To the End of the Land (80 page)

“With crude screams of fear,

“With the stinking farts that we might emit in our final moments.

“And also, my queen, my queen,

“So that the noble thoughts of you

“Do not prevent us from dying cheaply,

“As we deserve to.”

Avram stopped and let the last few words echo, and Ilan
unwittingly thought: Not bad for a start, but a little too Brechtian. Kurt Weill was also in the neighborhood, and maybe Nissim Aloni, too.

“These kind of scenes, you see, Ora. I had dozens, maybe hundreds, in the notebooks. Fuck them. How am I going to reconstruct—

“Listen, there’s a line that Ilan and I like. Maybe I should say
liked
, because one of us, and regrettably that would be me, has to start practicing the past tense: I was, I wanted, um … I fucked, I wrote—”

His voice broke off and he started weeping softly again. It was hard to understand what he was saying.

“It’s a line written by the great Thomas Mann in
Death in Venice
,” he continued after a few minutes, and his voice was rigid and strained again, a poor imitation of his joking and acting voice. “It’s a great line, you have to hear it. The writer guy, the old one, whatshisface, Aschenbach, he had ‘the artist’s fear,’ you know? ‘Fear of failing to achieve his artistic goals—the concern that his time might run out before he had given fully of himself.’ Something like that. I fear, my darling, that due to the circumstances my memory is limp, and so is everything else. When they hang you, at least you’re promised one good ejaculation, but somehow I don’t think that’s the arrangement with a flamethrower—

“Hang on—

“What should we do about prisoners? Let them go? Let out murderers and thieves and rapists? How can you keep someone in prison in that state? And what do I do with death-row inmates?

“And schools?” he asks after a painful silence. “I mean, there’s no point in teaching anymore, or preparing anyone for the future when it’s obvious they don’t have one, they don’t have anything. Besides, I imagine most kids would leave school. They’d want to live, to be inside life itself. On the other hand, maybe the adults will go back to school? Why not? Yes, that’s not bad.” He giggled in delight. “There’ll probably be loads of people who want to reconstruct that time in their lives.

“This rag stinks to high heaven, but at least it’s stopped bleeding. Hard to move my arm. The excruciating pain has come back in the last few minutes. Fever’s going up, too. I’m dying to take my clothes off, but I don’t want to be naked when they come. Mustn’t give them any ideas.”

He was panting like a dog. Ilan could feel him willing the story to trickle back into him, to revive him with its touch.

“And children will get married at nine or ten, boys and girls, so they’ll have a chance to feel something of life.”

Ilan put down his pen and rubbed his aching eyes. He saw Avram lying on his back, underground, in the little womb he’d built for himself, while the Egyptian army swarmed around him. Invincible Avram, he thought.

“They’ll get little apartments, the kids, and they’ll run their own lives. In the evenings they’ll go walking in the squares, arm in arm. The adults will look at them, sigh, and not be surprised.

“Lots of things are coming to me now.

“It’s all alive in front of my eyes.

“Hey!” Avram suddenly exclaimed with a peal of laughter. “If anyone’s listening, write down this idea with the kids for me! I don’t have a pen, what a bummer.”

“I’m writing,” Ilan mumbled. “Go on, don’t stop.”

“Maybe the governments will start drugging the citizens, in small doses, without their knowledge. Through the water supply? But why? What does that give me?

“To blur the fear?

“Have to think about that.”

Ilan remembered that Avram always joked that if he had a good idea, he was capable of working on it even inside a blender.

“He was right, that Chinese guy,” Avram said wondrously. “There’s nothing like the proximity of a flamethrower to sharpen your mind.

“And people will get rid of their cats and dogs.

“But why? Pets give comfort, don’t they?

“No, think about it. In their state, people can’t give love to anyone. They have no reserves.

“So it’s an age of total egoism?

“I don’t get it … You mean people become completely wild? Gangs on the streets? Absolute evil?
Homo homini lupus est?

“No, that’s too easy. It’s trite. I want to maintain the frameworks. Especially toward the end. That’s the power of it. That will be the power of a story like this, that people still manage to somehow keep the—”

He muttered, intermittently excited and fading, and Ilan struggled to keep up, and knew that no one had ever opened up to him like this before, not even Ora, not even when he slept with her. As he scribbled, something was being written inside him: a new, cool, lucid knowledge that he himself was not a true artist. Not like Avram. Not like him.

“And I forgot to tell you that babies will be abandoned, too.

“Yeah, yeah, parents will abandon their babies.

“Why not—my dad did it when I was five.

“Holy shit, there are so many possibilities. One year, man, one whole year I was stuck with this. It kept not working, it just stuttered and seemed unrealistic and hackneyed, and now, all at once—”

Ilan wrote it all down. And he knew, with total acceptance, that if he got out of there alive he would have to look for a new path. What he had thought of becoming, he would never be. He would not make movies. He would not make music, either. He wasn’t an artist.

“So let’s say the women will give birth in secret, in all kinds of hiding places, right? Out in nature, or in garbage dumps, parking lots, and they’ll just run away from the newborns? Yes, that’s it … Parents simply cannot tolerate the sorrow.

“This whole part is still a little weak.

“I can’t imagine what it’s like, parents. Parents and children, I can’t figure out families.

“That’s the awful thing, that people will have time to understand the exact meaning of everything that’s about to happen to them.

“On the other hand, and the other, and the other”—he was awake again now, alive—“it’s a kind of condition where you can suddenly fulfill all your dreams, all your fantasies. There’s no
shame, you see? And maybe there’s no
guilt
, either.” He gave a quiet but triumphant laugh, as though finally acknowledging some profound, private shame to himself.

Ilan leaned his head on his arm, pressed the headphone to his ear, and wrote quickly, every word.

“Why not? Why not?” Avram whispered, as though arguing with himself. “Did I get carried away? And what would Ilan say? That I’m full of hot air again?

“It’s a good thing I have enough balloons for all his pins.” He laughed.

Ilan laughed too, then grimaced.

“No one will feel guilty about what they are. And there will be a time, not for long, a month is enough, or a week, when every single person will be able to completely fulfill what they were meant to be—everything their bodies and souls have offered them, not what other people have dumped on them. God damn this all!” he roared. “I wish I could sit down and write it all now. Such light, such massive light, God.”

He sighed, after a brief pause. “And every sight, every landscape or face, or just a man sitting in his room in the evening, or a woman alone in a café. Or two people walking through a field, talking, or a boy blowing bubble gum. There will be such splendor in the smallest thing, Ora’leh, and you’ll always see it, promise me that.

“Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,” Avram whispered, “I will fear no evil, for my story is with me.

“And I have to decide if they’ll even use money—

“Well, we can leave that for later—

“There is no later, you idiot.

“Hello, Israel, homeland? Do you even exist anymore?”

The transmission was getting weaker. Perhaps the battery was dying. Ilan’s foot tapped incessantly.

“I wish they’d come already,” Avram moaned. “I wish they’d shout out their
Itbach al Yahud
and burn it all.”

He breathed heavily. Ilan could no longer tell when Avram comprehended his situation and when he was disoriented.

Avram was sobbing uncontrollably now. “Everything’s going to die. All the thoughts and the ideas I won’t be able to write now, and my eyes will be burned, and my toes also.

“Ilan, you asshole,” he whispered through his sobs, “this idea is yours now. If I don’t come back, or if I come back in a decorative urn, do whatever you want with it. Make a movie out of it. I know your mind.”

Some disturbances came over the radio, as though someone were rocking heavy objects in the background, behind Avram.

“But listen, it has to start like this, this is my one condition: A street, daytime, people walking quietly. Silence. No noise at all, not yelling, not whispering. No soundtrack. Among the walking people, a few stand on crates here and there. And then the camera narrows in on a young woman standing, let’s say, on a laundry tub. That’s what she brought with her from home. A red laundry tub. She stands there hugging herself. She has a sad smile, she smiles into herself—”

Ilan clutched the headphones. He thought he could hear human sounds in the background.

“And she doesn’t even look at the people standing around her. She just talks to herself. And she’ll be beautiful, Ilan, I’m warning you, eh? With a pure forehead and perfect eyebrows, the way I like, and a big, sexy mouth, don’t forget. Anyway, you know who she should look like. Maybe you can use her?”

There was no doubt now: the Egyptians were inside the stronghold. The transmitter’s microphone had picked them up, but Avram still hadn’t noticed.

Avram laughed. “She can’t act to save her life, but she’ll just need to be herself, and she knows how to do that better than either one of us, right? And you’ll shoot her face, we don’t need anything more, you know? Just her face, and that happy, naïve smile—”

The sounds grew louder. Ilan stood up. His left foot was stomping madly, and his hands crushed the headphones against his temples.

“Wait a minute,” Avram murmured, confused, “I think there’s someone—

“Don’t shoot!” he shouted in English. Then he tried Arabic: “
Ana bila silakh!
I’m unarmed!”

Ilan’s ears filled at once with shouts in throaty Arabic. An Egyptian soldier, who sounded no less startled than Avram, was screaming. Avram pleaded for his life. One shot was fired. It may have hit Avram. He screamed. His voice was no longer human. Another soldier arrived and called out to his friends that there was a Jewish soldier there. The frequency bubbled with a medley of shouts and commotions and blows. Ilan rocked back and forth and murmured, “Avram, Avram.” People walking by looked away. Then came a very close burst of fire, one dry sequence, and then silence. The sound of a body being dragged, and again curses in Arabic, and loud laughter, and one more single shot. Then Avram’s transmitter went silent.

The commander gathered all the soldiers again in the war-room bunker. He said it didn’t look like anyone was coming to rescue them, and they had to try to get out on their own. He asked for their opinions. There was a quiet, friendly conversation. People talked about the duty to save lives. Others feared that in the army, and in the country, they would be seen as cowards or traitors. Someone mentioned Masada and Yodfat. Ilan sat among them. He had no body, he had no spirit. The commander summed up and said he was planning to notify Arik Sharon immediately that they would leave that night. “What if Arik says no?” someone asked. “Then they’ll slap us with a five-year prison term,” one guy said, “but we’ll be alive.”

The landline wasn’t working, and the officer used the two-way radio and asked to speak with “the boss.” He said the situation was hopeless and he’d decided to leave. There was a short silence, and then Arik said, “Excellent, you leave and we’ll try to hook up with you on the way.” The soldiers listened as Arik said, “Do whatever you can.” He stopped, and you could hear the cogwheels running in his mind. Finally he sighed and said, “Okay, then, um, goodbye, I wish you well …”

The religious soldiers recited the evening prayers before
leaving, and a few other soldiers joined them. Then everyone prepared for departure. They filled their canteens and made sure they didn’t rattle. They emptied their pockets of change and keys. Everyone had a weapon. Ilan got a bazooka in addition to his Uzi. “An anti-tank pipe,” they explained. He didn’t know how to operate it. He didn’t say a word.

At two a.m. they set off. In the light of the full moon the stronghold looked like a ruin. It was hard to believe that this lopsided enclosure had protected them all those days. Ilan avoided looking left, toward Avram’s stronghold.

They walked in two rows, at some distance from one another. At the head of Ilan’s row was the commander, and at the head of the other one was his deputy. Next to the commander walked a soldier who was born in Alexandria. If they ran into Egyptian forces, he was supposed to shout that they were Egyptian commandos on their way to nail the
Yahud
. The soldier recited his lines to himself as they walked, trying to embody the Egyptian commando spirit. Ilan was somewhere in the middle of the row with his head bowed. They tripped on the sand frequently and fell in silence, quietly cursing.

Suddenly they heard shouts in Arabic. An Egyptian armored vehicle was driving nearby, shining a spotlight to track the sides of the road.

“Turns out we’d walked into an Egyptian parking lot,” Ilan told Ora that dawn. His body had quieted down, but he was still enfolded in her and his hands dug into her shoulders. “I even stepped on the blanket of someone sleeping there.”

She lay stunned, her flesh still fluttering around his.

“We didn’t move, we didn’t breathe. The armored vehicle went on. They hadn’t seen us. Hadn’t seen anything. We lay there, thirty-three men, and they didn’t see us. We got up and ran back to the sand to get away from the road.” She could feel his warm breath against the back of her neck. “We kept going east and walked all night at a half run. I ran with my gun and the bazooka. It was hard, but I wanted to live. As simple as that.”