The Marsh Angel

by Hagai Dagan

  I don’t need to do anything, Danny Shiloah replied. But I will tell you something anyway— the fact that you were a bit of a bad boy didn’t sit well with the organization under those circumstance. But more broadly, it taught us that you can think outside the box, that you can improvise, that you’ll go to any means. Under the current circumstances, we view that as an advantage.

  I see, Tamir said. Can I ask you another thing?

  No harm in asking, Dani Shiloah smiled.

  Where is she?

  Who?

  You know who I’m talking about.

  Even if I did, chances are I wouldn’t…

  Is she alive?

  Listen, Tamir, I’m here to offer you to join our organization, that’s all.

  Okay, thank you for your offer. Are we done here?

  Are you sure you’re not interested?

  Yes.

  Fine. I wish you the best of luck in the future.

  h. Tediously Familiar

  When he left his room in the department for the last time, Tamir stopped to cast one last glance over at his orphaned desk, soon to be manned by his exuberant replacement. He asked himself whether he felt sad. No, he didn’t feel a thing. When he left the base, he turned around again to survey the futuristic antenna-laden building where he had spent so many months. He vaguely recalled the excitement that gripped him when he first saw it. Now, it seemed tediously familiar— drab, dull, and gray. He turned his back on the building and walked to the parking lot. The hot sun baked his uniform. He yearned to strip out of them. Besides that, he felt no discernable emotion whatsoever.

  5. THE LIFE OF ARTS

  We yearn to forget, but we cannot

  the diving of the birds, the bellowing of the wind,

  like a restless child, we cannot

  forget the sand and that which the sand

  remembers. We cannot

  the sound of our feet stepping over sediment,

  our footprints in the marsh, we cannot forget

  the collapsed riverbed,

  the daunting silence,

  how we stood there one last moment, at the end,

  before the earth

  collapsed

  — al-Darija, “We Cannot”, Artemis, 1991.

  Translation from Arabic to French: Laurent Fouquet.

  a. The Stint Will Die Here

  At the start of the second semester of his first schoolyear in the Department of Philosophy at Tel-Aviv University, Tamir Binder was summoned to reserves duty. The timing was terrible. The last thing he wanted at that point was to spend two whole weeks at Kidonit. He had just started to feel like he was getting the hang of things, that he was no longer agonizing over texts, that he was finally surfacing from the thick waters of dense philosophical tracts, concepts, and manners of argumentation, grabbing on to the deck, pulling himself up, navigating the ship with increasing safety, overlooking the sea and the brightening horizon. The sea was still vast and expansive, but he was starting to come to grips with its manifold winds and currents, no longer helplessly rattled but actively steering, gliding over the air and water. In the evenings, as he sat in the lone arm chair furnishing his sparse apartment, reading his books, he could feel the threads weaving, ideas intertwining, periods aligning, the history of knowledge coming together into one intricate, stellar map. He felt he was beginning to understand, truly understand— forward, across, and in depth. It felt wonderful, to be riding on the crest of a tall wave, seeing the splendid deepness unfolding before him, as if he could see both the surface of the sea as well as its depths, its corals and reefs, the deep-sea creatures wading on its floor, from blind crustaceans to the Leviathan and the Gliding Serpent. I’m living the life of arts, Tamir thought, I truly am living the life of arts. How uplifting. How splendid.

  And then came the summons. Kidonit. It sounded like a call from a previous lifetime, intended for a different person. He didn’t want to go back to being that person. He tried to defer the matter till summer, but his efforts were in vain. We need another person in Kidonit now, he was instructed by the department. Someone’s discharging and there’s a three-week gap until their replacement comes in. What’s the problem? Just ask to borrow someone’s notes. That’s what all the students do.

  The night before his expected journey to Kidonit, he tossed and turned in his bed. He couldn’t say what it was that was bothering him exactly. He decided to try to read the most boring text he could lay his hands on, a surefire method to fall asleep. He got up, glanced over at his humble library, and picked up How to Know Higher Worlds by Rudolph Steiner. A student he once unsuccessfully tried to hit on told him that she was an anthroposophist, and recommended the book. He bought it solely to impress her, and after reading a few lines, discovered it was a depressingly tiresome read. He pulled it out of the shelf and, sure enough, it worked like a charm: a few lines into the author’s astral realms, he dozed off. He dreamt he was weightlessly cruising among translucid silver stardust astral rings. Suddenly, the galactic fog stirred. A faint batting of wings was both heard and not heard. From a distance, he could see Earth, blue and dreamy. Something tiny detached from Earth, pierced the atmosphere, and made the heavens quiver. What was it? A bird? He saw spotted wings, golden-brown, beating in space, and smelled familiar aromas of marshland soil, salt, tamarisks. Nothing will grow here, sounded a serious, ominous voice. This is a land that eats its inhabitants. The wings kept fluttering in the empty void, the beak extended forward, suffocating in the airless vacuum. The stint will die here, he thought desperately, the stint will die here.

  b. Source Confidentiality

  Kidonit remained practically unchanged. It was a strange feeling, because he himself felt a completely different person to the one who came through the gates of this base a million years ago. Actually, it wasn’t that long ago, he mused. It felt peculiar to wear uniform again, even though he wore them with the irreverent unkemptness of a reserve soldier. On his way over from the gate to the base commander’s office, he observed his surroundings. The same ridiculous whitewashed trees, the same ramshackle temporary structures, the same girls’ quarters, the same antenna field overlooking the forested mountains rising above Ein-Doev, the same peaks piercing the wide expanse past which lie Syria and Lebanon.

  Soldier, tuck in your shirt! a hostile master sergeant greeted him by the base commander’s office. His skin was pale and his eyes bloodshot; an unknown greasy substance covered his hair, reminding Tamir of Kahane from the ‘Submarine’ at Bahad 15. Tamir did not indulge him with a response, and simply walked past him. He reached the quarters and dropped his bag in the room he was assigned, before making his way over to the bunker.

  At the bunker, he was greeted by a nimble IAO named Sharon. He told Tamir that a lot has changed since his time at the base. The Palestinians are a low priority now, they’re hardly covered. They’re pretty much inactive, anyway. They have zero presence in the field. Almost everything is Hezbollah now. He reviewed the Hezbollah networks they covered, went over a couple of other matters, and said he’ll stick around for a few more hours before heading home.

  Tamir sat at the intelligence analysis desk and started leafing through summaries. He felt such a great distance between himself and what he was asked to do now, that he could hardly even make out what he was reading. For a moment, he felt that his Arabic had escaped him. Things took a while to set in, like an immigrant slowly recalling his childhood native language which he hasn’t spoken in decades. Despite Sharon’s detailed survey, Tamir found it difficult to understand who exactly these Hezbollah operatives were, where they were stationed, how they related to each other, and what were their roles. Occasionally, he asked Sharon a question, but the IAO’s terse answers did little to help Tamir situate these operatives and map their activity.

  He cast his eyes over to a map of Lebanon hanging on the wall beside him. This land, whose geography he once
commanded so effortlessly, now seemed to him like a dense, turbid kingdom, immersed in fog and gloom. He looked at it now and saw nothing.

  Okay, is everything clear? Sharon asked two hours later. Can I go home now?

  Tamir nodded. There was no point in answering differently. Sharon wished him luck, and vanished.

  Tamir went into the reception room. He didn’t know anyone. A new producer now sat in the space once occupied by Ophira, her hair meticulously gathered, pulled back tightly, her expression hazy. When she noticed Tamir staring at her, she looked at him bemused. He nodded his head slightly, and went back to his desk.

  A short while later, summaries started flooding to his desk at an increasing rate. Tamir immediately understood he was dealing with an activity intensification, but couldn’t gather what the activity was. He knew he needed help. He consulted the producers, but the picture did not get any clearer. At some point, he managed to ascertain that weapons were being shuttled from one place to the other. Tamir asked for the active stations to be pinpointed— but the locations he received were too broad and unhelpful. He called Efroni.

  What’s up, Kidonit? answered a tightly-wound intelligence analyst on the other side.

  Tamir told her that he was on reserve duty, and that he needed some help.

  I see they’ve hung another reserve soldier out to dry? she laughed. What’s going on, is the scene hot?

  He described the content of the summaries as best as he could.

  Honestly, I’m not very familiar with your networks, she said, but that Abu ‘Antar you’re seeing has cropped up a couple of times in the past, mainly in idle provocations or fake attacks on the purple line.20 What they do is, they enter the strip, settle within mortar-fire range of the fence and shoot at it. They know that alerts the whole system. They just want to mess with us. That could be what you’re looking at now.

  Tamir thanked her. Another summary landed at his desk. A conversation between Abu ‘Antar and someone named Kawkab 3. The summary read: Kawkab 3 says he’s arrived, he’s at the spot, and he’s waiting for Kawkab 4 to arrive with the…

  With the what? Tamir couldn’t make out the producer’s handwriting. He went into the reception room and asked who wrote the summary. The producer who had replaced Ophira raised her eyes from her panel and stared at him blankly. He went over to her and showed her the part he couldn’t decipher.

  Honestly, I didn’t really get it either, she said. She sounded distant to Tamir, as if she were speaking from another room, from another world. Tis‘a min? I don’t know what that means.

  Tis‘a min? Odd. Okay, send it out to be transcribed.

  She shrugged her shoulders. Buzzing and beeping sounds filled the reception room. Why don’t these people just go to sleep? Tamir thought to himself angrily. What did I ever do to them? He stepped out of the bunker, took a breath of fresh air, and looked at the shimmering lights atop the mountains ahead. Beyond the incessant laborious buzzing of the antenna fields, the Galilee seemed quite peaceful. Almost abandoned. Tamir sighed and disappeared back down the mouth of the bunker.

  He went over to the transcription station. He knew the transcriber. Finally, a familiar face, he thought to himself and shook his hand. The transcriber removed his earphones and handed him the corrected summary. Tis‘a mim, he said, 9M, that’s what he’s saying.

  9M? What’s that?

  Beats me, said the transcriber. Maybe it’s a weapon? Or a type of binoculars?

  Could be, Tamir said. He went back to his desk and asked to have the Abu ‘Antar and Kawkab 3 stationed pinpointed again. In the meantime, he opened a booklet titled ‘Weapons in Possession of Hostile Forces in Lebanon’. He found the chapter dedicated to Hezbollah and quickly flipped through it. Rocket-propelled grenades… no… Mortars… on… he couldn’t find anything that fit the bill. Anti-aircraft missiles… no… Anti-tank missiles, MILAN, Sagger… Ah! 9M111 Fagot. Fagot? He’s waiting for a Fagot? Where the hell is he, damnit? He turned the dial on the S.B. phone once more and yelled: where’s the location?!

  Relax, I’ve got it for you, the person on the other side of the line said. A pretty accurate location.

  Hallelujah, Tamir said.

  Around Bida-Hula. I’m sending you the location.

  Tamir looked at the map, and then at the coordinates. It’s a pretty large area, but not that big, and it’s right on the purple line. He called Northern Command and reported a high likelihood of Fagot fire in the immediate future, towards the purple line around Bida-Hula.

  What did you say your name was? the girl from Northern Command asked.

  Tamir.

  Tamir? I don’t know you.

  I’m on reserve duty.

  And are you sure about what you’re saying?

  No.

  You know I’m about to put the whole army on its feet, right?

  Yes.

  So you better be certain.

  I’m not certain. I’m sending you the details. Your call.

  He hung up and started reporting the communication. He annotated the report, writing that based on pinpointed location, the area is most likely… and there’s a likelihood that… he sighed in vexation. Same old game, he thought, same old goddamn game. He sent the dispatch, and made up his mind— he was never, under any circumstances, coming back here again. This was going to be his last reserve duty.

  Summaries kept flooding his desk. Many other operatives were running around helter-skelter in other sectors. Tamir couldn’t understand whether they had anything to do with the whole Fagot thing, or if they were up to something else completely. He couldn’t establish a clear picture of what was going on. A report came in about fire opened at Karkom outpost. That’s a completely different sector, Tamir thought. Perhaps the whole story with the Fagot is a diversion? And how come nothing came through about Karkom? Perhaps something had, and he just didn’t pick up on it?

  He called Efroni again. Yes, we had something, the intelligence analyst said, but it happened too fast. We didn’t catch it in time. Anyway, it’s fairly routine. Small-arms fire at an outpost. It’s meaningless. Tamir asked if every night was like this. Yes, she replied, more or less. He sighed. A warning issued by Northern Command about a potential attack flashed on his computer screen, most likely targeting patrols along the fence. Tamir knew that there wasn’t much else they could do, and at the same time knew that a direct hit by a Fagot missile on an army vehicle or APC would be devastating. He waited. The clock struck 3 a.m. The flow of summaries slowly dwindled until finally coming to a stop. He shrugged his shoulders and got up to leave the bunker.

  Outside, the base looked like the surface of Mars, minus the mystique, like a bad sci-fi story. When he reached the sleeping quarters, he forgot where his room was and accidently opened the door to a different room, turning on the lights to an uproar by several startled and highly-displeased rudely-awakened soldiers; he quickly exited the room, and opened the door to another wrong room, before finally finding the right one and slumping down on his bed. I’ll shower in the morning, he thought. He would gladly have read something before bed, but two other soldiers shared his room. He closed his eyes. An obscure European city— he couldn’t tell which— appeared underneath his eyelids. It was gray and rainy; people sat in cafés drinking mocha with cognac, tranquilly perusing newspapers. Tamir fell asleep.

  Are you the reserve intelligence analyst? someone stirred him.

  Y-Yes, he answered groggily. A stale flavor pervaded his mouth. He asked himself what mocha was. He knew cognac, but mocha?

  You were hard to find.

  What time is it?

  Six. Something happened.

  What?

  They told me to tell you to get down to the bunker.

  Tamir deliberated for a few seconds, before making up his mind to brush his teeth before heading out. He found a faucet, brushed hastily, sprayed his face wit
h cold water, and left for the bunker.

  He opened the computer, went over recent communications, and immediately understood what had happened. At 5:30 a.m., a Fagot missile was fired at an IDF patrol near ‘Ayta al-Sha‘b. The pinpointed location was wrong. The APC took a direct hit. Three dead, four wounded. Tamir got up to fix a cup of coffee. Shit, he thought to himself. He sunk into his chair with his cup of coffee, staring blankly at the screen. The coffee’s repulsive taste felt befitting of his mood.

  A tall man with an ascetic look walked in. I heard things got messy again, he remarked to Tamir.

  Tamir lifted his heavy eyes to look at the stranger. And you are?

  Shaul. I’m from Owl Team. I wanted to know if there was any mention over the radio last night of a collaboration with the Revolutionary Guard. The intelligence analysts usually forward that stuff to us, but I was told you’re on reserve duty, so I figured you might not know that.

  What’s Owl Team?

  Oh, right, it wasn’t around in your day… We track Iranian communications in Lebanon.

  I see… No, I didn’t come across any mention of the Revolutionary Guard.

  Okay. Thanks, the man turned his skinny back to Tamir.

  Hey, Shaul…

  Yeah?

  Tell me, does the name Amir Rajai mean anything to you?

  Sure, he was a high-level functionary in the Revolutionary Guard.

  Was?

  Yeah, he’s not in Lebanon anymore.

  Why?

  Shaul observed him curiously. Why do you ask?

  Out of curiosity, Tamir answered frankly. He was connected to something I was working on when I was unit head in the department.

  I see. I don’t know what your clearance is now…

  You can just tell me generally, without going into detail.

  Yeah… I don’t know. Anyway, he’s out of Lebanon now. They sent him back to Iran and then… he was stationed in a different post.