Three Weeks in October

by Yaël Dayan

  “What for?”

  I shrugged. She was right. It wasn’t her scene.

  “You are all too involved with something that means little to me. A destiny. It’s like masturbation. You analyze yourselves, you relive your history, you talk in big words of fate and identity and you dig into your collective souls every moment of the day. It may be heroic and commendable and noble. To me it’s just frightening, inhuman.”

  “If I remember right, that’s one of the reasons Avi left.”

  “It’s in him, too. He doesn’t talk much of heritage and sources, and he is less pompous about being chosen people. So he takes a Valium a day and acts like a regular boy, but his bearded ancestors with their sense of mission are trailing him hopelessly.”

  “And here, do you feel it here, in a home? Don’t you see we live a life, like anywhere else?”

  “Not really. The war is over so you celebrate, and it feels phony to me. You playact the happy family. Your mother wears a smile, your husband is away, and you can’t wait to go back to the hospital.”

  Maybe she was perceptive, maybe she was wrong. I wasn’t in the mood to argue a hopeless point.

  We drove to the ward. She was leaving in a couple of days, taking Karen with her. Avi’s parents would follow in a week, and Avi would make up his mind when he was ready.

  The major from Absentees was there waiting, a short jovial fellow, trying with harmless humor to balance the tragic job he had to cope with. He was holding a leather case that looked like a worn schoolbag, and I wondered how many shattered hopes were packed into it.

  His handshake was firm and warm. I thought of Julie’s description of our inhuman self-infatuation.

  The Professor was locked in his room. He didn’t want to go home, or see anybody, and we let him be.

  We walked to room 7, the quietest corner in the ward, and shut the door.

  He fumbled with the lock of his case and pulled out an envelope. We both glanced at the dying man as if we were going to deliver the news to him.

  “Not too much, but something. The landlady from Beer-Sheba delivered this. She looked at our photographs and said the build and size matched. Not much to go by. The man she claimed missing had been a tenant of hers for less than a year. She wasn’t sure about his job. He said his name was Arik Berkov. Paid rent promptly and was absent often. Until the war he never received mail, but on Yom Kippur he left in uniform and every few days a letter arrived for him. She knew his handwriting and figured he was writing to himself from somewhere. Then it stopped, and a few days ago she entered the room. She found this diary on the desk”—he pointed to a brown notebook—“and an envelope for her with a month’s rent. She wasn’t sure whether to report anything, for if he had no family, it would be only natural that he should stay wherever he was and not rush to her to report. She had a hunch, though, felt it was her duty, as she put it, and brought the papers to our southern office.”

  “Did you read it all?”

  “Yes. You will, too. We have no right, you know. He may show up tomorrow and claim we invaded his privacy. I have to go. We’ll talk after you’ve read it all. The real riddle is something else. I checked with the central computer of the army, then with ministry of interior. There isn’t an Arik Berkov registered anywhere. There isn’t a soldier by that name, nor a citizen. No identity papers were ever issued bearing this name.”

  He looked puzzled, like a schoolboy facing an impossible equation.

  “I’m not a detective,” I said. “I am bothered, curious, disturbed, but I don’t see how I can help. For all we know there is someone around who adopted a name for some convenience, and there is No. 7 here who may have nothing to do with Arik Berkov.”

  “There is something else. I asked the landlady some questions. She clearly remembers the Paul Valéry book. Once when she was tidying the room, he asked her about Monsieur Teste. He was very anxious not to lose it.”

  “Why would he go under a false name?”

  “It’s in the diary. Not the name he chose, but the motivation.”

  “Do you have other cases of unidentified persons?”

  “Not alive. One died in Hadassah Hospital in. Jerusalem. There are many missing in battle. There are no lists of prisoners yet from Syria or Egypt. There are unidentified corpses temporarily buried, of which we have photographs and fingerprints.”

  “What difference does it make?” I asked him, bitterly.

  “Whether we know who this fellow is, or let him die nameless?”

  “He is as good as dead. If by a miracle he lives, there is no enigma. If he dies, and it doesn’t affect any living person, why bother?”

  “Principle, I suppose. We can only think and act according to our own set of references. We value human life and the personality behind the name. A question of our own dignity, I suppose.”

  I thought of Julie’s verdict.

  “There is a girl here. An American. She says she can’t stand our preoccupation with ourselves. We give life an outsize dimension.”

  “The American army would have acted the same way. It’s also true that we don’t have an ‘Unknown Soldier’ monument.”

  “Don’t give me the ‘We are, after all, one small family’ bit.”

  “No. Perhaps she is right, but then, that’s the way it is. We are aggressive and dramatic about ourselves, and I don’t mind.”

  I thought of him going home in the evening. Wearing slippers and civilian clothes. I was sure he washed dishes wearing an apron and watered the flowers in the little garden.

  “Do you have children?”

  “Daughters. Three girls. One is in the army, North Headquarters. Considering my job, I secretly wonder whether I shouldn’t be grateful for having no sons in the army.”

  He smiled awkwardly, apologetic for what he just said. He knew I had two sons.

  “How is the husband?”

  “Down in Sinai. Helping gather the pieces, logistics of Beni’s division or something.”

  “We should get together one evening, when he is back. My wife bakes a good apple strudel.”

  We agreed to be in touch after I had read the diary and letters, and I saw him to his car. The Professor’s door was open now, but the room was empty.

  I managed to get the southern command operator through the hospital exchange. She connected me to Beni’s Headquarters. “It’s an overseas call,” she joked. “They are in Africa.” Two more operators and I had Beni on the line. He had the hoarse deep voice of a man who hasn’t slept for weeks. He also spoke very slowly, pronouncing each of the three syllables of my name separately and with a touch of surprise.

  “Thanks for letting Daniel join us. He is priceless.”

  “He didn’t exactly ask permission. How is he? How are you?”

  “Victorious. It’s also beautiful here, like a tropical resort. You should come and visit. Fresh dates are in season.” He talked as if he were on vacation on some exotic island.

  “Is Daniel around?”

  “Not this moment. I’ll have him call back, are you at home?”

  “No, in the hospital. He knows the number. Is he well?”

  “Putting on weight. Are you still beautiful and silent?”

  “Beautiful I never was. Silent? No more. Give my love.” We hadn’t seen each other much. He visited when Ofer was born, and called once in a while afterward.

  In the war in which Amnon was killed, Beni was commanding a brigade and Daniel was with him. I wondered whether this was his last war, and could almost see him under a palm tree in Africa, talking slowly and puffing on his pipe.

  For the next two hours I wasn’t able to get as much as a glance at the precious envelope the major left with me. The phone was ringing incessantly, a stream of visitors arrived, each staying a little while longer to discuss the cease-fire. An impatient mood prevailed in the ward, as if they were all going home the following day.

  I tried to avoid Avi. He was in the midst of a serious conflict, having to make a major decision.
My presence encouraged his cynicism, and what he had to figure out had to be done with honesty.

  Nadav had a visitor from O.R.T. He was offered a training course as an instructor in the technical school from which he had graduated. He wanted to share his pride. Sharing one emotion or another seemed to be my lot that night. As if they all sought the attention which was bound to dwindle in the next few days.

  After midnight the pace slowed. The patients were asleep and the visitors gone. I wanted to read the diary but the bell rang from one of the rooms. It was the “Arab Room.” I seldom went inside. Shula was asleep now and I decided to see if I could help.

  The military policeman at the door greeted me.

  “The colonel is in terrible pain. Perhaps you should call the doctor.”

  I went in. The night lamp threw dim light on the beds. The sergeant was asleep next to the window and the colonel’s face was twisted. He was suffering. He spoke a few words of English and tried to smile when he saw me. I said I’d call the doctor and he thanked me in Arabic.

  Most of the wounded prisoners were in a hospital apart, attached to ours but a few minutes away in a camp converted for the purpose. The severe cases which needed special treatments were in the regular wards, guarded and isolated.

  When they first arrived there was curiosity and animosity. When the war took a bad turn a few angry fists were pointed in the direction of the “Arab Room,” but there was no communication. The doctors did their job, devoted to human life regardless of origin, and the other patients were too involved with their own suffering. Occasionally a curious visitor wanted to enter, to see what the enemy was like, but they had to admit that these two patients were no different. Their condition was grave, and pity rather than compassion motivated the nurses who treated them.

  This room was merely another reminder of the futility of the fight. There they lay, one dying, next to their victims, all at the mercy of medical ingenuity and hoping to emerge alive and resume a life. They felt safe here. One day they would return home in exchange for our own prisoners. This little room was their world. They talked, listened to the radio, ate the food they were not used to, watched TV and wrote home. On my part there was no curiosity, no hatred, and no sympathy. I went to look for Leib, who hurried with a syringe.

  “I doubt whether he’ll live,” he said, “his kidneys are in bad shape. I may call Rothman later.”

  I wasn’t listening. It was too late to call Daniel, I thought, and wasn’t sure whether I really wanted to. He knew where to reach me if he cared to.

  I put the diary away to read later, and opened the letters. A person writing to himself. I couldn’t avoid thinking of him as unbalanced, perhaps mad. Maybe the whole thing had to do with a lunatic. Not too dumb, considering the Paul Valéry book, but truly disturbed.

  There were two letters. Dated the first two days of the war. The handwriting was ordinary, regular, easy to read. The lined paper was torn from a copybook. There was no opening or signature, just a brief acknowledgment of existence, like clues in mud at the end of a road.

  “Joined a new unit, most of the men are reservists. I don’t know anybody, and am unknown to them. We are being driven west, straight to the front line so the paperwork will be done later. Too bad winter started early this year, but we were issued warm socks and underwear. As usual, my fear of killing is stronger than that of being killed. The men are very noisy and nervous. It feels strange to operate in company rather than alone.”

  The second note was similar. The writing less orderly, as if written in haste and discomfort.

  “During the night we were shelled. We dug in and waited, advanced, shot some in the dark and found cover by daylight. We’ve seen armor divisions advancing and spreading but there seems to be little logic to the whole thing. I don’t know whether we are defending or attacking. The commander is awaiting orders and seems confused. I feel out of place but this may change with daylight when we know the score.”

  I felt desperately disappointed. If the diary was more of the same, there was very little to find out.

  Julie was curled in the armchair in the waiting room. Asleep. I covered her with a thin blanket and she awoke startled.

  “Oh, it’s you. Thanks.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “All the better. You saved me from the end of a terrible dream.”

  Reluctantly, I offered her coffee. I didn’t seek company and Julie’s young freshness enervated me—a touch of jealousy mixed with the memory of what I had been like with Amnon. Pretty and smart and competent, she found our pains and wounds “admirable” and our bravery “fascinating” and I felt clumsy and aged. I felt she was sensitive to my thoughts.

  “I have no business watching you all. That’s why I’m going tomorrow. Avi doesn’t need me and this place, at this time, is only for the contributors.”

  “You may come back, when things are different.”

  “Will they ever be?”

  “Sure. Two years after a war, a couple of years before a war, we are quite normal.”

  She was tense, perhaps merely tired.

  “It’s the ‘waiting’ mentality. You, Shula, your mother, all the women I met. You don’t live a life, you are waiting, vigilant, lingering.”

  “Are we? Waiting for what?”

  “Waiting for your men to go and waiting for them to return. First you waited for the fathers, hoping to reach adulthood with both parents alive, then you got married and waited for the husbands to do their turn and come back safely alive, or in one piece. Then the sons, watching them grow up, counting the years till they are eighteen and it’s their time to go and return, and by then other young women are also waiting for them and preparing to bear their children and wait for them. It’s like an emergency hospital where you all wait for the next red lamp above the door to the operation room and watch to see who is wheeled out alive and who is sacrificed in the process.”

  “And the in-betweens?”

  “In between there are reservists coming and going, accidents on maneuvers, graves to visit and widows and orphans to tend to. In between you knit warm socks for the next war and air the shelters, and listen to the news like maniacs. Those who dare leave the waiting room are ostracized. But you stick together best when danger is imminent and wonder who will be next on the casualty list. As if every woman is a potential widow and every child a potential orphan.”

  “You are leaving tomorrow,” I muttered. “I can’t even prove you wrong. Why should I bother? Invite you to take trips with us, see what joy we have in life, show you what was built and achieved and created, invite you to partake in our ordinary happiness and banal quarrels, prove our sanity? You are miles off target, and it’s not the time and place to tell you where to aim.”

  Leib was asleep on the bed next to the wall, or so I thought. He must have half-listened for he removed the blanket from his face and asked me.

  “Do you love your boys?”

  “What a question! More than anything in the world.”

  “And when you see other mothers’ boys burnt and maimed in this ward, doesn’t it bother you? Don’t you just want to take yours away from here, and escape somewhere where they’ll be safe?”

  “You must be joking. Escape where? To the Fiji Islands to play with glass beads and eat bananas? To Manhattan to worry about them whenever they take the subway? To Europe where between the art treasures and the culture and the dreadful climate they’ll be reminded of their being Jewish occasionally, as if it were leprosy, mostly cured, but still present in blood tests? I love my boys, and I love Daniel, and because of my love I am here. And because of our love we have to fight occasionally, and this too will have an end.”

  This abstract conversation was leading nowhere. We were all exaggerating, trying to be articulate. I claimed I had some work to do, and Julie and Leib continued to talk as I left the room.

  I walked among the beds to the pale light from outside. Another dawn. My last one in the ward. If ther
e was another war, I was going to stay home. I needed the children, even if they managed well without me. There will always be enough volunteers making beds and holding hands. So for me it was the last war. I smiled to myself, remembering Daniel’s saying, “Maturity is to know when you are superfluous!” He said it referring to himself, and yet he was with Beni, across the Suez Canal, and I was in Ward L, and at times like this we should have both been home clutching each other.

  I said good-bye to Julie. She moved to kiss me but I extended my hand and we left it at that. Leib was staying. “No, not forever,” he said. Just until he felt his services were no longer required. When the medical staff in the field returned to their regular posts, he would resume his.

  We both avoided saying, “Until the next time.”

  I told Avi and Nadav not to expect me that night, doubting that anyone did, and took the brown envelope home with me.

  The children were just ready to leave for school. “Did I love them?” Leib had asked. Was he suggesting I didn’t? Did I do them wrong by taking hospital duty? It wasn’t really relevant. Here they were, both my sons, a part of me, and we had a long way to share. Whatever they missed now, I could make up for later. They would grow to understand that love isn’t measured by the number of hours spent together. When Daniel is back, we should talk about a third child. He knew how much I wanted a daughter.

  My mother was packing her things into a large canvas bag, folding each item carefully into plastic bags.

  “Julie,” she said. “Avi’s wife.”

  “What about her?”

  “Is she as clever as she is pretty?”

  “I suppose so. Well trained in overanalyzing. Things she encounters should have meanings, and the meaning should mean something additional, and so forth. It can become exhausting.”

  “A result of leisure coupled with high education.”

  Mother left, saying something about hoping I’d manage on my own as her own duties had been neglected. I felt quite good being alone in my own home. She returned to her two-room apartment. She had no maid (Am I too old to wash eighty square meters of tiled floor?) and seldom went out in the evening (Nothing better than a good book). Was she, too, a waiting woman? Was it now the son-in-law she was waiting for—her own son back on the Golan Heights because he liked it better than her fastidious company—or was she already watching my sons grow, wondering when their turn would come? Julie’s speech was a mind-twister. Somewhere between heart and guts I had to agree with her, but my answer came all from the head. Still, I didn’t think of my sons as future soldiers or potential casualties.