“Easily. If he wants to move in with his friends, who am I to stop him?” he explained calmly, and I couldn’t understand how the most rational man I knew could actually think that way.

“You gave him hell when he wanted to enlist, and now it’s not driving you crazy that everyone thinks he’s some abused old man?”

“No. That’s not it at all.”

“Then what is it?”

“The thing is, old people aren’t supposed to be protecting us …”

Dad fell silent. He noticed I was staring at a repossession notice that lay on his desk. He folded it in two and quickly shoved it back into the envelope.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“None of your business,” he answered adamantly. “As with Grandpa. Simply none of your business.”

“Don’t you think it’s time you explained to me what’s going on?” I asked, but he didn’t answer. He stacked a few papers into a neat pile, switched off the light, and walked out.

12.

SATURDAY MORNING I went to see Grandpa. First, to tell him off, and second, to check that he was okay. The Senior Citizens’ Center in Rehovot wasn’t the miserable sight I’d expected. It was a three-story building with a large aquarium at the entrance. A few old people sat in black leather armchairs in the first-floor foyer, talking about shooting range practice. Other than the topic of conversation, the place pretty much resembled an old age home. The receptionist said that Zvi Neuerman was in room 306, third floor. The door was open. I walked in without knocking. Grandpa was sitting on the bed with two other old men, in the middle of a round of backgammon. He didn’t know how to play backgammon, but neither he nor the old man next to him seemed to mind.

“I’m glad to see they’re not neglecting you here,” I said to him. He smiled in reply, deliberately ignoring my sarcastic tone.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in! Lovely to see you,” Grandpa said. He was wearing fatigues and a T-shirt, and a dog tag with his name on it around his neck. “Meet Nathaniel Shapiro, fellow platoon member, and Yossi Buzaglo, history NCO in the education corps,” he said, pointing at his friends.

“Who’s this youngin’?” Shapiro asked. Grandpa laughed and slapped me on the shoulder.

“You heard I got top marks on my CPR test?”

“You’re being serious? You’re talking to me about some CPR test? Where did you get the nerve to tell that welfare NCO that we’re—”

“The only one in the whole platoon, ain’t that something?” he cut me off, and started rhapsodizing about the AN/PRC 77 Radio Set training and target practice. Grandpa said he got a little nervous at first but then started to enjoy himself, and that even Waxman, the platoon commander, had praised his steady grip.