By Ellis Shuman
When the sirens sounded at three in the morning, the five members of the Lutsky family jumped from their beds. This wasn’t the first time that the Houthis in Yemen had fired a missile at Israel, and it wasn’t the first time that their small moshav near Ramla was one of the areas alerted to the incoming attack, so the Lutskys were familiar with the drill. They ran downstairs to their safe room−a reinforced room on the ground floor that served as Natan’s office on the days he worked from home, and which would now provide protection for their family.
As she passed through the kitchen, five-year-old Miri glanced out the window. The sidewalk was lit by a streetlight; the Frenkels’ house next door was completely dark.
“Abba, there’s a man outside!” Miri said, stopping in her tracks.
“Hurry, Miri,” her mother Anat called from the doorway of the safe room. “We only have a minute to get in.”
The siren was still wailing, but Miri didn’t move. “That man doesn’t have a place to go! The rocket could hit him!”
“Which man?” Natan asked, joining his daughter in the kitchen. “I’m sure he’s okay,” he said, urging his youngest daughter to follow him to safety.
“He needs to come in!” Miri said. She brushed aside Matka, the family mutt, and said, “I’m opening the door.”
“You’ll do no such thing!” Anat said.
“We should let him in,” Natan admitted. “It’s not safe walking around.” He unlocked the front door. With Miri at his side, he called out. “Come in! Join us in the safe room!”
The man on the sidewalk seemed oblivious to the siren. He shook his head and was about to walk away, so Miri shouted at him.
“Hurry inside! Before the rocket comes!”
The man dropped the large duffel bag he was carrying, approached the Lutskys’ door, and followed Natan into the house.
“This way,” Miri said. Matka wagged its tail excitedly, eager to greet the visitor, but Natan pushed the dog back.
They joined Miri’s mother and her older sisters Liora and Liat in the safe room. Miri dropped to a squat on the floor, and patted the space next to her, inviting the man to sit down. Natan closed the solid door with a bang. They were safe.
“It’s a strange way to meet, but I’m Natan.” He extended his hand. The man hesitated and then shook it.
“Sit down,” Natan said, pointing to the floor next to Miri. “Make yourself at home.”
“Natan, we need to talk,” Anat whispered, a whisper they could all hear in the confines of the safe room. Natan didn’t respond. He was busy organizing space for himself on the floor.
“It’s the entire Tel Aviv region,” Miri’s older sister Liora informed them, scrolling through the newsfeed on her mother’s phone. “The IDF spokesman confirms it’s a missile launched in Yemen.”
“Let me see that,” Liat said, grabbing the phone.
“Give that back!”
“No fighting,” their mother warned them. “Natan!” she said with a sense of urgency.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name,” Natan said to their unexpected guest.
“Igor,” he replied, speaking for the first time. He lowered his head as he spoke.
“Are you from the moshav?” Liora asked.
“We don’t recognize you,” her sister added.
“No, just visiting,” Igor replied.
“At three in the morning?” Liat giggled.
Miri’s eyes were open wide with surprise as she registered Igor’s appearance. The man was dressed entirely in black; even the woolen cap on his head was black. Miri wondered if he was an actor portraying a role in a theater production.
“Natan!” Anat whispered loudly.
The siren stopped, and suddenly all was quiet.
“Can we go out now?” Liat asked.
“No, we have to wait ten minutes,” Natan replied.
“Why ten minutes?”
“Ten minutes because the missile was probably intercepted, and there could be parts of those interceptors falling to the ground,” Natan explained. “Shrapnel is usually more dangerous than the Yemeni missile itself.”
“Who exactly are you visiting?” Anat asked Igor.
“We know everyone on the moshav,” Liat piped in. “Were you visiting next door?”
“The Frenkels went on vacation in Greece,” Liora reminded them.
“Let’s not be impolite,” Natan said. “We don’t need to interrogate our visitor.”
“Natan!” Anat again tried to catch her husband’s attention.
“It’s alright,” Igor said. “Actually, I was at the Frenkels. They asked me to look after their house while they’re overseas.”
“Igor, I think you should go,” Anat said.
“Ten minutes haven’t gone by yet,” Natan pointed out.
“But the siren stopped!” Liat said.
“Natan, I think Igor needs to go,” Anat insisted.
“He should stay. Better safe than sorry,” her husband replied.
“Natan!”
“It’s okay, I’ll go.” Igor stood up. “Sorry to have been imposed on you like this.”
“All of Israel is responsible for each other,” Natan said, standing up as well. “We’re in this together.”
“Goodbye Igor,” Miri said, as her father opened the safe room’s heavy door and accompanied the stranger through the house. “Don’t forget your duffel bag!”
“What duffel bag?” Anat asked.
“The bag he dropped near the Frenkels’ front door,” Miri explained. “Nice to meet you, Igor!” she called out to the family’s nighttime guest.
Liora joined them at the front door and announced excitedly, “The IDF spokesman says the missile was intercepted and nobody was hurt!”
“Give me back my phone. I need to make an urgent call,” Anat said.
Ellis Shuman is an American-born Israeli author, travel writer, and book reviewer. His writing has appeared in The Jerusalem Post, The Times of Israel, World Literature Today, and The Huffington Post. His short fiction has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, and has appeared in Isele Magazine, Vagabond, The Write Launch, Esoterica, Jewish Literary Journal, San Antonio Review, and other literary publications. He is the author of The Virtual Kibbutz, Valley of Thracians, The Burgas Affair, and Rakiya – Stories of Bulgaria. https://ellisshuman.blogspot.com/
