Don't Ask Me If I Love (28 page)

“It is possible not all of them are here,” the freckled thin boy said, as if to himself, brushing back a wet yellow curl that sneaked from his helmet and fell on his brow. He took a grenade out of his kit. “We'll have to take a look in the other two.” He looked around at us. “O.K.”

We went into both caves, following our grenades and bullets, breathing hard and looking hard, but there was no one there.

Outside, the shooting had ceased completely and when our submachine guns stopped operating, unnatural silence prevailed.

We stood in the third cave, which was also the smallest, with our ears still ringing from the shooting and our faces shining with sweat. The lieutenant paced around, bowing his head because the cave was so low, and looking aimlessly at the walls.

“Looks like that's about all, huh?”

His voice sounded strangely loud, after the short silence.

No one answered.

He hung his weapon on his shoulder and shrugged.

I turned and walked slowly out, idly removing the second empty magazine from my submachine gun. The sun hit me in the eyes as I popped my head out of the cave and straightened my body in the fresh air.

I closed my eyes and stepped to the side, turning my head away from the blinding light and leaning with my shoulder on the warm rocky wall. I scratched my back with the empty magazine and opened my eyes.

My first reaction was to close them again in disbelief, but this reaction didn't hold.

Right in front of me, about ten yards away, kneeling between two big pieces of rock was the small figure of a man. His face was dark in contrast with the khaki clothes and his black eyes were fixed on me in a stiff stare. His rifle rested in his hands, leaning on his bended knees with the barrel pointing downward.

I stared back at him and in some separate part of my brain I was calling myself all the dirty names I could think of. I dropped the empty magazine on the ground and reached to the pouch for a new one, still cursing myself and never moving my eyes from his face.

He seemed to be moving extremely slowly, raising his rifle and aiming it at me, and I jammed the magazine in, starting to fire almost at the same instant and still knowing remotely that it wouldn't do.

His finger crawled slowly to the trigger and pulled and then his face became a mask of blood and the eyes disappeared, but he was still kneeling there like before, with the rifle squeezed in his hands. I felt a sharp, cutting pain at my side and I staggered slowly down with my limbs going numb. I was still shooting aimlessly when I hit the ground.

EVERYONE was wearing white. The color was ubiquitous. Only the people's faces that floated in it, vague and far away, were different. Pretty girls came in and out, carrying different objects, and they never said a word. Sometimes I tried to move because I wanted to get up and take a look at the place but my muscles wouldn't obey me. And after a while, everything would fade away and then I didn't feel anything at all.

Something was coming back to me slowly making its way into the back of my head as if it was in no hurry to put in an appearance. I opened my eyes with an effort and stared straight ahead of me.

“Assaf?”

It took me a few seconds to focus my eyes on the figure towering about me. Then she became clear.

“Asaaf,” my mother said again, leaning forward anxiously in her chair and staring at my face with her quiet, sad eyes.

“What?”

The word didn't come out because there seemed to be nothing but dryness in my mouth. I wet my lips with my tongue and swallowed hard and then I said the word again. This time even I could hear it.

“What?”

“How do you feel? she asked anxiously.

“O.K.”

“You're fine. The doctor said you're fine.”

I raised my eyebrows, wetting my lips again.

“You were operated on this morning,” she said distinctly, leaning a bit closer. “There were no complications at all.”

She smiled at me reassuringly.

“What?” I said, feeling very dizzy, closing my eyes for a moment. “What?”

“You were hit in your left side,” she said, “near the stomach, but it didn't hurt anything vital. That was lucky.”

I closed my eyes again, feeling helplessly tired. The world was coming to me in small red points out of a black space.

“You rest now,” a voice said somewhere in the dark. “Take it easy, there is nothing to worry about.”

The next time I woke up it was evening, and it was different. I didn't feel so utterly weak and I knew where I was. My mother was still sitting in the same place in her chair, looking at me with her sad quiet eyes.

“Hey,” she said looking away at someone who wasn't me, “he's awake.”

I made an effort to move my head in the direction of her gaze but it was not necessary. My father, in a black evening suit and wearing a light blue silken tie that matched the color of his eyes, got up and moved urgently to the foot of my bed. The hand holding the newspaper dropped to his side.

I was surprised to see him stare at me with the same anxious look I had seen on my mother's face. It was the first time that I found any similarity between the two of them. It bewildered me.

“Well,” my father said. He cleared his throat. “How do you feel?”

“Fine,” I said, my voice coming more smoothly, “thanks.”

He licked his lips.

“Well,” he said again and smiled, a bit nervously, “I am glad to hear that.”

I wanted to say I was sorry if I had kept him from something important but I didn't. Instead, I felt my mouth twisting in the beginnings of a smile.

“Thanks,” I said again.

“You were pretty lucky, it seems,” he said. “I hear it was a pretty close thing.”

He loosened his tie and opened the top button of his white shirt.

“Bloody hot in here, isn't it?” he said.

“Sure,” my mother said, smiling pleasantly, “it is summer.”

They looked at me with their plastered, uncertain, expressions. I drew my hand carefully from underneath the sheet and touched my forehead. It wasn't difficult at all.

Then a young nurse came in. She had short blond hair and painted green eyes. She was very pretty. She carried a small tray with a glass of water and three colorful pills.

“So, he is finally up,” she said deeply, as if addressing an audience from a stage. “You sure can sleep.”

“Sure,” I said.

“Well,” she said, looking from me to my parents and back, “this will help you sleep some more. Here.” She hooked her body over me, nearly touching my face with her heavy bosom, and offered the pills and water to my mouth. “Take these like a good boy.”

I took them like a good boy, and leaned back on my pillows. All three of them grinned happily at me.

“How long is it going to take.” I asked the pretty nurse.

“What?”

“How long do I have to stay here?”

“Oh”—she waved her hand, dismissing my question—”probably three weeks or so, you'll be out before you know it.”

“And I'll be perfectly all right?” I asked.

“Sure,” she said, “you'll be perfectly all right, probably even better than before.” She laughed lightly and went on, “Of course you'll have a souvenir, a scar, but I guess you won't mind that.”

I felt the sweat running in a cold thin stream on my warm back, and on the palms of my hands.

“How big?” I asked her.”

“What? The scar?”

“Yes.”

“I don't know,” she said. Then she held up her hand. “Something like this, maybe.”

I looked at her hand. It was thin, pale, and delicately shaped. It seemed monstrous to me.

I closed my eyes and had an exaggerated nightmare vision of a permanently gaping wound. I felt sick. I felt like vomiting! I wanted to wake up from a dream and find myself somewhere else. Me with a scar. A defect, like a cripple. I hated cripples.

“There is nothing wrong with a scar,” the pretty nurse was saying. I opened my eyes. “There is nothing wrong with it.”

I thought she had winked at me, but I was not sure.

“Actually, they say it's very sexy.”

My mother cleared her throat. We all looked at her. She seemed slightly embarrassed.

“Lots of people have asked me to give you their regards,” she said cheerfully. “I don't think you want me to mention all of them.”

“No. Tell them thanks.”

“There's a radio here,” she said. “You can listen to it any time you want since there is no one else in the room, and here are a few books we have collected.”

She pointed to the night table.

“I brought you the new Alistair MacLean,” my father said. “It just came out. It's very good.”

“Well, I'll be damned.”

Our eyes met and locked. He still had that anxious searching look and for a moment I forgot the scar and I just felt good.

“It will be the first thriller I've read in hard cover,” I said.

“I'll be seeing you,” the pretty nurse said and walked out of the room.

“Thank you,” my mother said quietly to the retreating figure.

“This is Tel Hashomer Hospital, isn't it?” I asked.

“Yes,” my mother said.

“So I'm in Tel Aviv,” I said.

“It seemed to be less crowded here right now,” my mother said. “That's why.”

“I guess we could get you transferred to Jerusalem,” my father said. “I guess it could be arranged.”

“No, no, what for?”

“Well,” my mother said, “I think we should let you rest a bit, so unless there is something you want …”

They both looked at me expectantly.

“I am fine, thanks.”

“I'll come back tomorrow morning,” my mother said.

“There is really no need to …” I started, knowing it was pointless.

“Don't be stupid.”

“Well,” my father said, “take it easy.”

“Thanks.”

“Take care,” my mother said.

“Sure.”

They walked to the door.

“Well, so long.”

“Yeah.”

When they were out, I pulled the sheet off and took a look. There wasn't much to see. I was covered with thick, white bandages from my hip to my chest. I didn't feel anything.

I put the sheet down and pulled it up to my chin.

Three weeks, I thought, in this hospital in Tel Aviv.

Then I thought of Joy.

I read a lot of books. There wasn't much else to do. I was not allowed to get out of bed. My mother came to visit a lot. In the beginning she came every day, until I managed to persuade her that it wasn't necessary. Finally she agreed to come only every two or three days, but she seemed hurt. I was sorry about it, I didn't want to hurt her. Almost nobody else came to visit me and it occurred to me suddenly that I had hardly any friends. Gad came twice, but that was all.

On Friday, seven days after my operation, I had a new visitor. Quite late in the morning a tall, lean, dirty figure in uniform walked into my room carrying a big candy box. The straw-haired lieutenant with his boyish face and freckles tossed the box carefully over to my bed and sat comfortably on the chair beside me, stretching out his legs with childish delight.

“That's from the platoon,” he said, referring to the chocolates.

“The money was especially collected. I had to look high and low for a candy store. They all seem to have disappeared.”

“I am sorry about that, Lieutenant,” I said.

“At ease,” he said with some amusement. “You don't have to be formal with me, Sergeant, now that we are on leave.”

I opened the box and picked out a piece of chocolate.

“Help yourself,” I said, placing it in my mouth.

“Sure.”

He leaned forward and took one, and then stretched comfortably again. He looked around the room.

“Looks like you're not doing so bad here.”

“Yeah.”

“You have regards from everybody. They all had to stay. On duty, that is,” he grinned, “except me. That's why nobody else came.”

I couldn't think of anyone whom I would have expected to come, but it sounded nice just the same.

“Was there any mail for me?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” he said after a thought, “I would have known if there would have been anything. Definitely.”

“All right.”

The pretty nurse came into the room. She held a thermometer in her hand.

“Good morning,” she said. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine, thanks.”

She passed by the lieutenant and walked over to me. She leaned over and put the thermometer into my mouth and took my wrist in her pale, delicate hand. As she passed him, the lieutenant pulled back his feet and stiffened in his chair. The pretty nurse looked at her watch.

“Maybe you want to take my pulse rate too,” the lieutenant said.