He fell silent, waiting for my reaction, but I continued to look out at the road quietly. I wasn’t in the mood to talk about the list again, which I already knew by heart, the list of all the things he never did and now never would do. Because my grandpa, ever since I could remember him, never stopped talking about the day he’d die. He let everyone know he’d be out of here in no time, and he also liked telling people exactly when and how it would happen, including a detailed arrangement of the eulogizers at his funeral. Grandma Miriam refused to listen. She always said that if he dared bring his death into their home, she’d kill him herself, either with a frying pan or a rolling pin, whichever was closer. So he kept quiet in her presence. But when I was a kid, whenever Grandpa took me to the movies on a Saturday morning, he would start up again. He said I was the only one he could trust, and I listened silently, letting him go on and on until I could recite by heart his last day on earth like I could the whole team of Hapoel Kfar Saba F.C., or entire dialogues from my favorite movie, Giv’at Halfon. Carrying the burden, keeping my grandpa alive.

4.

A CORPORAL WITH round-rimmed glasses stood at the entrance of the reception base. “You’ve got your call-up papers?” he asked me. With a trembling hand, barely able to see a thing with his bucket hat covering half his face, Grandpa handed him his draft notice before I could get a word out. The soldier considered the draft slip and turned his gaze back to Grandpa. “No shit. You da man!” He slapped Grandpa’s shoulder. “It’s thanks to dudes like you that the people of Israel are still kicking ass. Yochai, come see this,” he yelled to a soldier next to him. “Another one joining the oldies. I’m telling you, these men are the real motherfuckers!”

Everyone around us started looking at Grandpa, who was awkwardly shrinking into himself. Then came a round of applause. I pulled him into the square inside the base and we sat down on a bench, waiting for his name to be called. I bought him a Diet Coke but he didn’t want to drink. He looked a little lost, as if in some state of pretrauma. An elderly man who had arrived with what seemed like his entire extended family stood beside us. Grandpa looked at the man’s children and grandchildren and wife, who was literally crying on his shoulder. I wanted him to stop looking at them, so I told him to check his bag to see that nothing was missing. He seemed happy that someone was giving him orders and promptly began rummaging through the bag, until finally he announced he had forgotten to pack a towel.