Through the little window, things seemed more distant — quieter and still, as if I were looking from the outside. As I held it I could feel its heaviness, the cold touch on my cheek, and its good smell … leather maybe, and something else… sweet… mysterious from foreign countries, where he had come from — before I was.

I watched my dad taking pictures. He would squint one eye, ready to push the button. For a moment, he looked like he was smiling, then the magical sound, and the moment was gone. Gently and quietly, he would put the black box inside the leather cover, back into darkness. He looked pensive and distant as if he were back in his foreign countries. He left me behind.

“Six weeks,” Mr. Eisenberg said. He was a photographer during the “evil war”. People said that he photographed Hitler. “You know, it’s so busy after the holidays… “ He said looking at my dad. “I hope this time the film is not so dark… I had to use special paper to print it last time, a special order from America… Check the light before you shoot, a camera is not a toy,” he said shifting his gaze to me, “not for little children… here….” he said with his German accent handing my dad a receipt, “take this so you won’t forget when to pick it up…”

While holding my hand, my dad put the receipt in his pocket, our two hands operated together like one, swinging up and down. His hands were big and dry; at times our palms were glued together and separated with a squeezing sound. I thought it was funny, but I didn’t laugh, to keep Mr. Eisenberg and his commentary out of it. Acting serious made it funnier, and as I held my giggle in I could hear my dad chuckle.

Six weeks we had to wait for the pictures to return. It was a long time to wait. I learned to name the continents of the world – all five of them; I saw America on the map, where the special paper came from, it had a boring shape, like a smashed box, not like the long elegant boot called Italy; my dog had five puppies, but four of them died; and I got my brother’s coat for the winter – it was really big and it was a boy’s coat, black with big brown buttons. Six weeks passed, my dad took the receipt out of his wallet, and we walked together hand in hand silently.

Mr. Eisenberg handed us a pile of pictures… “Don’t touch… careful… it just came out… let me put it near the ventilator… let it dry…” I was trying to reach over the high wooden counter when Mr. Eisenberg yelled, “it is not going to run away… patience … heaven’s sake… patience… this young generation has no time.” He pointed his finger at me and said to my dad, “no manners… no manners…” He sighed, “Where are the days when children knew how to behave?”

All his family had been killed, and he had a blue number on his arm — that’s why he was talking like that — we used to call him crazy-berg. Once we threw a dead lizard into his shop so we could see him standing outside yelling in that ugly language Hitler spoke. In the summer, he wore a shirt with one sleeve longer then the other so no one could see his number. I kept on trying to guess the number.

Going back home, while we were holding hands, I told my father about Mr. Eisenberg’s blue number. He didn’t say anything; he looked straight ahead and squeezed our hands tighter until they made that funny sound but he didn’t laugh. I knew what I said was wrong, but I couldn’t stop guessing the number. I was sure it was five digits, just like our telephone number: two numbers, a dash and three more. There were so many possibilities; I muttered them relentlessly hoping to somehow know when I reached the right sequence.

The picture we took is still with me. Mr. Eisenberg was right, it didn’t run anywhere… I look at the picture every morning; it hangs here, on my bathroom wall. It looks back at me every time I brush my teeth – the photo is here but the rest is gone. Mr. Eisenberg was left with a secret blue number, and I with a silent black and white picture.

Sometimes, I wish my dad were in the picture, so I could look at him. But every morning I get to look with him through the black box window at this picture — we freeze a black and white moment together. I can feel him standing close behind me, the cold touch of the camera on my cheek, the sweet leather smell, his hand covering one of my eyes, and my eye lid brushing against his palm — like a white sleeve brushing against a blue number.

Her words would escalate into shouts and her shouts into sobs. Was she desperate? Was she cruel? I could not decide. And how could he stand there and say nothing? Was he desperate? Was he cruel? My senses, like Lily our cat lurking at her prey, would heightened to predict my mother’s next move. Alert, vigilant, ahead of her game I would try to anticipate the future. Would she break a vase, the radio, shake the shelves into a book avalanche letting the new 32 volumes of the Hebrew encyclopedia crash down? Would she slam the door and leave with a look of contempt, or rather would she meticulously plan her flight with her black suitcase full, leaving empty open drawers behind looking cold and resolved? Would she stay with her younger sister and drive their beautiful Vauxhall car on an overnight trip, or would she disappear forever.

Either way my dad would look the same: beaten, shrunken, depleted and worn. If I said anything bad about my mother, he would look to a distant place and utter with effort, as if it hurt when he spoke, “she is right, it is not easy for her, you know.”

It was only the previous weekend, on Saturday morning, when my dad asked us to go and play outside and not to come back before lunch. He then shut the shutters and locked the door with a rare look of anticipation and enthusiasm on his face. As we were leaving, my mom’s favorite opera, La Traviata, was playing on the gray phonograph. I could not tell if I was happy or mad. Somehow I could tell that something really exciting was going to happen without me, yet that spark in my dad’s eye made me feel so happy and hopeful. When we came back, their hair was wet, the bed neatly made, and a warm soft silence wrapped around them — so different than the usual one.

I was sure he would get her the car she wanted the next day, a boxy Vauxhall with a mixture of wonderful smells of leather, oil and gas — just like her sister’s – with an ivory steering wheel and gearshift attached. There would be three round dials on the front with phosphorescent green numbers measuring speed, temperature and oil. Or at least he would take her far away on an overnight trip with packed suitcases and dress up clothes leaving us with his mom or sister and ask us to act like big kids who might get a wonderful surprise at the end of their trip.

My mother, still content and fulfilled, stood in the kitchen staring at the Swiss calendar hanging above the table “lets get out of here,” she said as if looking out the window into mirror-like lakes, mountains topped with white icing, wooden houses spread like cherries – and no trace of human presence. “Let’s just pack and go now.” she said it a bit louder while reaching for the cigarette pack in her pocket.

My father methodically collected the dishes from the table, wearing her apron, piling all the leftovers on one dish and washing the rest. My brothers were busy exchanging cards and sneaking food from the table to the dog. 
Was I the only one who heard what she just said? I looked at the blue lake and tried to imagine us there; without the harsh sun, without the stone houses, without the big garbage dumpsters on the street corners, without noise — I could tell from the picture it was very quiet without people — only expansive open vistas. It was far, foreign, frightening and so beautiful. I was already packing in my mind, wondering if Stila the dog and Lily the cat were coming too.

But Switzerland, the Vauxhall car, the long trip all dissolved into clouds of blue cigarette smoke while the cozy warm serenity between them was turning into sharp glassy silence. He finished the dishes and she finished her cigarette. He then took the ashtray from the table and asked her in a troubled voice “do you think I should throw these?” Pointing to the pile of leftover salad, chicken bones and watermelon rinds. Ever so slowly, she turned towards him and said quietly “did you just take the ashtray?” He was standing there looking at her like a deer skewered by a beam of light. We all knew he was not going to say anything. “Did you hear me?” She said in a piercing voice holding a cry in. “Tell me did you or did you not?”

She left when we were at school. We came back to a cloud of sweet tobacco smell. My dad was sitting in the living room with the radio on, half a cup of cold black coffee on the edge of the armchair and the long curly pipe in his mouth. “Mom needed to rest for few days”; he murmured holding the pipe with his teeth like I used to do with my pacifier.

I knew better than my mom not to ask questions, especially why questions, like why she can’t rest at home, why are you not going to bring her back, why can’t we buy a car or go on a trip for her, and why, why do you never say anything?

So I left to play in the yard with the ant trap I had made the day before. Circles of salt disguised as sugar would entrap the ants in small areas creating havoc among them. In places where they were brave enough to cross the salt walls I directed them with lines of dry weeds set on fire to a dead end. I remember how they were able to figure out the way out by retracing their steps back. What a relief it was when they made it out.

My mother also found her way back a week later, equipped with a legitimate reason to return. She couldn’t buy a car, couldn’t go on a long trip, couldn’t leave to go to Switzerland, but she could get pregnant.

Although worried, my dad seemed a bit more alive. He ran around the house putting out clean ashtrays, pairing single shoes together, and brushing the dog’s hair mindlessly.

The next month was seemingly quiet. My mother visited the furniture shop. She wore looser cloths and tried to eat more cheese and eggs but ended up staring at the food with a mixture of disgust and boredom. Each morning she pushed the full dish away, lit a cigarette and gazed at the new picture on the calendar. The picture for the month of April was not much different than the one of March and the months before. They all looked clean and cool and bounded by still serenity. My mom would blow the smoke towards the picture as if kissing it or whispering secrets. My father hovered around the house with anxious dexterity. He would open the refrigerator frequently making sure there were at least two full bottles of milk. He fixed the lock on the front door, and glued the crack in their bedroom window, broken in a previous fight. They did not talk much, or rather my mother did not ask much of him and the days went by ominously pregnant.

It was a few days after we turned to a fresh new May picture on the calendar which showed a house with a red chimney, a lavish greed field with numerous black cows and feathery white clouds in the vast blue sky. That day my mom told us to hurry up and go to school then go directly to my grandma for lunch. We all sensed it was a time for absolute obedience.

Late in the evening when we returned she was in bed sleeping. My brothers helped me with my homework and included me in their games. We stuck together in fright. Waiting.

Late at night I heard my mom sobbing, “I killed my child… I killed my child… but how could I bring a child to this home… how bad do I need to be to do that…” Then, I could hear her last whimper “you killed my child… do you hear…” and then, silence.

She stayed in bed for days after. We did not see much of her. When she walked to the bathroom she held onto the walls and looked down at the floor. Dishes of food entered and exited her room untouched. My dad continued to do household chores as before, only his hyper dexterity changed into slow laborious effort. He kept on repeating even when we were very quiet “be quiet your mom does not feel good…”

When Dr. Gampel, our family doctor, came to visit, he stayed in her room for long time. When he came out he tried to be nice to me and asked me if there were any left over red spots from my German measles but I did not smile. He tussled my hair and said, “Your mom is going to be just fine, nothing to worry about – now, go play.”

Soon after, my dad was called to the army reserve for a whole month of service. It forced my mom to function — almost normally. My dad never came back. He died from a bullet in his head. All I knew was that he did not die during combat, that his watch stopped at 9:00, and his ID had a few bloodstains. Some say it was an accident some said it was hard to tell.

It was June. On our calendar the picture showed a path wrapped around green hills with endless red and blue flowers. June 30 was circled and underneath was written in small letters “dad comes home”.

We were back to the summer clothing that we missed — smelling like the soap bars that had laid amongst them all winter long. A new page had turned.

Yaron, with the first signs of a moustache, wore his white tee shirt and khaki short pants revealing his wintry pale limbs. In an unexpected burst of kindness he asked me to come along with his friends Beni and Victor to catch monarch butterflies or maybe a Painted Lady. I grabbed my magnifying glass in a hurry and stood quietly at the door hoping that there wouldn’t be a change of heart.

He brought his net and a brown bag and said as a leader delegating tasks, “you can carry this.” Empowered and reassured I held onto the accessories as if holding a ticket for the day. He scanned his room making sure nothing was forgotten and with an elegant jump leaped down the stairs out to the garden.

Avi was waiting outside with a rope wrapped diagonally around one shoulder and his waist. He wore a khaki shirt with two pockets in the front filled with stuff. His loose khaki shorts were held up by a belt with a dangling pocketknife on the side, his light brown socks drooping loosely, and on his high black boots were still traces of winter mud.

It was Shabbat morning and the day seems to burst with endless possibilities.

We walked briskly out of the neighborhood towards the mountains. On top of the second hill, about a mile in, was an abandoned old structure, built by the Turks; our meeting place. We called it the ‘white house’. Scattered around it were nails, screws, corks, cartridges, paper clips, clothespins, and pieces of hand grenades from the last war, all painted by the winter in rust colors.

There, I could see Beni with his brother Victor waiting for us.

Beni was tall, handsome and serious — six years older than me — as old as my brothers. Every time I saw him my stomach would sink inside in an odd mixture of pain and pleasure. “He makes me fly,” I wrote in my first journal in scripted letters. At times, his serious expression would melt into a sweet shy smile, which seemed hidden from all and directed to no one but me.

Victor, who had had polio as a baby, had to use crutches to walk. His legs would fold like rag dolls hinting at a metal structure under his pants. Victor would lift his unruly legs with his hands to the desired direction in an uninvolved manner.

When we arrived, Yaron asked Victor “how did you get here so fast?” and Victor, looking at Beni with admiration, said, “He carried me.”

In the same breath Victor continued, “I brought two match boxes.” After what seemed a long pause, he said dryly, “We can build a bomb with it.” Avi’s eyes and mouth opened up as he was leaning over towards Victor, as a snake would to a flute.

Yaron, holding his excitement pending practical investigation asked, “What else do we need to really make it?”

Victor, although three years younger then my brothers and Beni, became the center of the circle.
In a spontaneous act of selflessness, to help Beni, I broke the conditional rule for my partaking – to be mute and invisible – and I said glumly, “but we came to catch the Painted Lady.”

Yaron, gazing vacantly in my direction, too excited to get angry at my audacious comment, asked Victor urgently, “But can we make it today?”

Leaning his crutches on the half wall of the “white house” then sitting on its edge, Victor took his time to answer, “All we need is a small metal container. We cut all the match heads and push them tightly into the metal container… we then drop a big rock…” His speech got faster and higher, losing his poise as he continued, “…and the whole thing blows up with enough force to make a rocket reach the outer atmosphere.”

Beni seemed to contemplate the situation. He stood outside the circle staring at the ground, kicking a rock out of the hardened mud with the tip of his tennis shoes.

“Say something Beni” I said to myself the way my mom would encourage my dad to be more vocal.

“Lets start with a search for a metal container,” Yaron said full of zeal.

Beni, still looking down said quietly but firmly, “And what if it explodes in your face…?”

Yaron replied quickly, making eye contact with everyone around – even with me – “Well, we’ll make sure it won’t… come on… lets start”

“I want nothing to do with it” Beni said looking at Victor, “I am leaving.”

“Me too,” I said almost to myself, but was caught by Yaron’s piercing look conveying the ultimate threat: I am never taking you again.

“But it is too scary” I said to him trying to justify my betrayal.

It was Avi who wanted to keep the group together and dissipated the building tension with a new idea. He suggested an experiment– a way to determine how smart the ants were. Everyone was listening. As he noticed the others’ interest, his voice turned into a series of whimpers, his face scrunched up while his fists curled in. Often, I had to repeat what he said to people, but not for Beni and Victor, they understood.

“Let’s make a triangle with two slopes one made of sugar one made with salt. We’ll put some ants inside the triangle and the rest outside. Lets see how long it takes them to get out or break in. Then we’ll repeat the same thing and measure their time again. See if they can improve. I brought both salt and sugar. If they pass this test…” He continued struggling with his speech; breathing and swallowing his saliva at the same time “We can put a pile of sugar and surround it with a circle of fire … I also brought matches and rope to create a circle.”

Beni said, “I can see a nest near the pine tree.”

Victor said “lets not get too close before we have everything ready”

Yaron insisting on the leading role said, “O.K but first let’s search for the biggest nest around and map all the holes they can run into.”

Avi, exhausted yet elated, wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt and struggled to release his tight fists. He was rarely acknowledged for his ideas due to his laborious delivery.

As we were scanning the area, learning about the underground interconnection of the ant’s tunnels, I yelled with excitement and pride “Look… look what I found … a metal container…” As I was saying it I realized the immensity of my mistake.

It was too late. Victor, leaning on his crutches as closer to the ground as possible examining my finding said, “This is perfect … look at this…”

Yaron mumbled “whoa” and even Beni stopped and stared at it intensely.

“It’s a bombshell!” Avi said, stretching his hand towards me, begging for the shell. It was an empty bombshell the size of a tall cup. I dropped it into his hand reluctantly.

“This is a sign from God,” said Victor, “its perfect”.

With no further discussion Victor and Avi got their matchboxes out and everyone, even Beni, but me started cutting off the matches red heads, filling the shell up.

“We need to be further away when it goes off” Beni said in a conditional and yet conciliatory tone, looking at Yaron.

“But what about the ants?” I asked with a plea but was totally ignored.

Avi said, “I have an idea” almost choking with excitement. “It will make it really safe…” The match he held fell a few times from his hand. He finally gave up curled his fists in, and spoke:

“Lets fill it up and place it under the tree, take a big rock and then tie it to the tree exactly above the shell. We all hide behind the wall and with a long rope release the rock which will fall on top of the shell…”

Everyone was listening raptly suddenly looking all alike, open jaws, big eyes, and vague smiles. 
Avi did not bother to wipe his mouth; he gulped some air in and released his fingers one by one.

In a few minutes Beni was on the tree tying the rock up while Yaron drew on the ground the circumference of where the rock would land. Victor moved his crutches behind the wall while Avi tied a few ropes together into one allowing it to reach our hiding place.

Finally, the full bombshell was placed in the middle of the circle. We ran and hid behind the wall. Victor counted down from ten and Yaron released the rock.

Nothing happened.

On the second time, in spite of some adjustments, nothing happened.

The third time Avi suggested we tie a bigger rock to a higher branch, which Beni did quietly and efficiently. Another count down, short but intense stillness, and the whole wall trembled with a huge explosion.

A cloud of dust landed on us, which added an extra layer to the already pale faces. After a long moment Beni led us to see what had happened to the shell. At the center of the blurry circle laid the rock, dark and burned, with a few metal pieces scattered about.

Mixed with the light of the setting sun and the echoing hollow blast, an unexplained but tangible sadness connected us all. Almost silent we walked home as I was wandering where do the butterflies go at night.

I was barely able to buckle my leather backpack stretched by an oversized atlas of the world, a notebook with a note to my dad in lower case letters, my yellow shirt from PE shoved on top of it all, and a pencil case with a new scented eraser in the front pocket.

It was half an hour after they had all left and my dad had not yet arrived.

He was supposed to come from his army service dressed up in his paratrooper’s uniform carrying a big gun, and wearing a red beret. I wanted everybody to see how he picks me up in the air after he hasn’t seen me for a month and how his eyes smile at me.

The classroom appeared big and still. I stood behind the teacher’s desk and started to read the kids names, marking pluses for their attendance in the teacher’s notebook. After a few announcements I began teaching a geography class, pointing to all five continents with a long stick naming them slowly and clearly. I then asked the class why the five continents fit together like puzzle pieces. After taking a few suggestions I explained how the world was united in one piece many years ago and how it split.

As my voice got higher with excitement I was startled by a noise behind me.

She stood there with a bucket, rags, and bottle of blue ammonia. I was caught. I wanted to disappear, vanish, to undo it all — but she stood at the door blocking the only exit.

How much did she see? How much did I show?

She stepped into the classroom, and her warm gaze melted my frozen shame. Somehow I felt that it was ok, that it was going to stay between us, that she was on my side.

She walked slowly and quietly over to the other side, sprinkled ammonia on the windows and began to wipe in circular motions creating rhythmic squeaks. Reaching high up the window, she revealed between her dress and her shoes, intricate groups of blue veins spreading like spiders webs. I wondered if it hurt. Her shoes were black and old. One had an extra layer on the bottom to make her legs even. She was breathing heavily, wheezing and panting.

Now I knew secrets about her.

The little hand on the clock seemed way past the time we would usually end the day.

I did not want to go home. I did not want to see my mom. I still felt my scalp pulled from her braiding my hair that morning. She had tied it in a hurry with a rubber band around my crooked braid, pulling more hair out mumbling “What’s wrong with you; can’t you stand still for a moment?” Then, gracefully, she lifted her cigarette from the brown ashtray I made in ceramic class for mother’s day. She softly held it between her fingers and slowly drew in smoke closing her eyes for a long moment.

Like a gentle lullaby, the squeaks on the window, her heavy wheezing, the clock ticking, the clanks of the metal bucket – made my eyelids heavy and watery. I wanted to bury my face in her light blue apron and sleep.

I knew she had her own kids at the school and when they saw her they would ignore her. She pretended not to know them either. I thought that tomorrow I would say hi when I saw her in the corridor. I had never heard her saying anything. Maybe she was mute.

And then I saw him; not with his striking army uniform but with his black shorts which were too loose and the worn white tee shirt that I disliked. He looked at the janitor, trying to pick up clues. He had the same look that he had when my mother yelled at him.

I still wished he would take me in his hands lift me high and say proudly “Thanks for waiting, my big girl”. I wanted her to see how big and strong he is, how his big blue eyes get shiny when he laughs, and how his big low voice is soft and confidant.

But his eyes were only half open like shooting slits; his chin was tucked in almost touching his throat, his knees bent. He was unreachable.

I could feel my throat clogged. I pushed my tears down, a taste of ammonia in my mouth. I looked away — on the wall was a picture with four squares; a boy holding an umbrella in the rain, a girl picking flowers, a few kids in a swimming pool, and a girl with a gray scarf standing in the wind. Despite my effort to concentrate on the four seasons, it got blurry, and a warm tear landed on my cheek.

She held the bucket in her hand and watched us.

We were both paralyzed.

I heard no squeaks, no breathing, no wheezing, just the clock ticking louder than before.

It was her voice — broken Hebrew in a foreign accent. Her words were floating and coming from above “I knew you no forget and come for her.”

As if awakened from a deep sleep he said without looking at her or me, “…. thank you… aha… thanks for watching her… my wife said… just a few minutes… and…”

I looked for the first time at her face, foreign and sad. Her eyes were dark and alive, big and open — like a child’s eyes — framed by old wrinkled skin as if popping through a mask.

He said “Let’s go now, your mom is waiting” still not looking at me, still squinting…

I wanted to stay with her; to look at her cleaning the glass windows till I wasn’t sure there was any glass there.

My backpack on his back seemed small. He grabbed my hand and turned towards the door “Mom is waiting” he said as the metal bucket clanged behind us.

On the way home I refused a Popsicle, and did not answer any of his questions about my day, about the last month he was away, about my brothers. Even questions about the dog went unanswered. I held his big warm hand only when we crossed the street.

He gave up, and we walked in silence for a while.

I suddenly stopped, stared into his eyes and asked “Why did you go to see her first?” Like two shutters slamming shut he squinted and asked “Who?”

Again, I felt the familiar scratch in my tonsils and the thick taste of unwelcome tears. I said quickly before the cry would burst out, “You promised to see me first … with your uniform… before you went home… you promised…”

“I just went to check on your mom before…” he said with almost no voice. “You know how she can get…”

I heard my mom’s voice in my head screaming at him. “You promised the kids to go on vacation this Passover… you promised to fix the cracks on the wall since last summer… you promised to get tickets for the circus… for the last three years you said we’ll get a car …you promise… you promise… you promise…”

We arrived home. A few steps before we got to the door I stood still. He also stopped and waited. It was my last chance to have my dad back, my strong-big-handsome dad. The dad I had a love letter for in my backpack, illustrated with hearts and bleeding arrows.

Like pulling a rusty nail from an old wooden board I heard myself say, “Daddy, can you pick me up tomorrow from school with the uniform? …Please?” I looked up at his blue eyes ready to be swirled in the air as he spun the world, him and me into one.

I stood there with my eyes shut whispering my wish like Hanna, who stood at the temple with her eyes, closed muttering her prayer to god — begging.

I wished he would not shrivel his eyes and hunch his back as I saw him do with my mom so often. I wished not to see him hiding his face as he tucks his chin down revealing a spot of thin hair on the top of his head.

I kept my eyes shut to hold the tears in, and I saw her big and tired black eyes, her little smile that uncovered crooked teeth, her light blue apron with an ammonia bottle piping out, a hint of the blue spider web below the edge of her dress and her worn, uneven shoes.

I could hear the wheezing in her breath and her low voice whispering, “come here… I make your hair loose”.

My dad woke me up as he was opening the metal shutters with their high pitched squeak. He was breathing onto the glass and wiping the steam with the back of his hand. It made high squeaking sounds like ducks racing for a new piece of bread. I stood up on my bed, threading my head into the warm loop he created with his body, his two big arms and the steamy window.

Outside everything was shockingly white. I could barely recognize my own neighborhood. The familiar yellow, busy, angular view outside my window was replaced with a monochrome, silent color of unknown texture. Everything, the porch, the fence, the dog house, the cars, the trees, the road, the roofs, even the top of the electricity poles, everything was covered with untouched, pure white. And everything stood still as in a life size black and white photograph. It looked awesome and grand; it looked astonishing but it did not look pretty. Something scary and alienating accompanied the white cover — a feeling I still get when I watch planets in outer space or think about men on the moon.

I was not as happy as my brothers were to hear that there was no school. It was the beginning of my first grade year, and I loved going to school. It was a reminder for me and everyone else how independent and mature I was. Naomi, my teacher, with her immense patience for my endless questions and her quiet smile was my new avid love. Where was she on this white day? Who would answer all my questions today?

Thirty years later I was driving with my boyfriend to New Mexico for my first ski vacation. He appeared in my little studio apartment full of energy and excitement, “no school today” he said a bit too loud. I felt an unarticulated twinge; something awakened — a memory — frozen and raw. We drove for hours in the snow as the blinding white leaking through the edges of my sunglasses. His chatty and eager flow subsided while my compulsive search for words to understand my displacement grew louder in my head. We arrived before dark and hastily rented frozen ski boots while warming our hands with caps of hot chocolate. The snow, thick and bulky, had a different quality than I remembered it.

In the Jerusalem of 1966, the streets were blocked and no one could go anywhere even though the snow was only a few inches high. My dad did not seem happy to stay at home either. He had feared that some of his employees would walk to work only to find him not there. The unfamiliar snow threatened him. He already envisioned it melting and entering through every opening in the house. The only thing left to do was to calculate how much food we had at home and how much gas we had to feed our one and only furnace.

My mom’s childish, celebratory enthusiasm, once met with my dad’s anxiety soon turned into vicious anger — he failed her again. No festivity for him, no silly playfulness, and no snowmen with ludicrous carrots stuck as a nose. When disaster is knocking at the door, there is no time for silly games. I remembered one of the fairy tales about the butterfly who played during the summer while the ants worked hard preparing for the winter. My mother with her immature wish to have a party seemed as reckless as a flitting butterfly. Her anger made our small house seem even smaller and his anxiety made it as big and empty as one of Grimm’s ghost castles.

He skied on the fancy blue and black trails all day long while I practiced, falling as gracefully as possible in the beginner’s area. I wanted to tell him that I hated the unstable snow, that it might melt and flood us all, that I was cold and lonely, and that I wished we could just build a snowman. But I didn’t. 
Taking our shoes off was harder than putting them on as our fingers and toes were frozen. I wanted to cry without explaining; wishing my dad was holding me tight with his big strong arms. We went to our heated cabin in silence.

My brothers soon left to play with the older kids. It was only my dad, my mom and me in the house. The air was thick and heavy; it smelled like wet wooly clothes left too close to the fire.

Looking at both of my parents it was impossible to take sides. They both seemed ludicrous and pathetic. The big arms of my dad and the ominous look of my mom were reduced into insignificance. Like seeing for the first time that puppets have strings. They looked for the first time small and pitiful. 
I wanted to get out of the house. It was the first time I felt that my life was separate from theirs, that all their desperation, looming catastrophe and seething anger were not inevitable. I could make different choices. This kernel of hope for my future did not last long before it was wrapped with guilt at leaving my parents behind.

On our way back from New Mexico he drove in silence making sparse remarks about not arriving before dark. “Nasty storm” he said, while wiping the window with the back of his hand making little squeaks. Yes, its the ducks, I finally remembered, the ducks in the little pond squeaking enthusiastically when I would through a piece of bread at them. The hail whipped and lashed at the car threatening to demolish our precarious, rented envelope. “All I want is to build a snowman before dark”, I suddenly said. An enclosing cloud of steam rose from our wet clothes pushing into the remaining space, filling the car with a damp bitter smell.

I opened the door and walked out, like I was lifting a page to a brand new month on the calendar. I started to walk. I saw my brothers’ footsteps going up the hill, lonely and estranged as Neil Armstrong’s footsteps in the moon’s dust. I did not want to follow. Instead, I veered towards the flawless untouched snow.

While the envelope with the opera tickets lay in the drawer of the little phone table in the corner, things were different. 
She laughed as I came out of the bathroom with my two braids clipped on the top of my head, framing my ears in two exaggerated circles. She petted the dog on the chest shaking the nametag into a cheerful jingle leaving the scent of hand lotion on his fur. When she lit a cigarette she looked straight ahead while shuffling the smoke with her left hand to prevent it from getting into our eyes. 
She even ran her hand slowly through my dad’s overgrown hair and said softly, “I can cut it before the opera next week.” My father, also in an uncharacteristic manner, grabbed her hand, weaved his fingers through hers and looked into her eyes for a long moment, as if taking a long exposed photo in a dimmed room.

I sang a line from Rigolleto rolling my Rs like an Italian, tensing my throat to reach the highest pitch, or more accurately, the highest scream, somehow knowing she wouldn’t get upset. 
By now, I knew the opera by heart having listened to it play almost every Saturday morning that year. She played it even when they fought.

When Rigoletto would tell his daughter, Gilda, how much he loved her and wanted to protect her from the frivolous duke, my tears would start to well up. I was devastated knowing what they did not know. Time and again, I would try to whisper to Gilda her tragic destiny hoping she would listen to her father.

We had already gone through La Boheme and Carmen — I learned that ends don’t change. Yet hope was emanating from the corner of the small table secured by two tickets in its drawer. Maybe if I really tried things could turn out differently.

The collection of operas in a big book was another well of anticipation and excitement. The opera book had a red cover with gold letters. First came an envelope for the records, then a transcript of the entire story in the original language, then a few pages of photographs of the singers, the orchestra, and the conductors. For the composers, who where mostly born before the camera was invented, there were paintings or sculptures. Sometimes, I would get scared thinking, “what will happen when we run out of operas?” But then I took a quick glance at the drawer of the small table and the book of operas again became heavy with promises.

That Saturday he put the record on and laid the opera book between them on their unmade bed; she, with her beige soft nightgown and a cup of coffee he made for her; and he, with his blue shorts, bare tanned chest divided by a line of black hair.

When Gilda declared her uncompromised love for the duke, who even death would not extinguish – she rose to the highest octaves as if daring to touch the edge of death with her voice — my mom would turn to the side and whimper into the pillow.

My father translated the Italian dialogue to Hebrew with a whisper so as not to disturb Gilda whose broken heart made my mom’s lips quiver. Gilda’s voice rose up and down in a twin ship dance with my mom’s cigarette smoke.

I listened to my dad intently. He magically turned sounds into meaning. His voice, quiet and contained, filled the silence in between arias and told the story succinctly. “In this last act,” he said softly, “Rigolleto is talking directly to Gilda outside the tavern. He assures her that the Duke’s idea of love has nothing to do with fidelity.” In the final tragic scene my dad’s soft voice cracked when he said, “Rigoletto is watching the dying Gilda who, for the love of the Duke, had let herself be murdered in his place.”

Mixed with the feeling of claustrophobic doom was a sheer pride and love for my dad who could speak five different languages. He and I are different than Rigoletto and Gilda, I assured myself; I would never do to him what Gilda did to her dad.

After she cut his hair he looked younger and more modern with pronounced sideburns. That night, he wore his black suit and his wedding shoes, which tapped the floor with every step thanks to a crescent metal piece on the bottom. She had on her black strapless long dress, a fake pearl necklace and earrings he gave her years before and new high heel shoes she had just bought for herself.

My brothers promised for the third time to be good to me and never to open the door to strangers, while she put on her red shawl and picked up her black purse.

I hurried and brought her embroidered handkerchief with the pink flowers, knowing that when Gilda killed herself to save the duke my mom’s tears, big and warm, would stream out quietly. She smiled and buried it in her purse.

I thought to myself, maybe when you see them alive, the end can be changed if you actually warn them — whisper their destiny with mighty intention so it gets into their heads. This thought seemed so real, so promising, that I said: “Tell her not to do it…”

She kissed her palm and blew into it as if spreading seeds of plants around. My father bent and kissed my forehead. He then threaded his elbow through hers, and locked the door behind them. Only a cloud of fresh smells was left with us — a mixture of shampoo, cologne and shaving cream.

I ran to the little table in the corner to look for the tickets. The empty drawer seemed ominous and hollow. In seconds, it turned from being a source of light to a black hole. The absence, the sudden awareness of what was gone forever, marked for the first time a threshold. Only Rigoletto’s voice when he realized Gilda’s death touched the verge of that unknown.

A few years later, on my dad’s grave I pondered the word “committed suicide” repeatedly, which in Hebrew comes from the root to lose. He lost himself — lost — as he broke through that threshold to the other side. I on one side, he on the other and Rigoleto’s voice a river in between. A river where the active and the passive merge, the big and the small conflate, and the now — is stagnant and still.

In the morning they looked smaller, haggard and wrinkled, drained of hope. The spark was gone with the tickets, the hope spent, even the opera book on the shelf seemed to have shrunken. 
The difference between the people who left for the opera and the people who were sitting in the kitchen was so baffling yet so inevitable like the end of all operas.

As my mother reached for the ceramic ashtray from the kitchen counter I heard myself asking her without real curiosity “Did she kill herself last night?” She looked ever so slightly above my head and blew out a white wave, which collapsed into it while spreading out a few hopeless tentacles.

My father sipped his coffee silently — the spoon still in — staring at the white corner above the little phone table.

“Don’t do it, …” I whispered to him. 

Now, reading my son a book, thirty-three years later, about the landing on the moon, the date seems strangely familiar. My dad died exactly one year after Neil Armstrong touched the moon’s ground. “One small step for man, one giant leap for man-kind,” repeats my son after Armstrong, sensing the importance of the statement. His red lips articulate the words with a slight sweet lisp, he looks so serious. An image of my dad’s drawing his ear closer to the tube radio listening with anticipation to Neil Armstrong landing on the moon, floods me. Thirty-three years dissolved into this moment as if waiting to be fused.

He notices my drifting gaze. He tries once more, louder; “one step for man, big, giant, humongous jump…” and I laugh drawing him closer to me feeling his smooth skin, firm muscles, his bittersweet smell. He is getting ready for mischief… his eyes smile… he leans backward.

I was five years older than my son is now — nine years old, on that hot June night.

The smell of burned fires and geraniums, the cricket’s sound subsiding into my mother’s shouts and loads of people filling up the house. All I feel is my throat — an inflamed hall into a dark opening — forcing dry swallows.

“You want to see a somersault? Watch me mom watch me” he tries again. I drift again. “Wow Adam! That was some somersault…when did you learn that?” I can’t keep up with the speed of the new things he learns. I want to celebrate each conquest, to etch it in time, to narrate its magical unfolding into my memory.

When did I learn to somersault? I can smell the green hill, feel its dampness, my head on the grass going down twice, slight nausea, wet back, an itch of rough grass on the neck, my dad ’s smile. He saw. He noticed. No “wow” from my dad, only a quiet smile. We are different, him and me.

“I can even do a cartwheel, look, look Mom”. I look around for sharp things; he tries and falls, “I did it in gymnastics… here look Mom.” His little chest goes up and down. He works so hard for me. How long will this last? He throws himself into my arms with the total trust only kids and ballerinas have. “Do you sometimes wish you were me?” he suddenly asks. Yes, no, I am, I think, I don’t know, “It is a really good question,” I finally say. “But do you mom?” He insists with desperation. “Well,” I try to buy time… interpreting his question, as simply, do you love me? I am able to answer clearly “yes I do.” His eyes smile with victory. “I wish I were you” he says and quickly corrects himself “I wish I were you and Daddy all mixed together.” I notice myself trying not to think how much am I my mom and dad? “It is time to take a bath, put on your pajamas” I say, “and then we’ll read one more book”.

He sleeps. Where do his dreams take him? I touch his precious head. He sweats… probably keeps on working on his somersaults. I whisper good night to him realizing I use English even when I am alone. I hastily correct “Lila tov matok sheli” but my mother tongue foreignly echos back. One more try in English, “good night my sweetheart”. But it all sounds distant and strange – a loss. Loss of mother tongue — of father land — loss of time? Memory? Of myself?

It is very quiet. A warm night. No phone calls. I don’t like summers. The light is too strong, the sky too wide, and a wild warm wind at night often brings bad news. Even before the death of my dad summers had the bitter taste of betrayal. Maybe because wars started in the summer, loads of funerals, sad songs on the radio, speeches at school, Kadishes at the grave sites… and then winter would come and fleetingly wash it away.

I am 43. Five years older than my dad was when he died. As I try to make sense of the ungraspable concept of being older than my dad — like Alice in Wonderland I slip through the bleeding edges of loss into a timeless world. There I am with red T-shirt, shorts, long braid and a new watch my dad gave me for my eighth birthday. It has a white-leather-wristband and green phosphorescent numbers. Three hands, one wider than the other; and a third one, a skinny long line, that never stops ticking.

At the funeral, the honorary guns shoot to a rigid deafening rhythm, the grave seems endlessly deep, and the coffin covered with the Israeli flag laid six soldier’s shoulders. How comfortable I felt on my dad’s shoulders, able to see things from above while playing with his hair, his warm hands holding my ankles.

The Rabbi tore my red shirt, at the neckline with a small knife – a Jewish custom of grieving I did not know about. I stood there with the torn red shirt, the very beginning of breasts, my new watch, a few days old wounded knee, and new brown sandals my that dad hadn’t seen yet. My mom leaning against me screaming, tearing her hair, while a warm stream drips down my legs. Little pools of pee on my new sandals, an itch on my knee. My two bigger brothers shoveling dirt into the grave. An echo of the dirt hitting the coffin is synchronized with my mom’s spastic collapses. The army Rabbi, an old man with a long white beard, wailing the Kaddish louder than my mom moans. He looks like God in an army uniform. He never looks at us — but glares at the bright sky — a private conversation with the mighty God. I look for my dad in the crowd to help me make sense of it all.

It is 4 am. The bed seems bigger or I am smaller. My husband is on a business trip. Blue light is bleeding through the edges of the blind. Just like Alice, thrown out of that reality, I am big again and the rabbit is late, late, late, he has to leave, no time to say goodbye. I am ridiculously big and alone. From the other room I hear the most beautiful voice singing “I see the moon and the moon sees me…” Adam has woken up.

Now, reading my son a book, thirty-three years later, about the landing on the moon, the date seems strangely familiar. My dad died exactly one year after Neil Armstrong touched the moon’s ground. “One small step for man, one giant leap for man-kind,” repeats my son after Armstrong, sensing the importance of the statement. His red lips articulate the words with a slight sweet lisp, he looks so serious. An image of my dad’s drawing his ear closer to the tube radio listening with anticipation to Neil Armstrong landing on the moon, floods me. Thirty-three years dissolved into this moment as if waiting to be fused.

He notices my drifting gaze. He tries once more, louder; “one step for man, big, giant, humongous jump…” and I laugh drawing him closer to me feeling his smooth skin, firm muscles, his bittersweet smell. He is getting ready for mischief… his eyes smile… he leans backward.

I was five years older than my son is now — nine years old, on that hot June night.

The smell of burned fires and geraniums, the cricket’s sound subsiding into my mother’s shouts and loads of people filling up the house. All I feel is my throat — an inflamed hall into a dark opening — forcing dry swallows.

“You want to see a somersault? Watch me mom watch me” he tries again. I drift again. “Wow Adam! That was some somersault…when did you learn that?” I can’t keep up with the speed of the new things he learns. I want to celebrate each conquest, to etch it in time, to narrate its magical unfolding into my memory.

When did I learn to somersault? I can smell the green hill, feel its dampness, my head on the grass going down twice, slight nausea, wet back, an itch of rough grass on the neck, my dad ’s smile. He saw. He noticed. No “wow” from my dad, only a quiet smile. We are different, him and me.

“I can even do a cartwheel, look, look Mom”. I look around for sharp things; he tries and falls, “I did it in gymnastics… here look Mom.” His little chest goes up and down. He works so hard for me. How long will this last? He throws himself into my arms with the total trust only kids and ballerinas have. “Do you sometimes wish you were me?” he suddenly asks. Yes, no, I am, I think, I don’t know, “It is a really good question,” I finally say. “But do you mom?” He insists with desperation. “Well,” I try to buy time… interpreting his question, as simply, do you love me? I am able to answer clearly “yes I do.” His eyes smile with victory. “I wish I were you” he says and quickly corrects himself “I wish I were you and Daddy all mixed together.” I notice myself trying not to think how much am I my mom and dad? “It is time to take a bath, put on your pajamas” I say, “and then we’ll read one more book”.

He sleeps. Where do his dreams take him? I touch his precious head. He sweats… probably keeps on working on his somersaults. I whisper good night to him realizing I use English even when I am alone. I hastily correct “Lila tov matok sheli” but my mother tongue foreignly echos back. One more try in English, “good night my sweetheart”. But it all sounds distant and strange – a loss. Loss of mother tongue — of father land — loss of time? Memory? Of myself?

It is very quiet. A warm night. No phone calls. I don’t like summers. The light is too strong, the sky too wide, and a wild warm wind at night often brings bad news. Even before the death of my dad summers had the bitter taste of betrayal. Maybe because wars started in the summer, loads of funerals, sad songs on the radio, speeches at school, Kadishes at the grave sites… and then winter would come and fleetingly wash it away.

I am 43. Five years older than my dad was when he died. As I try to make sense of the ungraspable concept of being older than my dad — like Alice in Wonderland I slip through the bleeding edges of loss into a timeless world. There I am with red T-shirt, shorts, long braid and a new watch my dad gave me for my eighth birthday. It has a white-leather-wristband and green phosphorescent numbers. Three hands, one wider than the other; and a third one, a skinny long line, that never stops ticking.

At the funeral, the honorary guns shoot to a rigid deafening rhythm, the grave seems endlessly deep, and the coffin covered with the Israeli flag laid six soldier’s shoulders. How comfortable I felt on my dad’s shoulders, able to see things from above while playing with his hair, his warm hands holding my ankles.

The Rabbi tore my red shirt, at the neckline with a small knife – a Jewish custom of grieving I did not know about. I stood there with the torn red shirt, the very beginning of breasts, my new watch, a few days old wounded knee, and new brown sandals my that dad hadn’t seen yet. My mom leaning against me screaming, tearing her hair, while a warm stream drips down my legs. Little pools of pee on my new sandals, an itch on my knee. My two bigger brothers shoveling dirt into the grave. An echo of the dirt hitting the coffin is synchronized with my mom’s spastic collapses. The army Rabbi, an old man with a long white beard, wailing the Kaddish louder than my mom moans. He looks like God in an army uniform. He never looks at us — but glares at the bright sky — a private conversation with the mighty God. I look for my dad in the crowd to help me make sense of it all.

It is 4 am. The bed seems bigger or I am smaller. My husband is on a business trip. Blue light is bleeding through the edges of the blind. Just like Alice, thrown out of that reality, I am big again and the rabbit is late, late, late, he has to leave, no time to say goodbye. I am ridiculously big and alone. From the other room I hear the most beautiful voice singing “I see the moon and the moon sees me…” Adam has woken up.

It was planned to be a fun day. All of us, my mom, dad, my two brothers and I went to watch, along with everyone else. The march of the Israeli army soldiers and weapons moved in one long, endless line. They were moving slowly on the streets like big halting animals. They reminded me of the enormous ants I used to watch in our garden, following each other in a long line, which ended in a forgotten breadcrumb. It was clear to me where these ants were going and why. But I couldn’t see the reason for the long tedious, colorless line of vehicles moving lazily in the midst of a heat attack. I knew that there was no huge sandwich waiting for them at the end.

Legions of people were standing on both sides of the streets, waving and clapping their hands. It made sense because they were moving the air, although no one else seemed to fight the sun like me. Coming down from my dad’s shoulders, I was alone in a forest of legs and shoes; it was all I could see. Everything seemed to slowly melt — an undifferentiated blend of grays and yellows, accompanied by muffled sounds of roars and hisses.

My dad lifted me up again to see the new tank, while explaining it was a Sherman tank we had just bought from the US. It was all one color — dirty brown — it was slow and grotesque. He placed me high on his shoulders, and the invading light startled my eyes. I was exposed harshly to the enemy, transgressed and violated by it. I screamed “I want down” back to my hiding place, where the sun couldn’t catch me, there, behind my dad’s leg, where a long narrow shadow was waiting for me.

It got hotter and hotter. I squinted as hard as I could to stop the pervasive, remorseless light from penetrating into me. I covered my skin to avoid contact with my enemy. I poured the last few drops of warm water onto my face from the red plastic container that was hanging on my neck. The last drop of ammunition was gone. I was terrified that all of me would evaporate. The pounding sound got louder and louder. I was close to giving up. I imagined myself letting go — collapsing onto the dark burning asphalt — merging with the throbbing sounds of my pulse — surrendering to the sun and resting forever in his long arms.

I felt very close to declaring defeat when my father asked if I wanted to go with him to get some ice cream. “To get cool inside,” he said and smiled. It was one of his long-lasting smiles, when he looked directly into my eyes and tried to guess my answer, an answer that was usually unpredictable even to myself.

My father didn’t know that he just saved my life — he came between my enemy and me. I put my hand in his and we walked swinging our hands up and down like a seesaw. The pounding sounds inside my head almost vanished. We found the ice-cream booth and stood in a long, long line. My hand lay safely in my dad’s hand and my thoughts took off in one direction, one line, towards one destination. I imagined the joy of holding the ice cream in my hand, its cool touch on my lips, the crunchy sound of the crispy cone, the smooth chilled sensation on my tongue, the sweet dark chocolate melting in my mouth, and the cool soothing feeling down my throat.

I prepared myself to answer the vender’s questions quickly to save time: no. not vanilla, only chocolate with no nuts, not the small size, the medium with the square shape, the one that looks like a bucket… and two napkins one to hold the cone, and one for after, so my hand won’t get sticky. I rehearsed it for a while. My hands grew restless in my dad’s hand; we got closer and closer to the ice cream — one minute away from complete bliss.

I got my ice cream exactly as I wanted it, chocolate in a medium cone. My dad had the big size — vanilla ice cream with nuts. I didn’t mind his strange taste. My ice cream was dark and shiny. It felt cool in my hand. It was cold enough to survive a few moments in the sun before it lost its shape. I looked closely at it; it looked like a flame of a torch, like the one I saw in the Olympic games that year. The symmetrical waves of the ice cream threw darker shadows on each other. It looked perfect. It was too good. It was too much.

With no anger, but tremendous surprise, I saw myself throwing away my ice cream. It landed on the ground upside down. My heart was beating fast, but the moment seemed to slow down as if it would never end. At last I was free from that ice cream yet ready to throw myself on the ground and lick it.

My dad saw that it didn’t fall down accidentally, he had seen my intention. I stood there as naked as I have ever been. Kneeling down to meet my eyes… I heard him asking very quietly… why? He was bewildered, but underneath I could see a stream of pain – pain of feeling detached, cutoff, disconnected, and humiliated by his failed effort to grasp.

I looked into his dark blue eyes, an ocean with two black islands, and I burst into a desperate cry. He held my hand and I wetted his hands with a stream of salty warm tears. He kept saying “its O.K.” He offered me his own ice cream, but I could not stop weeping and wailing. Nothing could comfort me. Something horrible had happened at that moment, which no one, including me, was able to understand.

When we got back to my mother the parade was over leaving mounts of trash behind. She and my brothers were sitting in a small uneven square shape of shade. I was uncontrollably gasping for air and bleeding from my nose. My dad said, in a broken voice, “I don’t know what happened, I don’t understand her…” He looked to my mom and said with plea “Maybe you will.”

To my great relief, my mom did not mention my upcoming bat-mitzvah that year.

June’s heat came with the crude memory of my father’s death. Now, three years later, the bitter memory, supposedly fading into the past, was as real as snake venom spreading under a skin – hidden and thick.

The bible stories I learned that year were unfolding in the harsh surroundings, minimizing any loss, and pain in comparison. Sarah, Isaac, Samson, Hanna, Joseph, and Jeremiah, with their desperate pain and destined tragedies along with all the other thousands that had been killed because God was angry — were my soul companions. Time seemed to stand still, vast and engulfing, at the heart of the ceaseless heat.

Out of the dry yellowness of late summer with a sudden fervor and no discussion, my mom said: “you better go abroad to see the world instead of a bat mitzvah party. I am going to arrange some money for this”.

These kinds of statements were part of her repertoire — statements of desire rather than actual plans. I joined her worldly escapes, in her monthly visits to the lush green vistas of the Swiss calendar hanging in our kitchen. “Abroad” meant a dream enveloped by cigarette smoke, few words and much imagination.
However, this time she had realized her dream though it looked nothing like the Swiss calendar.

The ocean was gray, the waves huge, and the sky opaque. Layers of heavy clouds lay on top of the horizon as if resting on a shelf. There was no yellow sand, no pieces of trash or lost plastic shovels along the shore. There were only silvery pebbles on a pristine, clear, uninhabitable long coast. This was the Atlantic Ocean. For the first time I looked out at a real ocean — not a sea.

I was part of a group of kids my age that flew to England to stay in Filixto College for a month and a half. We were there to learn English, ride horses, play tennis, and mostly to learn good manners. Most of the kids had been there or in similar places before. I was the only one who did not know how to ride a horse, had never held a tennis racket and whose parents were not traveling across the world leaving their kids in a fancy summer schools.

After we landed in Heathrow, the two young counselors, Riki and Mica, also for the first time in England, gathered us for our first pep talk.

With infectious zeal they promised us endless fun, adventures and unforgettable memories. Mica declared enviously how lucky we were at such young age to be abroad; and how he and Riki had had to wait until their twenties to see the world. Riki, with a constant mischievous smile, declared how they would be our parents for the next forty-five days only much cooler than what we could ever imagine parents to be.

We then went on a shuttle that took us to a central station. A two story red bus showed up in the distance a few seconds before 2:00. Mica said as if responding to a miracle, “I swear he is going to touch this curb exactly at two just like the schedule says.” All of our gazes were directed to a big clock on the station wall.

London was clean, dark and wet, mostly dominated by black red and gray colors. People walked in the street like we would in the library — purposefully and quietly.

When Mica’s prediction came true he raised his fist up, as if bragging about a goal he just scored and said, “Yes! It works like a Swiss clock”. Mica had established his authority and the bus rode through massive raindrops to Felixto College in the north west of England.

During the first night in the small room, which I shared with a British blond girl about my age, I woke up from my own scream. She woke up too. Her look revealed a mixture of pity, curiosity and repulsion — a look one would have for a wounded animal.

The tail of a dream passed through – in desert land my mother laying on the arid ground her lips are white, her eyes sunken in – and then the dream, like sand through a crack, vanished.

The next morning the blond girl moved to another room. The image of my mom on the hot sand kept erupting like an Atlantic wave — ominous and unpredictable. Riki knocked and opened the door. Smiling, she entered and said “So what are we gonna do with you girl? When was the last time you ate something? Look at you, you are going to disappear soon.”

To disappear without explanation, like Elijah, to vanish into the blue sky; or like Lot’s wife to turn into silent salt; or like Joseph to be lost in Egypt with no language or name – was all I wanted.

“What’s going on?” she said and ran her hand softly through my hair.
“My mother is dead in the desert — that’s all I see”, I said quietly while peeling a loose cuticle on my finger as a drop of blood emerged. 
“Ouch” she blurted and rushed to bring a damp towel for me. “Don’t you hate when that happens?” she said without judgment. “I have to go back home now… you have to help me,” I said seriously. “That’s the silliest thing I ever heard…” she said quickly, “What is going on with you?” And after a while changing her wondering tone to cheerful suggestion “How about you and me go to the kitchen and ask for some ice cream…huh?”
“No,” I mumbled, “I really have to go back…” and squeezed my finger with all my might, as if holding onto my own plan of going back.
“That’s enough sitting by yourself in this dark room. We’re going to take a walk now” this time she commanded.

The next day I escaped.

At the bus station with my red suitcase packed and my mind set I could finally feel a tinge of hope. I handed the bus driver, who looked more like a grandma in uniform, the biggest bill I had. She gave me a curious second look and asked “Where to love?” 
“London” I said without hesitation but a bit baffled that she called me love. She said a few more things that I did not understand and handed me the change.
The coins were different, thicker and heavier then the thin and simple coins I was used to.
Outside the window stretched never-ending green meadows absorbing the endless amounts of rain.

I could see Noah in his ark around the tops of the grassy hills waiting for the known naked dry mountains of Jerusalem encased by the unseen walls of heat.

London was the last station.

“Please excuse me, where the airport are” I asked an older woman who wore a light blue plastic raincoat and a plastic hat of the same color. Only later did I see the blue number on her arm. She stopped at my question and responded with a long fluent stream of English but did not point me to the airport. 
I thanked her and started to walk towards an arriving bus to approach another person. She followed me and asked lot of questions I did not understand.
I said most politely “I want flying to Israel today”.
She suddenly looked at me as if she had found something, took my hand and said slowly but with certainty “yes, yes, come with me.” Her hand was cool and comforting, like my Nona’s hand, and I followed her.

At night, in bed of pink sheets and light mothball smell, surrounded by pictures of what seem to be her daughter, I tried to weave her story. She laid an extra blanket, and tucked me in, with experienced hands. She run her hand through my hair softly, and talked for a while in a soothing voice. Despite of a strong urge to put my head in her laps, I turned to the side and closed my eyes. She left, leaving the door cracked open.

Soon the heavy blanket turned into desert, the pink sheets into arid ground and my mother paled face turned into mine. Nothing moved, only a lazy barren death lingered around the corner. Pulled into stillness by hidden force, I suddenly, woke up by a wave of terror. Panicked, drenched with sweat and pounding heart beat.

In the morning, after a toast, soft-boiled egg and hot chocolate, two policemen knocked on the door. She talked fast and in a high pitch. “You have to go back, I am so sorry” she said while holding my hand as she cried. Before I got into the police car she hugged me — her sleeve was rolled up and she saw me staring at the blue number on her arm. Going back to Filixto College, to Riki and Mica, to the ocean. I even didn’t know her name.

Forty-five days later, two by two, we came out of the airplane into the blinding sun. I wondered if Noah also felt so indifferent when he finally touched the dry land. It home I whispered to myself finally home I looked at the bright smiles of Mica and Riki for inspiration but could not feel excited.

Outside the window of the bus to Jerusalem, the summer laid its heat, like a blanket, covering its naked land. The brilliant static light cast occasional hollow shadows on the rocky ground. Back to the motionless quiet death, back to the familiar mother tongue, the eminent fatherland; back to my repeating dream.

An occasional lonely carob tree in the hazy landscape was a sole evident for movement in time.

I entered the house laying the red suitcase in between us. She was cutting a pineapple, its juice pouring down her elbow, “For you” she said, then looked below my face and said, “You grew up.”

I looked at her face surprised to find it was full of color and life. Hope, like sweet warm syrup spread in my body. 
She was not dead.