"And she conceived, and bore a son; and seeing him a goodly child, concealed him for three months."
(Exodus 2:2)
I won’t wake him.
I don’t care what they say—not the Company Commander, not the Regiment Commander, not the Brigadier Commander, not the Chief of Staff, and not even our honorable Prime Minister himself.
I’m not going to wake him.
Sleeping on his side, my child, as always. Even inside my stomach, he slept on his side. In the ultrasound we saw this hand, so tiny then, holding on to the body just like that. What a beauty. How did I make such a child?
Sleeping on sheets with dolphins, which he loves. Like Moses floating inside his wicker basket.
I wouldn’t have placed him in the river. I wouldn’t have relied on Pharaoh’s daughter coming.
His phone rings. Seven missed calls. From his unit. I put it on silent so that his California Dreaming ringtone won’t wake him. Strange that he chose that song. It’s really a song from our generation. But that’s just his taste. His Bible is Catcher in the Rye. His favorite film is Hair. And the only girlfriend he ever had always looked as if she had just gotten back from Woodstock. Her name was Purity. She left him in the middle of the Squad Commander course. She said that he’d become “too much of a soldier” for her.
The home phone is ringing now, too. It’s them. From the ring, I can hear that it’s them.
Giuliano, Switzerland.
I don’t answer. I don’t wake him.
He went to bed in the morning. He said: Wake me up at one, Mom. There’s a pick-up from the Jerusalem entrance meeting point at two.
Should I make you devilled eggs? I asked. Yes, he said. Should I make it with eggplant? Yes, he smiled.
A small smile, breaking through the bristles, through the fatigue, and through everything he has been through in the past two years.
They always say: the army takes children and turns them into men. Nonsense. The army takes children and turns them into sad children. Here, these two wrinkles on his brow — they weren’t there two years ago. They’re not wrinkles — they’re gullies of sadness. I want to put my finger on them and smooth them away for him. So his brow is relaxed. I want to photograph him, maybe that way I can stop time. I want to cover him with another blanket, he’s probably cold from the air conditioning.
I don’t do any of these things. So that he won’t wake up now, heaven forbid.
On the television, men are interviewing other men about the escalation on the northern border.
If his father knew that I didn’t wake him, he would say:
1. You can’t make this decision for him.
2. It’s part of living here.
3. When I suggested that you go and live near my brother in Zurich, you didn’t want to.
But his father is in training for the triathlon. In the triathlon first you swim, then you run and then you ride a bike. Or is it the other way around? I can never remember. For the past two years that’s what he’s done at weekends. I don’t care, if it’s what he likes. And anyway, it suits me to be alone. That way no one interferes with the small decisions.
I’m not waking him.
He stirs slightly. As if in a dream. What do soldiers dream about?
Once, when he was little, he would tell me his dreams. When he was drinking his chocolate milk in the morning.
Two-thirds water, one-third milk.
There was a lot of nature there, in his dreams. Rivers and dolphins and birds. Sometimes in the dream he was a dolphin-man or a bird-man.
Let him keep on dreaming now. Carry on. Every dream, every nightmare, is better than reality.
Once, when he was even younger, he was stung by a wasp. Just outside our building. On the way to the hospital he was screaming with pain. Just when we got to the gate, he stopped screaming and his eyes closed. I was sure that was it, he was gone. I shouted: The boy’s gone, my child has gone. They took him inside on a stretcher to intensive care. The person in charge told me to wait outside. I turned towards the green wall, I punched it with my fists until blood flowed from my fingers. People grabbed hold of me. Orderlies. Nurses. They said: Calm down. He’ll be fine. I shouted: And what if he isn’t?
I’m not waking him.
I don’t care what they say. Not the Company Commander, not the Regiment Commander, not the Brigadier Commander, not the Chief of Staff not even our honorable Prime Minister himself.
Israeli-Swiss photographer Naomi Leshem documented in thirty-two photographs teenagers sleeping in their bedrooms in Germany, France, Israel, Switzerland, and the United States. The photographs were presented in Israel, Germany, Switzerland, and the United States in 2011, and published in a book named "Sleepers". Contributors to the book include Eran Tzur, Eshkol Nevo, Urs Faes, Ulla Hahn, Ruven Kuperman, David Albahari, Michael Guggenheimer, and Peter Rolin.
