Not Me (16 page)

He asked for volunteers. Each knew what was at stake, and they all raised their hands. He made assignments, but to Heshel Rosenheim he said, “No. You’re from Naor, are you not? I’m going to send you there, you and a few men.”

“But they may never attack Naor,” he replied.

“So what are you worried about?” the commander said.

Naor had changed greatly, and yet the air was the same, the dry, sweet smell coming off the desert and the vague saltiness of the not-so-distant sea. As he jumped from the car, Heshel Rosenheim saw immediately the watchtower, his watchtower, which dominated the farm, was now fortified with sandbags. Squinting, he saw the figure of a man in the tower, but it was a stranger, someone from the Haganah. He now surveyed the compound with the eyes of a soldier. Defensive posts had been established around the perimeter, basically foxholes hardened with cement and sandbags. They were not connected with trenches, as they should have been, though a few trenches had been dug closer to the center of the kibbutz. Several rows of barbed wire had been laid around the circumference of the village, reminding him more of a concentration camp than a communal farm. He was interrupted by a hand on his shoulder.

“Yekkeh!”

It was Avigdor, the sabra who used to mock him, calling him by his pet name. “It’s our little German!”

They all came out to greet him.

“My! How he’s changed!” they joked, tugging at his uniform.

“What’s the Palmach coming to?” someone laughed.

“Thank God you’re back,” added another. “The books are a mess!”

He felt a strange happiness at seeing them. Each face held a story for him, a memory of peeling potatoes in the kitchen, or raking the barn in the early afternoon, or settling a dispute over how many times a pair of shoes can be repaired before new ones are authorized
—
faces he had seen through the canopy of orange branches, or across the table at dinner. And for all that, he did not really like them.

He looked around for Moskovitz, and finally saw her, standing off, in a pair of army trousers and an incongruous pink blouse. He thought vainly, she put on the blouse for me. She was smoking a cigarette, brushing back the ringlets of her dark hair that kept escaping from a hastily tied bun. She looked heavier, ruddier than he remembered, stronger. He wanted to make his way over to her, but they were all hugging him, each one in turn, and when it seemed none was left but Moskovitz, she merely smiled, crushed her smoke, and went back inside.

Even though he was not actually under Haganah authority, he accepted his assignment as commander of Post 4, a dugout on the northeast corner of the settlement in view of the experimental banana groves and the fields of alfalfa that bordered them. Above him loomed the watchtower with the kibbutz’s single Bren gun. It would be the first objective of any Egyptian advance, which meant he would be in the main line of fire
—
not exactly what he had hoped for. Of course, if he were the Egyptian general he wouldn’t bother with Naor. It was far off the main road, even farther than Nirim or Kfar Darom had been. Much more strategic was the hill just to the west which in fact overlooked the coastal road and was not even occupied. It was known only by number. He might have suggested this to the Haganah commander
—
why tempt them with Naor? Put a garrison on the hill and let them fight it out there. But he kept silent.

His squad had brought some weapons with them. Several Sten guns, a mortar, a bag full of antitank mines. One of his men, Dovid, was a sapper, and the two of them walked together, smoking cigarettes and laying the mines. They had gotten to know each other a little, and Heshel liked him. He was from Provence, but had been secreted over the Pyrenees during the war and raised quietly by Spanish nuns. Even though he was now only seventeen, Heshel felt they might be able to talk to each other, if for no other reason than they had both eaten pork.

“They’ll come from there,” Heshel said to him in French, pointing to the line between the banana trees and the alfalfa, which was still low to the ground.

Dovid indicated a pattern with his hand, and Heshel nodded, and they began to stroll along, stopping now and then to bury a mine and carefully mark its location on a map. It was a useless occupation
—
if the Egyptians did bother to attack, these few mines could never stop them from breaking through.

“Save some for the flanks,” he said anyway.

“You seem melancholy,” said the sapper.

“Don’t I always?”

“Yes, you do.”

Heshel laughed at this.

“But why?” asked the boy. “Here we are in our own land, doing the most important thing. Not sitting in some apartment somewhere drinking tea and complaining about the weather. What could be a better life than this?”

“I don’t know, Dovid,” he said. “Perhaps being home with a cup of tea would not be such a bad thing.”

“For someone your age, I guess.”

“I’m only twenty-seven,” said Heshel.

“A Jew can’t sit at home anymore!” exclaimed the boy. “That would be the worst thing I can imagine
—
to have all this happening and not be a part of it. You would miss everything! And think of the millions who died so that this day might be possible. And think of how they died, Lieutenant. Walking like sheep right into the ovens. Digging their own graves and waiting for someone to shoot them in the back of their heads.”

“Yes, yes,” Heshel said. “I remember.”

“I guess the world just can’t forgive us for introducing them to God!”

“That’s nonsense.”

“It’s true. No matter what we do or what we say, they find a reason to hate us. We bring them the word of God, so they conclude that we’re the devil. Can you explain that?”

An ancient voice rose up in Heshel Rosenheim. It’s the way you separate yourselves from everyone! it said. The way you think you’re better! The way you cheat the Gentiles! And how you lust after money! It’s your greed and lust! It’s your need to control!

Angrily, he looked into Dovid’s eyes. They were gentle even for all the fire of his young words. Heshel turned away. He saw his men feverishly digging trenches in the pitch of night, and spotted in the distance the lanterns of a small group of women braving the banana fields to thin the new sprouts so at least some might grow and prosper in spite of the tanks and firebombs; and he turned at the sound of two boys laughing as they lugged huge milk cans filled with water into the dining hall, as if that flimsy structure might withstand even one round of artillery.

“No,” said Heshel, “I cannot explain it.”

“That’s why, for me, this is the happiest time of my life.”

Heshel handed the boy another mine.

“I’m glad,” he said. “Put this one over there.”

With all his heart he still wanted to get away. Yet he remained steadfast and precise with his work. He laid the mines as carefully as he could
—
to protect as best he might these foolish creatures whom God had abandoned to the likes of him.

Moskovitz was obviously trying to avoid him. She did not venture out to Post 4, nor sit near Heshel Rosenheim at dinner, nor join any group of soldiers where she might find him. She was working in the children’s house, and she slept with them in the shelter. In those days, they still came out to play for a while in the daylight. They played rounds of football or volleyball, and the little ones had the sandbox and swings. Heshel somehow found himself wandering over to the playground. But he stood back, looking on as she watched over them. There were two or three infants there as well, in strollers or bassinets. Sometimes he saw her holding one or another of them. She seemed so natural with them. He desperately wanted to speak with her, but did not dare. He waited, and hoped, but for what he did not actually know.

He said to the commander, “Why are they here? Shouldn’t the women and children be evacuated?”

“Bad for morale,” was the reply.

“Ridiculous.”

“Yes, but those are the orders. Anyway,” he added, “it’s what the women want.”

He decided he would not speak to her unless she spoke to him.

In the meantime word arrived that, to the south, Yad Mordechai was under attack. Those on Naor redoubled their efforts, building more shelters, digging more trenches. During the night they somehow erected a pillbox at Post 2. There was a Haganah radio on the kibbutz, but it did not always work, and news from headquarters or Yad Mordechai came intermittently, broken by hours of silence. In bits and pieces they learned that Yad Mordechai had sustained some four thousand bombs from Egyptian planes and heavy artillery in the first three hours of battle alone. There was not a building left standing. Then leaflets were dropped calling upon the kibbutzniks to surrender. But of course they didn’t, so the shelling began again, even more intensely, and then suddenly there was silence
—
for the infantry had finally advanced.

Through the static, Heshel could hear the constant explosions broken by bursts of automatic weapons. The Israeli doctor had gotten on the radio, begging for help. He wondered if the Red Cross might come. Someone else called for reinforcements. It was clear none was on the way.

On Naor, no one said a word. Most went back to their desperate work. As for Heshel, he wished he were at Yad Mordechai. That way he could give himself up and be done with it.

Yet by nightfall, they learned, the Egyptians had somehow been driven off. They gathered again by the radio and listened in silence to the casualty list. It seemed endless.

Then someone remarked, “They can never surrender.”

Everyone knew he was referring to the massacre of the Jews who had surrendered in the Etzion Block.

“That was not the Egyptian army,” Heshel heard himself say.

“In any case,” the man said, “surrender is not an option.” And with that he loaded several boxes of shells into his arms and walked out to his post.

In a while, only the radio operators were in the shelter. Everyone else had gone back to work, taking their suppers with them. Finally, Heshel turned to go. Moskovitz was standing in the doorway, studying him.

“Why so ready to surrender?” she said. Even in the gloomy closeness of the shelter, the whiteness of her skin seduced him.

“I didn’t say anything about surrender,” he said.

“I must have heard wrong,” she replied.

“I merely said that the Egyptians are not the same as the Arab Brotherhood. They are a disciplined army. They respect the rules of war.”

“You hope so.”

“I do hope so. For all our sakes!”

“Heshel,” she said, with a sad little smile, “let’s not fight.”

They walked out into the trench and climbed up onto the lawn near the children’s house. Even with the heavy scent of spring in the air, he could pick out the natural perfume of her skin, like some sort of wild desert honey. They felt their way along the slender pathway.

“I hate these blackouts,” she said.

What exactly did she want? he wondered. What exactly did he want? They had but one moment together, that was all, one night, one embrace. Other than that, they were strangers, weren’t they?

“Do you think we will all die?” she asked.

“Of course not,” he said, caught off guard.

“I don’t mean the whole nation. I mean the kibbutz.”

“I don’t even think they’ll attack here. It would be a waste of their time.”

“Then we will have to attack them, won’t we?” she said.

She sighed and lowered her head. Her hands were now tucked in her pockets. She looked different, somehow, her cheeks thicker, rosier, her hips wider, more feminine. He had to resist reaching for her.

“Don’t worry so much,” he said. He smiled at her, trying to be encouraging, but he doubted she noticed.

They had arrived at the shelter near the children’s house. It was underground, so the metal door lay flat upon the earth. With two hands she yanked it up, revealing a set of stairs leading below. He could see a light, and hear the clamor of children and the voices of women speaking in consoling tones. The smell of dinner drifted up
—
tinned beef and sausages, he thought
—
and the aroma of burning kerosene. The children sounded unafraid
—
giggling, arguing, as if nothing were out of the ordinary. He wondered briefly if he would ever have children. The thought had never occurred to him before. He looked at Moskovitz.

“My post,” she said. “At least for tonight.”

He held the door for her.

“You look good in a uniform,” she remarked. And then she slid down the stairs and out of view.

Hunkered down in his foxhole, he tried to stretch his legs. He wanted more than anything to take off his shoes and go to sleep. But it was impossible with Dovid and Ari chattering on. In time of battle, this hole would be manned by four men plus himself. Tonight, the others were hurriedly enlarging the trench so that Post 4 would not be so isolated. Dovid opened his shirt and pulled out a bottle of red wine.

“Mukhuzani!” he declared. “I got it from some Czechoslovakians. Where they got it, I don’t know, but I traded it for a block of halvah. Idiots.”