THE DOOR WAS OPEN. A trail of army bootprints led us up the staircase. He was there, right where we thought he would be. Standing on the roof with his back to us, approaching the ledge, his rifle slung over his shoulder and his shirt untucked. His brown beret lay unclaimed on the floor. He turned to us for a moment, then went back to studying the cars driving along Jabotinsky Street. Slowly, I stepped forward. Dad remained by the door to the roof, holding on to the handrail.

“Parkinson’s, they tell me,” he spoke with a tired voice. “Can you believe it? One moment you’re getting a commendation, and the next they’re telling you you should start thinking of one of those Filipino caregivers.”

“Waxman said they need to run a few more tests,” I said.

“Oh please,” he grumbled, turning to face me. “I may be old, but I’m no idiot. Can you believe this? I make this unit famous, and a moment later they want to get rid of me!” He laughed feebly. “It’s like discharging Ehud Barak right after the ’73 raid on Lebanon, or Kahalani after the Yom Kippur War. Can you imagine?”

I didn’t know what to say.

“Well, can you?” he barked at me.

“No, actually I can’t.”

“Of course you can’t!” he yelled in an explosion of anger. “If it weren’t for me, Waxman and his miserable old schmucks would still be stuck in the Valley guarding mosquitoes. Unthinkable!” he exclaimed, his voice strangled with emotion. “To kick someone to the curb like that? So my hands shake a little, so what? Schneider doesn’t have scoliosis? Pinchas doesn’t have a catheter? Just like that, to toss someone away like a piece of trash? It’s unheard of!”

I wanted to say something soothing, comforting, but the words got stuck in my throat like a jammed M16. I looked at Dad, hoping he’d whip out his calculator or say something logical that would make sense of the situation. But Dad didn’t say a word. He just kept standing by the staircase, clutching the handrail, fighting for every breath of air, unable to hide his helplessness.

We stood there, the three Neuerman men, facing each other, not knowing what to do.

“Gourevitch told me he knows of a nice old folks’ home,” Grandpa said, lowering his voice just to raise it back up. “I’ll go to my grave before I move into an old folks’ home!” he yelled. “No way, forget it. Fat chance!”

“No one said anything about a retirement home,” I tried to clarify, but Grandpa was no longer listening.

“I’ll just go on another mission. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll march into Gaza alone if that’s what it takes.”

“It won’t help,” I hissed.

“It would help a great deal. Put that idiot Waxman in his place once and for all.”