My Little General

There he lies on the battlefield, my little general.

He doesn’t ride a horse in a bright uniform with stars on his shoulders, without an army and commanding orders, but panting, soiled, wet with his sweat in his shirt, crying,

He, who is the pivot, the backbone of his team is wounded. He, who is so needed to aid his team mates under the heavy pressure of the “enemy” in the final battle.

Now his younger, weaker Benjamin should take his place, he who would need his protection.

Crying, not of the pain, he almost didn’t feel it, but powerless, to see his comrades fight an unequal battle without him.

With tears and among his sobs he cried, called aloud to his friends his command “hajar” (fight) and they heartened him in return not to worry.

And that command in crying, broken language by their invalidated leader was heard and whoever heard it shuddered in awe.

They fought, I watched in breathtaking suspense as though watching a coin rolling (not spinning) not knowing which side it would turn, or as a rope dancer walking on a cable which is stretched taut between two high buildings.

And they won the battle while it would be more reasonable that they would be defeated.

A command of a real general couldn’t do it better, no courage, no words more inspiring an army.

And I remember Beethoven’s 9th Symphony “… laufet Bruder eure Bahn, wie ein Held zum siegen.”

It was as though they couldn’t surrender, it was impossible to surrender, they would rather drop, “die”.

“He’s my little general” said his Volley Ball coach as he remembered it more than forty years ago