The Zionist

by Oren Shafir

I saw him on CNN. Another hardline settler with an American accent talking about our historical rights from deep in the territories. But, he was also calling for tolerance and denouncing the Rabin assassination. "We're all Jews," he said.

"He sounds reasonable," someone said. "I don't agree with everything he says, but he wants what's best for all of us Jews."

I know better. I served with this guy in the army. He was now bearded and balding, but it was him alright -- Shalom Nagar -- formerly Steve Carpenter. We used to call him the Zionist because he seemed to think the Israeli army was the boy scouts or something. He did everything with gusto. He volunteered for things. I mean, who volunteered, for God's sake? From the start, I thought that there was something weird about this guy. For one thing, he always looked cleaner than everyone else. Somehow, he never got dirty under his fingernails, even when we were in the field. He had bright red cheeks, and he never needed to bother shaving his smooth white face. After a shower, he looked as shiny and pink as a newborn babe. He was tall and skinny like a cowboy. I used to think of him as a cross between Roy Rogers and Donny Osmond -- he was always squeaky clean.

Shalom Nagar believed in doing things by the book. When someone asked him what the hell he was doing there, volunteering away his best years instead of being at some college party in the States or something, he'd give a speech. The history of the Jews from Abraham to King David and right through the Holocaust, replete with Biblical quotations. After a while, no one asked him. Sure, we ragged him some, but he won respect because he was believed to be sincere, and he was always there helping, carrying more than his share on forced marches, or taking a crappy guard shift. The worst part was that just because I was half-American, there was a consensus that I had an obligation to suffer this guy's company when we paired up for guarding duty. Shalom was a pain, but I accepted him as just one of many characters in the platoon. Besides, he seemed like nothing more than a harmless nudnik.

Now he was being interviewed on CNN, but I stopped listening. The surprise of seeing him on television made me introspective. I began to play the familiar game of distancing myself from the present moment and imagining I'm outside looking in, watching myself, as if in a movie. I used to do that in the army, because I always found myself in such bizarre situations. Like the time in basic training when we were woken from our tents in the middle of the night, ordered into formation holding our spades, and told to move all of our feces from the random spots we'd been shitting in all over the field to the proper outhouses that had been built for the purpose of defecation. I rose above the situation and looked down upon it to see how ridiculously stupid and uncalled for it was. I sneaked away and crawled back into the two-man pup tent saving my dignity and getting some sleep.

"Jerk," Shalom said kicking me as he crawled into the tent an hour later. I just rolled over contentedly.

Then there was the time in the first chaotic days of the Lebanon war when they didn't have enough armored cars. So, they stuffed 15 to 20 guys in a vehicle meant for about 8. The bombs weren't falling anywhere near us, but someone decided that only officers could have their heads sticking out. We were on top of one another and could hardly breathe. We could just see the officers' legs and butts and crotches. I tuned myself out and thought about it from the necessary distance. I understood the idea that the officers should always go first so they won't ask their soldiers to do something they wouldn't do themselves. But you have to look at the particular situation, not just some theoretical principle. So I did what felt right.

I reached up and grabbed somebody's balls. It wasn't a pretty scene, and it may have been insubordination -- but it felt right at the time. They never found out it was me.

Sometime after that, I relieved Shalom from guard duty in a big base that the Israeli army had set up in Sidon. I was a few minutes late. "Where were you?" he asked.

"I brought you coffee," I said smiling.

"Who said I wanted coffee?"

"Excuse me for being nice."

"You're supposed to be on time. This isn't training. It's the real thing. We're in Lebanon."

"Oh, Lebanon," I said slapping my forehead theatrically. "I thought they said we were going to invade Liechtenstein. Well now, that would explain why all the people are eating pita bread and speaking Arabic, wouldn't it?"

"You always have to be a smart aleck, don't you?"

"What crawled up your ass?"

"Nothing," he said.

"Alright, so take it easy and have some coffee."

He took the coffee and started to go. Then he turned around and said, "But tell me one thing."

"Yeah?"

"It was you that grabbed Rafi's balls in the armored car, wasn't it?"

"Me? No," I said with a straight face. "I think it was Tuchman."

"Yeah, right," he said.

Everyone knew Tuchman wouldn't hurt a fly. Besides, Tuchman could hardly breathe in those overcrowded armored cars -- much less grab Rafi's balls. Tuchman was always gasping for air, saying, "Ah, ah, I can't breathe." For the rest of the time we were in the army, whenever anyone saw Tuchman, they'd say, "Tuchman, ah, ah, I can't breathe, Tuchman." Poor Tuchman.

"Hey, Shalom," I said as he walked away with his coffee.

"Yeah?"

"You're right. It was me." I knew he'd never tell because being accepted by the rest of the guys overshadowed his irritation at my rebellious act.

But the tension built up between us. Then one day, we really had it out.

We were sitting on the top floor of an unfinished concrete building in Sidon. Every building in Lebanon was either unfinished or damaged with big holes, or both. I don't remember what we were supposed to be doing on top of that building. I'm not sure I ever knew. All I know is Shalom Nagar couldn't see the hole in the building right across from us.

I remember saying, "Look at that building. Every fucking building has a hole."

"Not that one," he said.

What a nudnik. When I said every building, I didn't mean every building. But the one right across from us really did happen to have a good-size chunk missing.

"I'm gonna go buy some falafel," I said.

"No," he said. "Bad idea."

"You wanna eat this shit cold?" I asked holding up a can of army dog food.

"I'm not the one who forgot the burner," he said.

"I'll be back in ten minutes. You can keep the post. What's the big deal?" This was the first month of the war. The people were treating us like liberating heroes. It was before they started hating us and bombs began exploding everywhere we were.

"The big deal is that we're not tourists," Shalom said raising his voice.

"Well, what the hell are we then? What are we doing up here on top of this building in Sidon?"

"You should know. They were bombing your kibbutz."

"Okay, they were bombing my kibbutz. But there are troops in Beirut now, you know?"

"So?"

"So, we heard Mr. Begin say '40 kilometers' to the world. To you and me. Was he lying? Or is he even calling the shots?"

He shook his head. "All I know is I didn't come all the way over here and enlist in the Israeli army to be a soldier that questions orders."

"Well what did you come here for?"

"What do you mean? You know why I'm here."

But suddenly I didn't. I zoomed out and looked in at him. Sure he was a Zionist. Everyone knew he was 'little Herzl.' But suddenly I looked at him alone on top of that building in Sidon, and something didn't seem right.

"What are we doing here?" I repeated.

He sighed and closed his eyes. When he opened them his face was full of color and excitement.

"Can't you see it?" he asked with sudden passion. "We're like soldiers of David."

"Oh, soldiers of David, you mean, like Uriah maybe?" He looked like he didn't get it.

"You know, Mr. Bible Encyclopedia. Uriah, sent to the front to his death because David had the hots for the wife, Batsheeba."

"I know who Uriah is. I'm just surprised that you do," he said. "Don't you understand that everything has a purpose even if it seems meaningless? I'm not serving David, but David's master. David was the true king, unlike Saul, because he was true to God in his heart."

"Oh, I see, so it was God that sent you out here to sit on this half-finished building and look at people eating falafel instead of eating one yourself?"

"Well, yes," he laughed. "And I want to follow Him the best I can, like David, not like Saul."

"So if God tells you to slaughter the enemy down to their boots, unlike Saul, you will."

"Yes," he snapped. "'Saul has slain his thousands and David his ten-thousands.'"

Suddenly I had a bitter taste in my mouth.

"You know," I said, "I do know the Bible. I know it well. It's one of my favorite books. It has a lot of nice stories, great stories," I said the word 'story' provocatively, in a soft sing-song voice like a nursery school teacher might use for small children.

"There's the one about Jonah being swallowed by a whale and living to tell the tale --"

"They're not stories. Every word is true."

"Yeah, right," I continued. "Then there's the one about Jacob's sons getting revenge for the rape of Dinah by inviting the Canaanites to convert and then slaughtering them while they were sore from the circumcision," I laughed. "That's one of my personal favorites."

"So now you're defending rapists?" he countered.

"No, it's just a story. I like that one," I continued emphasizing the word 'story' and using the same patronizing tone that was guaranteed to drive him nuts. "Then there's the one about Jeptath's daughter, who he has to sacrifice cause she's the first thing he sees when he returns from war. That was the deal he made with God. Or how about Abraham -- ready to slaughter Isaac, his beloved son because, well because God said so."

"But he didn't do it."

"But he was ready to."

"It was a test," he shouted.

"It was a cruel and stupid test. Either that or it was a story, just a story."

He cringed every time I said the word story.

"Shut up," he shouted. "You don't understand."

"I understand. You're out of quotes."

He pointed a shaking finger at me and began speaking in a quivering voice, "'For the heart of the people is waxed gross and their ears are dull of hearing.'"

"What?" I didn't remember hearing that one before.

But he just continued. His voice was now calm and steady as if he were chanting, "'And their eyes have closed...'"

"What are you going on about?"

"Lest they should see with their eyes, and hear with their ears, and understand with their heart."

"Wait a minute. That's New Testament, isn't it?"

"And should be converted, and I should heal them." He finished and looked up as if from a trance. Our eyes met and suddenly I knew. There was a long heavy pause.

"You're not Jewish," I said.

"Yes, I am."

"You're some kind of fundamentalist Christian nut."

I'm not a nut," he said. "I believe the Jews are the chosen people, and I'm serving God by helping them."

Suddenly, my stomach hurt and my thoughts whirled as I tried to understand -- to absorb the truth. Who was this guy, really? This Shalom/Steve guy who had appeared so simple and square. This American Zionist in the Israeli army -- whose motives had seemed so obvious and logical to me -- now had me standing with my mouth hanging open and wondering. I wondered about him for a long time after that. I wondered about a lot of things.

A week later, Shalom Nagar transferred to another regiment, and I heard no more of him until I saw him on CNN. Looking directly at the camera, he spoke confidently and sounded so idealistic and genuine.

Someone said, "That guy makes a lot of sense. A guy like that could be the right kind of leader in these crazy times." When I heard that, I started to laugh. "What are you laughing at?" everyone wanted to know.

I think I may have even been giggling somewhat hysterically. I couldn't help it, but I just laughed and shook my head. I had this vision of Shalom Ben-Nagar on top of that building in Sidon waving his arms like a later-day prophet. Yes, I thought, a fine leader for these crazy times.

Oren Shafir is a 36-year old American-Israeli living outside Copenhagen with his two children, a Danish wife, and a Scottish Terrier dog. His other work has appeared in Hippo magazine and the Eclectica e-zine. He has a story appearing in Akkadian Magazine's spring issue (www.akadian.com). Two of his stories have been nominated for eSCENE's 1998 anthology. He's currently putting the finishing touches on a novella.