Gershwin’s father was a nervous flyer. He tried to conceal it, but it came out in his hands, clasping them together, drumming his fingers on the armrest or on his legs, gripping an empty plastic cup too tightly and crushing it. Gershwin listened to music in the seat beside him. When their eyes met, his father smiled at him, though only with his mouth. The rest of his face was full of worry.
“Why are you so nervous?” Gershwin asked him.
“I’m nervous for you,” his father answered.
His father had brought a biography of Theodor Herzl to read on the plane but hadn’t opened it, content to fully occupy himself by fretting with his hands.
They arrived in Israel in the late afternoon. When they walked off the plane, the sun made them both squint. It seemed to fill the entire sky. Heat pressed d
