Editor’s Note: Author Yakov Nayerman explains “Although the story is based on factual material, it is a work of fiction, and I had to change the names of the real participants. … I gathered several real stories from volunteers I know and combined them into a fictional account of a visit.”
By Yakov Nayerman
SAN DIEGO — Once a relative from Israel called me.
— Listen, there’s an exhibition in Los Angeles right now about the tragedy of October 7 at the Nova music festival. One of my good neighbors, Nathan, is volunteering there. He’s long dreamed of seeing San Diego — I’ve talked his ear off about it. He’ll have a couple of free days. Can you host him? Show him around?
— Sure, of course, — I said. Especially since we’re planning to visit that exhibition ourselves next week. I’ll try to meet up with him there.
Indeed, at the end of the month, just before the exhibition closed, we went to Los Angeles with friends who were staying with us. We spent the whole day at the Nova exhibition, and it made such a deep and overwhelming impression on me that I completely forgot about Nathan.
I had expected something similar to the exhibits at Yad Vashem in Jerusalem or the Holocaust Museum in Washington. And yes, there was more than enough documentary evidence of the brutality and suffering that occurred on that tragic day. But the motto and central theme of the exhibition was the phrase “We will dance again.”
These words were everywhere — on postcards left by visitors, on the stones traditionally placed on graves instead of flowers. Everything in that space was infused with a surprising sense of optimism shining through blood and tears.
As my friend who was with me at the exhibition said:
— This exhibition gives a glimmer of hope.
We were all completely devastated by what we saw. I sent my wife and our friends off to rest and returned to the exhibition to meet Nathan.
He was a short, round, very energetic man in his seventies — an Odessan with a mop of gray curls, bushy eyebrows, and a small beard. He spoke rapidly, gesturing animatedly, and had a strong guttural “R.” He hugged me like an old, close friend. He said he knew and loved my Israeli relatives and that from my face and the way I spoke, he instantly recognized “the same blood.”
We agreed to meet after the exhibition closed. Two days later, on Monday, he called. He said they had to leave urgently for Miami to prepare a new exhibit, and that he had only one free day — Wednesday. He could take a morning train down and return in the evening. That worked perfectly for me.
Then, with an apologetic tone, he added: — Would it be okay if a very good friend of mine came with me — a kind woman from Israel? She’s a psychologist, came here to help fundraise, and she’d really love to see San Diego too.
— Of course, — I said. — Since I wasn’t planning to take you around on a horse, I’m sure I’ll find room for a second passenger in my car. Does she speak Russian?
— Better than both of us! But, Yasha, please… don’t ask her about her children. During wartime, it’s not something we bring up. Three of hers are currently fighting — one in the South, two in the North — and she doesn’t always know whether they’re alive or not. Honestly, if it weren’t for the need to volunteer and help raise funds, she wouldn’t have left the country at all.
At 9 a.m. on Wednesday, I met them at the train station.
Her name was Marina. She was from Riga, around sixty, and… beautiful. There are some remarkable people who don’t lose their charm with age — they transform it into a new kind of beauty, one that suits their age perfectly. You can’t help but want to look at them. The wrinkles on their faces seem so harmonious, so naturally woven into their overall appearance, as if shaped deliberately by a gifted cosmetologist. Her silver strands, mixed with light brown highlights, looked like carefully chosen feathers. A warm half-smile and a low, rich voice.
She had lived in Israel since the age of fifteen, but her Russian was flawless — without even a trace of an accent. She introduced herself with a handshake and immediately began thanking me for meeting them and for the walk through the city, which hadn’t even begun yet.
I took them along my favorite one-day guest route: the sandy cliffs and beaches of Torrey Pines, the seal lairs in La Jolla, and the Spanish-style facades in Balboa Park. My guests were thrilled and kept saying how much San Diego reminded them of Haifa. I was the one doing most of the talking and guiding.
We ended up at La Agave, a Mexican restaurant in Old Town. There were still three hours left before their 8:00 p.m. train back to Los Angeles, so we weren’t in any rush. The restaurant’s interior, with hundreds of different tequila bottles, made quite an impression as usual. To my surprise, Marina, like Nathan, skipped the cocktails and margaritas and chose to sample different tequila flights.
Since I was driving, I limited myself to just one shot. But my guests, with some excellent Mexican appetizers, got into the spirit of it — and soon, into the drinks. Nathan grew even louder, while Marina, flushed, started speaking more softly and slowly, as if weighing each word. I mostly kept quiet — I was fascinated just watching their emotional conversation.
Nathan occasionally slipped into Hebrew, but Marina would gently touch his hand and quietly remind him in an apologetic tone: “Daber rusit” — “Speak Russian.”
Very quickly they dove into a debate that clearly had been ongoing between them — and one that’s on the minds of many Israelis: what price is acceptable to pay for the release of hostages?
Nathan, becoming increasingly heated, insisted that — painful as it is — negotiating for hostages is wrong. It only encourages more kidnappings. The main goal, he said, must be to eliminate the terrorists and Hamas, even if that means some hostages will die. And the opposition politicians, he argued, were playing on people’s emotions — exploiting sympathy for the hostages to shake the boat and bring down the government, cynically using people like Marina.
Marina, patiently and calmly, explained that there’s nothing more valuable than a human life. If the government failed to protect its citizens on October 7, then it has a moral duty to do everything in its power to rescue those still alive. Only afterward should it focus on how to prevent such horrors from happening again.
“I was raised in Israel with one core belief,” Marina said quietly. “I always knew — when I served in the army myself, and later when I sent my children there — that the country would never abandon us. My world was shaken when I saw that the hostages were being left to their fate.”
They exchanged arguments: Nathan drew from what he had seen and historical comparisons; Marina spoke from personal conversations with the families and friends of those held in Gaza’s tunnels.
Natan was clearly losing ground, and I decided to step in and support him. As it turned out, I did so rather clumsily…
“From the perspective of the American taxpayer, the money going into military aid…” I began. “Well, I have to side with Nathan. Watching weeks and months of aimless stalling in Gaza just to save a handful of hostages — while soldiers are dying — does seem… strange.”
Their reaction surprised me: Marina said nothing, just tilted her head slightly, but Nathan turned red. Then, stammering, he nearly shouted:
“To hell with your taxpayers and all their dollars telling us what to do!”
“Wait, Natan,” I said. “All I did was repeat what you just told Marina. Why are you suddenly so worked up about my words?”
“Because only Israelis have the right to decide what to do with our lives! Do you know what Marina has been through these past few months?”
“Nathan, don’t—” Marina tried to stop him.
“No. No, I want him to understand — consider it a bonus feature to our L.A. exhibition. Let him tell his taxpayers.”
He nodded toward Marina.
“Her daughter is a sapper. She was drafted the morning of October 8 and sent straight to clear explosives from the festival site and the kibbutzim that had been taken over by terrorists. Mines were hidden at bedroom doors, inside refrigerators — even in corpses. Marina brought them home-cooked meals every day, picked up laundry. And she knew that her ‘little girl’ was pulling mines from guitars, sleeping bags — even from the bodies of dead dogs and children.
“And then Marina, a former officer, was invited to work as a psychologist. Our soldiers were beginning to lose their grip from what they were seeing. She had to decide, in a 20–30-minute conversation, who could stay and who needed to be rotated out immediately. And none of them wanted to leave. After that, she spent hours every day speaking to the families of those taken by Hamas. None of us can imagine how much grief, how many silent tears and choked sobs she had to witness.
“So she has the right to speak for the hostages — to me and to everyone. You don’t. And maybe I don’t, either.”
“Nathan’s being modest,” Marina said softly. “He quit his job right away and started driving refugees and their belongings in his little Ford truck. That’s how we met. He slept in the truck and only stopped when it broke down. His Ford Kachol — Blue Ford — became known to everyone. He kept a list of available rooms in the central part of the country. When he saw a new refugee family, he’d decide where to take them. It usually took two or three trips per family. Then the next. Then he went up north to evacuate people from there.”
“Alright, enough of that,” Nathan said, clapping his hands. “Let’s have another tequila flight. The dark ones — they’re smoother.”
He said something in Hebrew. Marina replied. Then she turned to me and said:
“Please — we’ll pay. You barely drank anything.”
Soon we finished and stepped out of the restaurant. The weather was perfect, and there was still about an hour and a half until their train. Marina asked if we could walk along the waterfront.
The sun was painting one of its sunset masterpieces: pink and burgundy clouds lit up the foamy tips of the waves. In the distance, sailboats — tinted a gentle pink — slid silently across the water.
“Speaking of yachts,” Marina suddenly said, “we have some volunteers back home with sailboats. They take war-injured veterans out and teach them to sail — with just one leg or one arm. But the most incredible thing is, those yachts turned out to be the best medicine for a wounded mind. Just a few trips — and people start coming back to themselves.”
We walked a little more in silence. Then I drove them to the station. We hugged. I promised to visit them in Israel.
They left. And I stood on the platform for a few more minutes, slowly realizing that I had just spent the day with true heroes…
An old saying echoed in my mind: “There’s always someone who carries the weight for the rest of us.”
*
Yakov Nayerman in his retirement is a freelance writer based in San Diego.