And there they were: the children. Feeling “green”, as D. said when we asked how she was doing. Some parading in their Shabbat best. Others with shirts hanging out of their pants, blending in with shades of the latest khaki: dirt-khaki, dead-grass khaki, eucalyptus khaki.
We were kissed by soft lips. Hugged. Our daughter, slender as a willow, hands constantly busy tying back the wispy strings of her fine gold hair. “I miss you,” she said. And a light shimmered in her strong brown eyes.
“Well, this is my base.” And she told us who was who and what was what. My mefaked, my memmemet, the klafte of the camp. Her room. Her bed. A soulless wooden prefab with three small iron cots and gray army blankets that had no warmth.
Her room at home is empty. Sometimes I sit there and immerse myself in the lingering hint of incense amid the buzz of her paraphernalia and the scatter of photographs of her in madcap poses with a succession of mooning young men. There was a time when her mess made me crazy.
“And there" she pointed, “under my bed, Dad… can you see it? That’s my gun.”
We formed a circle of three, our small fragile family. I brought out the food. Thick minestrone soup cooked early that morning, since Shosh likes hers hot. Roast chicken and potatoes, salad with her favorite pink sauce. Canned litchis for dessert. “Oh goody,” she exclaimed. “You brought the pistachios. And mango. Yummy, oh thanks for the pomelo!” How she appreciated everything we’d done and brought. And best of all, her father and I managed not to say anything to irritate her.
She chattered busily, filling us with the details of her days. Was there a shadow of tension pulling at her mouth? The animation of her face contrasted with the paleness of her skin. A fine rash of pimples suggested she might be run down. She was waiting for her manilla, which would set the seal on her future for the next two years. There had already been disappointments. She wanted to become a sport instructor but had been turned down because of an old injury. Okay, I suggested, what about becoming a First Aider? No, all the jobs requiring training had already been filled. Her Hebrew wasn’t good enough to be selected for other desirable jobs. She sighed. All she’d been offered was an office job or a position in the military police.
The Military Police! God, no. We were not police types. “Imagine having to arrest someone, Shosh? Think of the moral dilemmas you could face!”
“Yes,” she sighed. “But what’s choice do I have?”
“It’s not that I mind being in the army,” she said determinedly. “I almost look forward to it. Like you know, a challenge. And I’ve come to accept the things you said, Ma, the blah about doing my duty for my country and being proud to have an army to serve in. “But it’s not easy to be motivated when the reality is that my choices suck and I’m likely to be stuck in some hole serving tea to male chauvinist pigs for two years of my life! While my friends overseas finish their first degrees at University.” The glimmer of a tear betrayed her tight smile.
"It’s okay. To complain, I mean. You don’t have to hold back to protect us,” I assured her. And my glance begged her father to let her have her say without interrupting with some wise pronouncements. We fought the habit of defending the country and giving our usual lecture about the holocaust and how Jews had gone like lambs to the slaughter. Why, I thought bitterly, should the yoke of our history be on Debbie and not on her cousins and friends in South Africa, Australia and America?
“I’ve got to do guard duty in a while,” she was saying. “Would you like to see me in my “B” uniform?” Of course! She quickly appeared in army fatigues: black boots, water bottle, hat crunched over her hair. She looked like an actor in an African safari. If she hadn’t been carrying a gun we’d have laughed.
“Don’t worry,” she teased as she walked us back to our car with the now empty cooler bags.
“The gun’s not loaded. We don’t carry ammunition,” she chuckled. She put her arm around me.
“My little Mommy,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “Take me home with you.”
I wrinkled my nose back at her and brushed the straggling hairs from her face. “You see that bird out there?” I asked. “Well, that bird also thought maybe he’d rather stay home in his nest with his mom. But one day she nudged him to the edge and flicked him into the sky. Like this.” And I flicked my fingers into the wind.
“You’re on your own now, little bird,” I said. “It’s your turn to fly.”
My eyes caught the gleam of silver as a fighter jet hurtled through the sky and I clenched my teeth as I recollected the morning’s headlines announcing that three young soldiers had been stabbed to death.
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