Yitzhak Laor | from:Hebrew

Meningitis

Translated by : Yael Manor

Night has descended on the military headquarters. Darkness veiling the barracks like a dewy tarpaulin. A man’s shadow stretches from the top floor of the Ministry of Defense’s office like a large bird, then vanishes, leaving Yair alone in its calm  decampment. ‘Like a killer around the corner,’ Psoriasis had said, while putting on his full pack in the dark. Yair knew how to hide his feelings, and would have given a lot for these moments to last for he loved his new army buddies, his comrades from all sorts of places across the country, all sorts of medical conditions. Among them was even an epileptic guy, as well as three asthmatics, four with ulcers, and two suffering from depression. All had been enlisted for one reason or another, and guarded for one reason or other the state’s most sensitive mastermind – not counting the U.S Embassy, which was guarded by Marine soldiers. Yair enjoyed sitting with them in their rooms, while they got ready for the night watch, and could have even forgiven his father, who forced this enlistment on him, for maybe this was what his father had had in mind, that he would go out a while into the world and make new friends. After all you can’t be caged up at home like a nocturnal reptile not even knowing the names of the kids in class (he knew, he knew, he knew very well, he only told his father that he didn’t know), and yet he will never forgive his father. After all, the joy flooding through him now has nothing to do with his enmity towards that shadow falling from the window, that transient fear like an invisible gust of wind, not fear, but a clear knowledge that he is doomed, and that he must not fear, for nothing will alter the verdict. Not murder, nor madness, nor suicide. Dad sits and watches over him here as well. He is here because of Dad, and Dad is here because of him. And no, not suicide. He would never commit suicide, he is of sensitive skin, and his life is not worth the drama.   

He loved his friends from the unit, particularly because they made fun of themselves, called themselves by the names of their medical conditions – even though he was the only man in the platoon who was known by his real name, that is the one given to him by his parents. He too had wanted, hardly dared, but had almost asked to be known by his, but something prevented them from doing so. How very much he longed to be nicknamed like them with contemptuous names, only that his father did not allow him to mock himself, did not sanction this kind of humour, believed that with this kind of humour his son would never get well, that this kind of humour was too Jewish, not Israeli enough. So supposed Yair, for he had never told his father a thing of his friends’ customs and certainly didn’t dare confess that here too he was an alien, an outsider, and yet, on the other hand, here he loved them, a great love he loved them, and was capable of standing up and hugging everyone.

During the day, when they would see an officer marching their way, even if they were walking in a group, they would immediately disperse, and switch to walking in a long line, so that each of them could salute the same officer separately, and keep him saluted in earnest for a long time, with a muscular arm, and back stretched, for, as it’s written in the General Staff Order, an officer must return a salute to every saluting soldier. They did so because they were individualists par excellence, and yet also cultivated a platoon’s pride, a culture of collective memory, in addition to a sense of humour. They called themselves ‘The Swiss Guard, with no colours’. Psoriasis was the cadet on duty, and his roommate’s name was Gastritis. In the neighbouring room lived Bronchitis, and with him also lived Psychosis and Sclerosis. Those who knew nothing about diseases thought that the group in question was a bunch of modern Greek poetry aficionados, and those who knew nothing about modern Greek poetry, thought it had something to do with classical Greek poetry – classical Greek poetry being a heritage that belonged to us all, although Hitler too prided himself on it.

Today is the anniversary of Bronstein’s death and in front of the guard barracks flickers a memorial candle. The soldiers are sitting out in the open by the picture, and saying things about him, some things they had already heard and some completely new. They are stern. In the ‘commemoration corner’ of the Guard Room hangs an enlarged photograph of Bronstein, who was nicknamed ‘Meningitis’. Below the photograph flickers a memorial candle. Above the photograph inscribed in big letters are the dates of his birth and death; at hardly twenty years of age Bronstein-Meningitis had died in the line of service, from Meningitis officially (and in truth from suicide by hanging, once he found out that he was originally not enlisted only because he wasn’t Jewish). The commemoration corner for Private Bronstein was vigorously cared for, only during free time of course, and their own commander, Sergeant Nisim – no official disease, but in secrecy they called him ‘Borderline’ – was extremely proud of the red geranium garden and the nasturtium flowers which, according to him, he nurtured almost single-handedly. Beneath the photograph also lay a large book of commemoration. Once in a while the guards wrote in it in memory of Bronstein, and even urged officers passing through – some of whom were of considerable importance, their contribution to the state’s security invaluable, some even having won the Israel Security Award, or reached such grave heights as the Israel Prize for Literature, or for Social Work, only more confidential – to sign, as a sort of a yearly petition in memory of Bronstein. Many senior officers had written words of praise to the obstinate soldier.

Major General Zalman Zal – whose ass was kissed every two weeks in his own office by Israel’s writers and poets – signed as well, before dashing off to watch the new video for the ‘Ezekiel 4’ tank, which he had only just developed, much to the dismay of those who extolled the next armoured war. ‘Parachuting is dispensable too,’ ruled Major General Zalman, ‘and yet you don’t abdicate parachuting, so what’s it to you if more and more tanks are getting built? Yes, more and more and more.’ And since Zalman Zal did not know how to operate the VCR, and never learned, at his disposal stood one of the soldiers – not Yair, he did not want to go up there, and his friends understood, it not being so bad having to scrounge cookies with cheap chocolate filling, and see all the important people from the bureau telling each other military secrets. Besides, the soldier on duty’s task was simply to freeze, using the remote control, the picture on the screen at precisely the moment when ‘Ezekiel’s’ belly rose up over a deep-water obstacle.

Night after night Major General Zal would watch the video, as well as during lunch breaks. Every viewing he’d roar with pleasure, ‘Now, now,’ just as the tank stopped, rose, and revealed its undercarriage like the belly of a giant crocodile, hungry for pray after a long winter, or however those writers who kissed Zalman’s ass described it, because Zal had studied Philosophy just as they had. Each year a new movie about ‘Ezekiel’ came out. From what’s been said up till now, it should be understood that Israel’s writers also sat and watched the tank lifting its belly like the white marble horses of Piazza Venezia. And as mentioned, the task of pressing pause and serving cookies to the writers and painters was always given to one of the soldiers. When Zal screamed: ‘Where’s the dork?’ the soldier, who’d be waiting in the hall behind the door, would immediately come in, and say: ‘Here, Sir!’

 ‘Who’s here? What’s here?’

 ‘The dork’s here, Sir.’

When Yair’s father came to visit, Zalman Zal remembers… a gentle man, very complex, at nights he invented tanks, and in the mornings urged his office manager, Lieutenant Vered, to recite for his friends lines from the greatest poet ever to rise to military commission, Natan Alterman. And Vered would indeed recite: ‘And the land will grow still/ crimson skies dimming, misting/ slowly paling again/ over smoking frontiers,’ and sometimes she’d get the rhymes wrong intentionally (Vered Tsela may have been a big coward, but she loved to provoke danger, danger to be honest aroused her, and instead of ‘dimming’ she’d sometimes say ‘brimming’, or ‘slimming’, but it made no difference, because what mattered was the rhyme and the metre)… Well, only when Yair’s father came for a visit, did Major General Zal remember not to joke like that, because Yair too served under the Chief of Staff Guard, which was the highest up he was allowed, and that too only with Dad’s intervention with the Major General and the Major General’s intervention with another Major General and the intervention of that other Major General with a Colonel and downwards to Sergeant Borderline. Yair’s limited service pained his father. Not that he would have liked to see his son fall in the line of duty. On the other hand, most fighters didn’t fall in the line of duty and why must one always think the worst?

Evening. Yair sat on a prickly mattress covered by a wool blanket (emitting an odour of flee repellent and damp wool), watching the others, as they got ready for their watch. In the neighbouring room someone had forgot to put on his long johns, and everyone burst out laughing at how he’s have to take everything off again, in the dark, the full pack too, only to put on his long johns. Without complaint, they would agree to leave the lights off each night, before going out to their watch, making all their preparations in the dark, even checking the magazines, and Yair loved them for this sacrifice, for him. He was loved in turn, not only because he had brought so much candy from his leave (his father had wanted so very much for him to have friends, and so had, himself, baked abundant cookies and even bought a large quantity of chocolates). It’s possible that Yair’s friends noticed his efforts to endear himself to them, gently, without imposing himself. He would laugh at the drop of a hat. Any talk of theirs provoked his laughter, as if he had never come across unserious people, and now any unserious expression seemed hilarious. He himself did not know how to be funny. Yair was extremely handsome, and any laughter would tear him up like a child awoken from sleep. And if they went into a huddle, he did not squeeze in to listen, nor was he hurt, but assumed it of matters beyond his capacity. Perhaps he did not dare to be angry at them since he was in their debt. After all it was because of him that they were constantly being watched from up there.

Bewilderment would spread across Yair’s face every time he was asked too blunt a question. He never raised his voice. Sometimes he would picture himself with his head tattered, or hung, or both, veins slashed. Ah yes, why did they do it all in the dark? Because of the father’s observations from the window above.

After a four hour patrol around the fences, they would approach parked vehicles and peep, by command, into them, later they’d return to wake the next shift, take off their uniforms, put on civilian clothes, and through their connections in the next shift, would go out, without permission, from the base, into the city whose electric rashes were as colourful as an eczema. They would sit together in a bar – Yair would not come with them, afraid to run into his father with some woman, literature or film lecturer – speaking quietly, like a national minority, mocking themselves in the ear of the waitress. That’s how they would pass their nights and their days, patrolling, sleeping, taking walks in the city and sleeping again and again patrolling.

Yair did not partake in guard duty. He was exempt, a red written note which said he was prohibited from guarding, because of the night and the fog and the smog. Instead his duties included a weekly roll-call and a talk with the commander. Were his friends hurt by the fact that he did not guard? Not in the least. (Again, for this, he loved them). In their platoon they had plenty of guard soldiers, after all so many parents tried to enlist their sickly sons, and each of them got here thanks to some connection. Perhaps they were not angry with him because he was such a beautiful boy, pale and soft spoken. His gentleness he got thanks to his two older sisters who spoiled him – Yair had grown up without a mother, a son to his father’s old age.

The father’s heart would sink, almost give in to his son’s refusal to enlist, when he heard the boy’s screams at night. ‘I am not Erlking,’ he said to himself in horror, not knowing if his own dream was provoking those screams, or the child’s, and yet, at breakfast, from within the stillness, the boy’s plea fell on deaf ears, because the father knew he was doing this for his son’s sake, or at least he told himself as much, and told his son, and the two girls who wouldn’t dare argue, and Zalman Zal, yes, he said so too to Major General Zalman Zal. One can sympathize with the father. All his life he had wanted to escort a son to the Enlistment Office, and later escort him to the Absorption and Classification Base. All his life he had wanted to attend the Basic Training graduation ceremony, and had wanted to attend the section commander’s course graduation, and the officer’s training course graduation. Very gradually, when the child’s health did not improve, the father let go these dreams. But of an unglamorous military service, a grey service, he did not let go, could not have let go.

At first he would say these things to Yair with a smile, as if the son’s declaration of not going to the army was a sort of a joke. Of course it had nothing to do with the fact that the father was a national figure. All fathers are national figures, perhaps the other way around, all national figures are fathers, never mind. For he never said a word to him of the nation and its needs, because in any case Yair did not demand of him what the nation needs, paratrooper officers, for instance, rather it was all about, son – he called him son, his sad smile did not waver – he had a sad smile, the father, and his son hated that sad, photogenic smile – it’s all about, son, the duty bestowed upon you to overcome your ailments and to be like everyone else, after all one day I will not be in the world, and who will take care of you then? The son wanted to say: ‘When you won’t be in the world, I’ll take care of myself just fine,’ but checked himself (was terrified of his father; his father will never know this, because fathers are doomed not to know): ‘Arabs also don’t go to the army’. His father nodded in comprehension and did not reply. He had a deep comprehension of his son’s need to rebel against him. He did not comprehend anything that was not from within himself, as the son’s father, and comprehended the son only as the father’s son.

When Yair had persisted in his refusal to enlist, the father took him to Major General Zal’s office for a conclusive discussion. It was a difficult moment for the father. Up until that day Zalman Zal knew just a small portion of the father’s agony over the son. After all the father had never spoken of the son, always just of the girls. The Major General knew of the older daughter’s marriage and of the other’s doctorate, but even of them they had spoken very little and preferred to engage in nominating laureates for the Israel Prize, the Hebrew Literature, Science of Judaism, Social Work and of course the prestigious National Security Award. Yair, on his part, was not aware that the beautiful walk through the city, and along its beaches, would end in an office overlooking the guard barracks, in which he would be serving in two months time. It was truly a fun day. Dad had never had so much time for him. They went to the movies, later sat in a café, and even though many people approached Dad, Dad was not nice to them at all and insisted on sitting with Yair alone. Later they went to clothes stores, shopped for fragrant oranges at the market, and went to the port. They even tried to sneak onto one of the boats anchoring there, and in short, Yair tried to get his dad to do things that the dad was embarrassed to do, and dad went everywhere Yair led him to, because he was a good father. They stopped by a fishing boat, which had brought up in its net many revolting octopi, and since octopi are not only revolting, but unkosher, they had no buyers. Except for Yair who wanted an octopus. His father bought him one, under the condition that he would not ask him to carry the small bag after fifteen minutes, as had happened with the dog they bought him: Dad had to take him out every night so that he would poop outside and not in the living room, in front of the guests. So, Yair promised and picked the biggest octopus, and off the two walked down the streets, the son carrying a huge octopus in a small plastic bag, the father walking a little ahead, perhaps out of embarrassment, even though the town’s dogs were chasing both of them. A fight between two of the dogs shortly broke out – guessing that soon Yair would throw the octopus, and only one of them would win it – and went on and on, they almost bit one another. And people trailed behind the dogs. Maybe they were the dog owners, maybe they were passers-by who thought this was some sort of street theatre, Holbein or something. A few of the dance macabre participants knew the father, and followed him being dragged by his son holding a stinky octopus and ten dogs, two biting each other, through the city streets, and since Yair had now thrown the octopus to the dogs, the fight between the two big ones stopped, because a small dog, carrying away the small bag in his mouth, had escaped. Dad said something about Manfred Herbst, whose legs had carried him without him knowing where to. ‘Do you know who Manfred Herbst is?’

‘You’ve already told me this so many times and in relation to practically any subject… Is there any other book you know?’

Yair was tired and suspected his father of trying to improve his physical fitness. And it was as if by chance that they arrived at Major General Zalman Zal’s office. At the gate they let the father through without checking his documents, he was a regular bore there and the soldiers did not read anything of his whatsoever; what did they care? Zal was sitting, of course, in front of his VCR. As they arrived he was calling Vered, asking her to turn it off, and return the cassette to the video library, where all had been marked ‘Ezekiel 1’, ‘Ezekiel 2’, ‘Ezekiel 3’, etc.

The father didn’t know how to begin the meeting, after all they had gotten there by chance, as it were, perhaps embarrassed by the thought that the octopus odour had stuck to them. Zal did not stall, saying that he himself had ordered his granddaughter to enlist in the army, despite her being mad, as everyone knew, mad as a hatter, a drug addict and even more so a man-addict (worse than drugs, believe me, I know men), and that to be on the safe side he had ordered Vered to help his granddaughter in all sorts of matters which she could not manage herself, like renewing her driver’s licence, or managing her bank account, or paying her electric bill, because here we are all one big family. Yair too, of course, would be a part of this family, and Zalman Zal launched into stories of his clerks’ devotion, especially Vered Tsela’s, whom he loved like his own granddaughters, which is why she recited rhymes and metres for him, and she of course saw her service here as a great honour. Major General Zalman Zal, let’s be perfectly clear, did not screw any of his clerks. On the contrary. He took care that they would not be harassed by all kinds of males, and took care to make sure the girls kept secret all kinds of love affairs they had, with all kinds of officers, because crazy is the girl who’ll pass up the opportunity to fuck a little in the army, and here everyone is one family, said the Major General. Indeed all the clerks ranking all the way up to Lieutenant-Colonel had to listen to every phone conversation the Major General had, on the amplifier, and on the extensions – a part of their culture being an expansion of the Major General. On this rested their pride, or pleasure, or both.

Yair’s father had thought that his old and admired friend would have a few more convincing arguments, but all Zal’s explications came down to the importance of serving in the army, for the people and for the son of the people. For the people, why? Because the people need an army. For the son of the people, why? Because the son of the people must be a soldier for at least some time during his life, if not throughout his life. Well, Yair already knew all these arguments, and yet, Major General Zalman Zal was not finished. For a long time now he’d been suspecting: the instant coffee that you drank here, gave him gas, therefore he farted. He had no problem with farting. He who sits in a tank all his life, learns not to be shy. All you need to do is lift one side of your behind and let it out. Yair was stunned. He searched for his father’s eyes, but Dad pretended, as if he too farted whenever the need arose, and perhaps he did fart. At home – he didn’t.

‘You probably believe that the paratroopers are the force of the future. Am I right?’

The Major General spoke in a loud voice, looking over at Lieutenant Vered Tsela, whose eyes washed over beautiful Yair in jet streams of light. Ah, how Vered loved boys like Yair. Yair too. And the Major General, with the bitterness of a veteran of the Armoured Corps, spoke, and the son looked at his father, and the father was flooded with admiration for the Major General, or perhaps was flooded with bewilderment, in any case, his dismal and famous smile did not leave his face. ‘Nonsense, nonsense,’ cried the Major General, and waited for Vered to reiterate – she was an outstanding memoriser, but that said, as much as she was taller than Yair, and even older, she could not take her eyes off of him.

‘Nonsense, the next war will be armour vs. armour war. Anyone can see that. Tanks will pound along the deserts from here to Kuwait, and our soldiers of the Armoured Corps will gallop like the Formula Uno drivers, especially in the new tank, ‘Ezekiel 4’, watch the screen. Where’s the dork?’

The smile did not leave the father’s face, like a Chinese diplomat, and the dork came in, froze the screen, grabbed a cookie and left quietly, so all watched the rising tank, like a giant turtle, threatening never to land, ‘Ezekiel 4’, or ‘3’ froze.

‘Why would you volunteer for the Parachute Corps? For the parachuting? This parachuting business doesn’t impress me. I refused to take a parachuting course. I just didn’t want to. Not afraid, no. Because of the hassle. You see?’

Yair nodded. Zal went on, as befits a military leader, noting the slow penetration of his forces into the boy’s mind: ‘What do they do in those famous commandos of theirs? Sit and wait and wait and wait. What are they waiting for? For the day when they will be able to attack missiles bases in Caucasus’ mountains?’ Now he turned to the father, who was trying to say something, but Zal continued: ‘And in the meantime, I ask, in the meantime what do they do? In the meantime they kill people up close, with knives, or guns, in Tunisia, in Beirut. And to keep an entire army for this? Just because one day there will be a commando war?’

When they left – Vered had not dare say a word to them – Yair told himself that everything, this entire wonderful day, was just to get him to this talk with the commander. He’d been deceived all day. His great love for his father had swallowed a fruit, and in it a large pit, bitter, asphyxiating, stinging. He hated his father. They did not speak all the way home. In the cab he was suffocated by the desire to cry. The father was offended. It is unclear to us why, but every so often the father would get offended and would not talk about it – a nightmare for his kids – for hours, and all that they could do was guess what had offended Dad. Go deal with your father’s childhood memories!

Later the son surrendered. What had he gone through from his desire to cry in the cab to this surrender? A great deal. But in the end, he’d been promised that he would serve down there, beneath the office, and ever since his father has come everyday to spy on him from the high window. Every once in a while the father would walk over to the window, and the Major General say to him: ‘Sit, sit, he’ll see you watching him. It’s not good. Let him be a man already.’ And the father, his eyes shrinking involuntarily, as if he carefully selecting his words, would say without turning around: ‘He doesn’t know I am here’. The father knew of course that the son knew. After all the son had asked him during one of his leaves: ‘Why do you even go there so often? To spy on me?’ Yair had wanted to say so much more, wanted to say every night, wanted, since that walk in the city, to say something that swelled and swelled, and turned into something violent, contemptuous, offensive, like ‘I wish you had loved Mom the way you love this fat Major General, I wish you had loved us like you love him, I wish you had loved me like you love yourself, but you are not even in love with him for being him, you are in love with him because he is a Major General, and when you find another Major General, woosh, you will ride off  to the other Major General. Why do you love Major Generals so much? You probably want me to become a Major General, that’s why I’m so sick, because you’ve always wanted me to become a Major General.’ He did not say all this balderdash, but once he dreamt that his father was pissing through him, holding him like in an opened-jawed stone fountain, and urinating through his mouth. Sometimes he thought of hanging himself in the guard barracks, in the light, so that his father would see him from up there convulsing, and would rush down to save him, but would be too late, and would only manage to get him down from the ceiling, a corpse. One day Dad will lose it, one day I will wipe that constipated smile off of his face.

Well, today, as mentioned, is the anniversary of Bronstein’s death, may he rest in peace. Everyone respects this anniversary, and as of last year, thanks to the petition, it has become a General Staff event, meaning an event of this base, ours. After a prolonged informatory effort, he is now mentioned, in the basic daily order, which Sergeant Borderline pins up on the cork boards, while two guard soldiers stand to attention by the candle. A soldier on duty asks the passers-by to lay a flower, or put down a few words in the commemoration book for the soldier who fought such a long battle just so the army would enlist him, in spite of his poor health. And here comes a Major General, Moti the moron. Conversing loudly, because that’s how he talks, with a girl soldier, an admirer, who also talks in big voice so that everyone can hear her talking with Moti the moron. Yesterday her father reprimanded her, when she told him how careful she was not to be alone in a room with Major General Moti. He was extremely insulted by this remark, her father. ‘I don’t like your delusions. I never liked your delusions. For as long as I remember you, everyone hits on you. One day you will say the same about me. It’s the fashion now, isn’t it? But Moti is a Major General in the IDF. You can behave like a human being and refrain from implying dirty insinuations.’

And since the guard soldiers had been preaching all day to the passers-by in their barracks to act appropriately, one of them now steps up to Moti as well. To the Major General’s credit, let it be said, he apologises right away, attempts to stretch his sloppy shirt, stands at attention for a moment, and suddenly salutes, sticking out his chest and forcefully stretching his palm to his temple. The soldier with him, being very moved by Moti’s invitation to escort him again to his office, she too salutes, and a button, exactly between her two squished breasts under a pointy bra, snaps. Gastritis, for his part, wants Major General Moti to end his salute, and approaches him cautiously, saluting, taking two measured steps backwards, standing to attention, saluting again – there is probably some kind of order, thinks Major General Moti but he is not familiar with the procedure. It does not cross his mind that he is being mocked here, who would conceive of it? – Later Gastritis says quietly: ‘Major General your honour, asking permission to speak’.

‘Make it short, I’m busy.’

‘Major General, I’ll make it short: we need help.’

The Major General hates requests for help, but Gastritis tells him, that the guard is trying hard to establish an award on behalf of the army in their friend’s name, Bronstein may he rest in peace. The Major General is impatient, although the soldier with him waits. He has already envisioned her in his mind’s eye pacing back and forth in his room, naked, with only the black army shoes and white socks to her feet. ‘Who is this Bronstein?’

‘I’ll make it short. He wasn’t enlisted on account of health problems, insisted on enlisting, and ran a public campaign. His parents turned to the army authorities, and participated in the public campaign for his enlistment, along with his high school friends. The press were also involved in the campaign. We have a bellicose press, like any democracy, and ardent editorial articles spoke of the struggle against this refusal to enter the Israeli army, which should begin with the positive, not the negative. In the end the army surrendered and despite the sensitivity he had been inflicted with as a child, he served in the guard platoon. He died in his uniform, while guarding. Recently we turned to the Base Commander asking him to establish an award for the sick soldier for distinctive service in Bronstein’s name. Our appeals have been to no avail.’

‘But why should someone who could have evaded the army and didn’t take advantage of that be given an award?’

‘Because otherwise life is not the same.’

The Major General looks into the soldier’s sad eyes, and promises to help.

Everything might have gone as planned with the committed soldiers, if it weren’t for the fact that the Major General tended to forget the promises he made, and perhaps his soldier’s naked parade made him forget this one. Luckily for us it was so. In that respect, a Major General’s flawed memory is a source of hope for the entire nation. May there be many such forgetful leaders and commanders. And anyway, it would have been a great embarrassment to us all, if the truth about Bronstein’s life and death were to come out. He did not have a memorial day, because he did not die, because he was not born, because there never was any Bronstein. Because he was the heart of our platoon’s service: we made him up in order to sanctify him and to mock the entire world through him.

When Yair was let in on this comical secret, that was of no interest to anyone, and gave us a strange satisfaction, he’d been explicitly asked not to reveal the secret to his father. He was not offended by the request. On the contrary. He felt very proud to have been given a chance to betray Dad. The idea of betraying Dad, and with this beautiful story of a soldier that never existed to boot, excited him, and he volunteered to tell the life story of the deceased. Yair wrote beautifully. If it wasn’t for his father, he would have really accomplished something through this, but his father did not like his writing, was afraid that he would only be praised because he is his son. ‘Bronstein’s Memoirs’ by Yair was the most touching chapter in the book, because it was written out of rage. No one could believe that the boy made the story up. We will never know what is real with people that do not hesitate to use their tongue.

Evening descended. Lights rose from the guard barracks. The father walked over to the window, but Yair was no longer there. He’d tricked his father again, taken off under the protection of the darkness, and instead of feeling gratification, felt a great sadness, once again seeing himself hung, his veins slashed, as he walked towards the gate. At times he thought of going on watch with his friends, but feared his father would take it as his triumph.

Outside the gate a Major General, Moti the moron, picked him up in his car, and asked: ‘Where are you headed, soldier?’ Yair shrugged and said in his typical impudence in places we have yet to encounter him: ‘Are you checking if I have a pass, or what?’ The Major General said: ‘No, no, I’m just driving to the north of town and thought you wanted a ride’. Yair went with him, and suddenly, just as he was about to get out, not far from the beach, he said: ‘Tell me something, this army really doesn’t bore you?’ The Major looked at him and said: ‘You know what? Now that you ask, I think so, yes. But they need us, don’t they?’ Yair said: ‘No, I don’t think so’. The Major thought a moment, then assumed Yair was joking. Yair looked at the grand night and the lights, and imagined seeing a huge bird flying and taking up with her the entire city.

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