After thinking she would die, Deborah had finally survived the debilitating bouts of morning sickness that had plagued her during her first trimester of pregnancy.
She now felt well enough to contemplate the realities of motherhood with a touch of equanimity. And even a scintilla of happiness. She was carrying Tim’s child—something of him that no force on earth could take away.
Then the tragedy occurred.
The news came as they were starting their evening meal in the dining hall. A tight-lipped, solemn-looking Air Force colonel appeared and asked to speak privately with Zipporah and Boaz. Both of them went chalk white as they followed him into a far corner.
Though the officer was speaking too softly to be heard, everyone in the dining room already knew what message he was bearing. Their fears were confirmed when they heard Zipporah’s shriek of anguish.
She continued to howl, so completely out of control that when Boaz tried to embrace her, she flailed her arms to keep her husband away.
Dr. Barnea was already at their side. With another member, he helped walk Zipporah to the clinic.
The rest of them sat immobile, as if turned to stone.
Deborah whispered to Hannah Yavetz, “Avi?”
She nodded somberly. “There was an air strike on a guerrilla base in Sidon. I heard it on the radio. One of our planes was hit by antiaircraft.”
Oh God, thought Deborah, dizzy with shock.
They sat in silence. In a matter of seconds, they had been transformed from communal farmers into a congregation mourning without words.
Twenty minutes later the doctor reappeared, himself on the verge of tears. All crowded around to hear the report he delivered in hoarse and halting tones.
“Avi was hit and wounded badly. Yet he didn’t eject even when he got back over the border. He wanted to land the plane …,” his voice now broke, “so someone else could fly it.”
Many of the kibbutzniks, men and women who had known Avi since birth and grown up with him, covered their eyes and wept softly.
“He didn’t have to go,” Hannah murmured bitterly.
“What do you mean?” Deborah asked.
“He was an only son. In the Israeli Defense Forces, only sons are never put on the front lines. Avi had to get special permission.”
Deborah nodded mutely.
“I know he wasn’t scared to die,” Hannah continued. “But he’s destroyed his parents too. Now they have nothing.”
The kibbutz literally cared for its members from cradle to grave. At the antipodes from the children’s quarters, in the distant southwest corner, was the cemetery.
Here in the presence of his extended family—augmented by his wing commander and fellow pilots—Avi Ben-Ami, aged twenty-five, was laid to rest. A volley of rifle shots was fired, as a simple coffin draped in the Star of David was lowered into the earth. There was no rabbi. And except for a brief eulogy from his Commanding Officer, the service was perfunctory. The grief was real.
A pall was cast over the kibbutz for weeks. Deborah felt the urgent need to unburden her thoughts to someone beyond the closed community.
And so she sat down at her small wooden desk and began another long letter to Danny, this time recounting how the death of a single soldier could sadden not only a community but an entire nation. For the whole country had seen Avi’s picture on television that evening. And in a real way they shared the Ben-Amis’ sorrow.
She had been writing for about fifteen minutes when there was a knock at her already opened door. She was not surprised to see Boaz and Zipporah. Since the death of their only child, the couple had established a routine to enable them to face each long night. At nine-thirty—right after the television news—they would walk the kibbutz grounds until they had exhausted themselves enough to sleep.
“Anyone home?” Boaz asked, trying to sound lighthearted.
“Come in,” said Deborah, herself trying to sound casual.
“No, no,” he answered. “Besides, there isn’t room in there for all of us. Come and take a stroll. It will do your little one good to get some fresh air.”
She nodded and rose. Standing up was growing a bit more difficult now, but she went out with them.
Deborah knew she had not been invited merely to make casual conversation. In the past weeks, Boaz and Zipporah had become near-recluses.
“Deborah,” Boaz began, “we’ve been working up the courage to speak to you.…”
“ ‘Courage’?” she interrupted.
“Well, yes,” Boaz continued awkwardly. “But if you examine our situation and yours, I think we could be of help to one another.”
Deborah forced a smile. “At this point, I can use all the help I can get.”
“The way I see it,” Boaz continued, “your baby will never have a father—and Zipporah and I will never have a grandchild. If we could somehow put the two broken pieces together, we might make all of us whole again.” He paused and added, “As far as possible.”
“What …,” she began hesitantly. “What would you like me to do?”
“Would you consider giving the child our name? I mean, we wouldn’t ask you to call it Avi or Aviva. Could you just let him be a ‘Ben-Ami? Then we two can be Grandma and Grandpa.”
Zipporah added almost apologetically, “That would actually be good for the baby.…”
Deborah threw her arms around them both. “Thank you,” she murmured, tears welling in her eyes.
“No,” Zipporah protested. “Thank you.”
Early one May morning, Deborah went into labor. Since there was no phone in the srif, her roommate, Hannah, rushed to wake Dr. Barnea, who muttered sleepily, “Wait till the contractions are three minutes apart and then bring her to the surgery. I’ll get the nurse.”
In the last three months of Deborah’s pregnancy, Hannah had gone with her to the natural childbirth classes so she would be able to help her control her breathing.
The pain was worse than Deborah had imagined. Each time the spasms came, she clenched her teeth and tried—vainly—to avoid uttering imprecations. In one of her ever-decreasing moments of remission she gasped to Hannah, “Goddamn Eve—look what she did when she ate that apple!”
The kibbutz had a small but well-equipped operating room, so Dr. Barnea and his two part-time nurses could perform emergency procedures like appendectomies and set broken bones. And, of course, deliver babies.
At 8:15 the doctor deemed the crucial moment to be at hand. The nurses wheeled Deborah in, with Hannah at her side offering words of encouragement.
At 8:27 the crown of the baby’s head emerged, and moments later Hannah called out excitedly, “It’s a boy, Deborah. You’ve got a lovely blond boy.”
The medical staff called out almost in unison, “Mazel tov!”
Deborah was euphoric.
Later in the day, she and grandparents Boaz and Zipporah shed tears together.
“What are you going to call him?” Zipporah asked.
Deborah had given it much thought and had decided that if it were a girl she would call her Chava, after her father’s first wife. She could not fathom her own motivation, but had an inkling that she might still be trying to please him.
There was no question, however, that if it were a boy she would give it the closest Hebrew equivalent to Timothy, which meant “honoring God.” The choice came down to Elimelech—“My God is King”—and Elisha—“God is my Salvation.” Deborah settled on the latter.
On May 22, 1971, Elisha Ben-Ami was circumcised and entered the covenant between God and His people. His last name commemorated a dead man who was not his father. His first honored one still living who would never know Eli was his son.
Deborah oscillated between elation and helplessness. There were times even in those first intoxicating days when she would sit mutely, awestruck at what she had done.
For while Eli had been inside her she had survived moments of self-doubt by thinking, “Everything will be all right as soon as my child is born.” His living presence turned rosy fantasy into a yowling reality.
Naturally, all the kibbutzniks were supportive and congratulatory. But, to everyone except Boaz, Zipporah, and Deborah herself, Eli was just another of the many babies who were always welcomed with affection.
The tidal wave of love that Deborah felt was something that she longed to share with her real family, her mother at the very least, and Danny, to whom she had at several moments during her pregnancy come close to confiding her secret.
And yes, she admitted to herself, there was an irrational part of her that still yearned to tell her father. Though she believed she had severed all emotional ties, the little girl in her still wanted Papa’s approval.
But would he ever welcome the prodigal daughter into his fold again?