The Jerusalem Inception - By Avraham Azrieli Page 0,86
sun.
Captain Zigelnick beckoned Lemmy. He was only a couple of years older than his trainees, but his rank and seniority made him seem like an adult. “Training is almost over. You feel ready for battle?”
Lemmy realized his commander wasn’t joking. He was talking of a real battle, with Arabs shooting to kill, with blood and death all around, like the war stories Lemmy had read in Tanya’s books. “I’m ready,” he said. “We’ll beat them back and then some.”
Zigelnick smiled. “That’s the spirit. Just remember, you don’t have to prove anything to anybody.”
“Prove?”
“Your father is a famous man.”
Lemmy felt his face blush. How did Zigelnick find out? Pretending to watch the other soldiers load the gear into the canvas-covered back of the truck, he regained his composure. “He’s not my father anymore.”
Captain Zigelnick’s forehead creased.
“I’m dead to him.”
“Then you don’t have a reason to die again.” Zigelnick patted his shoulder. “I don’t care about your father. He can go on preaching nonsense. But I don’t want to see you showing off when bullets start flying. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
Once the truck was loaded, Zigelnick jumped in the cabin next to the driver, and they began the long drive back to the camp in the hills south of Beersheba. Lemmy sat with the rest of the soldiers in the back of the truck, surrounded by piles of gear and backpacks.
As always, Sanani was the center of attention, drawing on his endless fountain of jokes. “Do you know why the black hats grow long payos?” Sanani paused for a moment then answered his own query. “So that when they walk down the street and see a sexy woman, they can cover their eyes with the payos but still see her tits through the hairs.”
The roaring laughter was louder than the constant humming of the truck.
“And why do they wear black hats and black coats?” Sanani looked around. “Because it makes them invisible when they prowl the parks at night to find a whore.”
Lemmy said, “Sanani could just go naked,” which caused even more laughter.
“And do you know why the Orthodox don’t turn on the lights on Friday nights?”
“Because they’re cheap,” suggested someone, to the cheers of the others.
“Also,” Sanani declared, “because they rather not see their ugly wives coming to bed!”
The soldiers booed. They despised the Orthodox for refusing to serve in the IDF and defend Israel like everybody else.
“And why don’t they take off the black coats even during the hot summer?”
Someone shouted from the other end, “Because they like to stink!”
“Because they can’t take it off. It’s stuck!”
The soldiers mimicked vomiting.
Sanani’s teeth showed against his dark skin. “And why do they pile shit in the corners of a black hat wedding-hall?”
No one had an answer to that.
“To keep the flies away from the bride!”
When the laughter calmed down, Lemmy said, “You’re wrong. That smelly brown stuff in the corner isn’t shit. It’s a bunch of Yemenite relatives!”
Sanani laughed with everybody else, taking no offense.
The soldiers were chronically sleep-deprived, and soon everyone was out. But Lemmy couldn’t sleep. This Passover would be the first holiday away from his parents. He thought of the intense preparations in Neturay Karta, the cleaning of apartments and scrubbing of pots and pans. Under his father’s supervision, every dish and tableware was dipped in the water of the mikvah to cleanse them of all remnants of bread or other leavened food. Bottles of wine and boxes of matzo were distributed to needy Neturay Karta families, and the women spent three days cooking for the Seder dinner. Lemmy thought of last year’s Passover, the room full of guests, singing praiseful melodies from the Hagadah of the Israelites’ exodus from Egyptian slavery. Would they miss him this year? Or next year? Would his parents ever forgive him, or agree to see him again? He imagined walking into Meah Shearim one day, many years ahead, dressed in his IDF general’s uniform, an Uzi slung from his shoulder. He would enter the synagogue, wearing a military cap rather than a black hat, and face Father, whose beard would be white, his back bent with years. And then what? A handshake? A hug? Or a cold shoulder?
The truck traveled along a dirt road, raising a storm of dust. When it slowed down to cross a dry stream, a dust cloud caught up, filling the back of the truck and covering his friends’ faces with a ghost-like white layer.
Chapter 33
The day after Passover, Elie Weiss boarded a Swissair flight to Zurich. The plane was