Freefall (3 page)

“Only three hundred questions?” he says, turning to flash me a smile.

My house is straight up the next street, but I turn toward the bus depot with him. The station is slowly filling with other soldiers weighed down with rifles of their own, as well as heavy coats slung over their packs as if here they don't feel the cold. We stop before we reach the others.

“Why, ‘only'?” I ask him.

“I can think of a thousand questions to ask you.”

Curiosity gets the better of me. “Like what?”

“Like where was your favorite sunrise?” he asks without a moment's hesitation.

I scowl and am about to say how the army doesn't care about that kind of thing, but then I grab his arm and pull his sleeve. “I actually know the answer to that.”

“I knew you would.” His look encourages me to go on.

“It was at my aunt's—up north, near the sea. We got up early to go hiking. And it was the most amazing sight. At first the light crept over the hills, and then slowly the sky changed to red and orange….” My voice trails off.

He tosses his bag on the ground and rests his guitar beside it. The gun stays strapped to him. He's smiling. I wonder if he's teasing me.

“Wait a second, there's no way they'd ask anything like that. It's a multiple-choice questionnaire. What kind of a question is that anyway?”

“The only kind I like. A question that reveals more than the obvious. First, you had a great answer.” than the obvious. First, you I blush. “Just a fluke.”

He shakes his head. “I've always noticed that about you. You see things that a lot of other people don't.” He picks up his bag as if aware of some cue I've missed. “Most of Shira's friends wouldn't have had any idea.”

I want to assure him that I am nothing like a lot of Shira's friends, but the army transport pulls up. There is a commotion of kisses, hugs, and duffel bags being thrown into the belly of the bus.

I stand awkwardly. I don't belong in this crowd that's being left behind, and yet, just like them with their own soldiers, I wish Noah didn't have to go yet. Our conversation has just started. There are more things I want to ask him—and want him to ask me. We've never had time alone together.

“When will you be back?”

“On leave?” He frowns. “Two weeks. When will I be back as a civilian? Another year.”

As I'm standing with my arms across my chest to keep warm, Noah leans over and slides his hand around my waist. I tilt my head up, surprised by this move—and definitely not expecting what follows.

The touch of his lips on mine sends a shiver right through me.

“You'll do fine,” he says. “Just be yourself, Abigail Jacobs.” He hops onto the bus, then turns. “You've got nothing to be worried about.”

“Thanks.” My voice is barely above a whisper. My heart is thumping so hard I can't catch my breath.

What just happened? Did he just kiss me? Just a kiss? Or
kiss
kiss me.

The bus takes off, and I am left standing there feeling dizzy. He's Shira's brother, I need to remember. But I wish—I wish we had more time. You can't just leave me like this! I want to scream. What am I supposed to think? I've always known him, but now it's like he's someone else.

I search the sky. Will somebody please explain what's going on? Last month the possibility of having a boyfriend was about as likely as a March snowfall in Jerusalem.

Now not only has it snowed, but I've been kissed twice—and by two different guys.

Chapter Two

There are about a hundred of
us sitting in this small and stuffy room, waiting while the army officers pass out the exam. The room is sparse—empty of all hints of personality. The walls aren't even white but more like hospital gray. There's nothing on them, either, nothing to catch your eye and let your mind daydream while thoughts sort themselves out. One row of windows, too high off the ground to give a view of grass or trees, allows some natural light to enter. I catch a glimpse of limitless blue sky with not even a cloud or a leftover snowflake to break the monotony.

One hundred of us—and not a sound is heard except the rustle of paper and the occasional nervous cough. No one dares, doesn't even consider sneaking a peek at the paper to the right or left.

Do you like cheese?
Yes.

Have you ever cheated on a test?
No.

Do you like bonfires?
Yes.

Do you like cold drinks?
No.

Have you ever told a lie?
Yes.

Have you ever been in a fight?
Yes.

Do you like coffee?
Yes. No. Sometimes?

Have you ever had an out-of-body experience?
Huh?

After two hundred of these I'm not sure of anything. Do I really like taking baths better than showers? And what are they going to think about me if I do?

But I keep going.

Has anyone ever given you an answer on a test?

Has anyone ever given you an

Didn't I just answer that?

I wish I knew what they were looking for so I could give them the answers they want. But though I've decided that I want to get into a combat unit, it doesn't mean that the army wants me. The questions seem absurd. There must be some hidden logic behind them. At least that's what everyone says.

In a daze after three hours, I find myself back on the street. Tel Aviv is too loud and bustling. Grabbing a drink and a cheese pastry at the central station, I board the intercity bus. Of course there are no seats left. I settle down on the floor in the aisle sandwiched between two soldiers and facing the knees of a religious woman. Her skirt reaches her ankles and a book of psalms rests on her lap. As the tension inside me recedes, I doze off , only to wake up as the bus shifts gear for the climb up to Jerusalem.

Back home I sneak into my room, hoping to avoid another set of three hundred questions from Mom. Crawling into bed, I sleep twenty-four hours straight, getting up only to cram in a few hours of math in preparation for my finals next week.

But studying for exams seems irrelevant. What did Noah mean by having a thousand questions to ask me? What will they think of my three-hundred test? Did I pass? Can you fail? Should I have been so honest? I try to recall my answers, but my brain has reached full capacity, crammed with formulas for mathematical theories and solutions to problems of logic.

I open the window. The aromas drifting out of every house on the street mingle together, creating a pot luck stew. Hot, spicy, and sweet.

“Allo, Aggie. How's it going?”

I wave to Mom's friend Shula, who is out walking Benz. “Fine.”

“When's your draft date?” she shouts over Benz, who is yelping at one of the stray cats.

“August.”

“What will I do without you around to walk Benz?”

I shrug, though I know she's already spoken to our downstairs neighbor.

“Shabbat shalom.” She waves and tugs Benz to follow.

“Shabbat shalom.” I pull my head back inside, where the aromas of roast chicken, mushrooms, and rice fill the house. I'm hoping for brownies for dessert.

No one at home has interrogated me yet. The unasked questions are even worse because the answers are not multiple choice—more like full-length essays.

At precisely 6:57, the sound of Grandma's sensible shoes marching up to our second-floor apartment echo in the hallway.

“Ready for lineup?” my sister, Hila, calls as she passes my room.

I reach the door first, before Grandma knocks a second time. “Abigail darling!” She kisses my cheek. “You've got rings under your eyes. You need to get out and get more exercise. Where's your sister?”

“Hi, Grandma.” Hila appears by my side.

“Put this on the table, will you, angel?” She hands Hila a Pyrex dish covered with a checked dish towel. “Where's your mother?”

“In the kitchen, Tzillah. I'm just warming up the potatoes in the oven. I'll be out in a minute.”

“Don't rush, Eve. I'll find Aaron.”

“In here, Mother.” Dad is in the living room, which adjoins the dining area. He sits on the couch surrounded by piles of newspapers while he listens to the news commentators on the TV.

“At ease,” Hila whispers in my ear as we follow Grandma into the living room. I can't help giggling.

“Girls,” Dad says.

“Leave them be, Aaron. They're teasing me. Did you hear that radio interview on the army channel today?” she asks, pushing aside the papers to sit.

“Which one?”

“Enough news, please.” Mom puts the salad in the center of the table. “Come eat. And can we at least turn the TV off on Friday night?” She straightens the challah cover while reaching for the remote that Dad has placed beside his fork.

“After the headlines, Eve.” Dad snatches it up. “I'll put it on mute.”

Dad sets the remote back by his fork, daring her to reach for it. He's faster at the draw, and she knows it.

Mom flicks open her napkin and covers her lap.

“It's Friday night,” she says, “and it would be nice to have a quiet Shabbat meal together.”

“There's been fighting on the border,” says Dad, glancing between her and the TV screen. “Tensions are high, and in my position I need to know what's going on in real time.”

“Quite right,” Mom says. “But even a minister of the Knesset should be able to eat a quiet dinner with his family once a week.”

We all glance at the set. The reporter, a cute guy with spunky eyebrows, is pointing to a map of the Middle East. I am familiar with this scene replayed in different variations whenever threats flare on any of our borders or a new land-for-peace proposal is brought up and we are reminded of how little there is left to share.

“If not for me, at least do it for Hila,” says Mom, looking at my sister, who is making an admirable attempt at keeping out of the argument. “You know she's trying to observe the Sabbath, and you're not making it any easier.”

Dad puts the TV on mute.

Hila winces, opens her mouth, and shuts it. “Thanks, Dad,” she says.

We exchange glances. Dad doesn't get the religious stuff, and Hila has given up trying to explain how it works.

“More wine, Mother?” asks Dad, holding the bottle over Grandma's glass.

“Why don't you leave the bottle right here.” Grandma swirls the liquid and holds it up to the light.
“L'Chaim.”

“L'Chaim,”
we reply.

“Pass that stuff over here. This dish is wonderful, Eve,” says Dad. “You've never made it before.”

Holding it at arm's length, I pass Dad the dish of couscous covered in a thick, red tomato paste and dotted with bright orange carrots. Just a whiff of the hot peppers and my eyes start to water.

“What's in it?” asks Dad.

“Don't know,” says Mom. “Your mother brought it. Did you make it, Tzillah, or pick it up somewhere? I didn't know you were so familiar with such unusual spices.”

“Whew, it's hot in here.” Dad stretches the collar of his shirt. “How long have the radiators been on, all afternoon?”

“No, dear, just for an hour or so. Aggie, pass your father a serviette. I think it's the mix of spices in your mother's dish. What is this, Tzillah, a Moroccan hot pepper?” Mom dangles the off ending bit in the air.

Hila catches my eye.

“Steamed couscous, tomato
madbuha
, spiced carrots. My neighbor is Moroccan. She says hot spices are good for the digestion. She's eighty-nine years old and doesn't look like she's going anywhere too soon, if you know what I mean.”

“I love Moroccan food,” says Hila. “It's so …authentic.”

Mom looks at her, opens her mouth, and shuts it.

“More wine anyone?” asks Grandma.

“I think the rest of us have had enough, but you go ahead.”

“Thank you. I will. I love this Golan wine. Reminds me of the year I worked up north on kibbutz picking grapes. That was a time I'll never forget—”

Distracted, she glances at the growing red splotch on the tablecloth. “Oh blast, what a shame. Sorry, Eve.”

“Don't worry about it. It's just a drop,” says Mom. “It comes right out in the wash; it always does.”

I toss my napkin over the stain. Grandma smiles at me. “Aggie, you haven't touched your food. What's the army going to do with a scarecrow?”

“Not everyone has to be built like a paratrooper to serve,” says Mom. “Right, Aggie?”

“Well—”

“I didn't say that, Eve. I was just wondering what Aggie is planning to ask for. Two years is a long time to be pushing papers in a stuffy office somewhere on a dingy army base.” Grandma pushes back her chair until it reaches the edge of Mom's rollaway desk. She sets her wineglass on one of the piles of papers behind her.

“Oh, it's a bit early to start thinking about all of that,” says Mom. “And besides, it depends on which papers you're pushing. Speaking of which, would you mind moving your wineglass, Tzillah? Those are my students' essays, and the pile isn't very sturdy.” She sighs. “We could use more room in this house.”

Hila pushes away her plate. “There are other ways to serve, you know. There's a lot a girl can do for the country. Look at me. If it weren't for people like me and the other girls I'm with who are doing national service within the hospitals and the development towns this whole country would collapse.”

Grandma scoots her chair back to the table, reaches out her hand, and places it over Hila's. “I didn't mean that as a criticism.”

Hila's cheeks flush. “Sorry, Grandma. I know. It's just that—I—” She sighs. “Nobody seems to understand me. And everything is such a struggle.”

“Life's a struggle,” says Grandma. She swirls her wine.

“Life.” She lets loose a raspy smoker's chuckle. “It comes with no instruction manual, no guarantee, and a limited warranty. But we take it anyway and try to make the best of it.” She reaches for Hila again. “I'm not putting down what you do or how you do it,” says Grandma. “But besides nurse's and teacher's aides, we need a few people on the front lines. Right, Aggie? My neighbor's daughter got into a combat unit. How about it?”