had pulled strings or whether it was just good luck, I was assigned to Rishon Lezion, a large base near Tel Aviv.
Once I moved into Hen’s apartment, I quickly discovered that she was rarely there. I would catch a quick glimpse of her in the morning swallowing the last of her coffee and rushing out the door, and then I wouldn’t see her until late at night. She saw many of her clients at dinner, and afterward she returned to the office to work on what they had discussed, which meant she usually didn’t come home until nine or ten.
I realized that I had only ever seen Hen on her time off, when she was lounging, sipping a drink, taking it extremely easy, and I’d always believed that she was not a hardworking person. Now I saw that she was such a slow-moving slug during her downtime because she had so little of it.
Hen had three bedrooms in her apartment. Since her bedroom had its own bathroom, I had the hall bathroom and shower all to myself, something I’d never had before. Hen’s kitchen was large, with pale cabinets that hid the oven andfridge. It was very modern and sharp and clean. It was also very empty.
That first morning, after saying a sleepy good-bye to Hen in her purple business suit and towering heels, I stumbled into the kitchen looking for breakfast. All I found was some instant Nescafé powder, no sugar. The fridge held a carton of milk, greenish cheese, and a shriveled little pear. Clearly, Aunt Hen was not putting on her hated pounds at home.
I made myself a cup of coffee and wrote a grocery list as I nursed it, making a face at its watery bitterness. But there was no time to do anything about breakfast now. I put on my uniform, assessed it in the mirror, and still felt a small thrill to see a soldier staring back. I practiced making a blank face so that I looked tough and unapproachable, then headed off to my new office.
I caught a bus and tried not to think about my stomach when the bus stopped by a bakery and the smell drifted in through the open windows. Cruel, just cruel. I told my stomach to stop whining. You’re in the army now.
Every morning I’d get up, get ready for work, walk three blocks, catch two buses, and stand in morning formation. After work, I’d catch two buses back home, walk three blocks, enter a quiet and empty apartment, and eat dinner alone in front of the television. Once a week I had overnight duty and I spent the night on the base in a barracks room with three other girls. Irit and Leah were both stationed nearby and we managed to see each other, though usually only on Friday nights. When Iritcame, she spent the night with Leah or me, since she lived over an hour away. Most nights I was in bed by ten, out of it by six. It was my first taste of true privacy and solitude. My first taste of loneliness.
Aunt Hen didn’t have nearly as many glamorous parties as I’d always imagined. In two months she only had two functions, and I tagged along for one of them. It was a hugely boring affair and I finally understood why my parents were not more impressed with her lifestyle. It was glitzy, true, but deathly dull and more an extension of work than I had pictured. Conversations buzzed around a certain merger and one red-faced CFO who was caught in an extremely embarrassing situation with his young male assistant. As soon as people heard I was still a soldier, they’d ask me where I was stationed and what I was doing, and then pat me on the head. Sometimes literally.
In my third month at work, I stepped out of my cubicle and into the makeshift kitchen so that I could take my headache pills without any badgering from my co-workers. I had developed chronic headaches, dull and steady behind my right eye. There was someone in the kitchen heating leftovers in a dingy plastic container, and when he saw me choke down the pills he looked mildly concerned. I rummaged through the communal fridge to prove that I didn’t just skulk into the kitchen to take medication (which I did) and
Once I moved into Hen’s apartment, I quickly discovered that she was rarely there. I would catch a quick glimpse of her in the morning swallowing the last of her coffee and rushing out the door, and then I wouldn’t see her until late at night. She saw many of her clients at dinner, and afterward she returned to the office to work on what they had discussed, which meant she usually didn’t come home until nine or ten.
I realized that I had only ever seen Hen on her time off, when she was lounging, sipping a drink, taking it extremely easy, and I’d always believed that she was not a hardworking person. Now I saw that she was such a slow-moving slug during her downtime because she had so little of it.
Hen had three bedrooms in her apartment. Since her bedroom had its own bathroom, I had the hall bathroom and shower all to myself, something I’d never had before. Hen’s kitchen was large, with pale cabinets that hid the oven andfridge. It was very modern and sharp and clean. It was also very empty.
That first morning, after saying a sleepy good-bye to Hen in her purple business suit and towering heels, I stumbled into the kitchen looking for breakfast. All I found was some instant Nescafé powder, no sugar. The fridge held a carton of milk, greenish cheese, and a shriveled little pear. Clearly, Aunt Hen was not putting on her hated pounds at home.
I made myself a cup of coffee and wrote a grocery list as I nursed it, making a face at its watery bitterness. But there was no time to do anything about breakfast now. I put on my uniform, assessed it in the mirror, and still felt a small thrill to see a soldier staring back. I practiced making a blank face so that I looked tough and unapproachable, then headed off to my new office.
I caught a bus and tried not to think about my stomach when the bus stopped by a bakery and the smell drifted in through the open windows. Cruel, just cruel. I told my stomach to stop whining. You’re in the army now.
Every morning I’d get up, get ready for work, walk three blocks, catch two buses, and stand in morning formation. After work, I’d catch two buses back home, walk three blocks, enter a quiet and empty apartment, and eat dinner alone in front of the television. Once a week I had overnight duty and I spent the night on the base in a barracks room with three other girls. Irit and Leah were both stationed nearby and we managed to see each other, though usually only on Friday nights. When Iritcame, she spent the night with Leah or me, since she lived over an hour away. Most nights I was in bed by ten, out of it by six. It was my first taste of true privacy and solitude. My first taste of loneliness.
Aunt Hen didn’t have nearly as many glamorous parties as I’d always imagined. In two months she only had two functions, and I tagged along for one of them. It was a hugely boring affair and I finally understood why my parents were not more impressed with her lifestyle. It was glitzy, true, but deathly dull and more an extension of work than I had pictured. Conversations buzzed around a certain merger and one red-faced CFO who was caught in an extremely embarrassing situation with his young male assistant. As soon as people heard I was still a soldier, they’d ask me where I was stationed and what I was doing, and then pat me on the head. Sometimes literally.
In my third month at work, I stepped out of my cubicle and into the makeshift kitchen so that I could take my headache pills without any badgering from my co-workers. I had developed chronic headaches, dull and steady behind my right eye. There was someone in the kitchen heating leftovers in a dingy plastic container, and when he saw me choke down the pills he looked mildly concerned. I rummaged through the communal fridge to prove that I didn’t just skulk into the kitchen to take medication (which I did) and
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