The Seven Good Years by Etgar Keret Read Free Book Online Page A

hell is so special about that holiday,” my young Swedish publisher asked. And so I found myself, with a stomach full of cold potato salad and draft beer, trying to explain to a few half-drunk literary Swedes what Yom Kippur is.
    The Swedes listened and were fascinated. The thought of a day when no motorized vehicles drive through the cities, when people walk around without their wallets and all the stores are closed, when there are no TV broadcasts or even updates on websites, to them sounded more like an innovative Naomi Klein concept than an ancient Jewish holiday. The fact that it was also a day when you’re supposed to ask others for forgiveness and do moral stocktaking upgraded the anti-consumerist angle with a welcome touch of ’60s hippiedom. And the fasting bit sounded like an extreme version of the fashionable low-carb diet they’d talked to me about in such glowing terms just that morning. And so I began the evening trying to explain the ancient Hebrew ritual in my broken English, and found myself doing PR for the coolest, most sought-after holiday in the universe, the iPhone of all festivals.
    At that point, the amazed Swedes were consumed by envy of me for having been born into such a wonderful religion. Their eyes darted around the restaurant, looking at the patrons as if they were searching for a mohel who would cut them a deal to join up.
    Twenty-six hours later, I was strolling with my wife down the center lane of one of Tel Aviv’s busiest thoroughfares, our little son behind us, riding his bike with the training wheels. Above us, birds were chirping their morning birdsong. I’ve spent my whole adult life on that street, but only on Yom Kippur do I get to hear the birds.
    â€œDaddy,” my son asked as he pedaled and panted, “tomorrow’s Yom Kippur too, right?”
    â€œNo, son,” I said, “tomorrow’s a regular day.”
    He burst into tears.
    I stood in the middle of the street watching the kid cry. “C’mon,” my wife whispered to me, “say something to him.”
    â€œThere’s nothing to be said, love,” I whispered back. “The child is right.”

Matchstick War
    W hen the fighting in Gaza began last month, I found myself with a lot of spare time. The university in Beersheba where I teach was within the range of missiles fired by Hamas, and they had to close it. But after a couple of weeks, it reopened, and the next day I found myself taking an hour-and-a-half train ride from Tel Aviv, where I live, to Beersheba again. Half the students weren’t there—mainly the ones who commuted from the center of the country—but the other half, the Beersheba locals, showed up. The bombs were dropping on them in any case, and conventional wisdom among the students was that the university’s classrooms were better protected than their dorms and housing projects.
    While I was having my coffee at the cafeteria, the bomb-shelter alarm started blaring outside. There wasn’t time to get to a proper shelter, so I ran with some other people into the thick-walled, almost windowless entrance of a university building nearby. Around me were a few frightened students and a grave-faced lecturer who went on eating his sandwich on the concrete steps as if nothing were happening. A couple of the students said they’d heard an explosion in the distance, so it was probably safe to leave, but the lecturer, his mouth still full, pointed out that sometimes they shoot more than one missile and that we’d be better off waiting a few more minutes. While I was there, I recognized Kobi, a crazy kid from my childhood in Ramat Gan who liked fifth grade so much he stayed in it for two years.
    At forty-two, Kobi looked exactly the same. It’s not that he looked especially young; it’s just that, even in elementary school, he seemed to be approaching middle age: a thick, hairy neck; powerful body; high forehead; and the smiling