Three Weeks in October

by Yaël Dayan

  “His mother would love this.”

  “Your mother wouldn’t like it any other way.”

  I explained to them the route we were going to take, through the back door, across an alley and into the backyard of the next corner building.

  Below, the men were getting ready. Checking arms and ammunition, lacing shoes and putting on shirts. Oren checked the stretchers, they were heavy but safe.

  “If we are lucky we’ll get a couple of light ones from one of the stuck halftracks.”

  Two of the wounded practiced walking, clenching fists in pain. I signaled to the two men in front. They came in, drank some water, and listened to my last orders. One of them would leave first. “He will go to the other house and back, make sure the path is clear. Then we’ll leave with the casualties. The stretchers with the doctor, and myself with those who can walk with support. The boys from the roof will follow.”

  It was growing darker, and we had to get our bearings before complete nightfall. We were now at the back entrance, facing an inner yard.

  “Hold your fire, whatever happens, and good luck,” I said. The scout left us, quick and wiry, and disappeared behind the outer wall. I looked at my watch and timed him. The next ten minutes lingered like an hour. The wounded were uncomfortable and the others nervous, each one wrapped in thoughts or hopes, separate worlds thrown together into a backyard of a Suez apartment building. I felt paternal. I wasn’t worried, the odds were for us, and I’d been through tougher moments. So had they, but the futility of the whole operation and the last few hours left them at the edge of their patience. I looked at the burnt man. The bandages covered his face but his dry lips were moving. It crossed my mind that I could now grasp Amalia’s resentment of being touched. I looked at my watch, five minutes passed. He should be on his way back already. Did they think of women? I knew preoccupation of men with sex in battle to be a fallacy. We thought of women as the clean, almost ethereal entity representing everything that was not battlelike. We thought of their voice, eyes, soft hair, of dresses with frills, or dressing gowns or bathing suits and small feet in sandals. We were too tired to want to jump into bed, we wanted to be caressed and fondled and put to sleep.

  In the silence we could hear fast footsteps. Automatically I directed my gun, but our own soldier appeared, breathing heavily.

  “It’s clear. But we have to hurry. The others are ready to leave. There is an Egyptian post to cross and half a mile to walk. The medics and two vehicles are waiting for us at the intersection. The paratroopers have their own wounded and two dead and can’t give us a hand but their radio is working and they have some morphine and an empty stretcher.”

  The doctor adjusted the infusion bags, the last he had, and the first group was on its way following the boy who had just returned.

  I made the soldier with the leg wound lean on me.

  “I can try and hop on one leg,” he whispered.

  “Save your energy for later. You may need it.” He had a stick to lean on and we started on our way. His name was Haim. He was thin and we managed well, but he was concerned.

  “I’m slowing you down.”

  “Shut up. You are lighter than a bazooka or a stretcher.”

  Oren said, “They may save the leg if we get there on time.” I hushed him. I could hear behind me the footsteps of the men from the roof.

  The paratroopers were waiting. Their commander was on a stretcher. He had lost a lot of blood but refused morphine and kept the morale of his men high and almost humorous all along.

  We decided to move in groups of two or three. Three men would lead and cover from the front. The wounded were to follow, and I would cover with three men from the back. There were enemy soldiers on the second floor of the next building. We could hear them talking but they behaved as if the show were over. There was an alley to cross and a long street to follow. We figured it might take us up to two hours to reach our forces.

  The first three left, swift like alley cats, and the others began to move. Haim stayed with me and awaited our turn.

  In front of us two injured soldiers were supporting each other. They had minor injuries but were weak and slow. I waited for them to disappear behind the corner and Haim leaned on his cane ready to go. He was very pale, as far as I could judge in the dark, and his pain increased as he hopped along. The blood stained the bandages and the temporary cast.

  “I feel faint,” he said. “I think you’d better leave me here.”

  I felt the weight of his body growing heavier, and stopped. Two hundred yards to cross into relative safety. We were now within range of the Egyptian post. I could see their cigarettes being lit and hear them. The men in front made it to the long alley which seemed empty. The redhead and his friend carrying the corpse caught up with us.

  There were four of us. And a dead man. Haim was holding back sighs of pain.

  I untied the dead man and laid Haim on the stretcher. The two others lifted him and I motioned them to go on as quickly as they could. “Don’t wait for me. Get him to the doctors fast. I’ll make it, and don’t worry, I’ll bring him along.”

  “Him” was wrapped in a blanket. I lifted the body on my back but it slid back and fell with a thump on some broken glass. The noise attracted the Egyptians and one of them looked through the window. I lay down next to the corpse and held my breath.

  The Egyptian said something to his friends, they laughed and very casually he pressed the trigger sending what seemed to be the longest burst of machine-gun fire in our direction.

  I could have shot him dead. He didn’t see me but his silhouette was clearly framed in the window. He was within my range and my finger was on the trigger. It was obvious that he wasn’t aiming. He didn’t see us and probably thought the noise was made by a stray dog or cat. Shooting would have been stupid and I controlled myself. He joined his friends, laughing, and I felt the warm wetness of blood spreading between my chest and my shirt.

  I had to get out of there before I could find out where I was hit, and if I was losing blood—before I lost too much. Still lying on my belly, I loaded the corpse on my back so his head was resting on my shoulder. I half-rose and on tiptoes, now feeling a throbbing pain somewhere along the shoulder blade, ran along two buildings, crossed the alley and half-collapsed in the narrow street which stretched far and empty, north into the intersection where someone perhaps waited for me.

  I sat there for a few minutes. My left hand was in pain and useless and I unbuttoned my shirt, feeling for the wound. The bullet hole was in my left shoulder. Above the heart, above the lung, but bleeding and painful. I had no bandage and didn’t manage to take my shirt off. I dug into the pockets of the dead soldier. I found a roll of flannel, used for cleaning guns. I pressed it hard against the wound which increased the pain, occupied my free hand and didn’t entirely stop the bleeding.

  “Silly idiot,” I said to myself, and almost managed a smile. “What a way to die.”

  I wasn’t dying and didn’t think of death as more than a remote possibility. I checked the hand grenade that was tucked in my belt, an instinctive if slightly melodramatic reaction to the thought of being taken prisoner.

  My head felt heavy then very light when I heard footsteps. The redhead was coming toward me, followed by the doctor.

  “It’s nothing, just a scratch,” I managed to whisper.

  “Don’t worry. They are only five minutes away. We heard the shots.”

  They had a stretcher with them and Oren examined me quickly, adjusting the flannel roll I was holding and tying it with a wide bandage.

  “The bullet you’ll take with you to the hospital,” he said.

  They put the dead soldier on the stretcher and helped me on top of him. The load didn’t seem to bother them. As if we were two feather blankets they lifted us up, silently and efficiently, and carried us along the alley into a halftrack which started moving instantly. I must have had my eyes shut for when I opened them Oren was injecting my arm and David’s irregular feat
ures were somehow floating not far from my face.

  “So you lost a Phoenix and got yourself a bloody hole in the chest. I thought we had an understanding, something about turning back. I waited for you, son.”

  Whatever had been injected into me had resulted in less pain, drowsiness and a certain lightheartedness. I was almost happy.

  “Where are we?”

  “On our way to Faid airport. They’ll bandage you properly and send you to a decent hospital.”

  “His real name was Eric. Eric Berkov.”

  “Screw him. The kids here say you are quite a guy. Cool, they say. Next time you join me on the first day.”

  “They weren’t so bad themselves and there won’t be a next time.”

  “So you say. I talked to your wife. I promised her we’d get you to the central hospital. She is waiting for you. Beni will see you in Faid.”

  “Come now. Don’t give me a hero’s funeral. Is the ceasefire effective?”

  “Yes, and the bargaining may begin. We don’t have the city, but the 3rd Army is isolated and thirsty and we have dug into this chunk of Africa where it hurts.”

  “How many casualties yesterday?”

  “Too many. Rest calm now or Oren will transfer me to another car.”

  I shut my eyes and felt David’s hand on my right hand. An unaccountable wave of human warmth engulfed me with his touch.

  I vaguely remember being lifted again, bandaged and cleaned. There was a mixture of anxiety and matter-of-fact medical statements in the voices in the background. I could hear the chopper’s engine start and I woke up with takeoff and another injection.

  “You schmuck,” Beni said. “I have to take you home on a stretcher, just great.”

  “It’s nothing. How is Haim?”

  I couldn’t hear his answer for the noise, but I gathered he didn’t know who I was talking about.

  “Amalia called. I stalled her the first night, said you were listing tanks in the field. She said something about a Berkov. Someone you know.”

  I heard the name and tried to lift my head. “What about Berkov? I can’t hear you.”

  He raised his voice and came closer.

  “It doesn’t matter now. He is dead. Died in the hospital. She said he was there a while, unidentified or something. Later, I thought this was the fellow you were looking for. Gideon confirmed it, but it was too late to get to you.”

  “It makes no difference. I had to stay there anyway. What time is it?”

  “Not midnight yet. I’ll get off in Refidim, you are in good hands now and I’ll come and visit you. Kiss Amalia for me, she is quite a girl.”

  We landed and he got off into the, dimly lit camp. A few people climbed into the helicopter. The engines were running all the time and I fell asleep as we took off again.

  I woke up as we were landing. Amalia’s face filled the frame of my mind. Her small features and bright eyes, soft hair and knowing, slightly worried smile.

  I’m home, I felt, from the longest short voyage, please hold me.

  The wind blew in as the door was lowered. There were people and hands and white aprons and in their midst was Amalia, my wife, my love.

  BOOK THREE

  AMALIA

  CHAPTER

  13

  I was restless and couldn’t sleep. For a good reason. The radio news reported renewed fighting in Africa, without being specific. I failed to get Beni’s Headquarters on the phone, and when I did reach him, long past midnight, I was really worried.

  Daniel wasn’t with him.

  “He is in the field, spending the night with a tank battalion.”

  “But I hear the battle is still on.”

  “Just clearing up resistance pockets.”

  “Beni, tell me the truth.”

  He was embarrassed for me. I talked as if my husband were the only man in the front line. What’s more, I was indirectly accusing him.

  “Listen now. The name of the game is war. Daniel knows the rules and isn’t a newcomer, even if he did join only today. As far as I know, you don’t have to worry more than the next wife or mother, so get a good night’s sleep and take care of the children, and bake a cake when he returns.” I tried to calm down. He was right, of course, and I felt selfish and spoiled.

  “Tell him Arik Berkov is dead. I think he knew him. Tell him he was our unidentified patient.”

  “When I see him.”

  “Tell him I love him. Take care, you too.”

  His good-night was warm and reassuring. I opened the shutters and the pale light of dawn streamed in reluctantly.

  I began to grasp the courage of what Julie referred to as the waiting women. What if he had left at the beginning? How could they stand the uncertainty, their ignorance of what was happening, the wild fears of the worst? I didn’t want to think. I walked into the kitchen and prepared coffee and breakfast, and with a cup in my hand sat on Ofer’s bed.

  There was a battle on, and Daniel was there. There were bullets that pierced lungs, and shells that left men amputated or dead. There were missiles that burned tanks and sent Avi and Nadav and Arik and others to Ward L, and now it wasn’t happening to somebody else with me as a sympathetic observer. It was happening to me and my children, on this last day of the war, after the cease-fire had been declared.

  It was chilly in the room. I adjusted the blankets and touched the heads of my boys.

  Right now, this minute, he could be hit. How could other wives take it? Did they sit like this, minute by minute for eighteen days and nights, waiting for the phone to ring or for someone to arrive, smiling at the children and keeping themselves busy in the kitchen?

  I wished I could pray. Explain to someone up there that we are just at the beginning of something, still searching. That it can’t be severed here because we have a long way to go together.

  Rani mumbled something in his sleep. I held his soft limp hand and he responded with a smile.

  Suppose the phone rings, I thought and shivered. Would I have the strength to answer it?

  They don’t announce death by phone, I said to myself. They come to the door, with a doctor and tranquilizers and an officer in uniform brings the news. They ask you to sit down so if you don’t know what brought them to your door …

  A widow and two orphans. “War widow.” As if it made a difference. As if terminal cancer or a fatal road accident were less welcome than a sophisticated Egyptian missile. I knew women who had lost their husbands in the War of Independence. “Their death gave us life,” they were told. They remarried, but went to the cemetery on Memorial Day. A second cousin of mine lost her husband in the Six Day War. She didn’t come to my wedding because she was mourning her dead and her baby son grew up without a father. In her home there were photographs of her husband everywhere, books and objects he liked became exhibits. The house was like a small shrine to his memory, and so was her life. I paid her a cordial visit once, then again, and no more. Recently someone told me she was thinking of remarrying. In a country of war, young widows are not a scarce sight, which doesn’t diminish the personal tragedy. There were stories in each family, about widows who sank into self-pity, while others were criticized for forgetting too soon. There was talk of friends who had filled the house and then, one by one, stopped coming, of children who adjusted and others who became neurotic and difficult.

  I reproached myself for even thinking that way. I was playing a drama with an idea, knowing so well that, in fact, if it did happen, it would be something entirely unknown to me. I still had the luxury of resenting exaggerated presence. What did I truly know about absence? The absence of a friend, a lover, the clothes in the cupboard and the shaving kit in the bathroom, the shoulder in bed, the hand on the beach, the quarrels and the joys and the knowing looks, the soft and the hard words, the little resentments and the compromises. The absence of the father of small children. Daniel’s absence from the growing up of Ofer and Rani. This was an unbearable thought, and my cheeks were suddenly wet with tears. There
was no one at the door, I said, almost aloud, and I was a selfish, self-indulging fool. It was time to wake up the boys and to begin the busy hour until they were off to kindergarten.

  Ofer asked whether Daniel would return today, Rani repeated whatever his brother said.

  “In a few days probably.”

  “Will he kill anybody?”

  “I doubt it. He’ll tell you all about it when he returns.”

  I took them down and drove to the hospital, slightly ashamed of my morning hysteria.

  The hospital commander asked to see me. The major from Absentees was with him.

  “Are you sure about the name?”

  He was talking about No. 7. There was to be a funeral, and he wanted more than a hunch to go by.

  “I think my husband knew him. If he did, you can check with the service and get some more details. What we have seems to check.”

  He talked about the irregularity of the inquiry. In what capacity was I involved, he wondered, and why wasn’t he informed of the diary earlier? It would be terrible to bury someone and then have him show up alive and well, and be left with an unidentifiable corpse.

  I suggested he get in touch with Gideon, who had taken over from Daniel. He might know something. I was tired and not very helpful and he dismissed me. The funeral would leave at ten, anyway.

  I walked into the ward. No, there hadn’t been a phone call for me. Avi said I looked sick and offered me his bed as he was about to try the wheelchair.

  “The battle of Suez is on,” he said. “If this isn’t the last one, don’t hire me as a strategist.”

  “I am worried about Daniel.”

  “Let the man free for a couple of days. You were uncomfortable with him here, now you are anxious to see him back. Women!” he added.

  I walked to the hospital’s funeral house. The many people gathered there didn’t show up for Berkov’s last voyage. The Rabbi pointed to a command car with a wooden coffin on it. On both sides soldiers were sitting and two of the doctors from the ward waited in a car, ready to follow. I joined them.