by Dayan, Yaël
“The regiment marches to target
and the rear sends it a ‘shalom,’
Words like ‘freedom’ and ‘homeland’
never cease to be reborn.”
—GAMZU
But life goes on, and the movie critic writes a review, art exhibitions in the galleries, an article on Pasternak. The evening sandstorm made reading difficult and I watched with jealousy those who received letters. Their faces were relaxed, smiling, a tear in eyes. They were in another world, the baby was gaming weight, little Ruthy sent a drawing, the girl friend writes, “I know you’ll win and be back, but take care.” A mother worries about the cold and shortage of water. A friend from another front describes the prewar days. Never were letters reread so often, folded like treasures and placed so carefully in the shirt pocket close to the heart.
Arik was preparing for an evening officers’ meeting and I got permission to use the jeep and visit one of the units. Katz went along, and we were stopped twice for the password which we didn’t know. We arrived at a small forest where the reconnaissance patrol men were sitting around a bonfire. When they had brought the dead that morning they told me they’d got some coffee and here it was, in a large can, sending waves of missed aroma. Coffee was not included in the rations and we had been drinking tea, which is a drink better suited to desert heat. Still, the coffee now added to the end-of-war feeling and we chatted for a couple of hours. The argument was a simple one—is the Egyptian soldier basically bad, or is it his officer, his training, his background? “Give Arik a division of Arab soldiers, and let him keep his own officers—they will be as good fighters as we are,” was one opinion. The others claimed that “even if I never had training, and faced a fierce enemy, and had no commander, I’d fight the same way I do now. With less skill, perhaps, but as much devotion.” They were quite shocked and almost moved by the cowardice they had met in the enemy. “If you knew you were bound to lose and be killed, would you still fight?” I asked. Some said yes, others said they would surrender but behave differently when prisoners. I felt as though I were watching a trial, judging the qualities of the enemy, and I had to half-smile when it was obvious that these boys almost wished they had a better enemy, of a quality they could understand. While we were talking a shot was fired in our direction. The bullet whistled above our heads and was lost in the dark. “Put off the fire,” the captain said and sent four soldiers to search in the direction from which the shot was fired. It was late and they, too, were tired, and a few moments later we parted. Driving through the sleeping camp, I thought how exposed our concentration was.
The officers’ meeting was just over and Motke asked me to join the armor officers the following evening for dinner. Someone said, “Shabat shalom,” reminding us it was Friday night. A week earlier I was at home packing, an eternity ago.
*“Abu-Ageila” and “Um-Katef” refer to the same defended locality, Abu-Ageila being a small settlement on the crossroad defended by Um-Katef.
The Days After
On Saturday the battle with Syria continued. Friday night the outposts on the slopes were taken after hard battles, and Saturday our forces were advancing to Kuneitra on the road to Damascus. With the frustration of “we should have been in Cairo now” soldiers hoped our forces would enter Damascus. The radio announced “our forces are along the line Mas’ada–Kuneitra–Butmiya, some 20 kilometers east of the frontier. The removal of the Syrians east of this line prevents them from shelling villages in Israel.”
This meant no Israeli settlement was now within range of an Arab enemy. Excluding the Lebanese–Israeli frontier. We were out of K-rations and I was promised supplies by lunch-time when Dov surprised me with the “gift of the war.” We are going for a drive, he said. I mounted the jeep, as he suggested—took a towel and a change of clothes. “Are we going for a swim in the Suez?” I asked. Not quite. He drove a few miles behind low hills and produced from the back of the car a jerican of water. “Here, you can shower.” He turned away from me to watch and inspect underground ammunition stores that we saw on our way here, and I improvised a shower by, once undressed, propping the container tilted so as to have a steady flow of water. It was a strange sight, a naked woman in the middle of the Sinai; saving on water but making sure the soap and fluid reached every bit of skin. I realized how filthy the clothes were. The sun had turned my forearms, face, and neck black, leaving the rest of the body pale and sickly. “You’d better hurry,” Dov said. On the slopes in the distance our patrols were looking for thirsty prisoners and no site really felt empty and isolated. Every bush could hide a hungry Egyptian, every trench a corpse. I put on clean clothes—a very becoming thing to do on Saturday. Dov said, “To quote your uncle Eizer (Gen. Eizer Weitzman), who was quoting an English lady: ‘When an Arab is dirty, he’s picturesque, but when a Jew is dirty, he’s a dirty Jew.’ So better try to stay clean now.”
I couldn’t believe my eyes when we returned and entered the kitchen tent. Not only had we received K-rations but a great variety of fresh supplies. I couldn’t resist the bread and cut a slice. The taste of bread after a week of hard crackers! I also ran out of improvizations on K-rations. A box of rations enabled me to make meat with peas, peas with corn, corn with meat, meat with corn and peas, beans with any of the above, fried sausage meat, sardines with cucumbers, sardines with olives, and cucumbers, and all those were done and served—hot and cold—always extracting from Arik an exclamation and a compliment. “How did you cook this wonderful stew?” he would ask facing again the meat-peas-and-corn combination heated in the empty chocolate box. Now I felt queenly. Eggs, tomato, onion, green peppers, fresh rations—by now a different variety, as the army had run out on the supplies, and food factories threw in new types of canned food—and bread. With sunset I went to Motke’s trailer, meaning to be back in time to cook a good and different dinner.
When I entered the armored brigade camp it was with a feeling of a return to a familiar site. Tolstoi’s War and Peace came alive, books on nineteenth-century battles, Russian armies in fields of snow. Groups of people cuddled around bonfires, and singing was heard, nostalgic and moving from behind tanks and half-tracks. Soldiers were asleep under blankets, while others served food in mess tins, and through the thin clouds emerged a new baby moon, thin like a razor’s edge, perfect and hopeful.
Motke took me to a large tent where his officers were assembled. On camp beds salad was served in helmets and slices of bread were passed. A supply of cold soft drinks arrived, and chocolate-coated biscuits found in an Egyptian store added to the feast. A bottle of cognac changed hands. I was seated between Sason and Motke. Motke got up to speak. He did not mourn the dead, he praised the living. He counted acts of heroism—wounded tankists refusing to leave their tanks, soldiers taking command once a commander was killed, tanks breaking through minefields to open the route for the others. He talked about Jerusalem, about Gaza and the Canal, the Syrian heights. He thanked his rear echelons, the cooks and the mechanics, the drivers and the morale officers. “Let’s sing now!” he said, and in an unexpectedly beautiful voice started singing the hymn of the armored brigades. Other songs followed—the songs of the war. As if nothing happened in between, soldiers sang the 1948 songs and the 1956 ones. Revived were Palmach songs and Sinai songs and added to them “Jerusalem of Gold,” and this week’s songs, already popular—a song to the Daughter Michal, a love song to the White Desert, a letter home, at home all is well. All the songs mentioned home, most of them were sentimental, all of them were written with love—to the light of Jerusalem, the whiteness of the Sinai, the snows of Mount Chermon, and the heights of Golan. Dov came to fetch me and back in the tent I could enjoy preparing dinner. Cutting fresh vegetables instead of opening a can seemed miraculous, the smell of eggs being fried, coffee, meat with white beans. I cooked for ten. We were only five but the food disappeared instantly. Arik suggested that Dov go north to take care of some things at the Southern command, and I decided to join him. The division was movi
ng northwest to Bir-Gafgafa and we planned to rejoin it there three days later.
Late on Sunday morning we left Nahel. Two patrol jeeps accompanied us part of the way. It was still unadvisable to drive alone in this area, as wandering Egyptians were likely to shoot—for water rather than patriotism. I didn’t feel well. Suddenly, the wind blowing in my face was disturbing rather than pleasant, the dust became dirt, the scenery monotonous. My sunglasses didn’t function well and the fatigue of a week started expressing itself. Every mile to the north meant a return to a world by now unfamiliar, and phenomena which before were tolerated with joy for a cause now had no additional dimension. We stopped in Bir-Hasana, hoping to find some water—a change from the Nahel water. There was none but we were directed to the doctors’ hut and were given some distilled water from a container. Bir-Hasana boasted the largest camp of flies in the Sinai, and burned vehicles and corpses didn’t exactly contribute to their extermination. The patrol left us there, and I envied them returning to the atmosphere I regarded as home. We were approaching Gebel-Libni, one of our headquarters in the Sinai. A funny feeling to knock on a door, enter a house, be met by secretaries who are clean and whose skirts are pressed. I collapsed into an armchair, was offered coffee in a real cup, sugar served in a bowl. I felt clumsy. An officer entered and looked at me. Dov was in one of the rooms expressing the needs of the division and I felt exposed. The officer grinned. “What are you looking so militant for?” Show off! I snapped. My boots were covered with layers of dust, my baggy trousers were fastened to my waist by a large belt still holding the canteen and knife. My hair was a mess, and the sleeves of my shirt cut off. I walked out and waited in the jeep. Dov understood when I said “Let’s get out of here.” It was my first contact with the rear, and we were still a long way away from the rear. The road from Gebel-Libni to El-Arish was a long cemetery of unburied dead. Lined along the sand-covered asphalt were hundreds of corpses. However fast we drove we couldn’t escape the smell. Flesh rotting in the desert heat, reaching our nostrils through squares of cloth we tied around our faces, reaching creepily our skin and attaching itself—for good, it seemed—to the folds of our uniform, to the roots of the hair, under the nails, along the tanned exposed arms. The smells and the sights … folded over, legless, crushed, as if asleep peacefully, faces in the sand, faces to the sky—no painter’s brush could draw the variety of positions into which had frozen those miserable soldiers. They had no identity tags, they were to have a burial where they were, and for the first time—just because I was going home to see my mother—I thought of the agony of mothers whose sons lay unidentified here, who will have to realize one day that absence means death; the agony of children who cannot even be comforted by the thought that their father died fighting for national survival, for their own protection, in their defense, courageously. Trucks and guns, and tanks, armored cars and jeeps and more tanks, an endless dead convoy of defeat. We reached El-Arish. The purifying sight of the blue of the sea—how I longed for it. The waves that wash away, the cool breeze, the wet grains of sand. “I told you you’d reach a sea,” Dov said. I was grateful. We drove to the brigade commander’s quarters and to my great surprise the dark smiling face of Kuti appeared. He was still holding his white stick—a map pointer, and this time, without being asked, I produced the arrowhead, as if it were a password to warriors’ friendship. He showed us upstairs. Red-velvet upholstered armchairs and sofa, a glass-covered desk, a palace of Arab luxury. “My predecessor’s office.” He smiled. Siman-Tov brought us fried eggs and salad and Kuti described the house-to-house clearing that his brigade was engaged in here. “I have something for you,” he said, and gave me a small medal in a special box. There were many in the cupboard, given as gifts to visitors. It was of metal and had an impression of the Sinai on it with the inscription “Sinai—a land of victory” in Arabic. “Most appropriate,” he said, “and something for your father!” In the corner of the room a large Roman jar was covered with a blanket. “I had no time to look around yet,” he apologized, “but he may like this one.”
We exchanged the combat jeep with its mounted machine gun for a Lark and promised to be back in a couple of days.
We loaded the heavy jar onto the back seat and with sunset were on our way. The palm trees of El-Arish, the most beautiful dates I’ve ever seen, caught the sun in spiderwebs and let it slide through them. When darkness took over, we were nearing Gaza, and although we were spared the sight of bodies the smell clung to the air hopelessly. We by-passed the city of Gaza and a few moments later, suddenly, without a warning or a sign, we were back home. We had crossed the border, we had returned to Israel. The yellow and gray changed into green illuminated by the headlights of the car, and the smell of corpses which by now was a psychological leftover was overcome by the fresh, new aroma of green plants, tilled earth, cut clover, eucalyptus trees. Songs on the radio, news broadcast—Russia severed diplomatic relations with Israel, so did other Eastern countries. Security Council debate. I wasn’t listening. Somehow it didn’t connect. The flies of Bir-Hasana, Jud’s night worrying about the infusions, the patrol’s last dead, Arik’s handsome face—at times worried, at times superior and happy—and diplomatic meetings in New York, in Moscow, in Washington, and Paris. “We’ll return soon,” I stated. “Of course,” Dov said, and put his hand on mine. He must have felt the same. We drove on and just before Tel-Aviv stopped at a red traffic light. I burst into laughter. Traffic light! We were definitely back now. In the midst of square rules, speed limits, people on terraces, traffic lights, income tax, peace, the rear. And Zahala, my parents’ house. Dov came in for a moment. I kissed my mother and brother and was left alone with them. My father was out, and somehow I found sufficient energy in me to make it to the hot bath and wash my hair. Above all I felt guilt. Here I was, eating eggs on toast and a roast, sleeping in my own bed, and wearing a nightgown.
In Nahel, Rachamim was cursing the wind and Arik slept on the wooden bench. I felt guilty the minute I was clean, the food stuck in my throat, and I dreamed of infantry battles in the ditches. As early as I dared I woke up Dov. “Please let’s go from here. You have to see Jerusalem first. I do, anyway.” Before we left I talked to my mother and a few friends. How I feared these first talks. “Did you hear about Miriam’s son?” “You didn’t know Yossi was killed?” “How is Mussa?” “Didn’t you know?” Did I want to know? The soldiers in the family—cousins, my brothers, relatives were all well. A good friend of mine, a reservist, was believed lost. He was a brilliant lawyer, an armor man, a neighbor in Zahala. We had campaigned together during the last elections. Fragments of memories started pushing their way up to the surface and I pushed back, locked up a door, and refused to believe. He was not gone, I decided, it was a horrible mistake, of course he’ll be back.
We went to Jerusalem. A road so well known and always loved anew, a road along which I used to point out to visitors the border stones, the signs saying, Beware, frontier. This time it felt like a pilgrimage. A first trip to the united city, the city of David, Jerusalem of golden dreams now reachable. I thought of Kuti, who wanted never to find his giant white arrowhead. Did we find our Jerusalem? Do dreams fulfilled produce new ones? We drove past what used to be no-man’s land and parked next to the wall facing one of the gates. I think Dov was talking, telling me 1948 war stories—he fought on the Jerusalem front and knew every stone and alley. I wasn’t listening. I wasn’t even looking. Jaffa gate, Shechem gate, flowers’ gate, the Lions’ gate, the Temple Mount, the Wall. I was almost surprised to find that “The Wailing Wall” was a real wall. Somehow I expected it to be an abstract container of tears, prayers of generations floating in midair, a tune of music hovering over a marked spot. But the wall was a wall, grey with age and smooth with touch, flowers sprouting from its cracks. There were shapes and real beauty of carved stones and colors and arches. I didn’t notice reality and all I knew was one big abstract emotion of, “We are here. In the old city of Jerusalem.”
I looked at
faces and didn’t see them. I looked at road signs and couldn’t read. My fingers shyly felt the smooth old stones and didn’t sense it. It was beyond words, beyond sensations, beyond me and Dov and the armed soldiers who walked amazed in the alleys. We drove to Jericho, the Dead Sea, Kalia. Childhood memories, refugees crossing the bridge to return to Jordan. Jericho grapes and red flame trees, the main square, the shut doors, soldiers resting. I refused to digest it. It was too early. It was not quite going abroad on a sight-seeing tour, neither was it a familiar home revisited. It lay between the curiosities and excitement, between Joshua and the Security Council decision, and I couldn’t take it in. I wanted to return to the Sinai. We drove on to Bethlehem, the Church of the Nativity, the market, souvenir shops. My nervousness grew. Yesterday there were blood and fear and pride and victory. Today were the visitors from the rear shopping for camels carved in wood, poking their noses into courtyards of private dwellings, exclaiming at the low prices, pushing, sweating, collecting impressions and goods as if they deserved them. I struggled between shame and acceptance. It was normal, it was natural, but somehow not yet the time. I would have liked it all locked up for a while, quiet and respected, to have been given the chance to resume slowly a pace of normal life and only gradually introduce to it the seekers of half-priced vegetables and embroidery. Here the magic was gone. I entered the tomb of Rachel. I was pushed in to find myself crowded among orthodox men dressed in black praying and thanking and pleading—their names scribbled coarsely over the whitewashed walls. They were thanking God, and I was thanking the Yorams and the Uris, and I struggled out. Please let’s go somewhere, anywhere quiet. We drove up the road to Mount Scopus, and Old Jerusalem lay below us like a gift. Holy and mysterious, walled in and expanding out, merging with the hills and reflecting the setting sun. It was Dov’s city, and now I loved it. Like that, from above, in the silence of the hills of Judea with the complete inability to conceive of what happened. On the way back Dov asked me to marry him. I don’t think I answered then. I was too full of questions to be able to answer anything.