I can still remember my sister Tahlia's funeral. Abba took a day off work for the service; he had never taken a day off work to my memory. It didn't shock me that he cared that much about Tahlia; she had been the best of the three of us siblings. My half-brother Ari stood like a little soldier next to him. All the boyish fun and laughter had left his face long ago when Abba started to train him; even so he had always had a smile, especially for me. Now there wasn't even a slouch in his stance. The goodness in Ari had died along with my sister; it certainly had in me.
My Ima watched us from the chairs on the other side. She was surrounded by a group of relatives who clucked around her like hens. She stood like a statue, staring at me, her last daughter. Tears were running down her face, and I could not hold her sad gaze. I turned and faced the front like one of Abba's officers.
We weren't much of a family. We stood on opposite sides of the funeral home, but more than the aisle divided us. In 1991 our Ima left Abba and took us away from him. She told Tali and I it was because she wanted us to dance; Tali and I had puzzled over that for years. We had danced our whole lives, so why did we need to leave Abba to dance? Now I understand it was because of the nature of his work. Ima would rather have us play with doll's and grow weak, than play 'boy games' with Abba. But this weakness was why Tali was dead.
As young boys scattered yellow petals I remembered the flowers Tali had given me before I left. I joined the Tzahal, the Israeli Defence Force, just like any other girl had to after high school. Tali was devastated; I did not understand her feelings, nor did I want to. My excitement at leaving to the army confused her. She did not want to leave Ima to fight when the time came, but like me she wanted to please our Abba. I told her when her time came she would enjoy it too. She gave me blossoms before I left; I gave her chocolates when she came and joined the Tzahal.
I left the Tzahal and joined Ari and Abba at Mossad. Abba was proud, while Ima and Tali cried. I joined Ari as part of the Kidon. I went up in the ranks because of Abba's influence; he made sure I was better than the best at everything. Abba's dream was for Ari to be a Chatol, a single operative, and me his control officer. I was no longer a girl, I was a Kidon officer.
Tali never joined Mossad. Abba did not mind like he would have with me, he loved her because she had compassion. I had no empathy, and I couldn't fight like Ari. I still strived to gain his recognition by working harder. In doing so I drifted from my sister; Tali never complained.
I would never remember her tears, or her faults. Instead I picture her silent friendship when Abba gave me my first lesson, and told me that in Israel if you didn't fight back you died. She would dance for me, and tell me of her dreams as we fell asleep. I thought of her as little girl, who knew nothing of pain or life. Someone who walked through life without really knowing of what it consisted. Standing with half of my family, all I wanted was revenge. Ari and I were determined that her death would not be for naught.
The funeral hall was surrounded by Abba's bodyguards. After the Hamas bombing that had ended my sister's life, ours had become public. People had surrounded me since an officer had found me, hugging my sister's body and singing in Hebrew. I was thoroughly scolded by Abba for that display of emotion and I hadn't cried since. It was impossible not to be bothered by all the extra protection, the strain was even showing on Abba's face. Strain from the extra protection, but not Tali's death. It was hindering his ability to do his job. He once explained to Ari, Tahlia and I that not only did the lives of a few people rest on his shoulders, but the lives of an entire nation; so he did not mourn.
We all sang "El Malei Rachamim" together for my sister; it was a song of Jewish mourning. It was a sad song, but only those on the opposite side of the hall wept. Our voices filled the room as we sang to Tali. Ari and I with Abba, while Ima cried on the other side of the rift.
I did not mourn Tali's death then, I didn't know how to begin. When Ima died I was only told once she was buried. I was on a mission when it happened. Abba thought it wasn't important enough to notify me. Another officer mentioned it to me one day in passing. Not being told hurt me more than I had imagined it would.
I didn't realise then that the path Ari and I followed would cause me to sing that song once again over my last sibling. We were not a family anymore; the time when we were was but a distant memory. The day of Tali's funeral was the end of that era, the rift between us was too wide.
I told Tahlia goodbye one day, nothing dramatic, I just quietly bid her goodbye like we used to say goodnight when we were young. "Layla tov achoti", I said and then repeated, "Goodbye sister".