Daniel's heart beat at an increased rate. He felt the blood pounding in his temples and a dull pain in his stomach. May God watch over them, he whispered to himself. God forbid.
He put on his helmet and made sure the backpack was fastened to his back. The bike was tied to the fence in front of his house, one of the crumbling tenements in the Jesse Cohen neighborhood. He began riding. Waze introduced the name Gaza Village. He wrote in English. In his 29 years in Israel, he cleaned countless homes, but learning Hebrew was not enough. He knew that the bicycle battery would not be enough for such a long ride, and that at some point he would continue with the power of his legs. The phone's mobile charger was tucked into his pants pocket, connected by a long cable to the phone, which he placed on the handlebars of the bike. Another portable charger was in his backpack.
The roads were relatively empty, and he rode at a steady pace, knowing that he had to maintain his strength. Sweat began to drip from his forehead, and he wiped the salty wetness from his eyes, knowing it was useless. From time to time, he stopped by the side of the road and sipped from the bottle of water he had taken out of his backpack, a used bottle of mineral water, which he filled with tap water before setting off.
Before he left the house, Jasmine hugged him tightly and whispered in his ear: "Kiss him by name." She removed the chain from her neck, placed it in his hand and covered it with her hand, clenching it into a fist. "Take good care of her. When you see him, make sure he's wearing it. She will protect him." Suddenly, Jasmine looked to him like the slender girl he had known in his youth.
Yesterday, they recruited both of them, Michael and Johnny. Johnny received Order 8, and by noon he had arrived at the assembly area of his artillery regiment in the north. Johnny was a regular self-propelled gun commander, and was not more proud of his son than Daniel. Yasmin and Daniel arrived at his commanders' graduation ceremony by bus, seated separately from the other parents. They were far from the stage and had trouble recognizing Johnny walking with his friends in the parade. But when he stepped forward to receive the ranks of sergeant from his commander, they obviously saw his solid figure and even imagined seeing the smile in his eyes. He looked serious and masculine, and Daniel's heart was thinking of exploding. Yesterday he spoke to him, a brief conversation. "I love you, Daddy," Johnny Battaglog told him. "I love you too," he replied in a choked voice.
Michael also received Order 8. He was an infantryman, a fighter in the Golani. Now he was in a reserve battalion assembled in the south. Daniel didn't know exactly where his son was. When he left, Michael told him that they were supposed to gather near the village of Gaza. During the day, he didn't answer the phone, and Daniel felt his heart climb down his throat.
The Waze showed 217 kilometers, more than ten hours of riding. Daniel understood that it was a detour, a route that took into account the army's closures of the roads. How would I have strength, he wondered, his legs continuing to pedal and his muscles burning. The bike's battery has long since run out. He rode on the side of the road mechanically, trying to maintain regular breathing. Tank transporters and military trucks passed him on their way south. Some honked at him, the mad cyclist, a black helmet on his head, his rickety bicycle faltering.
He went into a gas station to rest for a few minutes and eat something. He locked his bike and searched for the bathroom. They were filthy, and he held his breath as he peed. Then he washed his face and hands. There were no paper towels, and he dried them on his pants. At Yellow he spoiled himself with coffee in milk with three teaspoons of sugar. He bought a yellow cheese sandwich, which was cold and bland. He tasted it, forced himself to take another bite, rewrapped what was left and stuffed it into his backpack. He leaned against the bench he was sitting on, stretched his legs and closed his eyes for a moment. He touched his hand to the buttoned pocket of his shirt, above his heart, and felt the necklace Jasmine had given him.
Michael and Johnny's faces came up before him, their smiles gleaming white. They look like two passport photos, he thought.
He got on his bike and continued on his way. About ten kilometers later, he approached a police checkpoint. As always, his heart skipped a beat in preparation for a meeting with law enforcement officials. Relax, he said to himself, you are a resident of this country, you are traveling to your son who serves in the army. Still, he felt his body tremble.
Kind regards, ID please.
Daniel took out his wallet and pulled out an ID card in a tattered blue cover.
The policeman looked at the card and squinted his eyes.
"Take off your helmet."
Daniel had trouble opening the strap and felt the policeman's eyes scorch his face.
"Daniel DeAngelo?"
"Yes Sir".
"Don't you speak Hebrew?"
"Just a little."
"Thai?"
"Nope. Israeli, Filipino."
"Do you know there's a war?"
"Yes," he answered in English. "My son."
"What does your son have to do with it?" the policeman asked in Hebrew.
"He's a soldier," Daniel said. "Golani".
"Where are you going? Don't you know it's dangerous to drive here?"
"I'm going to the village of Gaza, to my son. Michael. His name is Michael."
"You're not normal, how do you find him? Look what a scene," the policeman shouted to his friend, who was standing a few meters away. "This crazy Thai is going to his son. He says he's a soldier."
"Well done," he shouted back.
"Open, open your bag."
Daniel opened his backpack. The policeman peeked inside and rummaged through him. She has a pack of toffee candies and a pack of marshmallows. "Who eats these things?"
"It's white. Michael has loved since he was a child."
The policeman lost interest. "Gaza village, did you say? That's a long way off. You won't get there before dark. Be careful. Good luck," he added in English.
"Thank you, sir," Daniel said. He made sure his backpack was securely closed, loaded it onto his back, got on his bike and started driving.
When darkness fell, Daniel saw another 80 kilometers ahead of him. He was very tired, and could not see past the faint cone of the bicycle lamp. He stopped by a group of eucalyptus trees standing tall by the side of the road. He took out a sweatshirt and stretched out on the ground, the backpack on his head, the sweatshirt covering him like a blanket. It smelled good of laundry soap and conditioner, and Daniel inhaled the familiar scent to soothe the fear that enveloped him. The growl of distant trucks reached his ears, and from time to time the shrieking of a bird pierced the night air. Daniel fell asleep. The weariness of his limbs dragged him into the depths of sleep, but the hard earth, the cold that penetrated his bones, and the murmurs that enveloped him prey. The howl of a jacket woke him up, and he sat up frightened. It seemed to him that dozens of wild animals had joined in the howling. They echoed from all sides, calling out in the language of the jackals: Michael, Michael.
Early in the morning he woke up again with his whole body aching and cold. The sky across the road and fields lit up with the first yellow strokes. The eucalyptus trees looked less tall to him than they did in the dark. He shook his head, restarted the Waze, got on his bike and off he went. He felt slightly nauseous and decided that he would eat the rest of the sandwich only later, perhaps stopping again at a gas station to wash his face, fill the water bottle and drink sweet coffee.
It was eleven o'clock when he arrived at the gathering grounds in the area of Kfar Azza. He took a detour, suddenly emerging from a narrow and quiet country road into a vast expanse full of soldiers and weapons of war.
Like the face of a city, the face of the killing field is built, as the camp unfolds, which is doomed to be the shedding of human blood and its protector. Parking night, singing night, skyscraper night, most hurried crafts night, ad night from the boilers, night that masks the spell of evil, in the building of a kingdom, night of wandering, stands spread out over the individual and the battalions.
It was not night, but almost noon under a blazing sun, and he did not know Alterman. And yet, unbeknownst to him, as the lyrics of the song washed over his spirits with an excited sense of elation when he saw the thousands of soldiers and columns of tanks and armored personnel carriers. Michael Shalev must be there. Johnny Shalev is among his thousands of friends in the north. Their shields twinkle, their swords striking at their armor, evoking a tremendous roar of excitement and terror before battle.
How would he find his son in this crowd? How would he know he was even in the right place?
He wandered through the crowd of soldiers, evacuating Anna and Anna without a definite direction. He hung his helmet on the handlebars of his bicycle and led the bike with his hands, pushing it on the dusty ground. He didn't know the name or number of his son's reserve unit. He called Michael repeatedly, with no answer. Sweat dripped down his face, his breathing short.
Suddenly, in the midst of a multitude of faces, he encountered him. His body literally collided with his son's. Michael!
Daniel fainted.
Before his eyes he saw the souls of the martyrs slaughtered in the nearby village of Gaza. Figures whose pales are golden, children whose faces are transparent and sweet, young women look at them with loving, dead eyes, men whose bodies are pierced and bleeding. He saw them all, hovering among them, trying to hug them, but they were just soul and spirit.
He opened his eyes and felt his face wet. Around him was a circle of soldiers who looked at him with concern and curiosity. His son gently grabbed the back of his neck and watered him. Such fresh water did not drink from his water.
He gathered his strength and used Michael to get back on his feet. They moved a little away from the soldiers gathered around them.
"Dad, what are you doing here? How did you get there? How did you find me?"
Daniel hugged his son and burst into tears that shook his body. When he calmed down, his eyes still flooded and his nose leaking, he said, "I had to bring you the Madonna."
"You what?"
Daniel took out of his shirt pocket the necklace Jasmine had given him. A thin gold chain with a tiny Madonna statuette hanging on it. It looks made of ivory, but probably carved in the horn. Madonna's eyes are good and soft, a mysterious thin smile on her lips. "Mom asked you to wear it, she'll look after you."
"Is that what you went all the way for?"
"I would travel to the other end of the world. I was so worried about you."
"What about Johnny?"
Daniel smiled triumphantly. "Before he left for the north, I managed to give him mine. Not on a necklace, but he promised to keep it with him. You were in such a hurry, you didn't allow us to say goodbye."
"My friends from the battalion were already waiting downstairs. Oh Dad, what a hero you are. But you're a crazy hero."
"I've already been told that, today or yesterday," he laughed through his tears.
"Dad, I have to go. We need to move. How are you going to get home?"
"As I came."
"Try to have someone take you for a ride, even if it just shortens your journey. You're not in the Tour de France."
Daniel didn't understand what he was saying, but he was overwhelmed with happiness.
He hugged Michael, got on his bike and began riding towards the road that would take him north. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Michael from his back, assimilated into the sea of soldiers around him.
He wasn't looking for a ride, because he didn't want to deprive himself of even one kilometer of riding. He rode steadily, mile after mile. The fields of the western Negev were replaced by the landscapes of his homeland. He saw before his eyes the village where he was born, the long way from the village to the nearby city, dotted with garages and eateries, cafes and businesses. On holiday days, entire families would go out to restaurants, grandmothers and grandchildren, girls and small children in festive clothes, eat pizzas and seafood in a sweet sauce and sugary ice cream. Even at two and three in the morning, the street was bustling with people, the garages were operating, as were shops selling wholesale flour and oil, and amid the diesel smoke of the vans and the dirt that accumulated around the dusty bushes, happy children were running around. He remembered his happiness as a child holding a huge serving of ice cream with a glowing red sauce in his sticky hands. He recalled his parents, his father, who occasionally worked in a can-making factory, and his mother, whom he saw only once a year when she came on leave from her job caring for an elderly couple in Singapore. He recalled how he left his village to work in a foreign and distant country as a nurse and later as a house cleaner, because that way he earned more money.
The image of young Yasmin came before his eyes, and he still felt the magic of her shy smile when they first met in a church in Jaffa.
And now, as he rides along the side of Highway 4, the Madonna of Gaza Village shields his eldest son, whom he loved.
Wrong? We'll fix it! If you find a mistake in the article, please share with us