"Sort of the iron fist and silk glove approach," Tom interjected. "Is it the same in the other cities?"
"Yeah, as far as we can tell. In Jerusalem the Russians shut down work on the Temple to pacify the Arabs. But they want it both ways, so to keep from further angering the Jews, they haven't destroyed any of the work that's already been done."
"Is there any kind of organized resistance?" Tom asked.
"There are reports of small groups sniping at the Russians in the hills but I don't think they're very well organized. In the cities the people are less violent but they're just as resistant."
"What about the Russians' ultimate goal? Your brother seemed to think the whole thing had been planned out from the very early stages. Does anybody know what the Russians want with Israel? Have there been any public statements of their long range plans?"
"They say they'll leave when the threat of a nuclear/chemical war is removed from the region. But Joel says they already control all of Israel's nuclear weapons. If they planned to dismantle them they would have started by now. Of course if they do leave we'll be sitting ducks for the Arabs. The Russians have confiscated and impounded all military equipment as well as most of the small arms from the people. It's a lousy situation, but right now if the Russians left we'd have no way to protect ourselves except with picks and shovels.
"I suppose I'm not looking at this very optimistically, but at best this is going to be a long term arrangement. At worst the Russians will declare the occupation a success and leave us to be slaughtered by the Arabs. It's actually quite clever: it's a perfect excuse for them to stay indefinitely."
"I wonder when the next plane leaves for the U.S.?" Tom mused, but Rhoda didn't laugh.
When they arrived at the ophthalmologist's office, Tom took Rhoda's arm and she led him to the door. Inside, the receptionist greeted her like an old friend.
"So this is the special patient you called about. How's he doing?"
"Well, that's what we're here to find out. How long before Dr. Weinstat can see us?" Rhoda asked as she surveyed the nearly full waiting room.
"Dr. Weinstat said to handle this as an emergency since the patient may still have some particles in his eyes. He's finishing up with a patient now, so it should be only a few minutes."
Tom continued to hold Rhoda's arm as they sat down to wait. The chairs were closely placed and it seemed natural to continue the contact. It was a moment before Tom realized he was still holding on. His first thought was to let go, but at the same instant it occurred to him that Rhoda did not seem to object. Even through the soft fabric of her blouse, the warmth of her skin seemed to penetrate the cold darkness that surrounded him.
The two sat silently. The receptionist's comment about him being the 'special' patient had not escaped his attention. He didn't want to assign it too much meaning, but he thought briefly about asking Rhoda to explain the reference. No, he thought. If he spoke he would disturb the moment and she might feel compelled by propriety to lightly pull away her arm, and then he would be compelled by the same propriety to release it. Better to leave things as they were. Then, unexpectedly, she spoke.
"Dr. Weinstat is a good doctor," she said.
"Good," Tom answered, inanely.
It was only small talk. Apparently she was as aware of the silence as Tom was. What was important was that they were carrying on a conversation, however unimaginative, and she gave no hint that she wanted him to let go of her.
In the examination room, it took the ophthalmologist only one quick look in each eye to make his diagnosis. "I'm sorry, Mr. Donafin. The damage to your cornea is very severe. The scarring from the shards of glass and the corneal burns have formed a nearly opaque cover over about ninety percent of your crystalline lens, and the rest isn't much better. As bad as it is, I'm surprised you still have any light perception at all. Ordinarily we might consider corneal transplants, but in this case, with the ancillary burn damage to the retinas, I think we'd only be causing additional suffering with no real hope of improvement in your sight."
It was all so quick. So quick and so final. In those few short words, stated with such stark clinical coldness, the doctor had pronounced him permanently blind.
"If you'll lean back, I'll put some fluorescein in your eyes so we can locate the glass that's still bothering you," the doctor said. When he finished, the doctor put an antibiotic ointment in Tom's eyes and reapplied pressure bandages to keep the lids from moving. "Now, leave that on and come back tomorrow so we can see how you're doing. Dr. Felsberg," he continued, now addressing Rhoda, "will you be bringing Mr. Donafin back in tomorrow?"
Rhoda nodded, and then stated her intention verbally for Tom's benefit.
"If you'll let Betty know on your way out, she'll try to schedule a time convenient with your schedule."
"Thank you," she said, in response to the professional courtesy.
"Oh, and ask her to give you some pamphlets about learning to live with blindness."
Tom knew that it was entirely normal for doctors to carry on conversations as if their patients were nowhere within earshot, but right now what he knew made little difference. What he felt, there in the blackness that he had just learned would be his permanent home, was that he was being talked about and not to. It was as if he weren't a real person anymore because he was blind. He knew it was just the beginning. He had known blind people over the years. He knew how they were obliged by their blindness to always wait for the conversation of others. Even in a crowded room he had seen blind people forced to stand silently until someone spoke to them. The day before, Tom had joked about it, but now the reality of the end of his career as a photographer hit him full force.
In the car Tom was silent as Rhoda got in the other side. "How are you doing?" she asked sympathetically, as she put her hand on his.
"Not very well," he answered. "And what's worse, I don't think the whole thing has really hit me yet. I keep thinking that I'll just get these bandages off and I'll be able to see again."
"Well," she began as she caressed his hand to comfort him, but then she couldn't think of anything else to say.
Tom turned his hand to hold hers; he needed all the support he could get right now. "I have no idea what to do from here," he said. "I can't work. I have some savings and three years of back pay coming from News World that'll last me for a while, but then what?" He felt like saying something cliché like "I'd be better off dead," but the warmth of Rhoda's hand told him that wasn't true.
"Tom, I know you're feeling angry right now, and cheated, but there are things in life which we must simply accept, because even if we don't they remain the same." She sounded as though she was speaking from experience.
They sat for another few minutes in silence holding each other's hands. "Tom," Rhoda said finally, "there's someone I want you to meet."
Tom thought he knew who she was talking about. "Your rabbi?" he asked.
"You'll really like him," she said, confirming Tom's question. "He asked me to bring you by when you were back on your feet."
"Yeah, I guess it's about time I thanked him for digging me out and bringing me to you." Reluctantly, Tom let Rhoda's hand slip free so she could drive.
Chapter 15
Plowshares into Swords
Two months later – Tel Aviv
Scott Rosen sat in a small cafe eating a bowl of soup, waiting for his friend Joel Felsberg. Soon Joel entered and sat down without speaking.
"You look upset," Scott offered, in what seemed to Joel to be a rather irritating tone.
"I hate these damned Russians – always stopping you on the street and wanting to see your papers." Joel was exaggerating: most people went days without being stopped. "They're never going to leave, you know."