Around three in the morning the DJ increases the pace and the party goes on Holden School it gets really wild. The other teachers dance behind me. My students dance in front of me. My Italian translator dances next to me. We are a happy human mass.
Alone the Israeli friend who came to visit me in Turin doesn’t dance. He stands still with his arms crossed over his chest, like a bodyguard, and at a certain point he leans close to my ear and says something. The music is loud, I can’t hear, so I signal for him to shout. He shouts: I have the feeling that an attack is about to happen here. I put a hand on his shoulder and continue dancing. I download all the tension of recent months in Israel. All the tension of this book tour in Italy. All the tension of being human. At five in the morning the taxi arrives to take us to the airport. From the party at the Holden School I land straight into the Day of Remembrance of the Fallen of Israel’s wars. Sad songs on the radio. Streets that have changed names in memory of the fallen. Parents who talk about their children on television with their faces marked by mourning wrinkles. The siren during which for a minute, in the morning, the whole country stops, motionless, to remember his dead.
The list has grown enormously in the last year, I think, but the siren remains the same.
Look for a grave
My soldier daughter he calls as soon as the mermaid finishes, in tears. Between sobs I try to understand what happened. Her unit sends her to visit the grave of a slain soldier without a family, but he can’t find her. «I’ve been wandering around the cemetery for an hour, dad, he’s not there!», she shouts. Wait a minute, honey, it occurs to me: are you in a civilian or military cemetery? We find out that she doesn’t know that there are two types of cemeteries in Israel. In fact, why on earth would a 19-year-old know? Why on earth does a nineteen-year-old have to lose four former classmates in six months? Why does a nineteen-year-old have to slowly lose the spark of innocence she had in her eyes? She takes a bus to the military cemetery and from there she sends me a message, everything is fine, she found the right grave. She placed flowers on it. I’ll pick her up at the cemetery gate an hour later. The traffic is terrible, but people are too sad to honk. She gets in the car. She is in uniform. Why on earth does a nineteen year old have to wear a uniform? We hug. I have the impression that she wants to cry again, but she holds back.
No fires
At eight in the evening, Remembrance Day turns into independence Day. Usually the passage is marked by fireworks that light up the sky. There aren’t any this year: fireworks explosions risk causing panic attacks in those suffering from post-traumatic stress. Therefore it was decided to avoid them. AND there are no parties this year. In the WhatsApp groups I belong to, everyone writes that they don’t feel like having fun. Some organize themselves for take to the streets together to support the families of the hostages.
The next day we meet for the Independence Day barbecue. It has been our tradition for thirty-five years. We met in high school and over the years the group has expanded to include wives and children. They are the people closest to me. More loved. If I think about the reason why I couldn’t live anywhere other than Israel, I think of them. When Amnon turns to pour himself another glass of gin, I notice he has a gun in the waistband of his pants. A gun? How is it possible? It’s not like him, he didn’t even serve in a combat unit. I hold back for a few minutes but finally ask him. He explains to me that his wife insisted that she get a gun licence. Since October 7 he has been suffering from nightmares, dreams that Hamas terrorists break into the house, and they have no way to defend their children. I think to myself that if a gun appears in the first act, it will end up being shot in the last act. But I don’t say anything. I nod to indicate that I understand.
When everyone has had enough to drink, the conversation moves on possibility of emigrating. I find out that Nir has applied for a Portuguese passport. Yirmi and Amnon the Polish one. Einat the Romanian one. Tami and Roy are well along in the German passport process. Johnny has the American one by birth, and Liat the French one. Apparently only Ghili and I are without our second passport, so we joke that when everyone’s gone, it’ll just be me and her stuck here and we’ll have to get together. I would like to tell you that one morning, while I was running along Via Garibaldi in Turin, I stumbled upon a golden stone with the name of a Jew engraved on it. In the 1930s he lived in via Garibaldi, he was deported to Auschwitz. I don’t want to ruin everyone’s mood by mentioning Auschwitz. So I avoid it and pour myself another glass of the prosecco brought from Italy and I think to myself, I’m not going anywhere, friends. Even if you all leave. I couldn’t live in a country where Hebrew isn’t spoken and where I have no memories. And anyway yesI still believe that Israel can be a good place to live. The war will end. The worst government in our history will fall. At that point we can begin to repair, to heal. To resolve the bloody conflict with the Palestinians once and for all, with an agreement. But also to deal with the internal conflicts between the different tribes that make up Israeli society.
After all, it also happened in Italy after the Second World War. From the ruins and traumas a society arose that has chosen and continues to choose to live. I want to be part of the rebirth that will follow the war. I don’t want to give up. I’m not willing to give up. There is still hope inside me. You can’t survive this period if you don’t have hope inside. Waiting for the train
Waiting for the train
The next morning my daughter misses the train that should take her back to the base. She woke up too late. I chose the road where we got stuck in a traffic jam. Both are to blame. When is the next train? I ask. She checks and responds, in half an hour. Come, I suggest. We are looking for a bar.
We sit in a bar. We are caressed by a pleasant morning breeze and the warm sun of a normal day. Not of Memorial Day of the fallen, not of Independence Day, not of Shoah Remembrance Day. We hold hands. We talk little. Let’s steal a few more minutes of love before returning to war.
(This is the eighth installment of Eshkol Nevo’s war diary. The first episode was released on Corriere on 7 November, the second on 3 December, the third on 27 December 2023, the fourth on 23 January 2024, the fifth on 22 February, the sixth on 26 March, the seventh on 10 April).
