He never spoke to a soul about his loss, preferring to come
to terms with the tragedy on his own. He sat in his room for
hours, thinking about what had happened to his mates. How
could anyone who had not been pulled from a burning tank
begin to understand the enormity of what had happened.
Thus he sat, hour after hour, replaying the horrifying images
which came to mind. A snatch of a poem which they learned in
High School reverberated constantly through his head. "The
wind has swept them all away, gone, all gone, and I am left
alone."
He considered trying to contact some of his old friends, but
was it worth it? Perhaps no one would answer? Perhaps they
had not come back? There are no winners in a war; some lose,
others lose more, and after the war, after the funerals, they
all lick their wounds, stroking the cheek of a war orphan and
hoping that he will be the last one bereaved.
The telephone rang. Maybe, once again, someone was trying to
tell him to forget the past, to get rid of the cobwebs and
socialize. The ringing was persistent. He picked up the
receiver unwillingly. The caller spoke throatily, in a
labored fashion, as if he had trouble speaking.
"Well, Yakov, it's over, we're home."
"We had a hard time."
"Indeed we did."
"How about meeting some place?"
"O.K.Where shall we meet?"
"I'll come for you in about ten minutes, O.K?"
"All right, I'll be waiting."
Yakov didn't quite believe what was happening. How had Ronny
managed to break through his shell and get him to agree to
come out. . . Why just Ronny? Strange indeed.
The green foliage served as a peaceful background to the two
friends as they walked. Ronny was the first to break the
somber silence. He told about the convoy he had been assigned
to head towards Sinai, the booby trap and the terrible
feeling of helplessness. Yakov sighed. He described the plane
which had come straight towards him and how he was sure he
would end as a little puff of burnt dust.
"It's over. Only a short time, but tough."
"The main thing is that it's over."
Neither of them wanted to touch on the painful subject of
those who were lost. Those who had not come back to their
mothers, to their wives and children. The young men who would
never again see the sun shining, never again feel the wind on
their faces. A heavy silence fell once again.
"What happened to Oren?" Yakov whispered the question.
"Oren was in Yerusholyim." Was? That means he is there no
more, Oren, his friend since kindergarten days. What about
Yuval, Dudu, Koby, Benny, Mike the American, all fallen in
war. "All killed and only I was left. I feel guilty. Why was
I singled out?"
"We'll have to find something, something for which to get up
in the morning. There must be something." They walked and
talked and knew that they had to keep in touch. They met
repeatedly after this and Ronny made sure that Yakov did not
lapse into the black despondency from which he had rescued
him.
Yakov looked at the envelope, which came by special delivery.
He signed mechanically, aware that it was a communication
from the army. Hard as he was trying to put the whole war
behind him, the envelope ordered him to present himself at
base in the morning.
His orders were terse and concise. He was to meet the agent
at the airport in the morning. Why so soon, why could he not
wait a few days? His superiors assured him that all questions
would be answered in the morning. Stumbling into his flat, he
felt an urgent need to confide in Ronny. He knew that Ronny
was the only one who would be able to encourage him and to
assure him that he would manage to carry out the mission
entrusted to him. The idea of being away for a year and a
half frightened him. But Ronny was not at home, and he had to
leave a message with his mother. "Please tell him that I'll
be away for some months and for security reasons, won't be
able to contact anyone at home during the whole time. I'll
try to speak to him before I go."
Yakov's mother peeped into his room from time to time and
watched silently as her son packed his bags. She was worried
about him, terribly worried.
Time passed, as time does, and Yakov landed at Ben Gurion
Airport. It was good to be home. His room was exactly as he
had left it and his mother's kiss was as warm and loving as
he remembered it. Had she been worrying all this time?
Suddenly he felt he had to ring Ronny. Nobody answered the
phone. He tried all day, without success. Only late at night
was there a reply. "Hello, Mrs. Noar?"
"Who's that? Yakov?" The excitement in her voice was as clear
as if she were speaking to her own son.
"I came back today. Is Ronny in?"
"Em, Ronny is not here right now," Yakov heard the break in
her voice.
"When will he be back?" he asked guardedly.
"Take down his number," she tried to steady her voice "I
think he will be happy to hear from you." His number? Was he
married? If he were, she would not sound so broken hearted.
Where was he? The conversation was too stilted; he would have
to ring him. His mother had said to try late at night or at
lunch time. What had happened to him? Whom could he ask? In
the end, he decided to ring the Jerusalem number Mrs. Noar
had given him.
Only later that evening did he get a reply to his
call."Ronny?" he asked, his heart pounding.
"Which Ronny?" asked the voice at the other end of the line.
"Ronny Noar; whom am I speaking to?" But the voice at the
other end just told him to hang on.
The receiver came to life. "Hello?"
"Ronny!" Yakov yelled. "Who is that?" Ronny sounded
preoccupied, and not in the mood for guessing games.
"It's me, Yakov."
At the sound of his voice, Ronny's voice changed. He sounded
his old self and genuinely excited. "Where are you? Your
mother wouldn't tell me. Can we meet in the morning?"
"No, it will have to be lunch time, and I'll explain
everything. No, don't be upset. We've waited eighteen months
to see each other, a few more hours won't hurt." The hint of
laughter in Ronny's voice allayed Yakov's fears somewhat.
"Central Bus station in Tel Aviv?" "Sorry, no, it will have
to be in Yerusholaim." "O.K, two o'clock at the Central Bus
Station."
Yakov counted the hours, hoping with all his might that the
change he sensed in Ronny was not some trouble from which he
would have to extricate him.
The noise was unbearable. The cosmopolitan crowd which the
buses spewed forth spoke in a multitude of languages. Loud
raucous hooligans, quiet middle-aged businessmen, housewives
going about their business, he even saw some Yeshiva men in
their black garb: Where were they off to? Then his attention
was drawn to a long haired unkempt youth shuffling towards
him. His sandals had seen better days and his clothes reeked
of alcohol. Was this Ronny? Had he gone out of his mind?
"Any spare money for my bus fare?" whined the youth. What?
Yakov looked at the tattooed arm stretched out towards him.
"Money!" shouted the youth, "are you deaf?" No he had no
money to spare and he was relieved that this was definitely
not Ronny. He began searching the crowds again. He watched a
Yeshiva student who was obviously waiting for someone, walk
towards the public telephones, where he was standing. He
moved to allow him to pass and the student hid a smile that
he should be making room for him. He stood in front of him
and Yakov wondered if this boy, too, was asking for money.
Black suit, hat perched firmly on his head, white shirt, the
boy smiled at him.
Ronny!
Yakov was in shock. He felt as if he had been punched in the
solar plexus. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"What, over the phone? How could I?"
"But why?" "Is it so terrible?" Ronny looked down at his
clothes as if seeing them for the first time.
"I don't know, I'm still in shock, but what possessed
you?"
"Yakov, believe it or not, it was peer pressure."
"Peer pressure? From whom, who pressured you?"
"Meir, and all the gang," Ronny replied simply.
"They've all turned." Yakov stared at Ronny hoping to see the
accustomed wicked glint in his eye, but Ronny was quite
serious.
"Yes they have."
"Well where are they?"
"In various Yeshivos."
"And you?"
"I'm with them."
"Then who is left?" Yakov was worried.
"Only you - you're the last one who hasn't returned to our
roots," declared Ronny.
"Where's Ofir?"
"In Or Ha'emet, with Rafi."
"Yaniv? Giora." Yakov felt as if the ground was shifting from
under his feet.
"With Itzik, in Lev Bonim."
"That means I am completely alone again, just as I was after
the war, remember?" Yakov said despairingly. "Gone, all gone
and I am left alone." A heavy silence, an invisible barrier,
came between them, in spite of the cacophony all around.
"Have you ever met religious Jews — datiyim?"
Rony broke the silence at last. "Have you ever spoken to
them? What have you got against them?" Yakov's jaw
dropped."You never liked them either."
"I want you to come to us over Shabbat, just once. Come and
you will feel what an authentic Jewish Shabbat is like. After
some soul searching, you'll see that nothing else matters in
life." Ronny tried.
"Shabbat? Whatever for? Nothing doing. Especially if you
mention soul searching. My soul doesn't need an overhaul."
Yakov felt pressure, the pressure of the unknown, and was
frightened. Ronny attempted to persuade him and remembered
that he, too, had felt like this some months ago. Never mind,
it will come.
"We're here till late Friday night and then we walk to the
Kotel to daven with sunrise. Yakov, you'll feel in
seventh Heaven."
They changed the subject and talked about other things for a
long time. Both men realized how much they had missed each
other. Before they parted company, Ronny blurted out. "Yakov,
our Rosh Yeshiva knows that we can't go home for Shabbatot
and Chagim. He invites boys to his house. Last year I
experienced a seder there for the first time, before I
became involved in all this. It was sublime. Think about it."
They went their separate ways and Yakov wondered if his old
friend would ever return to normal. "Gone, all gone, and I am
left alone."
Yakov sat brooding in his room. What did Ronny want from him?
To be like him? He claimed they had all found a purpose to
their lives. What purpose? Was it not just an illusion?
One Friday morning the phone rang. "Well, what's happening?
Are you coming to make kiddush with us? I told Meir
that you were back and he asked me why I hadn't invited you
to spend a Shabbat. When I told him that I had, he
immediately organized a bed for you."
"Do you mean to say that there is a bed in your room? Are you
trying to turn me into a doss (Israeli slang for
religious Jew)?" "Heaven forbid. Just come and see, and if
you decide to stay, that will be your responsibility, not
ours. We just want you to see the way we live."
"Ronny," Yakov hedged, "I don't think so, not today, not
right now..."
"You know what, Yakov, just please yourself. Do what you feel
is best. But know that your bed is waiting for you."
Yakov's room was clouded with fog, as he chain-smoked his way
through a box of cigarettes. Should he go to Yerusholyim, or
stay at home with everybody? Everybody? There was no one
except his mother, nobody at all. The wind has swept them
all away, gone, all gone and I am left alone. Unbidden, the
old poem came to mind once again.
Ronny, tired of looking out of the window, went to sit on his
bed. "I was sure he would come after my phone call. I felt
the time was right, but it's too late now." There was a timid
knock on the door. "Yakov", Ronny jumped up. His delight and
joy were so genuine, that Yakov could not help but respond.
"I've come for just one Shabbat," Yakov murmured.
He was confused and elated at the same time. A feeling of
warmth, of belonging, seeped into his being. He belonged, he
was not alone any more.
