Still Here.

I open my eyes again.

It has been five days since Eitan entered the war zone. The Namer — the vehicle we'd all wished our sons were riding in instead. That's the one that was supposed to protect the nine soldiers that were killed yesterday. I lie in bed listening to birds singing outside the window and I cannot make myself get up.

I think about what Eitan said to me at Nehora before he went in: "Ima, just remember, the odds are with me. Even if soldiers die, the chance that it will be me is really, really small. Don't worry too much."

The probabilities make me feel a tiny bit better. But not much.

I get out of bed and dribble downstairs. Give Benzi and Gabi and Noa good morning hugs. Say morning prayers. Drink coffee. Prepare the kids' lunches, moving at a snail's pace: grilled cheese, flipping to one side, then the other. When that's done, I change into exercise clothes and go out to the yard.

The trees are still green, thick enough to give me privacy from the neighbors. Birds chirp in the branches — unbothered, oblivious, flitting about. I begin the day's workout: Upper Body Two. This set is always brutal, but at this moment it feels absolutely impossible.

Be strong, my inner voice says. You can do this.

Nine dips in, my arms feel like they are going to explode. Nine soldiers. I feel like I can't go on.

I close my eyes, searching for the inner strength to get through this metaphorical misery.

And then Eitan appears, in my mind's eye, running alongside me in my pain as he had in the morning's mental wanderings, sending forth his own strength. You can do this, Ima. Keep going.

Where is he in reality? Perhaps huddling in his Puma somewhere in Gaza, body aching, the dirt of days upon his skin, in so much discomfort. But if I know my son, he's also full of strength, commitment, and the will to fight until only the good guys are left standing.

Ten dips… eleven dips… twelve dips.

For my son, I can be strong. I can do this.

That night, Gedalia lay on his wooden plank and thought about the last time he'd really seen Father. Not just a glimpse at Appell, but an actual conversation. It had been two days ago, maybe three. Father had looked tired — more tired than usual. His face drawn, his movements slower.

"You're keeping up?" Father had asked.

"I'm keeping up," Gedalia had said.

"Good. Keep going. Just keep going."

And Gedalia had turned away, back to his own formation, not knowing those would be the last words they'd exchange. Not knowing he should have said something more, something better than just "I'm keeping up."

He should have said: I love you.

He should have said: Thank you for everything.

He should have said: I'll remember you.

But he hadn't said any of that. Because he'd thought there would be more time.

Beside him on the plank, Hershi's breathing was steady, carefully controlled. Gedalia wondered if he was sleeping or just pretending. Wondered if he was thinking about Father too. About the family they'd lost piece by piece.

Three of them had arrived at Buna together in May. Father, Hershi, Gedalia.

Now there were two.

Gedalia closed his eyes and tried to remember Father's voice. The way he'd davened every morning, swaying slightly over his siddur. The way he'd said "We're going to Mashiach" in the cattle car, believing it with his whole heart.

He'd been wrong about that. There had been no Mashiach waiting at the end of that journey. Just gas chambers and crematoriums and selections that pulled people away without warning.

But Father had believed it.

Maybe that belief was its own kind of survival. Maybe that was what Father had been trying to teach them all along — not that they'd be rescued, but that they'd remain Jews even when everything else was stripped away.

Gedalia didn't know anymore.

All he knew was that tomorrow he'd wake up and Father wouldn't be there.

And he'd have to keep going anyway.

He and Hershi. The last two.

Just keep going.

Just stay alive.

I come home from shul and they are sitting together on the two big armchairs by the window, Gabi and Papa, probably the two most similar people in the whole family.

Gabi, like Papa, likes things neat and orderly. We call him a "yekke" — that means a German in Yiddish. Meticulous. Everything in its place. Dirty dishes and haphazard cutlery are things that need to be rectified immediately. Like Papa, Gabi will start clearing the table before the meal is even finished, stacking plates with precision, wiping down surfaces that don't really need wiping.

They are sitting there together in Papa's Jerusalem apartment, feet up, both wearing shiny shoes — Papa in his black leather penny loafers, Gabi in his dark blue sneakers. White shirts tucked into blue pants. Legs crossed at the ankles in exactly the same way, leaning back in their chairs, just talking.

I stand in the doorway for a moment, watching them. Through the window before them, I can see the lights of Jerusalem coming on as Shabbat settles over the city.

As I get closer, I hear what they are talking about.

"They threw me into a dark cell," Papa is saying. "I was thirteen like you, on my way home from yeshiva. Just grabbed me off the bus and threw me in prison."

"I would cry," Gabi says.

Papa laughs — that gentle laugh he has, the one that somehow contains both sorrow and lightness. He reaches over and grabs Gabi's hand. "It wouldn't help!" he says with a smile.