A Pigeon and a Boy

by Meir Shalev

  “Don’t you dare!” the Baby said, grabbing her wrist and wiping her hand vigorously on his chest. “We’ll make our child after the war. I’ll come home alive. We’ll make love in daylight, with our eyes wide open. We’ll see each other, we’ll be inside you, inside me.”

  “Kiss me,” she said. From where this ache in her belly? Who would roll this boulder from her breast?

  And when you’re pregnant, I’ll shell almonds for you so your milk will be white and the baby’s teeth will be, too.”

  He caressed her stomach; her breathing was ragged. “You touch me like that, too …” she said, and the Baby sprawled on top of her, his lips wandering between her nipples, her fingers guiding his, revealing, encircling the delight of her flesh, and she fell mute, then moaned, and her voice rose so that the Baby had to shush her. “Someone on the street will think something is happening to one of the animals in here …”

  “That wouldn’t be wrong,” the Girl said. They both stifled their laughter, and she silenced him, grew taut, released, keened, then whispered, “Next time. This war will end, you’ll come home, we’ll make love with our eyes open, you inside and around me and I around and inside you. We’ll hold hands and eyes and we’ll be one in the other.”

  “We’ll get family housing at my kibbutz,” the Baby said. “And we’ll have a child who goes barefoot and gets dirty in the mud.”

  The Girl did not respond.

  “Yes or no?” the Baby asked.

  She rose, and when she spread her legs over his body he could see her sex hovering in the darkness above him, puffed and grassy and soft, fair and dark at the same time. And the sight of her was so enticing and beautiful that he sat up and grabbed hold of her hips and placed his lips between her thighs and breathed and kissed and longed to wrap himself inside her and drench himself in her scent and her taste. Again he asked her, “Yes or no? Answer me.”

  She laughed. “Are you asking me or her?” Her body shook. “Stop …” she said, then asked him if he liked her smell, because the attendant in the storeroom had told her that there were boys who said nasty things about a girl’s scent.

  “The storeroom attendant? She’s an idiot! Your scent is wonderful,” the Baby said. “Now I’m not going to wash my face or hands until this war is over so that the scent will keep me alive and stay with me every breath I take. Lie down next to me a little while longer; I have to go soon.”

  She lay down beside him, his right arm under her neck, his left on her waist, his leg between hers, her thigh between his.

  “Yes or no?” the Baby asked. “You can’t send me off without an answer.”

  “Yes,” she said. “After the war you’ll come back, and yes and yes and yes and yes. Yes you and I will make a baby, and yes I love you, and yes I’m already missing you, and yes I will wait.”

  The darkness deepened. Night sounds from the zoo mingled with people sounds from the city Far off, a child cried. A horse whinnied at the paddock. A man’s shouts could be heard from the direction of Kiryat Meir. The zoo’s hyena laughed, and from a distance he was answered by drunken singing in English and the first howls of the jackals, which could be heard—in those days, as you told me—in every house in Tel Aviv

  For several minutes longer they lay there, entwined and silent, listening to the wind in the large sycamore trees and the hum of their own blood in their bodies. Then the Baby pulled away from her and said he had to get dressed, since in only a short while longer the commander would return on his motorcycle to take him back.

  “Give me a pigeon, the best one you have here.”

  She sat up, rolled him onto his back, leaned over him, and kissed him on the mouth. She pulled his clothes near and handed them to him, dressing herself as well.

  “I have a wonderful new Belgian pigeon; she finished the course with flying colors,” the Girl said. “But Dr. Laufer would never agree to let me give her to you. Not even you.”

  She reached out to one of the dozing pigeons and took hold of her. “She looks a little delicate, but she’s the best female in the country Last week she was dispatched from Hanita and was back home in two hours and five minutes.”

  “She’s the one I want.”

  And what am I supposed to tell Dr. Laufer? Homing pigeons don’t just up and disappear. Someone has to steal them and prevent them from returning home.”

  “That’s exactly what you’ll say Tell him I stole her, but promise him she’ll be home soon.”

  “You see this thin line? She’s a Belgian, but Dr. Laufer told me that this is a sign that her distant ancestors lived in the sultan’s pigeon lofts in Damascus. Take care of her. She really is a fine pigeon.”

  “It never stops being pleasant,” the Baby said, “exchanging pigeons with you. Giving you my pigeon and getting yours.”

  He stood up and put on his shirt and battle dress. “Can you believe it? There are couples who don’t exchange pigeons with each other, don’t send letters with them,” he said, placing the pigeon she had given him in his pocket. He gave the Girl a quick kiss. “Good-bye, my love. I have to run. See you soon.”

  Nothing in their embrace made her think this would be their final meeting. Nothing in his kiss told her that she would only ever touch him again in her dreams and imagination. His receding back, his footsteps approaching the gate of the zoo, his oversized battle dress — fairly ridiculous, enraging to tears—the finest pigeon in the country hidden in his pocket, his one hand holding her so that she would not be jostled as he ran, his other hand waving good-bye without turning his head—all these were reassurances that he would return.

  The animals had fallen silent, some in despair, others in sleep. The Baby passed the lions and the leopard and the bear, disappeared in the bend just before the turtle pens, and in the place he had been just a moment before the Girl could see the entire from-here-on: the two of them walking the path between buildings at the kibbutz. A child, his facial features as yet unknown but his feet definitely bare, is marching ahead of them, one foot still on the softness of the grass, the other already soiling the hardness of the cement sidewalk with mud, and both feet feeling how wonderful it is to be different from each other. Here is the house, we’re home, and here is the door, the key open the door for Father and Mother and let’s go inside. A chubby dimpled hand is on the knob. His eyes ask, Shall I push? Mother will say, “Hello, house. You say it, too.” And the house will answer as houses do: with a gentle movement of air, with a smell, with an echo, with a shelf of books, a picture on the wall, a bed, a billowing curtain.

  “See you soon,” the Girl called out into the darkness. From where this tear crawling down her cheek?

  Her right eye was the one—tearing, shutting, in its blindness telling fortunes that the brain did not know and the heart did not accept. It called out, “Don’t go!” and shouted, “No and no and no and no!” in the only way an eye knows to shout: by pooling, flooding, spilling over.

  3

  THE SOUND of the motorcycle could be heard, its light weak and groping. The commander told him, “Hold tight, and don’t fall asleep.”

  From Givat Brenner the Baby reached Rehovot, and from there he traveled to Hulda, where he fed and watered the pigeon he had received from the Girl; then he placed her in the dovecote and took her up to Jerusalem in the convoy. In two places they were fired upon. One of the fighters was wounded in the jaw by a bullet that entered through an embrasure. He fell to the metal floor, bellowing, choking on his blood. The Baby grabbed hold of the soldier’s gun and returned fire. How odd, he said in his heart: I am not afraid.

  Upon his return to the pigeon loft at Kiryat Anavim he reported to the operations officer, who told him, “You passed your baptism by fire. I hear you performed really well.” He gave him a pigeongram to dispatch to Tel Aviv. The Baby affixed a message capsule to one of the pigeons from the central loft and to her tail attached a quill in which he announced to the Girl: Yes her lover and her pigeon had arrived safely and no there is no way of knowin
g which of them will return to her first.

  The pigeon disappeared from his vision at the moment it appeared before the Girl. She unlaced and removed and wrote a response to her beloved: Yes I remember, yes please be careful, no I am no longer angry yes you and me. She placed it inside the quill, sealed it, attached it, and dispatched the pigeon. The pigeon that the Baby had brought her took off instantly, but the Girl’s hands, which after every dispatch remained stretched in the air for a moment, lowered immediately to her lips to stop their trembling. She kept her eyes on the pigeon until she appeared in his. A shiver passed through her; it seemed to her that she was breathing and swallowing his scent. Pain lacerated her gut. Her hands, as wild and independent as a thought, fell from her mouth and clasped her belly

  Chapter Fifteen

  1

  BEHEMOTH CUTS through the Valley of the Cross, passes by the English pillbox inexplicably painted red, and continues up the street. I try to peel away and dispose of the buildings that have been built here since that time and imagine the route the Baby and his comrades would have taken. A rocky slope, olive trees and stone terraces, a donkey trail that winds between small, cultivated plots of land. The fighters pass through, slightly stooped from the weight of their equipment and weapons, but swifter than the eye estimates and quieter than the ear imagines it can catch them. Their belts are in place and tightened, none is weary nor stumbles among them, their legs are already well trained and accustomed to moving at night among rocks and do not need the aid of their eyes to avoid tripping.

  On his shoulders the Baby carried his portable dovecote with three pigeons: a female that had only just been paired with a mate from the brigade headquarters loft; a large and irritable male from the Haganah loft in Jerusalem; and his beloved’s champion pigeon from Belgium and Tel Aviv The night and the load sorely limited his maneuverability, not only due to the weight and the darkness but also due to the awe and excitement, and the worry about the pigeons’ safety, and the need to consider carefully every step, every turn of the body. He had no experience with this walking, which to the others was their nightly bread. Several times he stumbled and once he nearly took a spill, but the fighter behind him stuck out a long, strong arm and grabbed hold of the frame of the dovecote, helping the Baby regain his footing.

  The plan was to continue walking without drawing attention and to crawl up to the monastery itself. However, soldiers of the Jordanian Arab Legion and Iraqi volunteers stationed in the area who had set up ambushes among the rocks opened heavy fire from different directions. There were many many wounded. The Baby was unfazed, just as he had been several days earlier when the convoy had come under fire on the way to Jerusalem. Still, the dovecote complicated matters and his inexperience slowed him down, so that when the order came to retreat he could barely keep up with his comrades as they hurried down the slope.

  The next day the fighters ascended once again to the very same destination. And once again they came under fire. But this time they were closer to the monastery, and they chose to storm instead of retreating. They lost their cover of darkness at once because someone threw a hand grenade and set fire to a barrel of kerosene no one knew was there. The building next to the monastery caught fire and flames lit up the whole area; still, the invaders managed to infiltrate the monastery through a tiny gate in its north wall and organize their defense. They pushed tables against the walls and piled chairs atop the tables in order to stand and shoot from the high, narrow windows of the chapel. The Baby, inexperienced in battle, supported one of the shooters from behind so that he would not fall backward from the blast of the gun.

  The monastery came under heavy fire from outside. Cries of the wounded could be heard. The Baby felt a tremor pass through the body of the man he was supporting. The fighter fell from the chair and rolled on top of the dovecote. The pigeons fluttered about in their prison. The wounded fighter bellowed. Feathers scattered. The Baby lifted the dovecote and rushed to find somewhere safe to put it, but then he ran into one of the platoon commanders, and this man rammed the Baby’s leg with the tip of his tommy gun and shouted, “Sit quietly somewhere or take up a position and start firing. The only thing we don’t need around here is you and your bloody pigeons.”

  More wounded men were screaming in pain. The Baby found the medic and asked if he needed help.

  “I need more bandages and more light,” the man said.

  The Baby found sheets and tablecloths and tore them into strips. Then he lined up candlesticks with long, holy tapers all around the area in which the medic was working. Outside, the gunfire was neither abating nor weakening. The monastery bell rang and hummed. The medic sighed. “People are dying,” he said, “but the bell? Every bullet brings it to life.”

  Sappers were sent up to the roof but were wounded one after another. The number of injured increased, and their wailing afflicted their comrades. The transmitter was hit and ceased to function and the Baby was certain that any time now he would be asked to dispatch a pigeon, but the platoon commander berated him again. “Are you still here? Look, I have a job for you. There’s a shed about a hundred feet from here. It’s a little hard to see in the dark, but it’s there. Go capture it.”

  “What do you mean, capture it? How?”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll send a few reinforcements after you. If we stage a counterattack, you people will cover us from there.”

  “And what about the pigeons?”

  “Pigeons? I couldn’t care less right now about any pigeons.”

  “I can’t leave them.”

  Suddenly, the platoon commander smiled. His smile was broad and evil, his teeth long. The Baby knew he had seen those teeth once but he could not recall where.

  “No problem,” the commander said. “Take your pigeons with you.”

  The Baby lifted the dovecote onto his back, tightened the shoulder straps, walked over to the doorway, and took a deep breath. Fear flooded his body but so did a pleasant feeling. The platoon commander peered out into the alley between the monastery and the lodgings and told him, “At the end of the alley there’s one of their armored vehicles. If you get by it, you’re safe. If not, we’ll meet up in hell.” He shoved him. “Now! I’m covering you. Run in a zigzag! Hurry!”

  The Baby dashed outside, stuck near the wall, and ran. He did not run in a zigzag, nor did he crouch; he ran in a straight line and to his surprise did not stumble or get hit. Even though he heard shooting he did not hear bullets whizzing around him like in the stories his friends told. He ran through a transparent tunnel of silence and safety known only to the newest of recruits and the most veteran of fighters, and felt the pleasant green warmth of his battle dress and the weight of the dovecote, which was no longer the nuisance it had been on the ascent to the monastery, providing balance for his back and energy for his feet and making his step lighter. In his heart he imagined that the pigeons on his back had spread their wings and he was flying and being carried on them.

  The door of the shed was locked. This was so distressing to him that it took him only one strong kick to break the thin metal bolt. He burst inside, removed the dovecote from his shoulders, and only then realized that his Sten gun was no longer with him. He did not know if it had fallen while he was running or if he had forgotten to take it with him when he left the monastery

  He placed the dovecote on the ground and sat down next to it. My body’s jiggling just like Miriam’s knee, he thought suddenly remembering that one night after he had been sent to the kibbutz he had risen from his bed and slipped out of the children’s house and lain down on the grass and looked up at the heavens to think about his mother, when all of a sudden he had felt something slide across his legs, and when he looked he saw a snake, one of the large vipers found in the Jordan Valley He did not budge, did not move in the slightest, but after the snake had disappeared he had begun to shake and his knees were so weak he could not stand up. That was how he felt now, but he was more experienced and knew that this tremor would slough off his fe
ar and quiet his heart.

  He sat there calming down, waiting, but no one followed after him, and no one staged a counterattack from the monastery, and no one was coming from the direction that the platoon commander had pointed to earlier. He waited. Time, which evaded every type of measurement at moments like these, passed anyhow He was afraid to return to the main building, and anyway the commander’s order had been clear: sit there and wait. His fatigue and his anxiety increased, and in spite of the noise and the fear and the heat of battle and perhaps even because of them, he fell asleep. When he awakened—with a start, terrorized, thinking, Where am I? Onto what dry land has this dream vomited me? Do they remember over there that I’m here? And what’s happening with them?—the eastern sky was already turning a pinkish gray, allowing the eyes to see around a bit. Details came into focus: walls of stone, a small and narrow room. Seedling trays, bags of manure, gardening tools—a hoe, a pitchfork— that told of better times. On the wall, the outline of a thin square of light, a tiny window hidden behind wooden shutters. He rose to his feet and opened the shutters and took a look around. The angle of his vision was too narrow, but his ears told him that the rhythm and the direction of the shooting had shifted. Again he pondered what he should do. Continue to wait? Take the dovecote and return to the monastery? And what if his luck did not hold out as it had when he’d made it there safely? And what if, God forbid, the pigeons were hit. The pigeons were important, maybe even more so than he himself

  Another round hit the monastery bell, the sound sharp and vexing. Another round pummeled the wall of the shed and made a sound like his uncle’s fingers galloping like horses on a table. A few days earlier, in the large convoy that had broken through to Jerusalem, the rat-a-tat of bullets on the armored truck had made an entirely different sound from those two. From his little window the Baby could see that there were many more dead and wounded of the enemy at the walls of the monastery He sat down again, stood again, sat, and stood. He peered out, saw a Palmach soldier ascend to the roof of the monastery and take a bullet in his leg. The Baby heard the shout. Someone—he was young and strapping—rushed over to rescue the wounded man, then returned to the roof and was torn in half by a mortar shell.