Lone Wolf

“I can’t sleep. I can never sleep again.” Israel got up out of bed and turned on the light because it made no difference to him anymore whether the world was dark or light. 

Israel Wolf was a grateful man. One could tell that he was a lucky man, too. A loving and caring father, he had a beautiful family and adored his two children, Rena and Stephen, and cherished his faithful wife Diana, who was always by his side. They had a good life in Australia, a far cry from the conflict of their homeland, Israel, from which Israel’s parents had fled decades earlier. Emigrating to a land whose only shared boundary was an endless body of water that stretched as far as the eye could see had been a daunting and foreign concept; yet it was an exciting adventure that had paid off, as the family settled in the Southern hemisphere, safe from strife. Of course, there had been certain adjustments that had to be made; losing one’s country of origin, Israel’s parents had had to work hard to make a living and a new life amidst cultural challenges so different to what they were used to. As a young boy, Israel remembered how his father had sat him upon his lap, told him stories of the Motherland and the struggles of growing up Jewish in a land that was often condemned or at war with neighbouring provinces, not to mention the endless religious tensions that existed between shared boundaries. Israel knew the story well; how his parents fled after the 1967 Six Day War; how Palestine had been conquered, had been under Israeli occupation ever since. His father often insisted that Israel think himself lucky to be born in such a safe country, a peaceful land by comparison—but he also never let the boy forget his roots, either.

“You need to know where you come from, Israel,” his father often said. ”You were named after this place, and after the Arabian wolf who inhabited the Negev desert there. This desert is a rocky, craterlike desert called a makheteshim—your mother and I used to travel on foot, make the long trek to the Old City, to Be’er Sheeva, where we often encountered wolves along the way. They had very big ears and they listened very well, but they took no interest in us and preferred to stay in their pack, hunt for rabbits and feed on garbage—yet we could tell they were very intelligent and playful creatures who were above all devoted to their family. Nothing, not fighting or wars could ever separate them—that is, until barbed wire fencing was erected because of news that the wolves had spread along the Eastern parts of the Gaza strip, forcing people to scatter and flee to safety. As fencing went up to protect the people’s livestock and land, the numbers of wolves dropped to zero, and eventually they became extinct. But Arabian wolves were unique in that they never howled; they didn’t want predators to know where they were—but then this hurt them too, you see, because where there was no howling, there was also no support or rescue, and their family members could not find one another. And so this is your namesake; we named you so that you would always howl when you need us, you would always stay close to your pack. We are your one Jewish family, Israel, but we are all of the one same big Jewish family—and you must always protect your Jewish family above everything else—always be loyal, never leave your family.” 

By the 1980s, Israel’s father had amassed a number of businesses including two cafes, a car dealership and a small convenience store. Things were looking up and business was booming. Compared to the family he’d left behind, Israel’s father had done considerably better for himself. Of course, he knew his father missed his family, and in his heart he never strayed far from his Israeli roots; as a proud Jew he entrenched himself in the local Jewish community and became a figurehead to his people. He’d often take young Israel down to the Bourke Street cafe and greet the people, his regulars (who all knew him as ‘Sisto’) to make sure his son knew his own father and how the business was run. Israel loved going to the cafe with his father, seeing the joyful community of old men surround him with pats on the back, feeling part of a clan, part of something special. It was a family, his father reminded him. “These people too, are your family.” Israel loved being part of something where he felt welcomed; although he was a bright boy and a good student, Israel had a hard time fitting in at school, and stood out for his big, honking Jewish nose, and this brought unwanted attention from the bullies. 

“Careful, you’re gonna fall over that thing if it gets any longer!” Dave Callahan shouted across the playground at him. Other kids teased him too. “Hey Pinnochio! You musta told one heck of a lie for your honker to be that big, man, haha,” Tommy Winters goaded. All the girls standing around in the background pretty as peaches would laugh in unison, which Tommy Winters clearly enjoyed, even as Israel’s cheeks turned a magnificent shade of ruby violet. Israel wished he could turn invisible in that moment, or at least develop superpowers to turn Tommy into a toad or make his pants fall down, anything to turn the attention away from himself. This never happened of course, but Israel secretly kept the dream alive and always focused on it to get by in moments like this. That night Israel was like a loaded gun, full of questions. 

“Papa, why do I have to wear this stupid cap and have this big ugly nose, I don’t want it anymore!” a frustrated young Israel pleaded one night in the back kitchen of the cafe. Israel’s father sensed the boy’s upset had far more to do with what had been going on at school, and he took a moment to sit him down. 

“Israel—let me tell you something. After the Six Days War in 1967, your mother and I made it here safely and we never looked back. We wanted to start a family so badly, and we tried for years to have you—and in 1969 our prayers were finally answered as your mother gave birth to a healthy nine pound boy. I remember I scooped you up in my arms, it was the proudest moment of my life! I looked into your eyes and you know what I saw? I saw pieces of me, pieces of your mother, pieces of our land. And then I saw you, Israel…and I loved every single thing about you. You were a miracle. It is a moment I will never forget. Now, as you are getting older I am seeing you change—you used to look in the mirror and make funny faces and laugh all the time! Do you remember? You liked what you saw, because you saw You. Now, because of what others are saying, all you can see is what they see, and what they project onto you—which is negative, and which is nothing—because they don’t see the real you, they just see the outside costume you wear. But I see you—and I know you know the real you, too. You are so much more than your clothes or your looks—you must regain your self love now, be proud of who you are, be proud of your nose, for this is your family’s nose, your heritage! Look at my nose, it is the same! Look at your sister’s nose, it is your nose too. Do you think your mother looks ugly? No! She is beautiful, and her nose is beautiful too. We must love what we have, Israel, and we must love who we are, because this is what we are given in this life. This is where we come from: we come from the Land of Big Noses—so tell the mean boys that the next time they tease you! Do this—take your power back and turn it around into a joke, it will make them look silly for ever judging you. I know right now you feel sad, Israel—but one day the wind will carry laughter with it instead of pain.”

Israel nodded. Deep down he knew his father was right. His father was always right. 

“But…but—the hat! Do I still have to wear it?”

“Yes my son, you do—because you are Jewish, and this hat, your kippah, belongs to your wider family too. Be proud that you belong to such a large and wonderful family! Be proud that your sisters and brothers in a faraway land all wear one too, just like you—for these are the ties that bind us, we belong to this large Jewish family, and for this we should always be grateful. Hey, you don’t know this, but maybe those boys are secretly jealous—perhaps they wish they could wear a hat like yours, be part of something so sacred and special too. They don’t belong to anything, and they probably envy that you do. Think yourself lucky, Israel, because you are a very lucky boy indeed to have all that you have.” 

“Is that why I saw people fighting on the news the other day, on the television? And children screaming with blood on their faces? Was it because they were jealous too?”

Israel’s father’s face fell then. He did not know what to say to the boy. Yet Israel continued. 

“Well I saw them, Papa—and I noticed they were wearing my kippah too, but they were covered in blood and crying and stuff and it was scary—what happened to them? Why were they fighting?” 

“It has been going on for a very long time, son—too long to explain now. They were fighting over land. That’s all you need to know.” 

“What land?”

“The land that lies between them,” Father replied, shaking his head ruefully.

“Well, why can’t they just all share it together? Like, everybody just live together and be happy?” 

“I wish it were that easy, Israel—but it’s not.”

“Why not? There’s enough land for everybody to share, isn’t there?”

“Yes, but the Israelites believe it is their land because they fought for it centuries ago—and the Palestinians believe it’s theirs. And therein lies the conflict.”

“But fighting is bad—you’ve always told me not to fight the bullies at school, even when they do bad things.”

“Well son, sometimes good people do bad things, and these people did a bad thing—but this is not something for your little ears. What has happened over there has sadly always happened; but it is a long way away from us, and we are very safe here, so please do not worry anymore about it.” His father got up then and busied himself with packing up the last of the kosher food for the day. Israel knew it was late and his father was tired; he also knew when his father wasn’t going to talk anymore on a certain topic, so he obeyed his father’s wish to drop the subject and they returned home to bed in complete silence.

“Goodnight son. Pray for the children in Israel tonight, because you’re luckier than them,” his father whispered.

“Yes Father, I will pray,” Israel promised, “Because one day the wind will carry laughter instead of screams, right?”

“That’s right. Goodnight my child.” 

But Israel couldn’t sleep. 

As his father’s business grew, the family grew, and one day the boy Israel would grow into a young man, ready to take over the family business as soon as he became of age. Israel remembered his father’s wise words and he worked as hard as his father had, dedicating himself to his new young wife and building a life and a family for himself. He worked tirelessly for the Jewish community, following his father and often volunteering his time on the weekends to making sure he could provide for his extended family, his Jewish family. His father once again reminded him to be like the desert wolf, his namesake. 

“The desert wolf is very lean; to survive it must carry no excess weight or fat. It is honed down to optimum weight and physique by constant excercise, by constant doing and the ceaseless effort to protect its family, provide for it. Be like the wolf, Israel—have big ears and listen well; listen more than you speak and you will learn so much more. Right now you must put your head down, work hard to protect your family and be very lean in mind—for these are the things that will keep you safe for the rest of your life.” 

Years passed and Israel’s father, though facing retirement, still made his presence felt at the cafe even though it was Israel who now took on the day to day running of it. The same old faces greeted each other, slapping backs and sitting for hours to chatter over coffee while Israel ran around them all, serving customers and making sure everyone was happy. His father had profited enough to finally sell the car dealership, while the convenience store was left for his daughter to manage. All in all, the family had done well and his father was content with his position in life and all he had achieved for his family, given he had once started with nothing as an emigrant to a new land. 

“My boy, let me take over for you next week, run the cafe like old times—you have worked so hard, it’s time you took a break, have a vacation, go be with your family.” 

“But this…and you…this is my family, Papa—you have always told me this,” Israel replied honestly. “Besides, there is nowhere I’d rather be, and there is nothing else I need. I am the lone wolf, I live a simple and lean life, just as you taught me to.”

“Yes, Israel. This is true. But it’s important to take time off, enjoy your family too. I’ll be ok—I am not so old yet that I cannot still take care of things on my own. Go now. Enjoy some free time. You deserve it,” the old man said, scratching at his balding scalp.

Reluctantly, Israel hung his apron on the kitchen door and kissed his father on both cheeks.  

“Ok, Papa—call me if you need anything, and I’ll see you in a week,” Israel smiled back and stepped outside the cafe into the early October sunshine. 

Israel packed the car and he and Diana took off for a week away where the kids could play at the seaside. They had never had many vacations in the past because running the cafe had been a lifetime of work; besides, Israel never liked to stray far from the family. 

On the morning of October 8, Israel and his wife sat on the beach watching their two children splash in the shallows and build sandcastles. The sun felt good on Israel’s pale skin as a light wind picked up over the marsh, just enough to call for another layer of warmth. That evening, back at the cabin, Israel decided to turn on the TV. News had just broken out of renewed fighting in Israel; Gaza troops had infiltrated Israel’s border and gruesome scenes were evolving of children and adults running in horror. Israel’s heart sank; he knew all too well what this meant as he realised history was about to repeat itself again. He checked his phone the next morning after seeing the disturbing broadcast, but it was out of power. He tried to connect his phone only to discover the power had gone out in the tiny cabin through the night as a result of high winds on the Cape. 

“I have to go into the town to charge my phone,” Israel said to his wife. “I’ll be back in an hour.”

Israel stopped at the town square and entered a store, asking if he could charge his phone. A minute later his screen lit up with over a dozen missed calls from his mother. He hit redial. 

“Mother, what is it? What is it?” Israel demanded.

“Israel, my son—please, please come home immediately,” his mother sobbed. “Something bad has happened.”

“What!?!” Israel screamed.

“Did you see the news reports last night?” she sobbed, trying to speak.

“Yes. Where is Papa?”

“Look—it’s very bad, Israel—the Hamas crossed the border into Israel; they have killed fourteen hundred civilians, and they think they now have over two hundred hostages. They are killing everyone—adults, women and children.”

“Where is Papa?” Israel said forcefully. 

“Oh Israel, I do not know how to say this. He…he was at the cafe…Israel—come back…terrorists shot at a Jew sitting outside the cafe…”

Israel felt sick. 

“…and your father, he went to help him, his brethren, his family, and then they shot again…and they shot at Papa…”

Israel’s phone fell to the floor. Sick. 

“He’s gone, Israel. I am so sorry. He always protected his family.”

Israel howled at the sky then like a lone wolf. Devastated, he returned to his wife, red-eyed with rage. 

“Come my dear, lay your head next to mine, let me ease your pain,” his wife spoke softly, full of the same sadness. 

“I can’t sleep. I can never sleep again.” Then Israel got up out of bed and turned on the light— because now everywhere he looked all he could see was darkness and bloodshed, and all he could hear forevermore were the screams of his father and innocent children in the wind.