The Bus Driver Who Wanted to Be God & Other Stories by Etgar Keret Page B

toward Abdu’s room. Father got there first, then Mother and me. Abdu was sprawled out on his cot, his eyes shut tight. “My son,” Father whispered in a stifled voice, his face ashen. “My firstborn.” And for the first time in my life, I saw tears in his eyes. Mine began to well with tears too, more in agony over Father’s grief than even over my brother. Seeing my sorrow through his own tears, Father wiped his eyes with the border of his tunic, and drew closer to Mother and me. His powerful arms embraced us, and our faces came together. Our tears mingled, and we wept as one. “The God of the Hebrews is cruel,” Father resumed his whispering, as if afraid to intrude on Abdu’s repose, “but He shall not defeat us.”
    â€œCould it be that he is not dead?” Mother mumbled. “That he is only sleeping?” “Please, Fatma,” Father whispered, and planted a gossamer kiss on her brow. “Do not leave us now for a world of delusions. Much has been said about the God of the Hebrews, but never has he been known to favor one over another . . .” “He is not dead,” Mother cried, “he cannot be dead! He is sleeping, just sleeping.” She broke the stronghold of our embrace and lunged toward Abdu’s cot. “Wake up, my son!” she cried, tugging at his gown. “Wake up!” Abdu opened his eyes, alarmed, and leapt out of bed. “What happened?” he asked, in a daze. “It’s a miracle, my son,” Mother said, hugging him and gazing at Father. “A great miracle has happened.”
    Abdu was still dazzled when Mother let go of him and approached Father, who was standing in a corner, his eyes to the ground. “Did you see what just happened?” she whispered. “A great miracle! The God of the Hebrews has taken pity on us, and on our son.” Father peered straight ahead. His pain gave way to ill-concealed rage. “The God of the Hebrews harbors neither pity nor compassion toward us,” he fumed. “Only truth. Only truth.” His bloodshot eyes were like two hailstones, and his gaze filled me with greater fear than all ten plagues. “Why are you angry?” Mother asked. “Why do you not rejoice? Our Abdu is alive . . .” “Because he is not your firstborn,” Father cut her short. He raised his hand, as if about to strike her, but it froze in midair. Mother fell at his feet and let loose a sob as of one who has suffered an invisible blow. Thus did the four of us stand—motionless, steady and transfixed, like a cedar about to be felled. “Cruel indeed is the God of the Hebrews,” Father said. Then he turned on his heel and left theroom.

Siren
    O n Holocaust Remembrance Day all the classes were taken to the school hall. A makeshift stage had been put up and on the wall behind it they had stuck up sheets of black cartridge paper with the names of concentration camps and pictures of barbed-wire fences. As we filed in, Sivan asked me to keep her a seat so I grabbed two. She sat down next to me and it was a little crowded on the bench. I put my elbow on my knee and the back of my hand brushed her jeans. It was thin and nice to the touch and I felt as if I touched her body.
    â€œWhere’s Sharon?” I asked. “I haven’t seen him today.” My voice was a little shaky.
    â€œHe’s doing the naval commando tests,” replied Sivan proudly. “He’s already passed almost all the stages, he just has another interview to do.”
    At the other side of the hall I saw Gilead coming toward us down the aisle. Sivan went on. “Did you hear that he’s going to get the outstanding student award at the end-of-year party? The principal has already announced it.”
    â€œSivan,” called Gilead who came up to us, “what are you doing here? These benches are uncomfortable. Come on, I kept you a place at the