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noticed.” Under the fluorescent bulbs, they were sauterne. “They’re lovely.”
    “Thanks.” His smile was shy. “I trade you my eyes for your gorgeous red hair.”
    I smiled back. “Thank you. Just be careful what you ask for.”
    “Indeed.” He took another sip from his cup. “Bitter tonight. Must be dregs. Anyway, my great-grandfather’s last name was Yekutieli.
     It became Kutiel.”
    “So you have family in Yemen?”
    “No. They all move to Israel in 1950s in Magic Carpet when Israel takes Yemenite Jews. My brothers and I actually know some
     Hebrew when we go to the Holy Land. Most Beta Yisrael have to learn. As sons of a
qes,
we were started on
Orit
at two, because in our culture it is the
qes
who reads
Orit.
I pick up languages very quick. By bar mitzvah—which was new custom to us, by the way— I had most of
Orit
and
Chumash
memorized, although I forget much of what I learned. My brothers too.”
    “That’s amazing,” I said. “What about your sister?”
    “The girls learn
nothing.
They obey their husbands, keep house, and have babies. Maybe make a little pottery to sell in the marketplace. But, of course,
     they give the money to their husbands.”
    “Now you’re baiting me,” I told him.
    His smile was playful. “It all changed when we settle in Israel. My little sister embraced liberation very well. Still, she
     must thank my father. Now there are about seventy thousand of us in Israel.”
    My eyes widened. “Seventy
thousand?
I had no idea.”
    “Have you ever been?”
    “No.” I felt my face go warm. As if by failing to visit the Holy Land, I betrayed my ancestral heritage. “One day, I’ll go.
     My father went about ten years ago. My stepmother lived there for a while with her first husband.”
    “Your stepbrother’s father.”
    “How’d you … Oh, yeah. The one who’s also named Yaakov. We call him Jake or Yonkie.”
    “And he is your only sibling?”
    “No, I have a half sister named Hannah and another step-brother, Sam. The boys are much younger than I am. They go to college
     back east. Hannah is ten—the baby.”
    He nodded. “My entire family lives in Israel now. My brothers are officers in
Zahal
—the Israeli army. My sister is also a nurse and lives in Tel Aviv with her family. My father remarried an Ashkenazi woman
     whose husband had been killed in Lebanon. Batya had four children with her first husband. So for a while we were ten in a
     very small apartment. Then she became pregnant by my father and they had twin girls. But by that time my brothers and my three
     stepbrothers had moved out, so there was more room. A year later, I move out at seventeen to do
Meluim
for three years.”
    “‘Meluim’?”
    “Army service. After that, I decided to be a nurse. From the army, I already knew the skill. I just needed the book learning.
     I did an accelerated course and was out in two and a half years with a B.S. in nursing, and a job.”
    “So you kind of paved the way for your sister.”
    He thought a moment. “Yes, I think so, although in Israel many Ethiopians learn nursing. She is the nurse with a nice, clean
     office job. My father was very mad at me for becoming a nurse. As a Kohen, I am not supposed to be near dead bodies. My stepmother
     said if I don’t respect the
Kahuna
—the priesthood—at least be a doctor.”
    “That sounds like a Jewish mother.”
    “Yes, Batya is a very Jewish mother. In the end, I follow my heart and my parents make peace with me. I am the youngest son
     in the family … very spoiled. They don’t stay mad. It is good that I am aware of death. If a baby codes on my shift, I do
everything
to revive that infant. Of course, the best way not to get a code is to be very watchful. I am very, very watchful.”
    “Dedication is good,” I said, throwing back his own words. He smiled at the recognition. “You have a master’s in public health.”
    He regarded his badge. “That was four years ago. First the hospital sent me to