Selected Detective
HOTEL SHERATON - TEL AVIV

When people ask me why I am so opposed to the so-called peace process, why do I believe in the power of Israel with a government from the Jews to the Jews, with no Arabs in our midst, I wanted to tell you the story of my grandmother. Har-zion pulled her back away from the microphone and sipped a little water from her glass, he stared at the lunch guests sitting in front of him. It was a good social group, mostly business people, Americans. One hundred guests, two hundred dollars a head that's a lot of money for Chayalei David. And that does not include the promised private donation, which at least multiplies the total. Fifty thousand dollars, say. Amount of abundance.

Even so, he was not enjoying himself. He never had any fun at these kinds of opportunities. The suits the guests wore, the polite conversation, the friendly greetings were all not for him. Give him a battleground at any time, or a crowd of Arabs shouting in protest against the occupation of the other Davidic Fighters. Give him some action. He accidentally stared at the chair to his right, where his wife Miriam used to sit before cancer took her life. Instead of imagining her in a neat outfit, Har-zion is instead glued to an almost old rabbi in a wide, hairy shtreimel. He stared at the rabbi for a moment as if puzzled by his presence. Then with a shake of his head, he camped to the microphone and continued his speech.

“My grandmother, the mother of my mother, died when I was ten, so I didn't know her well enough. But even in my introduction of just a few years, I realized that he was an extraordinary man. It cooks foods you've never tasted borscht, gefilte fish, kneeidls. Perfect Jewish grandma!” Laughter echoed throughout the room.

“However, it does many things besides cooking. He knows the Torah better than any rabbi I've ever met don't put it in the heart, yeah.” He turned to a rabbi by his side, who was smiling sumringah. There was another sound of laughter.

“And singing isn't like hazzan you've heard. Even today, when I close my eyes, I can hear her singing kerovah so sweetly, like a finch. If he were here right now, he would have let you all down. More than I've done, of course!”

The third echoes of laughter rang out, accompanied by some shouts, “Not true!” Har-zion raises a glass and drinks it.

“He is also a strong person. And courageous. He can sustain life for two years at Gross-Rosen.” This time there was no shouting or laughter. All eyes were on him.

“I love my grandmother so much,” she continued, while lowering her glass.

“He taught me so many things, told me so many great stories, created so many great games to play. There was only one thing about him that made me sad, when I knew him, he said, she never hugged me in her chest, as grandmothers usually do. Especially Jewish grandmother.”

The audience was completely silent now, wondering where this story was headed. Under the suit she wears, har-zion's skin feels tight and itchy, as if she's tied in a jacket full of pepper. He slipped his finger around the collar, trying to loosen it up a bit.

“at first I didn't pay much attention to this. As I got older, it started to bother me. Maybe my bubeh doesn't love me, I thought, maybe I made a mistake. I wanted to ask him why he never hugged me, but I felt it was not a pleasant conversation for him. And it makes me sad mixed confused.”

Behind him, his bodyguard, Avi, coughed. The cough sounded unnatural in the silence that enveloped the entire room.

“Only after he died did my mother explain to me the solution to this strange mystery. As a young woman my grandmother lived in shtetl in southern Russia. Every Saturday night, after they had a drink, the Cossacks would come. The Jews would lock themselves inside each other's houses, but these Cossacks would kick the door and pull them out, to the streets where they will be hurt and even killed. It was a pleasure for them, a sport. Though they are only Jews kumal.” Hundreds of eyes were on Har-zion. At his side, the rabbi's gaze was fixed on his own lap, his head shaking miserably to the left and right.

“Then on one of the occasions, the Cossacks caught my grandmother. She was only fifteen years old at the time, a beautiful girl with long hair and shining eyes. I don't think I need to tell you what they did to him. Five of them. In a drunken state. On the street, where everyone can see it. Then, once they're done, they want a memento of the night. You know what mementos they chose?”

For a while, Har-zion lets his questions hang in the air.

“One of my grandmother's breasts. They sliced it with a knife and carried it, a trophy to hang on the wall of their house.” There was a cry of restrained fear. At the table in front of a woman covered her mouth with a napkin.

The rabbi murmured, “Yes Lord!”

“Because he knew I was going to feel something was wrong, and he was embarrassed. He didn't want me to know about his pain. She doesn't want me to be sad for her.” He stopped, letting his words get inside. There were many stories he could tell, in the same way.

So many other stories. About his own experience of ridicule, assault, time in the orphanage when they forced to put a broom handle into his anus while shouting, “Fuck Jew son! Fucking Jewish boy!” Every day in his childhood was overshadowed by fear and the smell of hostility. But he would rather not tell it. And never once told it. Not even to Miriam, his own wife. It was too cruel, too painful, worse than the fire that had devoured his body and left him looking like a wax statue that could melt.then he instead told the story of his grandmother's grief, which was grievous, that was close but not too close to make it fall out, opening the flood gates.

There is so much pain in it. So much horror.

Sometimes he felt like he was drowning in darkness.

Har-zion sips his white water for the third time and, while clearing his throat, clears his throat, he arrived at the end of his speech and vowed that what had happened to his grandmother would never happen to another Jew again, that he would do anything to defend and defend his people, to keep Israel in power.

Once he was done, the audience stood up, paid their respects and survived. He received the respect, scratched the skin under the suit he was wearing uncontrollably, then sat down. Avi stepped forward and helped her push her chair to the table. The rabbi touched his arm.

“You're a great man, Baruch.” Har-zion smiles, but answers nothing. Is that so? Ask. Good and bad, right and wrong seem to no longer have meaning. All that is left is faith in God and the struggle for survival. This is what he has done throughout his life. He turned slowly, stiffly, staring at the seven-branched menorah that was fixed on the panel behind the table, thinking about Layla al-madani and al-mulatham as well as all the others, before returning to the front again and smiling as a photographer climbed upstairs to take his picture.

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