by Ilana Haley
When she saw Alya remove the anemone laurel from around her neck and place it, with so much reverence, at the edge of the blanket, Orna understood the significance behind that gesture. She sang softly in a halting, broken voice, Red, red anemones . . .
Behind the top of the trees, the red sun lolled westward. The dusk deepened. Only a trace of twilight lingered in the sky. Rain clouds were gathering; the tops of the cypresses waved restlessly. As the night advanced, it grew cold. Orna shivered. She felt cramped in her hiding place. Slowly she began to rise, when somewhere nearby she heard the branch of a tree snap suddenly. She crouched back. Did I hear footsteps, someone breathing? Must be one of the soldiers. She waited. Nothing. Only the breeze playing, moving through the treetops, scuffing the grass, and birds calling out as they settled for the night. How dumb of me to be so jumpy. I should watch out for my own wild imagination. She leaned her face against the rough bark of the old acacia and gazed into the long shadows of the woods.
Suddenly she went rigid. Two flickering black eyes were staring into hers with a grisly grin of malice. Orna screamed. She leapt up. Her face distorted with terror, she ran toward the Kissing Stone. Ari caught her as she stumbled and almost fell. She clung to him, howling and babbling incoherently. She heard Alya’s urgent voice. Orna! What are you doing here? What is it? Orna let go of Ari, and looked at Alya with horror-stricken eyes. There—she pointed to the old acacia, her teeth chattering—I . . . I saw something evil . . . A man . . . A demon with murder in his eyes . . . There . . . there . . . I saw the devil. There is danger in the woods; terrible danger. Let’s get out of here before we’re dead.
Alya took her friend’s hands. She said, Orna, Orna, no one is there. See, Ari is looking behind the acacia tree. Look, he’s coming back. All you saw were the shadows of trees and flowers and animals. Calm down. Calm down. Orna released her breath, but the horror lingered in her eyes. This place gives me the creeps, it’s so spooky. I am sure I saw something. And leaning her trembling arms on the Kissing Stone, she hid her face in her hands. Alya, she sobbed, I was so jealous, and then suddenly I had the feeling that something awful is going to happen to you. Really, I’m so ashamed for the lunatic way I’ve behaved. She looked at Ari. His face was pale and very silent, but she saw no surprise on his face, no confusion. She tried to smile. Ari put his hand on her shaking shoulder. Don’t cry, don’t cry, Orna. It’s all right now. You had a bad fright. It’s really all right. He turned to Alya. It will be completely dark soon. Let’s go back.
But looking beyond them, far into the woods, Alya saw a soldier approaching. Look, Alya cried and pointed. It’s only a soldier after all. Only a soldier, she whispered to herself faintly. Orna wheeled around, and still crying, and at the same time laughing hysterically, she waved her arms frantically. Let’s go, Ari said. Now! He was looking in the direction of the old acacia. His face tightened with sudden tension. But Alya didn’t seem to see or hear him. She merely stood and listened to the woods. The soldier raised both arms and waved back; and as he ran toward them, his machine gun swung to his side, its metal glittering red in the fading twilight. What’s going on? What are you doing in the woods? The soldier’s voice was low and angry. We’re going back, Ari said. Then hurry. A look passed between the soldier and Ari. The soldier made a signal with his head in the direction of the old acacia, and Ari acknowledged it with a slight nod of his head; then he caught Alya’s hand. Come on, let’s go; quick! She was startled by the sudden sharpness of his voice but went with him without resisting.
The soldier grabbed Orna’s arm. I’ll walk with you to the edge of the woods, he said in the same low, angry voice. Let go. You’re hurting me. Orna tried to free her arm. The soldier ignored her and walked with rapid, almost-running strides, pulling her roughly. They were only a short distance from the Kissing Stone when the shooting began. The soldier cursed. Run! he cried and pushed Orna toward Ari and Alya. She stumbled. Ari caught her by the hand. They saw the soldier swing around and fire in the direction of the old acacia. They saw him fall. They heard him hit the ground. Get down behind the Kissing Stone! Ari shouted. They ran back amidst a spray of bullets ricocheting—whistling all around them, lodging in the bark of trees, bouncing off rocks, hitting the ground. Shots exploded everywhere. Shots and shouts. Hell.
Alya stopped running and stood rooted to the earth. Her face was lifted; and her eyes were staring, as if in a trance, far into the darkening sky above her head. Still running, Orna turned her head. She screamed, Alya! Get down! But Alya didn’t move. Oh my god! Alya! Orna almost reached her friend when a bullet struck her between her shoulder blades. She leaped forward and hit the Kissing Stone. Three more bullets entered her body, painting her white sweater dark purple. On the flat surface of the stone, she lay facing the sky, her blue eyes wide-open. And her face... her face was that of the child she so yearned to be.
Ari stumbled. His body struck the moist ground. With his fingernails, he clawed the earth and, with his last breath, dragged himself to where Alya lay. He collapsed at her side, his head barely touching her right shoulder. He felt his head burning, blood blinding his eyes. To touch her face. Can’t move... Can’t see. It’s so dark. The clamor in his head was unbearable. He vomited. Then relief. No pain. Silence. Dan... Dan?
At the foot of the Kissing Stone, Alya was lying on her back, her fingers moving, caressing the silky grass. With feverish eyes, she watched the fog descend over the tops of the trees, slowly, enveloping the universe with a halo of light. And through the light, a voice called:
Come, let us go for a heavenly walk.
She lost consciousness. After a while, she awoke dizzy with pain. What’s happening? Where was she hit? Was this blood? Was it really the end? What was this smell in the air? Rain? Was it rain on her face? She tried to move her legs. Impossible. Her hand groped around. Her fingers touched Ari’s head. She summoned all her willpower and lifted herself up, supporting her trembling body on her left elbow. She looked down at his inert face. Ari, she whispered, Ari. His eyes were staring at the sky. With her right hand, she touched his cheeks. His face was still warm, his flesh still firm. Was it blood on her hand?
Now, so easy to break the cord of life. Now, a little push, a last breath, a mere glide from here to there. She collapsed. The silence and darkness were heavy around her. She was sinking fast. Suddenly, behind her closed eyelids, a blast of light. She opened her eyes. Lightning. The air was flushed with lightning, the sky white. I want to live. I want to live, her mind screamed. Orna, she called! Orna! Somewhere in the woods, a night bird screamed.
She pushed herself up again. She turned her head. She saw Orna lying on the Kissing Stone, the growing darkness falling, shrouding her body layer by layer, like gauze. Her face, illuminated by the lightning, looked ghostly. Orna. Orna. Alya lost her courage. She lay still, mad with pain. To sleep. Not to know. So much fear. Gill. Gill.
Don’t be afraid. I’m here. It’s only a bad dream. Here, that’s better. Nothing bad will happen to my little girl. Shhh. Tomorrow will be a beautiful day, says Gill.
Suddenly she smiled, and in a clear voice she said, Good-bye, Gill. She closed her eyes. Ari. Orna. Gill. Orna, Orna. Orna. Don’t tell on me, Orna. Please don’t tell on me. She heard voices. Familiar voices. A dog bark. I can’t. Hurry. Hurry.
She fainted and awoke, and again fainted. After some time, when her own screams pulled her back from the night into semiconscious numbness of the cold and pain, she saw, like in a dream, the wind torches coming near. She heard voices and barks. She felt hands lifting her up. Faces swayed above her, blurred masks. Something warm and wet on her face. A dog whined.
And the last thing she was aware of before she sank back into the dark was the fragrance of the rain, the pines, and the wet earth.
(from the collection after the war)
ANEMONES
Part 1
(Her Father)
The silence was at its deepest, th
e stillness undisturbed, the crickets ceased their racket; night-watchmen slept their guard and the anemones, red, red anemones sang to the girl in the bedroom where she rested in solitude.
Obeying an inner command, she rose up from her bed. Night-clothed. She went to stand at the door that she had opened.
Anemones... red, red anemones sang to the girl in the bedroom where she rested in solitude.
For a moment, she stood listening, then closed the door behind her and walked into the night, more like floating on moonbeams, expecting no answer.
Anemones... red, red anemones sang to her solitude.
Down the moonlit path, toward the old water tower, where, a few weeks gone past, five corpses of soldiers lay on the ground wrapped in blood-stained army blankets.
Anemones... red, red anemones sang to her solitude.
Time leapt back. She saw the corpses, stretched out, their naked feet protruding, ghost- like in the moonlight.
I am dreaming, and my eyes can see . . .Anemones... red, red anemones,
She bent down, lifted the blankets searched the faces; with the tips of her fingers. She, extraordinarily softly, touched the faces.
Anemones... red, red anemones sang to her solitude.
He wasn’t there. Gill! she called. Gill! She began walking around the bodies just as she had walked then—that day; the day they’d brought the bodies.
Red, red anemones
Then, she heard Gill’s voice, soft and clear and bright. Tomorrow will be a beautiful day. Go to the woods. To our secret place. Yes, yes. Tomorrow.
In the woods, our secret place. yes.
Listen, Gill, I’ve something to tell you . . . anemones... red, red anemones . . .
Gill was gone. The corpses vanished. She alone was standing by the old water tower, smiling at nothing. She returned to her room singing Gill’s favorite tune, anemones... red, red anemones . . .
She went on singing, even softer, as she got into her bed. For a while, she lay quietly, her eyes wide-open.
Anemones... red, red anemones sang to her solitude.
She remembered the sky; black. Each star a burning flame; the moon bigger, brighter than ever. The moss sprouting out of cracks in the cement of the old water tower. The smell of death on the soldiers’ faces.
Anemones... red, red anemones sang to her solitude.
Then the night silkened and only Gill’s voice lingered in her mind, lulling her to sleep.
Anemones... red, red anemones sang to her solitude.
Part two
When people mentioned the war or talked of death, a hard and remote expression would invade her face, leaving her brilliant brown eyes expressionless. She would walk way.
Look for me in the orchard; watch for me in the vineyard.
Her friends would watch her with apprehension. A surge of pain rose to their chests. They would follow her silently watching her pale, little face. And they would swallow their tears.
Look for me in the orchard,
Watch for me in the vineyard.
Everyone talked about the war— that was all they have been talking about. More often than not, instead of going to school, she would go to the woods, or the olive grove, sit under a tree and read–
Look for me in the orchard, watch for me in the vineyard.
Mostly she dreamed of her walks with Gill through fields, orchards, olive groves.
Look for me in the orchard, watch for me in the vineyard.
Sometimes her mother would find her fast asleep, her face buried in a bunch of yellow dandelions that grew in abundance under the trees.
Look for me in the orchard, watch for me in the vineyard.
She would sit next to her, stroking her daughter’s hair. Alya would say that school was boring; she was so happy in the woods and the grove.
Don’t be angry mama, please. Look for me in the orchard, watch for me in the vineyard.
If anyone asked her mother where her daughter was, her mother would shrug her shoulders, impatiently. What do you want? Leave her alone. At times she wished to scream at her daughter; Gill is dead. He was killed in the war, and will never come back.
Look for me in the orchard, watch for me in the vineyard.
But she merely took her daughter, squeezing her into her breast. Then she would go to the kitchen and put supper on. Her daughter’s growing remoteness was excruciating for her to bear.
Look for me in the orchard, watch for me in the vineyard.
Alone. Sometimes in the dead of night, she hears her dead man say,
Look for me in the orchard, watch for me in the vineyard. I will come to you when the apple has ripened, even if I have to brake hell.
Chapter 20
In The Army
And in Israel, we had to join the army for two years.
I, a little ballerina, with a gun, wearing army uniforms, stationed in the Arava Desert, teaching war to young men.
Liat looks at her watch. Almost midnight, she whispers to herself. Time to dream again, to dream about the thrill she had then in that desert. This excitement, which is like a drug in my blood. A perpetual desire to play with death. I spend hours fantasizing, re-enacting, reliving every moment of that day. It was as though my body has a memory of its own, and the year is still 1953, and the summer rules over sky and sea, growing out of control and spreading itself all over space into lunatic dimensions. And I am eighteen years old, serving my term in the army, six months into a special training course for military instructors in a camp that used to be a British barrack, perched on a hill by the Mediterranean with the ruins of the gray cement buildings still scattered all over the beach like giant seashells. During the day, the place was dazzling with the white beach below the hill and the low waves lazily foaming and softly purring. And above the sea, the sky, so blue, stretching out to infinity. And in these magical surroundings, I trained all day and often at night, with the sea breeze always chasing after me.
All seemed possible when I was eighteen—strong, full of ideals, and so enthusiastic. We trained hard, men and women together. We did almost everything together, but slept in separate barracks, which wasn’t a big problem because about ten minutes after lights-out, I would sneak onto the beach and meet my boy friend among the ruins of the old British buildings, and swim naked in the rustling, rolling, welcoming sea. Once I was caught and had to stay after training in the barracks for a week. It meant no entertainment and no freedom to move about the camp; that was a little rough. My boyfriend at that time was Danny Oren, one of the officers... a vain and fatuous man, but absolutely gorgeous, as they say in America. It was all so stimulating, so new, and the summer lasted forever and smelled of sea and sand and innocence, and everyone was all tanned and beautiful and looked as if drenched in honey. My face was painted with freckles as big as copper coins, and there was a lot of gold in everyone’s hair and in the air, so much gold that even the moon seemed golden instead of silver. And we never slacked off on our training.
The competition was fierce. Everyone had to be the first, the bravest, the fastest, and the strongest. Every one of us wanted to be the best. I was the best sharpshooter—excuse the boast. I won a medal, and my name was mentioned in the newspapers as the only female competitor among hundreds of men. It was fantastic. My ego was inflated to the point of bursting. Everything seemed possible then, and I was going to live forever. And then suddenly and without warning, the summer was over, and so was the training course—and the fun. Even the sky and the sea seemed duller. I was made a Corporal and said good-bye to Danny Oren, solemnly, promising never to forget him, and yes, yes, of course I’d write. I’d write to everyone.
The next day, I boarded a bus heading to the desert city of Beer-Sheba, where I was to be stationed. My assignment was to train a group of young men, before they reached the age of eighteen and went into the service. The idea was that they w
ould be prepared when they joined the regular army and would save time in basic training. And so I was stationed in Beer-Sheba and assigned to work in a new village inhabited by Moroccan Jews and situated in the Arava desert, about five miles north of the city. I was briefed about the job by my new commanding officer, a small compact man in his early thirties, immaculately dressed, who even in the worst heat carried himself erect, as small people sometimes do in order to give an impression of being bigger than they actually are. Two days after I arrived in Beer-Sheba. he drove me to the village to meet the group of boys I was to train.
And in the jeep on the way to the village, I remember him watching me with a look I couldn’t quite fathom at the time. One minute his forehead would crease with worry, and he would shake his head. Then he would chuckle to himself and look as if he had remembered a joke he wouldn’t share with anybody. As we approached the village, he looked less amused and more apprehensive, and I felt nervous too. The mystery was soon over. We arrived at the village, which consisted only of a few wooden huts and some anemic-looking desert shrubbery. On one porch, a few old men were playing backgammon and drinking arak from filthy glasses. It was siesta time, so apart from them the place seemed deserted. But as I jumped off the jeep, I saw a group of young men standing by a water tower, yelling and laughing and shoving one another, looking like mental patients, escaped from an asylum.
Here they are, my commanding officer said. He approached the boys and told them to get in line, which they did reluctantly, grumbling. They were dirty and sloppy, their bodies exuding an overwhelming odor of sweat and garlic, and something else that I couldn’t identify just then—later I became familiar with the taste and smell of hashish. And when my commanding officer introduced me as Corporal Liat Erez, their new instructor, a sudden silence fell over the entire group, as if a machine gun had suddenly stopped firing. They stood gaping at me, uncomprehending, yet curious, with sort of a weird, black-browed amusement, as apes in a zoo gape at visitors. And I stood facing them not sure what to say, or how to handle the situation, because this wasn’t the army, and I couldn’t have expected to be obeyed by giving orders. I knew I had to gain their trust and make them like and respect me, but I felt utterly confused, as if I had lost myself in a blinding labyrinth and couldn’t find my way out. They were big and dark and rough-looking, in kind of a cocky, shabby way. I looked at my commanding officer for help, but he only shrugged as if to say, they’re all yours.