“If There is a Garden of Eden” – A Journey Through Ron Leshem’s Book

In the vast realm of literature, certain books manage to captivate readers, transporting them to worlds unknown and leaving an indelible mark on their hearts and minds.

Ron Leshem’s “If There is a Garden of Eden” or “Beaufort” is one such book.

In this short journey, we will explore the captivating themes, intricate characters, and thought-provoking narratives that make this novel a true gem in the literary landscape.

The novel set in southern Lebanon during the Israeli occupation. It follows Israeli soldiers stationed at the Beaufort fortress and explores the psychological and physical toll of war. The book delves into their fears, struggles, and ethical dilemmas. It offers a poignant portrayal of the impact of war on individuals and societies. The novel was adapted into an acclaimed film in 2007.

In this book I decided to translate the first chapter that makes me cry every time.

He’s no longer.

Yonatan won’t see us sulking anymore. “We’ll never look better than now,” he always used to say, and I would ask if that’s supposed to be encouraging, because it’s not. Tell me, are you an idiot? How do you not know this game? It can’t be that you don’t know. It’s called “He’s no longer here,” and that’s what everyone plays when a friend is killed. They throw his name into the air, and everyone around has to complete the sentence, say what he’s no longer. Sometimes we run with it for hours. On the field, for example, in the middle of a penalty kick. Even in the small hours of the night, out of nowhere, it wakes everyone up, thirty seconds after we just fell asleep. And when you’re at home, working on your own stuff, not thinking about it, it’s not the right time to play the game, but boom!

The phone rings, we’re on the line, “Yonatan is no longer here,” they tell you, and you have to, everyone has to, throw in an association, that’s the rule, and not repeat the same one twice.

Here’s an example: Yonatan won’t take his little brother to the movies anymore. Yonatan won’t see Hapoel winning the cup. Yonatan won’t listen to Zion Golan’s new album. He won’t see Shon stuck with the most twisted girl in Nahariya, and even after he laughed at all of us, the little Mongol. He won’t know how good it feels when it doesn’t stand up for you. He won’t know how great it is when Mom is proud of you on the day you get accepted to university. Or college, that’s good too. He won’t be at his grandfather’s funeral, won’t know if his sister gets married, won’t pee with us from the highest peak in South America, won’t ski in Chile, won’t fuck the hottest Peruvian in Casa Pistachio.

Yonatan won’t betray her. He won’t know how it feels to shape the biggest bomb in the country, a warhead from Haifa that seduces you to strut, and you realize, too late, that it just wasn’t worth it, and your love leaves. He won’t understand how much it hurts. And he’ll never know how it feels to sit on the grass with a little boy, his own, and tell him how we were bigger than life in the ambushes in Lebanon. We did glorious things there. He won’t tell him. Yonatan won’t say a lot of things anymore.

Yonatan will never know which song they played at his grave when he died. “Shir Hama’alot,” a new version in an Eastern style, became his song. Each person who dies has a song that accompanies friends from the funeral and beyond. For months, they keep hearing it, again and again. It never gets boring.

Yonatan will never know how much Rivka cried over his body, refused to calm down, shattered, broke down. Like a bitter child crying. Yonatan will never know how Foreman and I spent a whole day going up and down elevators and slopes looking for his head that went missing.

When the missile hit the guard post, the head was injured and rolled down to the lieutenant.

We didn’t want to believe that it rolled all the way down, to the river, but that’s what happened, and in the end, we gave up the search.

There’s nothing to be done. And I crawled in the thick smoke and grabbed his body with both hands, a body without a head. He didn’t know. And the fire continued to burn around us, and we fired, and we fired, and we fired in every direction possible, as if it would ease the feeling. And everyone was shattered.

Just yesterday, we were dancing and waltzing in our cold shelter, lighting candles, a soul, and we felt good, and now it’s over. He never knew in his lifetime. There’s no chance he knew.

Jonathan will no longer savor the sweet, fragrant sweat, mixed with the delicate scent of his shampoo, in a long night of passionate lovemaking and embraces, like the one we all knew during the week when we returned from Lebanon, when it all ended. Jonathan didn’t even know we had left Lebanon.