LOOKING AROUND :Remembering Yafit

By Barbara Sofer
Apr. 24, 2003

In our tradition, memory goes beyond wistfulness and melancholy to being a holy command. We must remember those who have done us evil, and even more, those who have sacrificed for the common good. Hence, we take our memorial days seriously here in the State of Israel.Holocaust and Martyrs Remembrance Day and Memorial Day are just one week apart, and we couldn't possibly celebrate the wonder of our Independence before revisiting those memories.

Take the story of Yafit Harenstein.
Yafit and Arnaud Harenstein were in their home in the Jordan Valley farming village of Mehora last August 10 when a high alert was called. Terrorists were in the area. Arnaud, 28, headed the village civilian defense committee. He'd left his walkie-talkie at his in-law's house nearby and immediately went by car to get it.
Arnaud, who moved to Israel from France when he was 10, had noticed Yafit on the first day he'd gotten a job on the Allenby Bridge, which connects Israel and Jordan. It was spring, and he'd seen the dark-haired beauty framed by the flowers and palm trees. He walked up to introduce himself. "Wow," he thought. And somewhere in his heart, he realized he would marry this sabra from a Yemenite background. Over the next year of working together on bridge security, they became friends, and then fell in love. Their wedding photos have a movie-star quality: light haired, tall, athletic and debonair Arnaud, and stunning Yafit with dark-eyes and untamed, dark curly hair. Their two daughters, Shai and Chen inherited comeliness from both sides.
The round trip to Yafit's parents' home took only a few moments. Arnaud was thinking of the best way to secure the moshav's perimeter. But the alarm had come too late. When Arnaud pulled into the driveway of his small moshav home, the terrorist was waiting for him.
Arnaud saw the dark figure holding a semi-automatic rifle. "Get him out of here," was Arnaud's only thought. He backed up to draw the terrorist away from his home. Seven bullets flew through the window and pierced Arnaud's arms and lungs. The terrorist ran forward and put the barrel of the gun through the broken glass. He took aim at Arnaud's head. At that moment he was distracted by a sound from the house. Yafit stepped through the doorway holding Arnaud's M-16. In the dark, she wasn't sure where to aim it. The terrorist turned. His shot at Arnaud went wild. He sprang on Yafit, and wrested the gun from her hands. He pressed the barrel into her and emptied the magazine. Twenty-seven bullets penetrated her petite frame, killing her instantly.
The terrorist entered the house.
The army arrived. Soldiers killed the terrorist. Wide searches were made to seek out an accomplice.
INSIDE THE house, Shai, 2, and infant Chen, lay on the bed, covered by a pillow. So close had death come that one bullet pierced the baby's pacifier, but they were alive and well.
The soldiers who were removing Arnaud's body from his compact car started to shout. Arnaud was still alive, if barely. He was evacuated by helicopter to Jerusalem, where surgeon Yoram Klein was waiting at the entrance of Hadassah Hospital's too-familiar trauma center.
Healthy adults have around five liters of blood pumping through their bodies. By the time Arnaud reached the hospital, four were gone. "In serious condition" said the radio announcer. Klein smiles and shakes his head, "It couldn't have been much more serious." For the next three weeks, Arnaud and the medical staff fought together. Arnaud was too weak to be transferred to the operating room for surgery. Dr. Klein repaired his organs in the Intensive Care Unit. Twice, Arnaud's blood pressure dropped precariously low.
At last, Arnaud began to focus. His parents and his in-laws were always by his bedside. But where was Yafit? A social worker told him the terrible news.
His daughters? Where were Shai and Hen? He wouldn't believe the social worker who said they were fine. So her grandparents put the two-year-old on the phone. His voice was hoarse. "Shai," he managed to get out. Abba! Shai screamed. Abba! Abba! Abba! Hooked up to tubes, hovering between life and death, they hadn't brought the little girl to see her Dad. She had thought he was dead like her Mom. She came the next day. But she ran away from the man with the swollen head lying in bed. Arnaud took it hard.
The next time she came, he would stand up. No matter what. What are you doing? The nurses tried to stop him, as Arnaud pushed himself to his feet. This time, Shai recognized her Abba.
When the day came for Arnaud to move to the rehabilitation unit on Mount Scopus, he refused to stay in the hospital. He rented a small house on Kibbutz Almog, near the Dead Sea. He'd come in every day if he had to, but he had to be home with his daughters. Nine months later, Arnaud is still in physical and occupational therapy, regaining the use of his hands. He's worked out a system for getting Shai dressed for nursery school each morning. He lays out the clothes, and the comb and brush. He and Yafit didn't approve of TV in the morning, but she's much easier to dress if she's watching a kiddy show while he's making the pigtails. The buttons are getting easier. Zippers are still a challenge. They spent Pessah with Arnaud's parents in Carmiel.
"In each generation, someone stands up against us to destroy us," they sang together. But our enemies will not succeed. That we must pledge to Shai and Chen.
Yafit was murdered because she was a Jew living in her homeland. She died defending her husband and children. In this season of national memory, we honor her. In humility, we recall the names of all those who have died because of their membership in our people. May their memories be for a blessing.