A R I K

     Few months before the War of Independence Arik got a leave of absence from the Palmach to help his parents on the farm.  During these months, until he was called back to his unit in the Palmach, he volunteered to serve as my second in command in the unit I commanded.  At first sight he looked shy, which indeed he was.  Never spoke unless spoken to, and was in no search for new friends.  During the nights, when we sat down to sing along, he would sit in a corner, deep in his own world, and did not mingle. Any activity under his charge, would start exactly on time, and when it was done, he hastened to return to his farm.   I was very surprised that he accepted my invitation to come over to my house.  My parents liked him on sight, as he seemed to  be a responsible young man, and worthy of the friendship of their son.  For them responsibility meant only one thing, taking care of their son.  So it was that my mother waited impatiently for Arik to come again and again, as he agreed willingly to sit at the kitchen table, and drink the tea she offered him, and tell her stories about her son, probably in high praises , things that pleased her.

     For quite some time Arik came over and didn’t invite me or any of the other boys to come to to his house.  It seemed strange, as we were a very friendly group. Suddenly one day, Arik asked  me to come over, with the excuse that he wants to send my mother some of the fruit from his garden, as they had plenty left after the sale.  We got to his house in the next village.  Arik hurried to the back of the house, while I remained on my bicycle in front, waiting to be asked to come in.  indeed he returned in few minutes and invited me in.  We found his family seated around the table.  Arik took his place next to his sister – a young and very shy girl.

     When it was my time to leave, everybody got up, except Arik and his sister.  Embarrassed, I sat down too. Arik seemed to be making up his mind.  He got up and raised his sister in his arms.  The reason for his hurrying home all the time, became clear.  His sister was paralyzed from the waist down and everything in this house turned around  the poor girl.
This was Arik’s great secret.  Our relationship became closer after this visit.

      In addition to his sense of responsibility and loyalty, Arik was knowledgeable in the art of fighting, something he shared, very modestly, with me and the others.  When the war was evident, we both knew that our parting was near, and that Arik will be called back to his unit. It was days before I heard from him or he from me.  One Friday night, when I came home, we were sitting  down to Shabat dinner, when I heard  Arik’s familiar bicycle creak.  He got a short leave. My mother was too excited to say anything.  So was Arik.  He seemed to be happy to see us.

After this one visit, my mother became restless.  She now felt responsible not only for her son’s life, but also for Arik’s.  She added his name to her prayers.  

    It was the Palmach units that carried the load of the beginning of the war on their backs.  They were widely set apart, and very few in numbers. News of dead or wounded boys from our villages, became more often known. One could already see neglected fences and gardens, with fallen gates – as it was the son’s duty to see to it when he came home on the weekend.  One didn’t have to ask anymore.  The signs were there. 

    Arik’s house was surrounded with a blooming thriving garden.  His knowledgeable hands did their job properly.  My own feeling for flowers and plants at that time was only whether they were thorny, and whether we could crawl over them, all of a sudden I found myself interested in well kept gardens, worrying at the thought that one day I might see weeds and thorns growing  in the familiar garden.  

     Two months have passed and Arik didn’t come for a visit.  I didn’t dare visit his parents’ house, fearing they wouldn’t welcome me because of the poor girl.  I myself was kept away from the village for many weeks.  On my next visit I found my mother grieving.  I didn’t ask, as I knew how practical she usually was, I understood.  I took my leave saying I’m off to visit my aunt in the next village.  Now, being a Company Commander, I owned a motorcycle.  A much more practical vehicle than the bicycle, which served me faithfully since my Bar-Mitzva, in all my duties in the Hagana, up to then.  I stood my motorcycle next to the forlorn gate to Arik’s house.  I knew immediately that Arik was gone. The sister was sitting at the table, peeling potatoes, something Arik used to do willingly also in my house – he used to claim that when his hands are busy, his speech is more fluent – the mother came near and simply asked “did you hear?” I tried very hard to control my feelings and the situation, as I knew that the minute anybody broke down, I would not be able to handle it, and it wouldn’t be seemly for me to start crying in front of my neighbors.  I worried in vain. Both the mother and daughter spoke simply about Arik.  What he did.  They knew how it happened.  Arik was promoted to a  Platoon Commander, and in the third Kastel Battle, he was one of those who got the order: Privates retreat – Commanders stay and keep shooting.  This meant that Arik and the rest of the  platoons and Sections Commanders, and their Company Commander, remained covering the retreating Privates till they reached safety.  Arik was an excellent sub-Machine gunner, and he used his sub-machine continuously to the last moment.  A bullet hit him straight in the front, and he died on the spot.  The mother continued and said that his friends keep coming, and tell her about his last days.  In those days it was still a new phenomenon – so I saw it as a special tribute to his outstanding personality.  Arik’s sister   seemed to be able to overcome her disability, and started moving her legs, to her parents’ great relief.  Only the neglected garden in front remained so for many years – like a lone tombstone.  I didn’t know how and when I will see these people again, nor did I know when and if I will see my own parents again.  But War seems to be a common equalizer, and the nest time I saw them, I was myself without my right hand.  It was only then that my own sorrow blended with that of the mothers, and we again became one big grieving family.