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  “Have a peaceful Sabbath, Chief. I’m already gone!” she shouted at the open door. “If you’ve started organizing your own appointments, you should do whatever needs to be done by yourself!” she ended angrily like a scolded child.

  Walking briskly, satisfied that she had left nothing to chance and offended that she wasn’t invited to stay, she left the house for her empty apartment.

  Gershon woke from his brief nap in an awkward position that caused his arms to radiate pins and needles to his extremities. He turned onto his back and his thoughts reverted to the meeting that had taken place in the Prime Minister’s Office in Jerusalem, where she had maintained absolute control. He recalled his thoughts about those two hundred thousand missiles and rockets directed towards Israel from Syria, Lebanon and Gaza. And also from Teheran.

  …At least we played our part this time. Operation Clean Skies had succeeded without any traces. Those Syrian bastards in Canada were neutralized and we also contributed to delaying the next conflict in Lebanon, as well as in Syria… These thoughts gave him some satisfaction. Months of preparation and deliberations had ended, and his decisions had carried considerable weight.

  Suddenly, for no reason he remembered her as she was in the distant past: Second Lieutenant Tamar Rajuan as a platoon commander in “Bahad 12” …In fact, the prime minister and I are almost the same age...He drifted back to his visits at the historical women’s base, where he had politely and shyly courted a young company commander, a subordinate of ‘Second Lt. Rajuan’...A drowsy, mischievous thought arose in his brain: How old had Ms. Tamar Rajuan-Berger, our “distinguished prime minister,” been for her first time? Glad that nobody could read his thoughts, he turned over and went back to sleep.

  Shauli and Guy were keeping watch in the entrance hall overlooking the street. The Superb was parked opposite; while the black Savannah, their General Staff Reserve, had returned to Mossad headquarter for its Sabbath rest.

  * * *

  Gershon awoke at seven minutes past nine on Saturday morning.

  The sky outside the window was a shining, deep, transparent blue. Bright sunshine filtered through the white curtains, striking his eyes and waking him up. He remembered nothing of his nocturnal dreams.

  He rose heavily from the green sofa and moved to the bathroom, where he washed his face, urinated and peered into the mirror above the sink: His cheeks were covered with white stubble and his white, thinning hair, once his crowning glory, didn’t give him much pleasure, nor did his bleary red eyes and the small pot belly that had begun to appear under his singlet. He passed his palms over his cheeks and studied his face, estimating the length of the bristles. Suddenly it seemed to him that he saw the image of his father’s hand, with its long nicotine-stained fingers, in his own hand. He gingerly mounted the scale near the toilet: Shit! A hundred and seventy pounds! I must tell Dahlia to stop bringing puff pastries and croissants. From now on only lettuce… But he was well aware that he wouldn’t be able to maintain that regime, due to pressures at work and in his personal life.

  ...When they speak of today’s youth, they’re not referring to me any more...he smiled with a kind of acceptance. He took a hurried shower, shaved and combed his hair as best he could and slipped on jeans and a thick woolen vest, but thrust his feet into his old winter slippers.

  It was already nine-thirty a.m. on a clear Sabbath morning, the type that follows heavy rain, when Professor Marwan Sultani phoned him on his secure mobile: “I’m on Highway Two. I’ll be at your place by ten twenty-seven. Is the coffee brewing, Chief?”

  “Doctor good morning! Drive carefully; no need to rush. Apart from the coffee that I put on the gas, there’s no fire. How are the wounded doing? Are you managing to get any sleep?”

  “We’re never lacking in work, but we’re managing. Golan has taken charge. Everybody is being taken care of, and now the battle is with the many families that are pouring in during visiting hours. As long as they don’t get in the way, everything will be okay.”

  “See you soon, Doc!”

  “Inshallah, Chief!”

  He went down to the ground floor and encountered Shauli and Guy, who were sitting at the kitchen table eating toasted cheese, drinking coffee and chatting.

  “Good morning, guys! Is everything under control?”

  “Sir! Don’t panic or fear, Shauli is here!” he repeated his usual slogan with a winning smile.

  Gershon continued without responding, “Guy, has the car been checked? Is the area clean?”

  “Everything is in order, sir.”

  “Good. In less than an hour a man will arrive for a short visit. Don’t shoot him, okay!?”

  He winked at them humorously, turning towards the lawn at the back of the duplex.

  “We only shoot horses…” Shauli hummed, hiding his mouth behind his hand and winking at Guy, as Gershon stepped out onto the covered verandah facing the lawn, which was still wet from the previous day’s rain.

  At ten twenty-four Professor Marwan Sultani parked his gray Insignia, three cars down the street from the Superb, and approached the house. He rang the bell, discerning Shauli and Guy through the kitchen window.

  Guy immediately opened the door: “Good morning, sir. He’s waiting for you on the back lawn.”

  “Marhaba! Good morning to you, too!” Marwan answered and passed through the living room on his way to the back lawn holding a bag of baklava in his hand.

  “Doctor! Such promptness. Kif halak! How are you, old buddy!?”

  “Alles gut,” Marwan responded in Yiddish.

  The two men laughed, embraced and shook hands.

  The coffee-drinking and baklava-tasting ceremony and an informal chat about ‘how Momma Judy was doing’ and other family gossip between old friends were a fitting prelude to a more serious discussion.

  “Tell me about that conference in Moscow; what’s it all about?” Gershon asked suddenly.

  “You know what doctors are like. They organize professional conferences in order to get trips abroad at the expense of drug companies and medical organizations. All in the name of science, of course.” He smiled sarcastically.

  “Yeah, sure… But what’s your involvement in all this?”

  “My deputy, Dr. Golan, two research fellows and Professor Vitkin of Haifa University have developed a new type of biological nano-metric glue, that adheres to carbon-fiber-designated nets, in order to reassemble or replace shattered bones and thus to rehabilitate limbs. They’ll do a presentation at the conference and I’ll be joining them.”

  “Doesn’t glue like that already exist in the world?”

  “Not like this one. The new material has mechanical qualities of inflation and hardening within a week in any type of mold. Thus we’ll be able to create artificial bones and bone fractions quickly, safely and with the solidity of a golf club. The glue is totally resistant to rejection by living tissue. As you know, some elements and metals, such as gold, silver and platinum for example, are resistant to rejection, as is our glue.”

  “Wow! Okay...continue.”

  “As soon as we complete experiments with animals and wounded human patients, we are convinced that this will constitute a breakthrough for saving shattered limbs. It will of course have significance for victims of terrorist attacks involving explosions, as well as for other types of injuries.”

  “It sounds like the foaming-expanding plastic used in building and industry. Alright, I more or less get the idea.” He continued, lowering his voice, “Tell me, will there be delegates from our region?”

  “Of course there will be, as always.”

  “That Syrian doctor, Dr. Munir Hilmi, the one who studied in England and secretly visited our hospitals to determine the condition of the wounded Syrian refugees from the civil war, will he be there?”

  “I think so. He attends every conference.”

  “Okay
, Marwan.” He drew near and lowered his voice: “You must have already heard about the latest business with ISIS at Al-Dumayr?”

  “Of course, like everybody else. Here in Israel and among my many friends in the region there’s deep concern over this development.”

  “Great. We’ve come up with a certain solution in our own style, but we won’t do anything until we know what exactly the Syrian Ra’is himself is thinking.”

  “Okay, so…”

  “I would like you to pose that question to the Syrian doctor. The answer can be passed on through you. You just have to update me with either yes or no only. That’s all.”

  “Understood. I’ll do my best. You’ve trusted me all these years, haven’t you, Gershon?”

  “Yes, I trust you, and for many years,” he answered, bemused, looking into the doctor’s eyes, his left eyebrow slightly raised.

  “But I must warn you, Gershon. I suspect they’ve gotten onto me and I’m being followed.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  “There’s a certain orthopedic surgeon who signs up for every conference after me and cancels when I cancel. He doesn’t say a single word at conferences; he’s a quiet type… we don’t ever hear from him. I can’t find a single article that he’s published or find his name on any hospital staff list. He watches me at lectures and is constantly busy with his cell phone.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Rashid Al-Turqi. That’s how he registers and that’s what appears on his name tag. He never goes out to restaurants or socializes with the delegates. He claims to be from Dubai, but I suspect he’s a Syrian agent.”

  “Okay, but just this once will you do me this favor? It’s very important and very urgent.”

  “Alright, I understand. But this is the last time and I ask that you keep a close eye on me while I’m there, okay?”

  “You can count on me, as usual. And don’t worry, Doc!”

  They exchanged a few more words of farewell, embraced and shook hands, and the gray Insignia made its way, this time via Highway Six, towards the hospital in the Jezreel Valley.

  The blue Sabbath sky slowly filled with feathery clouds and the temperature rose slightly. By one fifty-two that afternoon, Professor Marwan Sultani was already at the hospital, washing his hands with antiseptic soap in anticipation of his next operation. His thoughts strayed to the mission imposed on him by his old friend. He felt a sense of anxiety and fear rising in his stomach. And not for the first time...

  Sabbath’s Delight

  Saturday, March 1st, 2025

  Gershon glanced at his watch in anticipation of the guests he had invited for two p.m.

  At one fifty-five, punctual as former pilots tend to be, Adam Ben-Ami appeared, the first of the invitees to arrive, and rang the doorbell at the entrance.

  After being scrutinized by Shauli and Guy, who hesitated to open the door, Gershon shouted from above: “It’s okay, Shauli! He’s on our side! It’s Adam! Direct him to the lawn.”

  Only then was Adam admitted to the living room on the first floor. He crossed the room as indicated by Shauli’s finger, towards the rear of the old semi-detached house.

  At the rear of the property there was a small area that was divided between a verandah covered by a cracked wooden pergola and a plot of land covered with weeds and open to the sky, known as “the lawn.” The house was enclosed by a concrete wall covered with climbing plants and bushes of every known variety, as his neighbors’ imaginations had dictated.

  Adam, dressed in a thick sailor’s jersey, jeans and trainers, his ponytail resting on his neck, sat down in the rocking chair and began slowly surveying the refreshments:

  Bottles of beer, peanuts in their shells, home-baked cookies… Dahlia’s handiwork, I presume…a samovar whose red light indicated that it was switched on, Turkish coffee in a glass jar and sachets of herbal tea. …Well, we’re not getting any lunch out of Gershon today… he chuckled to himself, placing on the table the bottle of Portuguese Merlot wine that he had wrapped especially for the occasion.

  “Adam! Welcome to my humble abode!” Gershon said happily as he crossed the living room.

  “Hey Gersh! You said beer and there really is beer…” They shook hands and shared a friendly hug.

  “So, who else is joining the festivities, Herr Gersh?”

  “In your honor I’m expecting Benjamin ‘Benny’ Yungerman from the city of Ariel in Samaria and Professor Daniel Safran from Tiv’on in old Israel...Come on, Adam, let’s not waste any time. Open a couple of beers for us in the meantime.

  A few minutes after two o’clock, Benny Yungerman rang the doorbell. He was broadly built and wearing a blue cotton shirt with sleeves rolled up to reveal muscular arms. On his head atop gray locks he wore a huge knitted kippah. His carefully trimmed Herzl-style gray beard afforded him a dignified appearance.

  Benny made his appearance together with Professor Daniel Safran, a professor of geography and demography at Oxford University. Trotting behind the professor, attached to a red leash and wearing a pearl-studded collar, was his old brown Dachshund who answered to the name of “Billie.” The dog directed a polite bark or two at Shauli and Guy and with a few joyous wags of her tail ran towards the verandah to check out the refreshments.

  Gershon introduced Adam to the professor and Benny Yungerman, who had not met him previously. After briefly shaking hands, the guests sat down on the white plastic chairs resting on the covered verandah. Bottles of Heineken beer were uncapped and the four men began moderately sipping from them.

  “Excuse me, but where is the bathroom, Gershon?” Professor Safran asked. When answered, he headed in the indicated direction: tall, with a lined face, looking like a farmer from the Jezreel Valley, bald, wearing a checked flannel shirt, old-timers’ trousers as suitable to his age and black Asics sport shoes, with spectacles hanging on a blue cord around his neck. Although he was already past eighty, he was still sturdy and filled with vitality.

  Billie watched him go quizzically, but returned to lie under the table, scrutinizing with brown eyes which of the guests could be trusted.

  Adam announced: “We once had a sausage dog like that, but black, in the kibbutz when I was a kid.” He attempted to pat her head. She responded by nipping his hand and growling angrily.

  “Hey, Adam, where have you just returned from, Captain?” Benny Yungerman turned to Adam, as if he had known him for years.

  “My last trip was from Ashdod to Genoa and Gibraltar and from there through the English Channel to Rotterdam and all the way back home. I got back three days ago,” Adam answered politely, but clearly unwillingly.

  “And how was it?” Benny asked merrily, like someone who was deeply interested in cargo ships and oceans, totally ignoring Adam’s hesitant tone and body language.

  “As usual, there was some stormy weather; one of the containers came loose and almost fell overboard. We exported electrical components and imported a lot of Dutch beef, as usual. The Jews must be fed and the Europeans need our settlements’ electronics and plastics. At least they don’t boycott us for that…” he answered in a bored tone. “Why do you ask, Benny?”

  “Exactly because of what you just said: I have a factory in Ariel in Samaria and a week ago we sent a large container to Ashdod filled with electronic motors whose batteries are charged by sunlight, for the next decade’s transport planes!” he said proudly.

  “And… so?”

  “Adam, don’t play the innocent. We develop, you transport, and all the Jews are happy!”

  “Not all the Jews, Mister Benny Yungerman!” Adam replied angrily.

  “Calm down, guys. We’ll have plenty of time to argue later,” Gershon interjected, adopting his responsible adult tone. “I especially invited you, my friends, in order to figure out why so many of us feel that the current situation is leading us in destructive directions. If
we arrive at useful suggestions – so be it. That’s why I invited Benny Yungerman, who is convinced that the rest of us are totally wrong and that only he and his fellow settlers have seen the light. Forgive me, Benny, it’s not personal, of course. Tell us how you and your family came to settle in Ariel and what your factory produces nowadays.”

  “That’s fine, Gershon. I’m used to it…Well, my history is a familiar one,” he declared, offering a thumb-nail version of his life.

  “Born in a kibbutz, youth leader in the religious youth organization, armored corps, First Lebanon war, wounded, reserve duty, marriage to Racheli from the settlement Yitzhar, four sons, and the eldest is a fighter pilot. We settled in the Gaza Strip and manufactured plastic components.” He surveyed his audience contentedly, and continued: “Mortar bombs, Qassam rockets, expelled from Gaza by former prime minister Arik Sharon, emigrated to Ariel, beautiful duplex, grandfather to two little girls, and our Heavenly Father lives! He concluded with the traditional Jewish blessing and a broad, victorious smile.

  “Wow! Take a breather, Benny. It seems that fate has dealt you a winning hand!” Adam came to life. His anger and aversion to this self-confident, arrogant settler had begun to disperse. In his eyes Benny was another ‘dos’ - a religious guy, from the hardcore, rightist Gush Emunim movement, who would one day cause the destruction of “the good old Israel of the past,” which he had abandoned in his soul long ago.

  “Well, Be’ezrat Ha’shem - with the Lord’s help, blessed be He, and Bemehera beymeinu - in our time!” Benny grinned like a boxer facing a potential opponent.

  “And does He allow you to travel on the Sabbath, Benny?” Adam asked, pointing upwards, as Professor Safran returned and took his seat. Billie jumped up and buried her snout between his legs.

  “Not yet. Maybe we’ll enact a new ‘Halachic’ ruling to change that law when the Messiah comes...He smiled. “Meanwhile we are staying with our son Yair, the pilot, at his place. I came here all the way on foot, straight from the town of Herzliya. So I just have an hour to spend with you guys before I need to start back. But when Gershon calls, there’s no refusing. Despite the fact that all of you are still very naïve, it’s always interesting at Gershon’s.”