1

HE’LL SUMMON ME eventually, when the celebrations are over. Wait ten days, two weeks at the most, I told myself. He will call. I watched his inauguration ceremony on the news, with the honorary guard, the assigning of the ranks, and the military band. He could have sent me an invitation, I thought, but I understood why he didn’t.

The summons from his office came after two weeks and two days. The Chief of Staff wants to see you.

Of course, I said. When Rosolio asks me to come, I come.

My entry permit had expired and the guards at the gate held me up for a long time. I showed them my ID, which stated I was a lieutenant colonel in reserve duty, but they insisted on following proper procedure. I finally made it into his office, a little sweaty and not as fresh as I’d have liked, but right on time. I was never late, anywhere.

Just a moment, his head of office said. I didn’t like the jealous look she gave me. Please, have a seat, she said, pointing at the waiting area.

After way too long, a group of potbellied men in powder-blue civilian button-downs walked out of his office, and she finally deigned to announce my arrival.

A few seconds later, Rosolio appeared in the doorway, wearing the military’s highest insignia. He was as stunning as ever. Abigail, he said.

Sir, I answered—it just fell out of my mouth, like I was an idiot—and beamed my biggest smile. I felt immense pride in him, as if he were my older brother, or my man.

The first time I met him, twenty-five years earlier, during one of his battalion’s drills in the Golan Heights, I knew he’d make it all the way to the top if he managed not to get killed on the way. He had made it to this office in one piece, though it took him longer than I’d expected. The old images submerged me. I was touched. His body had thickened, but his pleasant scent had remained, as had the hint of masculine flesh hidden behind the uniform and the brass, and his eyes still contained that wise gaze that attracted me more than any physical quality. He was glad I’d come. Come on in, Abigail, he invited me with a wide gesture, then took a seat behind the desk at which fates were sealed. On the desk was a framed photo of his wife and daughters, which he hadn’t bothered to hide for my sake.

How are you? I asked. I noticed stress in his tired eyes and slumped head and shoulders, as well as his bitten nails.

Well, you’re looking at it, he chuckled. Lots of work to do, lots of things to change. The way he spoke was always a little wooden, and I had to chip through it to find the droplets of emotion. A famous topographical map of the Middle East was hanging over his head. He looked lonely. I wanted to go sit next to him, to touch him, massage his stiff shoulder blades, but I wasn’t sure how he’d react.

I’ve been working like mad, he said. It’s an immense responsibility. You don’t realize just how immense until you get here.

I asked what he’d been eating and how much sleep he’d been getting. Over the years, I’d seen Rosolio under all sorts of pressures, and I knew he was strong but not made of iron. He wasn’t one of those rare superhumans that the military produces once every generation or two. Now and then, the night before embarking on a military operation or making a crucial decision, he had an intense need for me to hold his hand, offer words of support, reassure him he’d made the right choice, save him from the doubt and confusion and fear involved in sacrificing human life. Rosolio was brave, serious, and smart, but occasionally he became blocked by hesitation and had to be rescued so he could move forward.

I’d gotten dolled up for him, wearing barely perceptible lipstick and a young, spring-scented perfume. My greatest fear was that I’d look old to him, that my body would repulse him. But I could tell by looking into his eyes that I had yet to cross that terrible threshold. He still liked me.

He asked what life as a civilian was like. I told him I hadn’t been able to let go, and that I mostly treated veterans suffering from shell shock; that I’d made myself a reputation as someone who specialized in that particular kind of rehabilitation. I told him I still gave talks at Command and Staff, and that occasionally I did a few days of reserve duty to assist with special missions. I treated some regular people, I told Rosolio, but I didn’t have patience for them. Their little problems bored me. I sat across from them and couldn’t stop yawning.

Thank God we’re helping you make a living, Rosolio joked, then turned serious, as if afraid someone might be watching him through the wall. We’ve screwed lots of boys’ lives, he said, adding, and it wasn’t always worth it.

That’s not something you ought to be thinking about right now, I told him. Save that thought for retirement, when you write your memoir.

Welcome back, Abigail, he laughed. I’ve missed you. It’s been a long time since anyone gave me some clear instructions on what to think. We’re back in the good old days.

Underneath every word we spoke were the things we couldn’t say. We were in the Chief of Staff’s chambers, the map of the Middle East watching over us, no chance for intimacy. Rosolio scratched the back of his neck and said, I asked you here today because I think you might be able to help. You always made a special contribution to the force. You didn’t just help those who stayed behind, you also helped us stride ahead. That’s what I want to do with this entire military. Stride ahead.

Could you be any more formal? I thought. But I said, Sure, I’m totally in. How can I help?

We’re fantastic in the air and in the sea, he said. Fast, efficient, invincible. On land is where we get bogged down, in face-to-face combat. That’s where we get killed or abducted. That’s where we sink into the mud. These are gentle kids; we never taught them how to kill.

Now I was finally able to frame this meeting: he had asked me here as an expert on the psychology of killing. I crossed my legs, sat up straight. My hair was in a bun, as usual. I said, Anything they can operate from a distance with the touch of a button comes naturally to them. Killing from afar is no problem. It’s like a game. But hurting people up close is a whole other story. These kids barely play out in the yard. They don’t even get into fights. Instead of playing with the other neighborhood kids, they text them. Everything is symbolic, the real world barely exists. Sometimes I think we should have taught them to slaughter a chicken or break someone’s nose before expecting them to go off and kill other human beings.

Rosolio laughed and said, Can you imagine what the papers would say if I introduced chicken slaughter into the training program?

They don’t fuck anymore, either, I said. They don’t even touch each other.

I only have daughters, Rosolio said, then paused awkwardly and corrected himself. We only have daughters, so that doesn’t bother me as much.

Twenty-five years ago, outside of his battalion commander tent, Rosolio had made me Turkish coffee and we’d shared our views about man as a killing machine. He was eager to talk to me, even though I was just a young academic officer who hadn’t encountered a battlefield in her life. I was so flattered.

I wanted to deepen the conversation now too, to impress him, to tell him about new studies conducted by military psychologists in other countries, to boast my knowledge, to demonstrate my professional authority. But his office manager knocked on the door, apologized, and said Rosolio had to head out to a meeting with the minister. They were waiting for him, she emphasized, shooting me a suspicious glance.

One minute, he said, then waited for her to leave. How’s the kid? he asked softly, almost whispering. I didn’t know if his office was tapped. I decided to proceed with caution.

His enlistment is in a few days, I reported. I wouldn’t have brought it up had he not asked. That deviated from the rules of our agreement.

Already? What unit? he asked, surprised, even embarrassed. He had no idea how old Shauli was.

I looked him straight in the eyes and said, Paratroopers, like you.

Paratroopers? How come? How did that happen?

I’ve been asking myself the same thing. I must have done a bad job raising him. He could have joined the Intelligence Corps. He’s got a great mind. He could have been a pilot, if he had insisted on being a hero, or a naval officer. He’s at the beach all the time, anyway. But no, he wanted to be a paratrooper. An old-fashioned boy. The only one out of all of his friends. He wants to be a man’s man. That old shtick still works on him.

It can’t be a coincidence. Did you tell him anything about me? Did you insinuate anything? Rosolio asked suspiciously.

No. I made a face. I didn’t like that question. I never told and I never would. I’d given Rosolio my word. We had an agreement.

I’m sorry, Abigail. Of course you didn’t, he said softly, appeasing me. I recalled his languidness as he rose from our lovemaking bed, how tenderly he’d treated me. He’s one of the good guys, Rosolio. I hadn’t been wrong in choosing him. So he’s a big boy now, Rosolio concluded tritely, then glanced at his watch, seeing he was late. Strange. I probably wouldn’t recognize him on the street. He kept saying him or the kid. Rosolio never called Shauli by his name. But that was my fault. I had forbidden any contact between them and never told my son who his father was.

Come look, I said. Suddenly I felt sorry for both of them and searched for my phone to show him a picture of Shauli. I wanted him to see how tall and handsome our son was. But then I remembered the guards had taken my phone. Too bad. Or maybe it was for the best.

Paratrooper basic training? Rosolio suddenly said, his tone amused. I’ll ask around about him.

I tensed. Don’t you dare look for him or ask about him. This is a delicate situation and he’s a smart boy. What would he think when the Chief of Staff suddenly asks about him? He knows you used to be my commander. He’ll put two and two together.

You’re right, I’ll keep my mouth shut, Rosolio said, twisting the doorknob, ready to rush off to his meeting with the minister.

Hang on, I said. I stood up in front of him and took hold of his epauletted shoulders. I wanted to empower him and had to resist the urge to hug him. Get me back in here when you’re ready. I want to stride ahead with you.

He leaned in for a flash, then pushed out of the room.

2

I DROVE SHAULI to the recruitment center along with a few of his closest friends. We waited for his name to appear on the screen, a sign it was his turn to get on the bus. I tried to hold on to memories of his childhood—birthdays, kindergarten celebrations, parent-teacher conferences, countless meals enjoyed together, just the two of us. But all the years that had gone by now collapsed on my head like an avalanche, leaving nothing behind. I rubbed his shoulders, held his hand, reminded him over and over not to hesitate to call me with any problem, because I knew people in the military.

Shauli told me not to worry; he was sure he’d be all right. He joked around with his friends, and for some reason I thought about a bride traveling alone across the continent, something I’d once seen in an old movie. His friends loved him, worried about him, and were surprised by him, because none of them even considered volunteering for combat service. They no longer needed this challenge to confirm their masculinity. But I was proud to have made him this way all on my own, open and kind, and was worried about what might happen to him on the other side, when I handed him over to the military. One of the walls boasted a large portrait of Rosolio along with the Chief of Staff’s well wishes to new recruits. I almost said, Look, that’s your father on the wall. He’ll keep you safe. He’ll run into the fire with you. Instead I told myself, This is your fault. Shauli studied your eyes, your voice, and the frequency of the air around you and figured out which men you respect and which you don’t, and he realized the brave and tough guys were the only ones you were willing to tolerate, and sensed how much distaste you have for the softer ones.

During his final days as a civilian, Shauli went out surfing, his skin growing tan in the sun. In the evenings, he played basketball in the schoolyard, and at night his friends filled our apartment. I served them soda and fruit and ordered them pizza. Some of them stayed over, crowding the floor of his bedroom. It was a long and raucous goodbye. They held on to each other until he had to go.

Now I ran my hand through his hair and told him he should have cut it. I was restless.

He said, Mom, you’re much more nervous than I am, and you spent so many years in the military. Is there something you aren’t telling me about what goes on there?

I winced. No, no, everything’s going to be just fine, I’m just having trouble saying goodbye. This wasn’t the right time to discuss the deeper issues. Then his name and ID number appeared on the screen, and the loudspeaker urged new recruits to board the bus. We walked him to the turnstile, his friends sprayed water on him from a plastic bottle, and when he got on the bus he waved at us through the window.

When I got home, I tidied his bedroom from the chaos of the last few days, so it would be ready for him when he came home on leave. Before slipping his guitar back into its case, I tried strumming a few chords, but I couldn’t play, and no real tune came out. You’re just nervous, I told myself. He’ll be home next Saturday, or the one after that, and his friends will come over, and three years will pass this way, after which he’ll embark on the wonderful life he deserves.

*

I told Mandy I was by myself now. He came to visit and brought me a gift: a little iron figurine he’d made of a woman looking up at the sky, her body twisted like a distorted Canaanite goddess.

Is that me? I asked.

He growled his bearish laugh.

He’d come a long way, all the way from his village, and asked permission to stay the night. In addition to the figurine, he brought a can of olive oil from his grove. I used the oil to cook us omelets and chopped some salad. I told Mandy I wasn’t used to this quiet, that the apartment felt too empty, that I missed Shauli and couldn’t stop wondering how he was doing.

Come live with me, he said. I’m lonely too.

Then we sat on the balcony and watched the street, the illuminated apartments and the figures walking through them as if upon a stage at a shadow-puppet show. I touched the scars on his hand, my fingers attempting to distinguish the ones left from injuries caused by his sharp crafting tools, the ones made by working the land, and from the other, older ones, caused by that long-ago time in his life that had led to our acquaintance.

Mandy was the only person I’d persuaded to come to therapy. I read a newspaper interview with him, published in light of a retrospective held in his honor at the Tel Aviv Museum of Art. He spoke about his shell shock, the screaming in the night, and the violent visions he experienced during the day. I calculated and figured he was about fifteen years older than I. The reporter wrote that no new pieces were being shown at the exhibition because Mandy hadn’t been able to make any art in recent years. I went to the museum and was deeply touched by his work. He created difficult, violent sculptures that stood out in the gallery, lonesome and vicious, appearing to be on the verge of breaking.

I mustered my courage and called him. I told him I loved his art, that I’d read the newspaper piece about him, and that I thought I might be able to help him get back into art making.

Come see me and we’ll talk, he said.

He lived in the countryside, on the edge of a nearly deserted immigrant village, across from a rocky cliff planted with pine trees. His property included a fecund orchard where crows pecked at pomegranates and shoved their heads into the red pulp as if gnawing at human skulls.

We used to have lots of fruit here, he apologized, but then my wife died and I ran out of steam. I let my mind take over, and it shows me whatever it wants. Evil, upsetting images that I can’t do anything about.

He took me to his olive grove and told me that he used to be able to produce two hundred and sixty