came to visit me. I told her about the lottery and she didn’t understand what the big deal was. At her post in the administrative office, dirty pool was par for the course, she said. Later we had sex, but she didn’t come and got up quickly to shower. Then she hurried back to her parents’ house. And didn’t kiss me goodbye. She called Saturday night, sounding distant, and didn’t suggest we meet.
On Sunday, I went back to the base. Dror was the only one in our room. Wearing his navy whites.
I was drinking a can of orange soda and I felt like spilling the entire contents on that uniform.
So how was your Saturday? he asked, and patted my shoulder.
Just another Saturday, I replied.
What do you mean? Did you see your
