The Animator

n those days I talked a lot about weapons. There was Alex, the lone soldier who lived with the old lady. It was unclear whether they were related. On Friday afternoons Alex was always out on the balcony in boxer shorts and an undershirt, cleaning his short barrel M-16 in the sun, smoking and sweating for an hour or two, and I would watch him from our balcony and say, what a waste of manpower.

The first time I thought about it was when I overheard him talking on the phone, he was saying that the IDF is the biggest whorehouse in the country, everyone is all over each other ‒ male officers and female soldiers, male soldiers and female commanders, female commanders and male ones, male commanders amongst themselves. Alex was tall and fair, he had the arrogant air of a proud Russian. His pale hairy legs shone in the sun, and the shadow underneath his armpits brought up memories of days long past: crumpled-up newspapers featuring lipstick ads that were scattered all over the floor of the army tent during basic training.

I had it all figured out, right down to the last detail. I spent hours on the balcony with the door closed behind me while Alex sat on the oil stained railing, the old lady had tried cleaning it but never managed to get the stains out.

Apart from the old lady, Alex didn’t have any family in Israel. My family was merely background noise: my wife, Iris, who took care of behaviorally challenged kids, and the twins, Ben and Beth.1 Ben took an immediate liking to the scouts; he once dragged a gigantic wooden beam home to prove his devotion, and Beth started her own blog online. I don’t know what she did there.

In the free community newspaper they deliver to every house, I read that the security situation was heating up and caution should be exercised. Children should not be out alone after dark; power locks should be installed in the car; a home security system indoors; they even steal dogs, it said. When we started giving things up, when it became a struggl

oh hi mineta

I thought that was over with.

mm

that

that sounds like a really good story tbh

yes

its the story of my dead popop

of great great grandfater

mhm

That night Iris fell asleep in Ben’s bed. I looked at her. Her eyelids were shut, puffy and soft. A few boxes lined with copies of the community newspaper were filled with things. I didn’t look inside, but I went into Beth’s room, stepping by accident on a pink flip flop at the entrance. The air smelled of tangerines and coconut, the fabric softener Iris uses. I sat down in the chair facing the small silver computer that we once bought. I leaned over it and blew out air. I had to breathe deeply and keep from looking around. The computer’s mouse was covered with sparkles. I rested my palm on it, and the screen turned on with a whir of static electricity. A line ran through in purple. God damn it. Beth Mautner’s blog!! Everything you could possibly want to say!!

The latest entry date appeared beneath the line running across the screen. It was the day the children had disappeared. After which came the lines: In those days I talked a lot about weapons. There was Alex, the lone soldier who lived with the old lady across the street. It was unclear whether they were related. On Friday afternoons Alex was always out on the balcony in boxer shorts and an undershirt, cleaning his short barrel M – 16 in the sun, smoking and sweating for an hour or two and I would watch him from our balcony and say, what a waste of manpower.

The rest was familiar too. It continued with Tell them that you wounded one of them, I planned on saying. He’d clean his weapon one last time, for my sake, and then hand it over along with the ammunition.

And further down, highlighted in purple:

My dad is in love with the neighbor’s soldier…!!!!! OMG!!!!!!!!!!

I sat back down in the chair. It was several sizes too small. Fine hairs of dust moved like long arms from the computer’s air vents. The silver table that we bought was there, the same as always. A chill went through my body. I pressed ENTER after along with the ammunition. And I began typing. The night the children disappeared began by someone al