He sighed and got up from his desk. Every bone in his body ached from sitting for so long. At this rate I’ll wither and die before I ever leave Kidonit, he thought to himself. He suddenly felt an urge to go outside, to escape the clutches of the bunker’s constant air-conditioned frost. The temperature at the bunker was set taking into consideration the expensive computer systems, without giving a thought to the people who operated them; thus, everyone walked around the bunker wearing sweaters and jackets, even in mid-August. Tamir left the bunker and turned towards the fence. Pleasant sunrays rested on the surrounding pine forest. Tamir was almost surprised to see the sun, as the endless days spent in the bunker had made it into nothing more than a distant memory. Not far away below him, on the narrow dirt road winding between the pines, a beat-up white sedan floundered its way up. He stood and watched it. The car stopped, and a bearded man in a white shirt and a purple-white knitted yarmulke emerged. Tzadik, he called over to Tamir, are you coming to pray?
Are you talking to me? Tamir asked, even though there was no one there but the two of them.
Yeah, you, tzadik, you and only you. Are you coming to venerate the holy grave?
Which saint is it? Tamir inquired.
Our master and teacher, Rabbi Rabbah Bar Bar Hana, his grace protect us.
Is that really his name? Tamir asked in wonder.
Yes, tzadik. Why, what’s wrong with that name? So, are you coming? You should. You will be blessed with great salvations if you do. He grants salvations with a snap of his fingers. Believe me.
Tamir knew that most of these saints weren’t historical figures at all, but he had no intention of hashing it out with the man standing below him, down the mountain. On the other hand, he couldn’t just leave it at that. I can’t leave the base, he said. And besides, I’m kind of an atheist.
You’re what?
Never mind. Listen, your dead rabbi… What’s his specialty?
What’s the matter with you, soldier, why would you say something like that? Who raised you? You’re a Jew, aren’t you? Show some respect to gedolei olam.
Okay, Tamir said, and felt a tinge of remorse. So, what does he…? What do people usually ask of him?
Everything— sons, health, wealth, marriage…
Oh, marriage?
Yes. Why, is there anyone that’s caught your eye?
Something like that. Would you ask him for me?
With pleasure, soldier, anything to proliferate the marriage of Israel! It’s a mitzvah. God willing, you will put up a chuppah and kiddushin10 and be blessed with God-fearing male sons. What are the virgin’s and her mother’s names?
I don’t know her mother’s name…
Well, we’ll try without then. God willing, it’ll still work.
Her name is Ophira.
Is that a Jewish name?
Yes. It’s biblical, isn’t it?
Is it? Never heard of it. We give kosher names, like Hannah, Rebecca, Rachel… The man nodded his head a couple more times, mumbling under his breath as if he were deliberating a complicated matter with himself, before finally gesturing with his head towards Tamir, either to say goodbye or to reprimand him. He got in his car and sped away leaving behind a cloud of dust, without confirming whether or not he was going to bring the matter of Tamir’s marriage before the departed saint. Tamir stood there for some time, as the bright sky slowly dimmed, making way for the dark canvas over which the lights of the giant antenna field will glimmer, sparkling and shimmering like a swarm of fireflies.
b. Stay Low
The next couple of days passed by quietly. Suspiciously quiet, Tamir thought to himself. He felt it appropriate to make an unusual annotation calling attention to the prolonged silence over the Hezbollah and Front/Jibril networks. That annotation prompted a flurry of calls from Department 195 at headquarters, the Syria and Lebanon branch of the MID-RD and Northern Command, asking what was the meaning of his message, what exactly was going on, and how they should interpret it. He told all of them the same thing— that nothing was going on, and that that was the problem, since the volume of communications passing through these networks was usually substantially bigger. This is an uncharacteristic silence. These are operational networks— messy, hectic networks usually congested with endless jabber by operatives, which is what makes this so weird. The head of Department 195 admonished him, telling him that next time he gets the idea to issue such an ominous message and get the whole army up on its feet, he’d better consult his supervising officer first. In general, the IAO should be the one issuing messages like these, not you, and even he had better consult me before he does something like that! His voice thundered over the amethyst telephone.
Tamir tried to control the slight quiver in his voice and explain that his supervising officer is at home.
So what? Doesn’t he have a phone there?? The department head raged. You can call people at their homes at any hour, I’m sure he explained that to you. And anyway, it has to pass through me first, and I have a phone in my house as well! You’re new, so I’ll chalk it down as a rookie’s error, but that’s
