The Hope
Running Away Or Running Toward: A Matter Of Perspective
Editor’s Note: "The Hope" will appear as an early chapter in Zuckerman’s upcoming novel-in-stories (tentatively titled Love in All Its Forms), a sister volume to her debut, The Book of Jeremiah. Spanning nine decades and intertwined with the American Jewish experience of the 20th and early 21st centuries, the new book follows Jeremiah and other members of the Gerstler family as they strive for understanding in a world where truths are constantly reevaluated. — David Michael Slater
The Hope (1976)
Abe's fragile heart rattles wildly at the sound of the phone, and he bolts out of bed to spare the rest of the household from waking. Beads of sweat form under his arm, thoughts of disaster and tragedy careen around his brain. At 4:43 on a Sunday morning, it can only be bad news, given the sense of dread that’s been hanging over the Jewish community all week. Today should be a momentous, joyful occasion to mark 200 years of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, but while their brethren’s lives hang in the balance, celebrating the Bicentennial will feel hollow.
The line is staticky, a surefire sign it is Abe’s older brother calling from one of the five communal phones on his dusty kibbutz in the Negev. Martin is panting, shouting through the sputtery connection - “on their way home” “all killed” “heroes” “hostages” “miracle” "Am Yisrael Chai" - and it takes a full minute before Abe’s bleary mind makes sense of the torrent of words. There's an urgency in Martin’s voice as he conveys a shocking turn of events: A miraculous ending to the horror of the Air France hijacking and hostage situation in Uganda, where, for the last week, guerillas have threatened to kill 98 Israeli and Jewish passengers if a deadline is not met by eight o’clock this morning. Israeli special forces, Martin’s oldest grandson Rafi among them, staged a stealth rescue mission in the middle of the night, killing the guerillas and freeing the hostages, who are now en route home.
“The relief! Thank goodness!” Martin says. “We don't know any of them personally, but Leah hasn't slept well since it began. No one has."
Abe lets out a whoop, the drumming in his chest turning from dread to elation. “Nes gadol haya sham!” he shouts. No matter that it’s not Chanukah, a great miracle has happened in Entebbe. “Wow, wow!” He lowers his voice, remembering his sleeping wife and son, daughter-in-law, and grandson, visiting for the holiday weekend. It's tempting to wake them to share the news.
“And Rafi! I’m bursting! A hero!” Martin’s voice turns soulful. “There’s a whisper of a few casualties on our side. But Rafi’s safe, we heard. When I think of what could have happened to him, meyn gat!”
“Thank God!” Abe says. He nods in the darkness because he would not wish on his worst enemy the pain he and Rikki have lived with for 31 years, ever since a Western Union man rang their doorbell on a wintery night in 1945, Rikki shrieking, and Abe, seized by terror, straining to hear which of his sons had been killed in action. He is grateful his grandnephew – whom he still pictures as a skinny, unkempt bar mitzvah boy – is unhurt, and that his brother and nephew will never receive a telegram that begins The Secretary of War desires me to express his deepest regret that your son… though he suspects they do things differently in Israel.
“We didn't know Rafi was going,” Martin says. “We were hoping there’d be a rescue mission, but it would be extremely dangerous, and everything was top secret. If Jackie knew, he couldn’t say until it was all over.” Martin’s son Jackie is a family celebrity for helping the nascent Israel Air Force in the State’s early days, earning the admiration and praise of David Ben Gurion himself. “Jackie’s still got connections and protektzia in the Air Force. He’s on his way to the airport to be there when the hostages and the troops land.”
With each passing year since Martin and Leah followed their son to Israel after the Six-Day War, Martin's speech has become more peppered with Hebrew. The brothers' lives, which began so similarly in a Galician shtetl at the turn of the century and continued for over 45 years in Bridgeport, have diverged in the last decade.
Now Martin spends his days in an arid, windswept land an hour from the nearest city, where the cacti are landscaped around rows of modest single-story homes, a communal dining room, and synagogue, where residents ride rusty bikes and children flit around barefoot, the soles of their feet as roughshod as the towels on the laundry lines. Martin is retired but helps in the chess club and with the very elderly. “I’ve never been happier,” Martin says each time they speak. Abe believes him, but occasionally he can’t shake the sense that his only living sibling has abandoned him – silly, considering he’s 76 and Martin is 82. They’ve made trips to visit each other, but he misses him terribly. The once-every-other-month phone calls over poor phone lines aren't enough. Of his parents’ five children, it has been only the two of them for so long. Their middle brother succumbed to typhus at 19 and their two sisters were murdered at Auschwitz with their young families, may their memories be a blessing.
And now a new Amalek has risen to destroy them, these terrorists and guerillas who think nothing of killing Jews in cold blood. But there is something wonderful about having the ability to defend themselves for the first time in modern history. Young men pulling off daring missions. A Jewish State thriving and prospering on the ingenuity of their own scientists and businessmen. Abe's pride goes deeper than making the desert bloom; it's about having agency over their destiny, the hope of his people for 2,000 years.
“How did they pull it off?” Abe asks. He is picturing the celebrations they’ll hold on Martin’s kibbutz, in the streets of Tel Aviv and Jerusalem.
“With our yiddishe kops and Israeli chutzpa,” Martin says. “Rafi will tell us when we see him.”
They are mirthful, cackling, forgetting that Martin might get in trouble for making a long, expensive phone call. Abe registers the presence of his son in the doorframe. Jeremiah runs a worried hand over his face, rubbing sleep from his eyes, body braced for bad news. “Who is it? What’s happened?” Jeremiah asks.
“Martin,” he mouths, and holds up a finger to indicate he’ll explain in a minute.
Rikki, too, is out of bed, her hands on their son’s shoulders, her expression frightened. Abe bids his brother goodbye, delighted to convey happy, miraculous news. “It’s good news. Wonderful!” He pulls Jeremiah and Rikki into the den. “A great day, threefold! The hostages have been rescued! Our Rafi is a hero! And America is 200 years old!”
Rikki presses her palms to her chest as if holding her relieved heart, and Jeremiah emits a gasp. Their eyes are shining, and Abe, too, feels tears welling. He hadn’t realized the depth of his worry until now. The hijackers hadn’t only threatened the lives of the Israelis onboard but anyone with a Jewish last name.
Abe feels spry and light for his 76 years. He's never burst into a spontaneous song and dance, but he does so now, leading Rikki and Jeremiah around the den in a three-person hora, singing shavtem mayim b’sasson, the first song that pops into his mind.
His daughter-in-law and 11-year-old grandson stumble into the room, dazed, and Abe drags Molly and Stuart into the circle. Soon they are all laughing and crying tears of happiness in their pajamas.
“We should make a party, no?” He looks to Rikki, who nods in agreement. They’d planned to meet his daughter and her family at a parade and then head to her house for a small barbeque. Instead, Abe suggests they invite everyone they know to a celebration here. His daughter won’t mind the change of plans; if Ruthie is awake, she and Sid and their children are also surely dancing around their living room.
Rikki squeezes Abe’s hand and says she’d better get another a few hours of sleep before making a party, Molly nods and follows, and Stuart goes in search of a snack. Alone with his son, Abe keeps shaking his head in wonder and disbelief. Jeremiah’s face shines with merriment from the hora, mirroring Abe’s own goofy grin.
“Whew! It's unbelievable,” Jeremiah says. He gazes around the paneled room as if seeing for the first time the framed family pictures, the shrine to Lenny in the corner – his portrait and dog tags, guarded by a small American flag – Abe’s plaques of recognition from the Connecticut Package Store Association, B’nai Brith, the Galician Young Men's Sick and Benevolent Association, the tissue box on the side table encased in one of Rikki’s crocheted covers, yesterday’s Bridgeport Post on the floor next to the easy chair.
Abe nods at the unspoken sentiment in his son’s comment. “One of the reasons we came to America. So you shouldn’t know from senseless hatred and killing of Jews.” He and Rikki were newlyweds when they'd left their shtetl, children not yet on the horizon. Martin’s letters from New York enticed him with promises of work for enterprising young men, but surely safety had factored into their thinking. A pogrom in their shtetl two years prior had left 19 dead, and no imagination was required to contemplate their fate if they’d stayed in Poland. Would his American children and grandchildren and subsequent generations ever feel as grateful to this country as only immigrants like Abe and Rikki could?
Abe enfolds Jeremiah into a bear hug, resting his head along his son’s shoulder, inhaling his essence, the faint whiff of lavender and cypress from his recently laundered tee shirt, his graying goatee, his heft and height, his Jewish soul on this beloved American soil, awash with gratitude at being alive, pride in his grandnephew’s bravery, affection flowing through his bloodstream and energizing the crevices and capillaries of his aging body. He believes his son feels it too, this sense that they live in remarkable times when Jews have not one but two countries in which they can finally be at home and accepted as equals.
Rikki calls to him to return to bed, but Abe is too chuffed. He knows she worries about him, the caution he’s supposed to be taking after his angina flared up last month, but today his heart is singing, sailing, swept free from the worry of this last week. It’s five thirty in the morning, the sky still dark, but sleep is the last thing on Abe’s mind. The infinite possibilities of the day spread out before him.
***
Abe's granddaughter Lisa gives him a funny look when Ruthie's family arrives. “You invited the whole neighborhood?”
Earlier in the day, Abe had enlisted Stuart’s help to make a sign, now propped against the oak tree in front of the house, an open invitation for anyone in the neighborhood to join them for a double celebration. They’d drawn two big flags, one American, one Israeli, their poles intertwined to show the close relationship. He’s also invited the entire “gang of six,” the five other couples who are Abe and Rikki’s dearest friends, along with any visiting children and grandchildren.
The clock on the wall reads ten minutes past three o’clock. All day, Abe’s been peeking out the kitchen window to see if passersby were noticing his sign.
“Any stranger could just walk in!” Lisa persists. At 14, she is prone to teenage cynicism.
“And he would be welcome!” Abe says. In all his years on this block, he’s only had trouble once, at the beginning, when a fellow with a German-sounding last name had tried and failed to get the Gerstlers to move. Rikki’d fretted, understandably, but Abe had taken comfort in the fact that the other neighbors – the Santorinis and Ciceros and Meehans – had told that anti-Semite where to stick it. He moved a few years later. Today, the block is a mix of Jews, Italians, Irish, Poles, and Puerto Ricans.
“But what if he’s a creep?” Lisa asks, her voice rising, crossing her arms.
“Bah!” Abe gesticulates with his hand, pushing away her concern. “Believe me, I know creeps.” He thinks of the stick-up men haunting the streets at closing time and the drunks loitering outside his package store at eight in the morning, waiting for their first drink of the day. One good thing about retirement is that he no longer deals with these louts. “There are no creeps in this neighborhood.”
“Abe, customers!” Rikki says now, in the same way she’d call in the store if he was busy stocking shelves. His heart jolted each time.
Three people – an older couple and a middle-aged man – are glancing at the sign and conferring with each other. The couple looks vaguely familiar, but Abe does not know everyone on the block. He steps through the screen door and onto the front steps to wave to the strangers. “Hello! Welcome!”
It could be awkward that the first guests are people they don’t know, but the Richters pull up in their car a moment later, followed by Norm and Susie Kleiger’s crew on foot. In four giant strides, Abe is next to the strangers, extending his hand. “Happy Fourth of July! Come, join us. Please.”
The woman squints at him, “Are you sure? That’s very kind of you.”
“Absolutely! What better way to celebrate the Fourth than with our neighbors?” Abe says. After introductions, he learns that these people are Elizabeth and Frank Johnson and their son, William. Abe waves his greetings to the Richters and Kleigers. “Just follow me around to the back.”
From the backyard, Abe pops his head into the screened-in porch and calls for his family to come outside and greet their first guests. Soon the yard fills up with his children, grandchildren, close friends, and a few neighbors. Jeremiah mans the grill, fanning charcoals, and the grandchildren spread out on the grass with the deck of cards.
“Let’s get this party started!” Abe says. He’s hooked up a turntable outside and plays the record Jeremiah and Molly had gotten them a gift, The Spirit of America, a musical salute for the Bicentennial with songs like "This Land is Your Land" and "America the Beautiful." The cover of the LP features an imposing image of Abe Lincoln next to an American flag and Revolutionary War soldiers in the foreground.
Ruthie and Sid mingle with the Kleigers, and Jeremiah is deep in conversation with Mel Richter, no doubt discussing the events of the day. The Johnsons stand off to the side, alone, so Abe rejoins them. “This is very nice of you,” Elizabeth says again. “We didn’t have any big plans for today.”
Abe learns that the Johnsons have been in Bridgeport for 40 years, a bit less than he has. That they live around the corner. That William, an only child, attended the same schools as his kids, though he looks to be at least five years older than Jeremiah. That Frank spent his whole career at GE and Elizabeth is a retired librarian. William, a developer, lives in Fairfield.
“Let’s introduce you to a few people,” Abe says, but then more guests arrive, whom the Johnsons do seem to know: Abe's next-door neighbors Claudio and Pauline, and a middle-aged woman named Christina and her elderly mother.
Rikki emerges with the final salad and Jeremiah announces that the first batch of hotdogs and hamburgers will be ready soon. The low sound of chatter is pleasant to Abe’s ears. The sun is bright overhead, but their faithful elm provides plenty of shade. "A better day, I couldn’t ask," he says. He loves being surrounded by his children and grandchildren, by his dear friends and neighbors.
Mel is offering his analysis of the rescue. “It’s like we’ve been waiting for something like this for almost three years, since the Yom Kippur War.” The war and its aftermath were dark days in the Jewish world, the small but mighty IDF not as invincible as they’d thought. Today’s rescue renewed a sense of pride.
Abe's non-Jewish neighbors had not been following the unfolding situation in Uganda, so Abe explains. “We were so relieved over the hostages. We broke into dancing at five in the morning.”
“We were crying from happiness at our house,” Mel says. “Just crying, I tell you. What a morning!” All the gang of six couples nod in agreement.
Abe is struck by the differences in reactions, the polite smiles and unsure glances from Christina and the Johnsons, versus the effusive, ebullient expressions of gratitude and joy from his Jewish friends. Moments ago, he was convinced he’d never felt more at home in America, but on certain matters, there will always be a chasm between Abe and his non-Jewish neighbors. They share a love for the United States, but religious or not religious, he is first and foremost a Jew.
Claudio and Pauline, more than the others, do seem interested in hearing about the Holy Land. They've heard there's an olive tree in Jerusalem that dates to Jesus' time. Abe's never heard of the tree but offers to show them photos from his most recent trip. He's in the den, looking for the album when the backdoor slams and Jeremiah stomps in.
“You left the grill? Who’s manning it?” Abe asks.
“Don’t worry about that now. We’ve got a bigger problem,” his son says.
“You can’t just leave the hotdogs on there without –”
“Sid! Okay? Sid’s on the grill.”
Jeremiah’s hands are clenched into fists, his expression bitter. As a boy, his son could be obstinate at times, as if a lever in his brain for rational thinking had been switched to “off.” Rikki hadn't known how to handle the impulsive, headstrong creature who was their middle child, given to joking and pranking and merciless ribbing of his older brother. Abe had always been the more forgiving parent, but Lenny’s death had rearranged the molecular makeup of the family. Rikki and Jeremiah had softened towards each other, joined in their grief. Abe had to be strong for all of them.
“What’s the matter?” Abe cannot imagine what’s happened in the three minutes since he left the backyard.
“That couple! And their son!”
“Nu? They’re from the neighborhood.”
“I know who they are.”
“They seem perfectly nice. Elizabeth and Frank Johnson. You know them?”
“Not them. It’s their son. Willie. Remember that name?”
Abe shakes his head. “Nope. He’s barely said a word, this William. Seems like a quiet type.”
“He’s the bullying type,” Jeremiah says. “Don’t you remember? He made life miserable for Lenny.”
Abe’s eyes open wide and a dreadful feeling creeps into his stomach. Lenny had never been Mr. Popular, but Abe does not recall bullying.
“Remember the punching bag? We probably still have it,” Jeremiah insists. “Lenny got it because of Willie.”
Abe's cheeks burn as a long-buried anger and humiliation on behalf of Lenny surfaces. Was it possible he’d suppressed the whole thing? He collects himself and holds his ground. “That was – what? – 40 years ago? Maybe he’s changed.”
Jeremiah frowns, insinuating Abe is being naïve, that his general approach of trying to see the best in people doesn’t apply in this case. “Changed, shmanged.”
To ask William to leave, to interrupt this celebration with unpleasantness from decades ago, this Abe will not do. It’s not that he doesn’t care about the feelings of his son. But there is his largesse as a host to consider, particularly after he’s made the sweeping gesture of opening his home to the neighborhood. “Come on. I’m not going to kick him out if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Then I’ll do it!” Jeremiah snaps, turning to leave.
“Don’t you dare!” There’s a fierceness in Abe’s voice, anger triggered by Jeremiah’s cocksure self-righteousness. As if this is his house. As if Jeremiah himself had been a model of kindness to his older brother. “You of all people should know that a person can change.” He hurls the accusation like a dagger, deliberately meant to maim.
Jeremiah stops in his tracks and faces him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You know exactly what I mean.” Jeremiah wears the look of a wounded animal, his chest deflated. Abe knows he’s being unfair, perhaps even cruel. Although his boys couldn’t stand each other as adolescents, there’d been a thawing in the relationship once Lenny had gone to college, and again when both brothers served overseas. They penned letters to each other and had talked of meeting in Paris after the war, but then Lenny had been killed before he and Jeremiah could cement a better relationship. “It means that a person can say and do stupid things, hurtful things when they’re younger –”
“Or older,” Jeremiah retorts.
“Or older,” Abe acknowledges, “and when they’re more mature, they can look themselves squarely in the mirror and acknowledge the wrongs they’ve done. Tshuva.” He’s speaking directly to the crux of Jeremiah’s complexities: at once selfish and large-hearted, smart and independent, lonely, loving and sanguine. “You don’t have to speak to William, but this is my house and you’re not asking anyone to leave.”
Jeremiah opens his mouth and closes it, swaying slightly, blinking. His facial muscles are slack, and he turns and leaves the room without saying a word, the fight drained out.
**
Outside, Abe’s son-in-law carries an aluminum foil tray to the food table, filled with crispy red hotdogs, blackened at the ends. “Kids!” Sid yells. “Hotdogs are ready!” They line up quickly, and as Sid doles them out, Jeremiah takes his place behind the grill, keeping the lid open as if placing a separation between himself and the guests. When Sid returns with the empty tray, Jeremiah waves him off, the tension visible in his jawline. “I’ve got this,” he says, his tone gruff.
Abe surveys the faces gathered in his backyard – faces he’d been buoyed to see an hour ago – but now there’s a tightness in his chest. He closes his eyes to focus on the sensation for a few moments. No, this feels different from the first signs of an angina attack. A small comfort. But typical of his son to spoil the mood. Why does everything have to be so complicated with Jeremiah? Why must family members wound each other in the middle of a perfect day? It’s exhausting. Sidelong glances at William Johnson reveal nothing. Could Jeremiah have mixed this fellow up with someone else?
The guests pile their plates with meat and potato salad and coleslaw and potato chips, and drink soda and beer, unaware of the change in Abe’s state of mind. They seem merry, talking amongst themselves. He’d forgotten about showing Claudio and Pauline his Israel photo album, and they aren’t asking to see it. Abe tries to coax back his festive mood by moving from table to table, kibbitzing, and inserting quips.
Abe’s never been a drinker, despite his business. A bit of Slivovitz on Passover, more out of tradition than for its bitter taste. A beer once or twice a year. Now he cracks open a bottle of Miller High Life, and it tastes delicious. A few slakes later, Abe is almost back to himself. “A toast!” he cries, holding up his beer. The guests settle into a hush, the only sound the snap-sizzle-pop of the hotdogs on the grill.
“Thank you for coming to our last-minute party,” Abe starts. “All day I’ve walked around with a sense of purpose. Of joy.” All day until half an hour ago, he does not say. “This last week had me pretty worried, to tell the truth. When Rikki and I arrived in America more than 55 years ago, it wasn’t always easy.” He launches into an impromptu speech about selling eggs and butter door-to-door during the Depression. Of saving and scrimping to open a package store when prohibition ended. Of Lenny talking his ear off about the Yankees and baseball and Abe’s great regret that he’d never made the time to understand what his sons found so exhilarating about the national pastime until the day – more than a decade after Lenny's death – Jeremiah had taken him to see the great Joe DiMaggio.
Abe is meandering, not able to fully express what’s in his heart. He clears his throat and finds a way back to the topic. “I’ve always been grateful to this great nation. Our founding fathers, Washington and Jefferson and Franklin. Not perfect, but they built the foundation so immigrants like Rikki and me would feel welcome.”
Does he detect a smirk on William’s face? Abe’s own education never went past the fourth grade; what he knows of the founding fathers he learned from his children and the occasional television specials around Presidents’ Day. On a visit to Rhode Island, he'd seen a copy of Washington’s lofty benediction to the Hebrew Congregation of Newport expressing his wish that the Jews of America should enjoy “the goodwill of the other Inhabitants" with “none to make him afraid.”
“You might be thinking: Sure, but what has Abe done, what have any of us package or retail store owners done to show our gratitude? I think the founding fathers would have appreciated us as men of industry.”
“What have we done to repay the nation? We have given our sons.” His voice breaks, his eyes are moist. He takes a swallow of his beer to regain his composure. “As most of you know, our son Lenny paid the ultimate sacrifice fighting for that freedom.” There is a sharp knot in his belly: Why hadn’t he done more to help Lenny with the bullying? And today, why has he allowed his pride to wound his one living son? He pauses, collecting himself, and then continues. “And ever since, the world is emptier.”
Abe sets a stony gaze on William, who is holding his own beer glass in the air, waiting politely for Abe to finish. He sees no expression of regret or recognition that he is sitting in the home of the beautiful boy he once tormented. Perhaps Abe and Jeremiah will get him down in the cellar later and show him the old punching bag.
“So, happy birthday, America.” He raises his glass, the joy drained out of him. “This is for Lenny and all the others who died for you.”
His guests seem unsure if they should drink or say something. Mel Richter breaks the silence. “May his memory be for a blessing!” The crowd murmurs its assent. Abe nods in Mel’s direction, grateful to his friend, who’s had his own share of grief, though different in nature. Abe takes a swallow of his beer. The cold amber liquid sloshes down his gullet, satisfying in its bitterness. His toast has put the guests in a somber mood. He’ll have to turn it around; he doesn't want people to remember the party as a bust.
Silently, Abe asks Lenny’s forgiveness and clears his throat again, a smile pasted on his face. He chimes a fork to his beer glass to regain his guests' attention. “Ahem. Folks! There’s another reason you’re here today, and that's to celebrate a remarkable feat of bravery, as I mentioned to a few of you earlier. I’m talking about the daring, dangerous rescue by Israeli special troops to rescue the hostages in Entebbe.”
Again, Abe explains about the hostages, the courageous flight crew from Air France who stayed with their passengers, and the Ugandan dictator who sent his soldiers to help the guerillas. Over the course of the day, news had broken that two hostages and the commander of the operation had been killed during the rescue mission. In retaliation for the rescue, Idi Amin’s forces had executed an elderly Jewish woman, a hostage who’d been taken to a Ugandan hospital for medical care, but Abe will not turn this second toast into another elegy and focuses only on the good news.
As he tells the story, he is filled with the same warmth and pride of this morning, and now the smile on his face is genuine. “Such joy, I haven’t experienced in a very long time.” He recalls the 5 am dancing, the spontaneous embrace he’d shared with Jeremiah in the den. He is stricken that he’s allowed a stranger to get between them.
“This party is also to celebrate the safe return of the hostages and to honor the brave soldiers like my grandnephew Rafi.” There is clapping and utterances of “amen” and “l’chaim” from their friends.
“I said to Rikki, ‘We must throw a party to show our thanks for this miracle. And to toast the very special relationship between America and Israel, the only democracy in the Middle East.” He pauses and nods at Jeremiah, who hasn’t spoken to him for the better part of an hour. “My son is the political scientist, but this crosses party lines, yes? Republicans and Democrats alike have been strong supporters of Israel.”
Jeremiah affirms his statement with a nod.
Abe holds his glass up a second time. “Let’s give a l’chaim for our brave boys like Rafi, for Jewish ingenuity, for the special bond between Israel and America. L’chaim! Cheers!”
One of their friends breaks into a chorus of Am Yisroel Chai. The non-Jewish guests cast awkward glances at each other. Abe eyes William, trying to size him up from afar. Buoyed by the song, his body warm with alcohol, Abe must know the truth. He pulls up a chair next to the Johnsons.
“I understand,” he says to William, choosing his words slowly, “that you knew my son. Leonard. Lenny.”
William’s face is blank, and Abe can’t tell if he’s trying to place the name. “It doesn't ring a bell, but I’m sorry for your loss.”
Abe will not let it rest. “How old are you? What year did you graduate from Bassick?”
“Fifty-six. Graduated in ’39.”
“Lenny would be almost 54 now. Bright as a whistle. But he couldn’t wait to get out of high school—” Here Abe pauses, hoping William will pick up the hint. “He hated it, you see, so he graduated a year early, in 1940, when he was only 16 and three quarters. Two years at UCONN before he enlisted. Youngest person to complete the US Army medic’s course.”
A fleeting shadow crosses William’s face – Abe would have missed it if he’d blinked – but the man shakes his head. “I don’t think I knew him, sorry.”
“Think hard. Skinny kid. Loved baseball.” Abe persists. “If you lived around the corner there, you would have walked home the same way.”
“It’s been a long time,” William says. “And I have a bad memory.”
But Abe senses a wariness in William, the way he rubs at his temple and purses his lips. “Let me get a few pictures. Maybe it will jog your memory because my other son is convinced you two knew each other.”
William glances at his watch and pushes back his seat, a bit forcefully. “Look, thanks for everything, but we’ve got to go. I have to pick up my kids.”
“It will only take a minute—” Abe runs into the house, grabs the first three pictures he finds of Lenny, and returns to the yard. Despite the man’s frown, the way his arms are crossed in a challenging pose, Abe holds out the pictures, practically thrusting them in William’s face. “Look, please.”
There’s an official U.S. Army photo of Lenny when he'd completed his medic’s course, a picture from his high school graduation, where he looked young enough to be a bar mitzvah boy, and a third photo of all three children in costume from several years prior: Lenny as a ballplayer, Yankees cap askew on his head, Jeremiah dressed as a girl, and Ruthie a princess.
William scans the pictures quickly, barely looking. He frowns and shakes his head. “Like I’ve already told you. I don’t remember him.” There’s a faint upturning of the left side of William’s lip, which Abe believes to be a sign of lying.
“Don’t or won’t?”
William and his parents open their eyes wide at Abe’s insinuation.
“My other son was sure. Didn’t you used to go by Willie?”
William says nothing but does not break eye contact. His mother glances back and forth between Abe and her son. “Abe. Thank you again for having us, but William’s right, we’ve got to go. We’re sorry for your loss.” Her words are gracious, considering how Abe’s behaved, but her tone is clipped. Frank shakes Abe’s hand, and the three of them turn to leave.
William’s voice rings out before they've rounded the corner. “Fucking Jews!” His tone was more annoyed than menacing. His mother claps him on the shoulder and swivels around to see if anyone has heard. She catches Abe’s eye but pushes her son forward to expedite their exit.
Abe is frozen in place. Mel, too, has heard, and he stands so abruptly that he knocks over his chair and is at Abe's side in seconds, his fists are clenched.
“What kind of rude schmuck—”
“Never mind,” Abe says, breathing hard. As if two men in their late 70s could take on a man two decades younger. “Not worth it.” It takes a full five minutes for his heart to stop thumping wildly. Abe has always been a man who tries to see the best in people, who doesn’t dwell on regrets. But to have such a bald slur hurled at him in his own house! Jeremiah was right. The guy is a first-class putz. His granddaughter’s worry about a creep showing up was warranted. Had he been foolish to invite the whole neighborhood? He wants to believe that William is just one bad apple.
No one else seems to have heard, and their friends and neighbors continue to mingle in good cheer. Their dessert plates are heaped with slices of watermelon, Molly’s cake and cookies, and scoops of Ruthie’s jello mold.
When the party winds down, each guest thanks Abe profusely, but he can’t shake the feeling that the day has been cast in ugliness. Still, he forces a smile until the last people say goodbye. His wife, daughter, and daughter-in-law clear away the leftovers, Sid cleans the grill, the grandchildren fill giant green trash bags with the detritus of the party – paper plates and cups and napkins and half-eaten hamburgers. Jeremiah hauls the bags to the garbage cans in their one-car garage.
Abe cuts his son off on one of his trips; they haven’t spoken all afternoon.
“I confronted the guy,” Abe starts. “Says he didn’t know Lenny. But I got a funny feeling he was lying.”
Jeremiah shrugs, raises an eyebrow and works his jaw, but says nothing.
“I guess you were right,” Abe continues.
“You guess?”
“He’s a first-class jerk.”
Jeremiah gives him a sour look: What-did-I-tell-you?
“I wasn’t very nice to him. Rude actually,” Abe says. “Very out of character for me.”
His son bites down on his lip and gives Abe a long, pained look. Jeremiah’s voice is quiet when he finally speaks. “You seem more concerned that you were rude to that bastard than you were to me. If it were up to me, I'd drive home right now, but Stuart wants to see the fireworks with his cousins, so you're stuck with me until tomorrow morning."
Abe gapes. He knows Jeremiah is sensitive to any mention of his treatment of his brother, but he hadn't realized he'd caused such harm. Unlike Abe, his son has never been good at letting things roll off his back. “Jeremiah, I—” But Jeremiah is already past him.
Abe hurries after, in time to see Jeremiah yanking down the sign inviting the neighborhood. “Listen,” Abe says. “I shouldn’t have said that before. I said it in anger. Just put it out of your mind.”
“Things said in anger have a grain of truth in them.”
“Not always. Not this time. I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t want to throw the guy out of the party. I was too caught up in my own vision for the day.”
Jeremiah looks away. In a quiet voice, he says: “I shouldn’t have to beg you for an apology.”
“No.” Abe hangs his head, his voice choked. “As terrible as it’s been for us, it breaks my heart that you and Lenny never had a chance to become good friends. To have what I have with Martin.” He misses Martin acutely in this moment. “Nothing made me happier than to see you writing letters to each other. I know things were better between you two.”
His son’s eyes are watery and red. They have never spoken of this in the 31 years since Lenny’s death.
“It isn’t fair,” Abe says. “It’s the worst thing in the goddamn world. To lose a son. To lose a brother.”
Abe can’t stand how miserable his son looks, knowing that he’s caused this. “I’m sorry,” Abe says. He puts a hand on his shoulder, but Jeremiah shakes it off.
“You were boys, is all. That’s what brothers do.” Abe starts and stops, trying to find the right words to say to his son. Jeremiah will turn 50 in two weeks. “This thing with Lenny. It’s like a heavy cloud that’s with you all the time. I wish you would stop beating yourself up about it. It does you no good.”
“Yes,” Jeremiah admits.
Abe hopes he will set his son’s heart at ease. Because it costs him nothing, he utters the words he used to say frequently to Lenny. “We’re proud of you, you know. A better son, I couldn’t ask.”
**
It arrives in the shape of an exultant, waking dream, later that evening, in the whirl of the day’s highs and lows, after the last napkin is thrown away, the card table wiped down, the coffee urn emptied, the counters bare, the leftover cake wrapped to send home with Jeremiah and Molly when they return to Stockbridge tomorrow. Abe and Rikki sit with their feet up in the den; they’ve begged off the fireworks at Jennings Beach, telling their children and grandchildren to go without them. A vision of Abe's future presents itself: the desire to join his brother in Israel, to live out his waning days in the Jewish State. At first, he brushes it off as a fantasy, a mild yearning that will go unanswered, but the words of Herzl echo in his head, "If you will it, it is no dream." There’s a quickening in his blood, something thrilling about the thought of picking himself up and starting again. Not alone, of course, but with Rikki by his side. As if they are not grandparents in their 70s but newlyweds in their 20s.
He swivels his easy chair to face his wife, who seems at peace, deep in concentration over her latest project, a crocheted purse for one of Ruthie’s girls. Is he selfish for wanting a change? It’s been good to them, this house. This life. This city. This country. Despite their loss. Despite the occasional putz like the one today. For decades, his sole priority was providing for his family, giving his children opportunities. The reason he worked 90-hour weeks. But now that he’s sold the stores, why shouldn't he move closer to his brother, to live in his people's homeland, under the warmth of the Mediterranean sun?
With the right coaxing, Rikki might go along with the idea, though she won't want to be so far from the kids. She has a slew of cousins in Bat Yam with whom she exchanges letters several times a year. On their last trip, the long flight from New York had been rough on Abe’s back, and by the time they descended the steps of the aircraft, the veins in Rikki’s legs had bulged to twice their regular size. But one day in Jerusalem had cured their aches and pains. The cane Martin had used periodically in Bridgeport before making aliyah was now relegated to a closet, as if life in the Negev had given him back a decade.
Some of Abe and Rikki’s friends have already started spending their winters in Florida, and they’ve spoken about it briefly. It looked nice, the brochure for Century Village, with all those pastel-colored buildings named Dover, Somerset, and Coventry, the swimming pools and year-round warm weather, the tall palms on Okechobee Boulevard. But Abe has yet to call the sales agent.
Maybe he can convince Ruthie and Sid to join them. They’re the most observant of the bunch, sending their youngest to a Jewish day school and keeping the older kids out of school on the holidays. Plus, Sid’s half-sister lives in Netanya, and he can easily set up shop as an accountant for all those Americans in Israel who need their U.S. taxes done. It’s Jeremiah who will never agree, and maybe it’s not fair to ask. One doesn’t throw away tenure at a good university. Which begs the question: could Abe go through with it, putting an ocean between himself and his only living son?
A better, more palatable idea presents itself. Half a year. Instead of Florida. Would Martin’s kibbutz take them? Kibbutzim are the opposite of places like Century Village, meant for work, not retirement. On their last trip, he and Rikki had walked along the promenade in Tel Aviv as the sun set. The sky’s deep, rich hues of pinks and purples and oranges were like nothing they’d seen before. When the final rays of sunlight framed Rikki’s silhouette like a golden aura, he’d cupped her face in his hands, murmuring that she was beautiful, glowing, that they were lucky to have each other, that he’d never been more in love, and he kissed her passionately for all of Tel Aviv to see. He smiles at the memory of Rikki -- astonished, embarrassed, her cheeks and neck scarlet but also giggling like a schoolgirl – and his heart bursts with possibility.
The front door opens, and Jeremiah and family are back from the fireworks. Abe's been lost in his reverie, his plans. He’ll wait to say anything until he’s spoken to Rikki and Martin and worked out the details, figured out when and where and how. But he can’t tamp down the excitement, a crick in his chest. Jeremiah's mood has improved, and Abe can't stay mum. “Listen, I’ve been thinking. Maybe Martin has the right idea.”
“What are you talking about?” Jeremiah cocks his head. Rikki sets down her crocheting.
Abe lays out his plan. Winters in Israel. Summers in Bridgeport. He can see Rikki turning the idea over in her head, a flush in her cheeks.
Jeremiah gestures to Abe’s red, white, and blue t-shirt. “I don’t get it. You’re the most patriotic person I know. You love this country. You’ve been looking forward to the Bicentennial for weeks. Now, all of a sudden, you want to move to Israel? Sure, we all feel a sense of pride over the rescue. But this is crazy talk.”
“There’s no contradiction,” Abe says. “I can love America with all my heart and love Israel with all my heart. You have children. Do you love one more than the other?” Abe answers his own question. “No! The heart expands with each child.”
“What would you do there? Where would you live? The kibbutz won’t take you for half a year.” Jeremiah has never shied from voicing his opinion.
“I haven’t worked everything out yet. But remember that we met Golda a few years ago?” They’d been granted an audience with the prime minister because her sister lived in Bridgeport. “And she said that the State of Israel needs Jews of all kinds. Young Jews. Old Jews. Lawyers, doctors, accountants, truck drivers, and electricians. Ivy League-educated professors and piano teachers,” he says, referring to Jeremiah and Molly.
His son does not respond to this prodding. “What does the State of Israel need with a retired liquor salesman, no offense?”
“Never mind that.” Perhaps Abe could volunteer in the carrot sorting factory or learn to be a tractor mechanic. “You know what? It’s a home. Home is where you’re welcome, even when you have nothing to give.”
“I don’t understand you,” Jeremiah says.
It’s possible they will never truly understand each other. Abe ignores him, already dreaming of his new life. Give him the simple things. To live in a modest kibbutz house near his brother and walk the lush grounds, the desert in bloom. To smell the lemon blossoms and fig trees and majestic date palms, with clusters of plump fruit, skin ripening from green to yellow to reddish-brown until ready to be picked. Give him the cobblestone streets of the Old City and the sandy beaches of Tel Aviv, the glorious Mediterranean sun warming his body. In time, he hopes Jeremiah will come to see this as a good choice for his parents.
“I don’t get why you’d want to run away from your life. At your age!” his son says.
But Jeremiah is wrong. Abe’s not running away, he’s running towards hope. “Now that we finally have a State of our own, I want to be part of that history.” The same line Martin had said to him. It’s true, there are several contributing factors to Abe's new dream – Zionism and pride and love and the weather and yes, perhaps even the insult hurled at him by that putz – but what does it matter?
It is Rikki who ends the discussion. “Abe, we’ve had enough excitement for the day. Let’s go to bed, Mr. Dreamer. Mr. Theodore Herzl. Should I warm some milk to help you calm down?” She knows him, his wife, his helpmate. Knows he will have trouble falling asleep from these stirrings in his soul.
And it is Rikki who makes the decision, a year later, somewhat guiltily, but with the support of her son and daughter and brother-in-law, that no, Abe will not be buried in Israel, never having made it back for one more trip, never mind six months each year, his first heart attack coming days before Rosh Hashanah and his second, fatal one, nearly a year after the Bicentennial. In between the two, Abe never stopped planning and talking about Israel to anyone who would listen. Jeremiah held his hand when he was weak, encouraging him to get well, get stronger, so that he could fulfill his one last dream. As if his heart was a matter of will. Martin, too, had flown in twice to see him. How was it that his brother, six years his senior, had a hardy heart and could make a transatlantic trip without a problem while Abe lay weak in his hospital bed? The answer, Abe knew, was the clean air in the Negev, the famous Israeli chutzpah, and the gift of being free in the land of Zion and Jerusalem.
Julie Zuckerman's debut novel-in-stories, The Book of Jeremiah, was published in May 2019 by Press 53. Her fiction and non-fiction have appeared in Moment, CRAFT, Atlas & Alice, Crab Orchard Review, Jewish Women's Archive, The Coil, Salt Hill, The SFWP Quarterly, and Sixfold, among others. She is the founder and host of the monthly Literary Modiin author series. Her essay, "Under One Sky" won first prize in the 2023 Creators of Justice Literary Awards. A native of Connecticut, she now lives in Israel with her husband and four children. Subscribe to Julie's bimonthly author newsletter for book reviews, Jewish literary events, writing resources, recipes, updates from Israel, and more.
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Five Tiny Delights:
Catching sight of a white-throated kingfisher, with its shock of electric-blue back, wings and tail
Eating fruit straight from the tree (mangoes from the tree in my yard or foraging for wild figs and mulberries)
The soundtracks of Hamilton, Les Mis, and West Side Story (3-way tie)
Losing myself in a great book
Scoring over 400 on Blossom (Merriam-Webster's daily word game)
Five Jewish Delights
Israeli & Jewish music, especially in the last year: Ishay Ribo, Hatikvah 6, Shlomo Artzi, Avraham Tal – here's a link to my happy Israeli music playlist
Hallel on Yom Ha'atzmaut and Avinu Malkeinu on Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur
Promoting new books with Jewish/Israeli content through Literary Modiin
Seeing my kids, nieces, nephews, and thousands of Jewish kids having positive experiences at their Jewish summer camps and youth groups
Biking/hiking/walking/running in Israel, especially among the wildflowers in February and March
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