Three Weeks in October Read online

  I washed my hair and baked a cake and the children came home from school, lovely and sweet. I explained to Ofer about Daniel’s departure. He seemed proud; he would have liked to have seen his father in uniform.

  Ofer wanted to see a map. I pointed out to him the road along the beach, south, then west all the way across Sinai to the canal.

  “The other side is Africa, Egypt. Your father may be there soon.”

  “Will he shoot anybody?”

  “I doubt it. The war is over, you know.”

  “Will he come back?”

  “Of course.”

  The child seemed pensive. There were many questions he didn’t care to ask and I didn’t encourage him. All my conversations with the children about war seemed trite and irrelevant. I didn’t want them to hate, I didn’t want them to take the state of war for granted. There should be a school for mothers, I thought, teaching us to handle children in wartime, which seemed to be all the time.

  My mother was surprised and sarcastic. “A bit late in the battle, isn’t it? Did you have a fight or something?”

  We never fought, and she knew it well. It simply didn’t fit her organized head. The unexpected never did.

  By the late afternoon all the Hermon peaks were in our hands. Golani, the infantry division, had suffered heavy casualties, fifty dead and twice the number wounded. The cease-fire was set for the early evening. Only the city of Suez was not in our hands.

  Before leaving work, I called a few friends and told them Daniel had gone south. I asked for some help with the children, and shared the relief of the cease-fire news.

  I didn’t really feel like leaving the apartment. The children must have noticed it and clung to me for attention and stories. They didn’t eat well. Ofer was coughing, and my mother emerged with the famous syrup.

  I felt guilty leaving them. Ofer refused his medicine and was crying. My mother seemed hopeless and old and tired and I felt she’d rather be elsewhere. Rani held my hand and wouldn’t let go and then started crying, too.

  I called the ward to say I’d be late and I sat with the boys in their room building a castle from wooden blocks.

  Ofer relaxed, but he was absentminded, talking in incomplete sentences and his eyes filled with tears whenever I looked at him. Rani was aggressive. He enjoyed knocking down the towers we built and refused to gather the blocks. I thought of staying home, but Ofer said, “Why don’t you go, Mother, it’s late.”

  I held him for a long moment. He didn’t return my smile or hug, just let me fondle him. We both knew he wasn’t a baby anymore, and if I pretended he was, he kindly tolerated it.

  What went on in their little heads? What went on in my mind when I was Ofer’s age and my father was fighting in the War of Independence? I vaguely remember my mother explaining to me that we were going to have a state of our own. I remember crying when her brother, my uncle, whom I don’t remember, was killed in that war. My father returned and we were together again and I was left with no scars or memories.

  Rani fell asleep on the bed, fully dressed and Ofer went into the kitchen where my mother, composed and seemingly relaxed, talked him into drinking hot milk with honey. I left quietly, wishing I could cope better, and took off along the wet familiar road to the hospital.

  Looking at No. 7 I remembered Daniel had no identity discs. But there was no worry, the fighting was really over. He would sit and chat with his friends, they would plan the supply lines and the release of reservists, they would argue the political scene late into desert nights, communicate with Headquarters for instructions and criticize them, suggest how things should have been done and weren’t, eat the rations and dream of home-cooked meals and eventually return home.

  There were a lot of people in room 7. They were talking in English. The cheerful loud voices of Avi’s family. The nurse told me he was being transferred to another room, replacing Major Ilan who had left. The amputee there was feeling better and the big room was full again with transfers from other hospitals. The family had been told No. 7 was asleep, and with the excitement of reunion, he was ignored.

  I looked at them for a while before entering. The parents had aged and changed. Avi’s mother, a plain, round-faced, plump woman as I remembered her, was now a slimmer, tougher-looking American lady. Every movement of her hand produced the rattle of half a dozen bracelets with charms and her hair was an unidentifiable color, between mauve and gray.

  His father simply looked bolder and older, and was criticizing the “hospital conditions,” referring to the fact that his son, who came all the way from Manhattan to the canal, could be placed in a better-heated single room.

  Avi’s wife, Julie, was pretty. Fair hair, childish expression of surprise and astonishment and a skinny figure in jeans and a cashmere sweater. The diamond ring and small earrings were just a warning not to be misled by the jeans, a modest announcement of hidden, carefully used affluence.

  The little girl, Karen, resembled her mother, but had Avi’s curly red hair, and was busy listening and trying to fight sleep.

  I was introduced, and embraced and kissed by the parents while asking them to wait in the waiting room. Shula and I pushed the bed to the vacant place, and Avi looked for my hand at the side of the bed.

  “Don’t leave me now,” he said. “I am glad they are here, but please stay around.”

  He asked Shula to tell the doctor his family had arrived, and to ask if the doctor would explain to them that he needed rest, that they should come during visiting hours only.

  “They’ll see that everybody else is around.”

  “Just tell them so. They are an obedient lot. Leib can do it for me.”

  They all returned, intensely practical. They arranged the side-table with little gifts of marshmallows and shaving lotion, transistor radio (the third Avi got in a week) and mouthwash. A drawing made by Karen, who was asleep now, was pinned to the wall. Chairs were brought in and arranged in a circle.

  Avi’s new roommate was curiously watching the scene. He had a bandage covering his nose and ears but his black eyes were shining. He didn’t understand the language, but it was a change and he was amused. Avi’s mother addressed him. “We speak Hebrew, except for Julie.” She went on to take inventory. No, he is not married, he is only nineteen. He is from a village in the Galilee, his parents can’t come often because the turkeys have to be tended, he has five brothers and sisters, no, he doesn’t need anything, no, he is not bashful and will say if he does.

  “Well,” she concluded, “you’ll soon be on your feet, back to the farm.”

  “On one foot,” he mumbled. He didn’t care much about the leg, it was the damaged face that bothered him. What was left of his nose and ears could not be hidden forever by a white dressing.

  Avi was embarrassed. He explained in English that the boy had lost a leg, that he had been outstandingly courageous in the fight for the Golan, and asked his mother to leave him alone.

  “I love them all,” his mother stated, with no apology.

  I left them to the chatter and walked back to room 7. It was just as I had seen it at first. One bed in a darkened room with an aura of unspoiled whiteness. Avi gone, his living smells gone, too. The sounds had disappeared, and there were odors of medication, urine and disinfectants mixed with the silence of motionlessness.

  Shula offered me some coffee, when Avi’s skinny wife appeared at the door. She wanted to ask something.

  “Please,” she whispered, “I’d love to do some work while I am here.”

  I mentioned the imminent cease-fire, said there wasn’t a need, suggested she should see the country, visit Avi, meet people.

  She was stubborn. “I am not playing volunteer. I mean it. It doesn’t have to be here, in this ward. It isn’t even because of Avi. You know we are separated. Karen can stay with her grandparents, but I have to do something, anything.”

  “Talk to Dr. Leibowitz about it,” I suggested. “He may be able to think of something.”

  Leib woke u
p from an after-surgery nap and came in for coffee. He shook Julie’s hand and behaved as if it were a Manhattan cocktail party. Offered her cake, a chair, a cigarette, obviously impressed with her clean, innocent, unbelonging looks. They talked about restaurants in Boston. The New York City Ballet, Martha’s Vineyard. Their world. She seemed comfortable encouraging his nostalgia, and he was grateful to escape for a moment from his Hebrew pocket dictionary and medical preoccupations. He offered to take her around the hospital the next day, to help her find something to do.

  After midnight they were all gone. Avi was asleep, but his roommate, Nadav, whispered my name.

  “Are they very rich, his family?”

  “No, why?”

  “They’ve been in America for so long, I wondered. Was thinking about my parents, how tough their life is, how unexciting.”

  “What’s so exciting about being in America?”

  “I’ve never been. Why is Avi separated from his wife?”

  “Who knows. It happens here, too, doesn’t it?”

  “She is so pretty. Christian, is she?”

  “Yes. Go to sleep now.”

  “I want to go home.” He whispered like a very small child.

  “You will, soon.”

  “What will I look like when they remove the bandages?”

  “It’s a long process. You’ll probably have plastic surgery. They’ll reconstruct it all, handsome and new.”

  “I rather liked my old self. So did my girlfriend.”

  “I hope she loves you for more than your nose and ears.”

  “I have nightmares. I see my monster’s face in them.”

  “Listen, now. There are cases worse than yours. They function perfectly well. Don’t fall into self-pity.”

  “Sure. All the girls are waiting for the one-legged burnt-faced hero to come back home. On the farm I can be useful as a scarecrow.”

  “The army will help you study, if you care to.”

  There was silence. Julie’s perfume was still in the air and if Nadav was weeping he did so without sound.

  In the big room there was still commotion. Two soldiers were arguing about the battle of the city of Suez, about the face-to-face fighting and the types of hand grenades used. On one of the beds I saw a soldier’s girlfriend, asleep. She was in uniform, exhausted, and I didn’t have the heart to obey regulations and wake her up to leave.

  Leib, in the nurses’ station, was wide awake. His encounter with Julie transformed him momentarily into a silly youngster. The tragic weight of war coupled with Jewish self-pity was gone, replaced by mid-Manhattan affectations. He bored us with a few stories, attempting sophistication, and while Shula and I fell asleep, he carried on.

  CHAPTER

  6

  “Have you ever been to Europe?” Shula asked me.

  “Yes. Twice. Once on my own, another time with a friend. Why?”

  “I am thinking of going. When this is all over, I’ll leave the children with my in-laws and go.”

  “Well-deserved trip. Where will you go?”

  “I don’t know. Places one hears about, London, Paris, perhaps Venice and Florence. A regular tourist. That’s what I’d like to be. Read the guide books, take tours, see things of beauty. I am entitled to a month’s leave, and we have some savings.”

  “Great idea. Better wait for spring, though.”

  Europe in the spring was Europe with Amnon. Two months before he was killed.

  He had to attend a conference in Geneva and we planned, he planned, to meet in Paris. He gave me the tickets, the name of the hotel, the date—the way he did when we met in Eilat. He even packed for me, throwing out of the suitcase half the things I thought I couldn’t do without. He gave me some money and tokens for the Paris public phone in case I got stuck, and he left three days earlier for Geneva.

  I didn’t take this trip for granted. It wasn’t less moral than sleeping together in my apartment, but I did feel guilty. His wife could have gone if it weren’t for me. She had on other occasions.

  “That’s why,” he said. “Your turn now.”

  He never mentioned the expense involved and I didn’t think of it, although alone I couldn’t have afforded it. I told my mother and friends that I had saved enough for the trip, needed a change and a vacation. They never questioned it further and saw me off at the airport.

  It was raining in Paris and gloomy when I arrived. The trees were just beginning to bud and it was cold. At the hotel I found Amnon hadn’t checked in yet, and I went for a walk.

  The pale sun broke through the clouds, changing the city from a slave to a bride with magic light. My rusty French won me a smile at the cafe, and walking back along the quay I felt as free as only a woman in love can.

  Amnon was waiting with chocolates in a fancy box and fruit in brown paper bags. He unpacked both cases and placed everything neatly in drawers.

  He told me about Geneva, looked at the Hebrew newspapers I had brought along, phoned room service for Evian and undressed me.

  “First we make love. Then we go for a drive and some food, then we make love and go out again. What would you like to do?”

  “Do I have to say? I missed you.”

  “Don’t ever say that. Just enjoy what you have.”

  Enjoy I did. The week in Paris was a finishing school. I learned all the superfluous things a chic person should know. What to eat and where and how. The little place on the Île St. Louis served the best ice cream (prunes and Grand Marnier), at Fauchon we got the best tarte au citron and on the Place Victor Hugo these fancy little sandwiches and tea in a glass. For a dressing gown we went to Porthault and at Charles Jordan he knew the salesgirls by name. I didn’t care for shopping but after three days I felt natural in a Cacharel skirt and blouse, shoes and bag to match, a new trench coat, sunglasses, even a key chain and a wallet.

  “So, only the poodle is missing,” Amnon said.

  We went to galleries and argued about paintings. He made me try all the seafood delicacies I had never believed were edible, and we danced at night until my feet were swollen in the new shoes. We made love in the hotel room and kissed at every street corner, and for the first time I thought about the future. Thought, not talked. I was spoiled now. I could never use plastic instead of leather, synthetic instead of fine cotton or silk, underwear without fine lace. Or at least I thought so.

  “It’s all nonsense, of course,” Amnon laughed. “You first have to have it, then you can do without.”

  “I know. Only the best, and who needs it.”

  As if to prove it, he put on jeans and tennis shoes, and so did I. We took the metro, ate in a cheap bistro, walked under bridges, got soaked in the rain and walked into Carrier’s. He bought me their famous triple- ring and slipped it on my wet finger.

  “It looks like a wedding ring,” I said.

  “A triple one, enjoy it.”

  On the way back, in the taxi, I was crying. Pretending these were raindrops I was wiping my face.

  “Moment of truth?” he asked. “I thought you were having fun.”

  For the first time I wanted it all to last, his wife to disappear, his past and mine to be erased and for us to last. I was crying now and he was helpless and kind. On the way we stopped for the newspapers.

  The headlines in big print said, “Emergency Declared, General Mobilization. Egyptian Army Moving Toward The Frontier.” Amnon diverted the taxi to the El Al office; he walked in to the manager to get us on the first flight home. I went on to the hotel to pack.

  The phone was ringing in the room and Amnon was on the line.

  “Pack and pay and check out. There is some money in the camera case. Grab a taxi and go to Orly, I’ll wait there at the El Al stand.”

  “Is it that bad?”

  “Better to find out in Lydda than be stuck here.” As an afterthought he added, “As pleasant as it is here.”

  I threw everything into the two suitcases, figuring we could sort it out later. I forgot the bathrobes hanging behin
d the bathroom door, and called for a bellboy. Paid, grabbed a taxi, bid our love nest farewell, promising myself to return, and got to Orly. Amnon was waiting on the pavement, boarding cards in hand. We had time to check in and walk to the gate soberly.

  “I didn’t have time to ask you,” he started, “but if you’d rather stay a few days you are welcome to be my guest. I may be exaggerating, but if my men are called I’d better be there.”

  “You must be crazy to think I would want to stay.”

  “It was a good party.”

  “The best.”

  On the flight home we didn’t talk much. As if not to impose words on something beautiful we both treasured.

  Below, while the sun set and we seemed static, Europe was flying, gently unfolding greens of forests and whites of snow peaks, untroubled blues of lakes and seas.

  It was getting dark, dinner was served and left untouched.

  “It isn’t Lassere,” he laughed.

  “Where did you learn all these things?”

  “The Fancy College. It’s nonsense. A matter of selection until you reach the top and dismiss the others. Tips, guidebooks, fancy friends, experience. You grow tired of the finesse after a while, and settle for the knowledge without the need to use it.”

  “It’s also costly.”

  “Who’s counting? It’s nice to own good things if you manage not to worry about them, as long as you know you can do without.”

  I kept turning the triple-ring on my finger. He was already with “his men, his tanks.”

  “Another war? Do you think?”

  “It seems inevitable, but we’ll soon find out. We are in good shape now, ready to go.”

  “You sound as if you want a war.”

  “Don’t be righteous about it. All that stuff about young kids getting killed and war widows and orphans. When fighting is the answer for something, we want to fight. A good victory prevents bloodshed, even if people are killed. I’ve settled for the fact that we’ll always have wars, every few years, and this will go on for a long time.

  “It sounds horrible.”