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  He graduated at the top of his class, and along with “Old Man” Gershon, was sent to fly the aged Skyhawks.

  While Gershon, recovering from his accident, was forced to start all over again, Adam rose quickly through the ranks, making a name for himself among the combat pilots. After some fifteen years of service, he left the air force and joined El Al.

  He was eventually fired along with many others, in the wake of a financial crisis, and joined Zim Shipping Services as first mate. Within several years he became a captain, commanding eighty-three thousand ton container ships. They didn’t see much of each other, after that.

  He was often wooed by women, but the solitary life of a captain suited him well.

  The old apartment at the corner of Nordau and Nahum was their spot. They dubbed it “The Library” - a sort of code, but mostly an affectionate nickname. They would meet there to talk gossip and joke. Gershon had always felt comfortable there. Coming to the apartment felt like coming home, like another life, like a jaunty bachelorhood that was nevertheless welcoming and cozy. His old home in Green Marom neighborhood had never felt like this, even back when Nechama and the twins, Rina and Gila, were still there. The names that Nechama had chosen - “Rina” and “Gila”, suddenly seemed unbearably anachronistic to him.

  As he waited for Adam, his eyes scanned the apartment:

  An ancient wooden entrance door, painted brown; a floor of old, orange terrazzo tiles; a compact kitchenette; wooden countertops, masquerading as mahogany; a large sofa that had been at some point in the past mangled by a cat; high power mercury-vapor lamps hanging from a low ceiling, supported by slanted wooden beams; those bumpy, textured plaster walls they used to do back in the seventies.

  The air was thick with the smells of turpentine, wood resin and flaxseed oil. The paintings on the walls and the paint stains on the floor created a vaguely bohemian atmosphere, of old, classical art, comprehensible and yet mysterious. Especially at night.

  He examined the paintings themselves. The older ones, he remembered from back in their squadron days. But a new painting, huge, leaning at an angle between two wooden beams with its top touching the ceiling, caught his attention: A white swan in flight, with an arrow piercing its wing, hovering above a black sea, its beak open in a chilling death cry. A masculine hand grasping a loosed bow lay in the foreground, and dark storm clouds outlined the horizon, framing the unfinished painting.

  The swan’s gigantic, frenzied eye, frozen in the voiceless horror of death, flooded his mind with memory of his mother’s eyes during her final moments. Mustafa Barhum’s eyes were there, as well...

  “Cat got you tongue, Gersh?” Adam peeked out from behind the bedroom door.

  “Still painting, huh, Adam Ben-Ami?”

  “Ignore that! I’ll be with you in a moment,” he replied from across the wall.

  “How long have you been working on this?”

  “Not long. Between trips. It’ll be done by the time I’m retired,” he said, returning to the living room in a chunky, white wool sailor sweater, blue jeans and sneakers.

  “I’m dying for this swan to come to life. Then I can hop on its back and we can both get the fuck out of here,” he added, laughing.

  “What’s the message here, Adam? What’s that arrow stuck in its wing? It made me remember my mother, back in Laniado hospital… at the end…” he said, still staring at the painting, mentioning neither the first Barhum nor the second.

  “Who knew I could affect you that much. I think it’s pretty straightforward, yeah? It’s about all of us. The hunters, the hunted… and the future. I mean, people should take it however they want.”

  “Ah, suits the kind of mood I’m in today. Have been in for the past few years, really.” He spoke quietly, gradually returning from Laniado and faraway Cologne, back to the present.

  “Adam, why don’t you start writing? That’ll be interesting.”

  “Has anyone ever told you that you’re a romantic, Gersh?”

  “Never.”

  “Then you should really consider trying it. At least occasionally. You’re too busy killing people you don’t know so that other people you don’t know will feel safe on the lands of locals that you’ll never get to know. Isn’t it time yet for you to wake up?”

  “Calm down, Adam. You’re walking into a minefield. We both know that you’re the only reason I’m not a pilot today. Who was it that slammed the brakes too hard, that night in Tel-Nof, shredding his wheels on Runway 36? Me?!” He tried to grin.

  “Between you and me, Chief, while the air force might have lost a mediocre pilot, archeologically speaking, thanks to me, the People of Israel gained an unusually rare bodyguard!” He smiled.

  “But you know, Gersh,” Adam grew serious, “since you’ve joined the Forces of Darkness you never smile anymore, you never laugh. What’s going on with you, Mister Shalit? Why suddenly show up here, this morning, unannounced?”

  “Mass-casualty terrorist attack in Jerusalem, at the Knesset. I’m afraid that shit’s about to hit the fan again,” he replied, ignoring Adam’s remark.

  “So what else is new, Gersh? Ever since ’67, the attacks keep coming, only the names change. Keep smiling! There will be peace before you retire for good, and you’ll be the one to bring it…” he chuckled.

  “Okay, Optimistic-White-Man, put a sock in it. Where’s that coffee? I need to wake up.” He turned his gaze back to the painting crowding the living room, and without looking at Adam, asked, “How’s your secret German daughter?”

  “She fine. Here, you’ve got to look at this photo: fourth year student, life sciences in the University of Kiel! You know, where they built our submarines.” He hurried to shove his new iPhone into Gershon’s face.

  Gershon usually loathed people’s tendency to parade their children and especially their grandchildren, forcing everyone present to plaster on a forced smile and ogle the small miracle of creation. He had come to accept the fact that he only truly cared about the fruit of his own loins, and their offspring. The rest, as far as he was concerned, were nothing but tiny nuisances, transformed by their doting parents and grandparents into quite large nuisances. With Adam, however, it was different: he found himself genuinely interested in the young blonde looking back at him from the iPhone screen, with her blue doe eyes and her charming smile.

  “There’s no way that this beauty is actually related to you, Ben-Ami,” he said, his fingers zooming in on the small screen.

  “Well, it’s all from her mother. A real shiksa goddess… She was a prima ballerina in Germany. Not much left of that beauty today, though. She can barely walk without a crutch anymore either. The pain, you know. It’s been years since I last saw them.”

  “So, are you ever going to fly them in, or do you just plan to keep hiding them in Germany among the refugees?”

  “We’ll see. Won’t be anytime soon, that’s for sure. The right time will come, and whatever’s supposed to happen will happen. Besides, the atmosphere here, with the new wave of suicide bombings and the nationwide depression, you know, it just doesn’t hold much appeal for young Germans. Not for old Germans, either…”

  Adam peeked out the window toward the street, biting into his falafel.

  “Your gorillas watching the cage, Gersh?”

  “Everything’s under control, Ben-Ami. Where’s our coffee?”

  “It’s coming, it’s coming. Down, boy...” He smiled with obvious affection and sat down in front of Gershon, placing two steaming coffee cups on the low wooden table, along with coconut cookies from his recent trip.

  “So how’s work? Give me the cliff notes, at least.”

  “Look, you know I’m not permitted to say anything specific. But since it’s you...It’s a heavy responsibility. I barely sleep. I worry all the time, anxious about the results. Everyone expects clean results from me, you know. But the world hasn’t bee
n that black-and-white for years.”

  “I trust you, Gersh. They need people like you up there. Even if you are a left-wing kibbutznik-schmutznik with ancient values. You’re a dying breed, man! They don’t make people like you anymore, the mold broke a long time ago. You’ve been the minority for ages!” he said, laughing. “And don’t let that knitted-kippah-wearing deputy of yours walk all over you! “

  “Calm down, Adam, everything’s under control. Don’t worry!”

  “Well, now I’m definitely worried! So here’s my humble contribution to our national security, if I may: Some reservist from the old squadron told me this, years ago, and it’s good advice: ‘You will always be a slave to your words, and a king of your silence’, Gersh.”

  “That’s not a bad idea, actually.”

  Adam sipped his coffee and shot a wry smile at Gershon, moving to discuss matters of greater importance. “So what’s up with you, Gersh? Any new shidduch? Secret wedding? You still on your own, or just hiding everything as usual?”

  “There’s nothing to hide. Ever since Nechama found religion and took the girls, we’ve grown apart. The more religious they get, the farther we drift. Anyway, do you remember, they both married Amiram Hilleli’s boys? The guy who turned orthodox back in the eighties?” he spoke distantly, as if they were someone else’s daughters.

  “Oh yeah, I remember that guy. He used to kick all of our asses in training dogfights...”

  “Things changes since then, Adam. I never told you this, but I went to see him. This was years ago, before we became in-laws, before Rina’s murder. I visited him in Kiryat-Sefer, the orthodox town. His voice was the only recognizable thing about him – this Rebbe with a white, shaggy beard, black kneitsch on his head, old black clothes, a white shirt with food stains, tzitzit hanging above his lack of a belt. And the apartment – bare walls, tons of rabbinic literature and the overpowering smell of chicken soup. And Amiram, he was just sitting there, laughing, looking at me with those piercing eyes, saying that ‘Only the study of the Torah and the worship of Hashem Yitbarach will lead the people of Israel to peace and remove their suffering.’ It was like talking to Rabbi Shach. The fanaticism! And so much contempt and pity for us, the pilots, victims of atheism, unknowingly corrupted. You would never believe, looking at him then, that he used to be a pilot himself. Anyway, he died three months ago.”

  “What a shame. I had no idea. I liked the guy, too, you know. And what about Gila, have you seen her recently?”

  “Four years ago. A year after Rina was murdered by the vehicle-ramming attack, before I took the job. We met at the Jerusalem Central Bus Station, at some shitty bakery just outside the station. We drank terrible coffee and everything was kosher, and old, and so orthodox. We’re sitting there, and I barely recognize her – thirty-three going on sixty, wrapped in those rags of theirs, a sweater with little white buttons over a floor-length dress, no lipstick or perfume, in old trainers and a toupee under a heavy, gray scarf wrapped around her head. I asked: ‘So how’ve you been, Gila? How’re things with mom and little Shalom’?

  ‘It’s very bad, Dad,’ she says. ‘The Rabbi says an evil spirit has possessed mother. A dybbuk! Completely mad, Hashem have mercy. Always smiling, not recognizing any of us, babbling about that kibbutz of yours. She “lost it”, like you people say. Utter nonsense, Dad, Hashem saves us! But I insisted, took her to the hospital, had her tested.’

  ‘And..? What it is, do they know?’ I asked, still not getting it.

  ‘Alzheimer’s, Dad. Acute. But she might still know you. She’s only fifty-six. Such a tragedy! Hashem have mercy… this is because of Rina’s death, I know it…’

  ‘And Shalom, how’s little Shalom?’

  ‘Actually he’s doing okay. Because we were twins, he thinks I’m his “mommy” now. It’s what he calls me! And he has nightmares… I do, too, Dad. I cry at nights, for Rina and mom.’

  ‘And his father, Rina’s widower?’

  ‘Oh, he got remarried a year after the murder and cut ties. I think the whole ordeal was too much for mom. It’s a good thing you’re strong, at least, Dad…’ ”

  “And, Adam, I just wanted to tell her: ‘I look strong from the outside, Gila, but I loved you and Rina far more than I’ve ever loved myself, my golden-haired girls… you and little Shalom, that’s all I have left, and I wish so much that you would just come back to me, someday.’ Well, what I ended up saying was - ‘look after Shalom, everything will be fine.’ And maybe I was leaking a bit there, too.”

  Adam looked at him, deep in thought, finding it difficult to believe this display of emotion and vulnerability from the chief, the great Gershon Shalit…”

  “Okay, Chief, so what do you plan on doing today for the People of Israel and for your Gila and Shalom? You’re a powerful man, Gersh. You could do a great deal.”

  “I’m still after revenge. Every day. And I hope to get Shalom and Gila back one day. And if, somehow, we manage to save Nechama and keep the people of Israel a bit safer, that’ll be nice. But the pain over Rina only gets stronger, and no amount of revenge heals it…” Gershon fell silent, and stared for a long while at the screaming swan. “And Gila, she has no kids of her own?” Adam looked at him.

  “Gila is barren. And the bastard from Jabel-Mukaber village, took Rina from me. At least he missed little Shalom… but honestly, Adam, revenge is a futile, pointless business. I started realizing it not long after I accepted this job.”

  “Come on. You’re a man of principle, you’ll figure something out.”

  “Adam, you’ve been a commander yourself. You know that if there’s no vision, if people follow you only by virtue of authority…” his voice died away.

  “Don’t sell yourself short, Gersh. Leadership is also about courage, and ideals, and faith - you have those, in abundance.”

  “Thank you. But I’d like to be part of a much larger change. Try to alter the course of this ship before we crash into the cliffs. The apocalypse is lurking, just like in your painting… but so far, I haven’t found a path. Something with vision and meaning that I can steer toward.”

  “Are you really looking, Gersh?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then listen. ‘Humanity is divided into three: the very few who made things happen; the very many who prattle about what’s happening; and the majority, who have no idea what’s happening.’ You, Gershon, are one of the very few. Remember that! You will find it. No one will stop you from finding it.”

  “Thanks, Adam.”

  The room fell into silence, and Gershon slowly sipped his lukewarm coffee until there was no more.

  The wind shook the windows facing the street. Glowing flecks of dust cuddled lazily into the wide beam of light that pierced through the blinds, only to be extinguished when they reached the gloom of the old terrazzo tiles.

  From across the brick wall separating the apartments, Beethoven’s Für Elise suddenly emerged. It was not the playing of a practicing student, or a pensioner trying to keep their mind lucid, but that of a true virtuoso, accurate and stirring.

  “Is this your morning concert, Adam?”

  “Igor Markovich,” Adam explained. “Emigrated from Russia in ninety-two. A year ago he quit his job as a parking attendant and rented the apartment across the wall. He used to be a concert pianist, back in Moscow. So he keeps in shape. Every morning.”

  “No shit… But tell me, Adam, why is it that you run from responsibility? Why haven’t you married? A house in Israel, a wife, children, a dog, you know, all that. Why haven’t you run for some position with actual influence here? What’s your deal, really?”

  “Just listen, Gersh. Concentrate. It’s free…”

  English Beer

  The wind outside had mostly died out, Markovich continued with his morning practice, and from time to time the dull rumble of the light-rail passing through Ben Yehuda Street could be heard.


  Adam leaned back in the old leather couch, sipped from his tepid coffee, and kicked off: “Look, Gersh, you’ve really given me an opening here, so let me tell you a little story, and then you can tell me all about what I’ll see either way in the evening news and tomorrow’s newspapers, if I don’t see it all over the social networks before that. That is, the real reason why you’ve finally dropped in for a visit.”

  “Okay, Adam, I will. You go first, though!”

  “Aye-aye, sir.” He smiled, offering a sloppy salute. “So listen: A year ago, our ship anchored at Southampton, England for a few days. I said to myself, ‘Ben-Ami, instead of sitting on the ship with your thumb up your ass, go and see some proper English soccer.’ And so I found myself on a train to Manchester, in that terrible English rain, sharing a car with a bunch of loud, scarf-wearing Chelsea fans. They were drunk, cheerful, cursing, rowdy as fuck. The type of guys that we used to call hooligans.” He smiled again.

  “I cautiously probed: ‘Do you think you stand a chance against Manchester United today?’ and they nearly slaughtered me on the spot. Anyway, we soon became friends, and one of them, a huge Englishman, fat and red-cheeked with beady little pig-eyes, proposed a match: ‘England versus Israel! The loser pays for the entire car’s beer!’ Well, Israeli honor, you know how it is. I graciously accepted. And besides, it was basically me versus the entire car.

  “‘What’s the game?’ I inquired.

  ‘Which country has it worse, England or Israel? The shittiest country takes the cake! Do you understand, Israeli-boy?’ he roared at me.

  And we were off, talking shit about our countries:

  ‘Thatcher fucked the economy!’ he opened.

  ‘Bibi fucked our national unity!”

  ‘London is full of mosques, and the ’mayor is a Muslim.’