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said to Lev, trying to gain a little time. “I told the man that he was absolutely right, but that he should say whatever he has to say quietly and politely, and not yell.”
    â€œBut you yelled at him,” Lev said, confused.
    â€œI know,” I said, “and that wasn’t right. And you know what? I’m going to apologize now.”
    I leaned forward so that my mouth almost touched the thick, hairy neck of the driver and said loudly, almost declaiming, “Mr. Driver, I’m sorry I yelled at you, it wasn’t right.” When I finished, I looked at Lev and smiled again, or at least I tried. I looked out the window—we were just easing our way out of the traffic jam on Jabotinsky Street; the hard part was behind us.
    â€œBut Daddy,” Lev said, putting his tiny hand on my knee, “now the man has to tell me he’s sorry, too.” I looked at the sweaty driver in front of us. It was clear to me that he was hearing our whole conversation. It was even clearer that asking him to apologize to a three-year-old was not a really good idea. The rope between us was stretched to the breaking point as it was. “Sweetie,” I said, bending down to Lev, “you’re a smart little boy and you already know lots of things about the world, but not everything. And one of the things you still don’t know is that saying you’re sorry might be the hardest thing of all. And that doing something so hard while you’re driving could be very, very dangerous. Because while you’re trying to say you’re sorry, you can have an accident. But you know what? I don’t think we have to ask the driver to say he’s sorry because, just by looking at him, I can tell that he’s sorry.”
    We’d already driven into Bialik Street—now there was only the right turn onto Nordau and then a left to Be’er Lane. In another minute, we’d be there. “Daddy,” Lev said as he narrowed his eyes, “I can’t tell that he’s sorry.” At that moment, in the middle of the incline on Nordau, the driver slammed on the brakes again and pulled up the hand brake. He turned around and moved his face close to my son’s. He didn’t say anything, just looked Lev in the eye, and a very long second later, whispered, “Believe me, kid, I’m sorry.”

My Lamented Sister
    N ineteen years ago, in a small wedding hall in Bnei Brak, my older sister died, and she now lives in the most Orthodox neighborhood in Jerusalem. I recently spent a weekend at her house. It was my first Shabbat there. I often go to visit her in the middle of the week, but that month, with all the work I had and my trips abroad, it was either Saturday or nothing. “Take care of yourself,” my wife said as I was leaving. “You’re not in such great shape now, you know. Make sure they don’t talk you into turning religious or something.” I told her she had nothing to worry about. Me, when it comes to religion, I have no God. When I’m cool, I don’t need anyone, and when I’m feeling shitty and this big empty hole opens up inside me, I just know there’s never been a god that could fill it and there never will be. So even if a hundred rabbis pray for my lost soul, it won’t do them any good. I have no God, but my sister does, and I love her, so I try to show him some respect.
    The period when my sister was discovering religion was just about the most depressing time in the history of Israeli pop. The Lebanon War had just ended, and nobody was in the mood for upbeat tunes. But then again, all those ballads to handsome young soldiers who’d died in their prime were getting on our nerves, too. People wanted sad songs, but not the kind that carried on about some crummy unheroic war that everyone was trying to forget. Which is how a new genre came into being all of a sudden: the dirge for a friend who’s gone religious. Those