* * *
I wished our conversation had gone differently — I wanted to ask Lulu for her advice on the face-surgery woman. But it seemed there was no room for that kind of talk between us anymore. When I stopped shaking, I tried to think about things rationally. It is no secret that in our world a faceless woman is as good as dead, but a faceless man is still a man. Realizing this, I didn’t see how I could say no. And looking back, I can say I wasn’t wrong; my life didn’t change much.
* * *
The only thing that did change was it seemed silly now to keep making a fuss. I knew if I was asked for something I still had, I would say yes. And I did — the alcoholic who needed a liver, the AIDS patient who needed my skin, the guy from Montreal who collected spleens for a living — I felt lighter with each part of myself I gifted. When a bomb fell in town — something that happened every few months, yet always got a good deal of attention — it seemed only natural not to wait till the requests came in. I walked over there to see what organs might be needed. It was warm out, and I was sweating by the time I got to the scene, so later, in the local paper, they said I ran over there as fast as I could and “gave everything I had to give.” People appreciated it. Some called me the town hero. The difference between running and not running seemed immaterial, so I never mentioned it.
* * *
The highs were intense and usually lasted a couple of days, but I told myself that wasn’t my reason for doing it. And as it turned out, I suppose I was right.
* * *
I got a letter from Jordan F at one point. I thought perhaps he’d heard I was helping people in our town and perhaps that changed his mind — Jordan F always valued loyalty. I have one question for you, the letter said. Doesn’t it feel like you’re disappearing? I wrote back: No. It feels like I’m taking shape. I imagined Jordan F reading it, his face twitching.
* * *
It was only when that last request came in the mail, the one I had to refuse, that I was forced to look into myself. I was giving away my organs, but it wasn’t out of charity, it didn’t prove I was a good man. All it proved was I still had the one thing that mattered: my manhood. I felt ashamed realizing this, but I knew it was the truth.
The man’s story was horrifying. He’d been away from home for nearly three years, fighting. On his first night back, his wife chopped his penis off in his sleep because she believed he’d cheated on her while away. I wanted to help this man so badly my balls hurt. It was as if they were already getting ready to relocate, stretching out toward a new body. I cried, coughed, couldn’t stop saying no, no, no for hours. I sounded something like a miserable rooster. I couldn’t breathe. It was clear: I couldn’t do it.
* * *
For the first time in a long time, I debated contacting Jordan F and Lulu, who I could only assume by this point were more than just traveling together. I knew they would likely be supportive, say I was allowed to draw a line somewhere, I was entitled to my feelings. I didn’t call. I tried saying these same things myself, but all I felt was sadness. I wanted to be a better man — the kind of man who’s not a prisoner of his own anatomy, the kind of man who saves a life if he can, expecting nothing in return. A true hero. But ultimately, I failed.
* * *
Dear Sir, I wrote. Everything you’ve heard about me is true, but unfortunately I cannot help you, for if I help you it will be the end of me. I would never again be able to love another body, never be able to conceive a son, and if ever I wanted to fight for something I believed in, no war — neither the one we’re in, nor any future one — would take me. I would be considered a man no more (no offense). Maybe in a different time, in a different world, I wrote. I could only hope that he was smart enough to know what I meant, and kind enough to forgive.
TZFIRAH
When the sun comes down on Tel Aviv, it comes down hard. You open a window and darkness is everywhere. You think, Wasn’t this land lit up just now? Wasn’t the air yellow only moments ago? But you can never be sure.
* * *
You flew in from New York when your sister was enlisted — of course you did — and her new olive uniform could have fit two of her. The induction center you were all escorting her to was attached to your old base, and in the car on the way over you waited for that familiar right turn onto a winding road. It’s all straight after that, you remembered — straight through treeless, browngray streets with no U-turn. Your dad joked about how excited you must be. You put your hand on your sister’s knee and pretended not to notice the shaking. Then: the waiting area that looked like a parking lot, your sister small like the drive had shrunk her, and a giant billboard of names blinking red. Your father was the first to notice when her name came up, and you felt angry at him for seeing.
* * *
When the sun comes down on Tel Aviv, it comes down hard, and on the days when people try to remember, it comes down even harder. In Israel, there are days devoted to the task of remembering. Once a year: remembering the Holocaust. Once a year: remembering fallen soldiers. This is how a nation achieves collective remembrance: it freezes to the sound of a wailing siren for the duration of one minute, or two. Cars stop mid-road, screaming babies go unattended, and if you turn on the television or radio you hear nothing but the soundtrack of grief.
* * *
Now here’s the confusing thing: remembrance sirens sound exactly like wartime sirens. In Tel Aviv, this can get especially confusing if you are someone who currently lives abroad. If Tel Aviv is your hometown but on this Day of Remembrance you are merely visiting, this is what will happen to you: You’ll be brushing your teeth, when suddenly you’ll hear a gentle cry growing into something violent, the roar of a man-made wailing machine. You will think that maybe a new war is starting, or an old one returning, because the Gulf War is something that your body remembers, and sirens are part of that memory.
* * *
You were twelve, and for a while your family moved from city to city in an attempt to avoid danger, but the Scud missiles seemed to follow you. Finally you settled in a town called Raanana that seemed far enough from peril and close enough to routine: school for you, day care for your sister, work for your parents, every morning all of you clutching your boxed gas masks like purses. You got your first period in that temporary home, and in the bathroom which was not your bathroom you stared at the blood for a long time. Then: the siren; another missile was on its way.
* * *
Brushing your teeth, you will think about that war and say to yourself, This is probably nothing. A few seconds later you will open the bathroom door and shout to your sister, What’s going on? But she will not hear you over the piercing sound of her music; on this Day of Remembrance, she is a soldier on her day off, trying hard to forget. You’ll spit, and with toothpaste on your lips like foam you’ll shout again, you’ll shout loud. Your sister will hear you. She will step out of her room and gasp. This is what she will scream: Tzfirah! In Hebrew, the siren that reminds people to remember has a special name — Tzfirah.
* * *
You will want to laugh at the absurdity of the moment, but you will not. You will want to hug your sister with too much force and whisper, Don’t go back to your base, but you will not. Let’s pretend we can’t hear it, you will want to say; let’s walk over to the kitchen, toast some bread, fry some eggs. But you will not. For the remaining twenty seconds, this is what you will do: stand still alongside your sister, listen to the siren, and think about death, about darkness that takes over a city in a flash when the sun comes down hard.