But he, incredibly alert in that stifling, airless room, with old army blankets hung over the windows, shutting off the world outside, carried on the interrogation while listening to the stream of news bulletins that we did not hear, dragging out of me information that only increased his fury, mingling with the news of serious developments. For example, that I was a fourth-generation Israeli. I told him about the years in Paris, about the years before that, about my broken home, my father who disappeared, about the studies that I attempted. A year here, a course there, nothing regular, no degree completed. Then my loneliness, my confused life, were examined in depth. I even said something about the car, unintentionally. But I said nothing about you, I didn’t mention you once. As if you didn’t exist, weren’t important. I had no intention of handing you over as well.
And he listened to it all with supreme, tense attention, dragging the facts out of me with such relish, almost madly, but a different kind of madness, his was, quite different from mine.
At last the interrogation came to an end. I felt strangely relaxed. He gathered up the papers that the ginger-haired girl had completed in round, childish handwriting. He read through them again from the beginning.
“I shall have to make a decision about you, it’s a pity it’s so late. We’ll straighten it out after the war, when we’ve won. Now we must get you into uniform as soon as possible. It’s because of men like you that our army is so understaffed.”
I thought he was joking, but the clerk was hurriedly filling in the documents, a recruitment order and vouchers for the stores and the armoury.
“Who to inform if anything happens?” she asked.
I hesitated, then gave the address of my landlady in Paris.
Now at last I shall get away from him, I thought, but he showed no sign of leaving me alone. He picked up my documents and led me to the stores. It was nearly eleven o’clock, the camp was quiet. We found the stores locked and in darkness. I thought at least we’d postpone this business till tomorrow, but he had no intention of giving up. He set off to look for the quartermaster, going from place to place, I following him. I noticed that with other people too he behaved in a high-handed manner, with a tone of authority. At last he found the quartermaster in the clubhouse, sitting in the dark watching television. He ordered him out of there. A short, swarthy soldier, apparently rather stupid. First of all he made a note of his name and number, to bring him up on charges. The quartermaster was stunned, he tried to say something in his defence but the officer silenced him harshly.
We returned to the stores. The quartermaster, resentful and nervous because of the charge he was threatened with, began tossing out the items of equipment.
“I’ll show you what’s urgent,” hissed the major, still not mollified, making sure I was left short of nothing. Belt, straps, ammunition pouch, three knapsacks, a bivouac tent with posts and pegs, five blankets. I stood there dumbfounded, watching the pile of equipment grow on the dirty floor, things in which I had not the slightest interest. He stood to one side, grave, stiff as a post, the weak lamplight shining on his bald scalp.
Suddenly I felt desperate.
“I don’t need five blankets … two are enough for me. It’s summer now … autumn. It isn’t cold …”
“And what will you do in winter?”
“In winter?” I laughed. “What has winter to do with it? In the winter I shall be far from here.”
“That’s what you think,” he whispered scornfully, without even looking at me, contemptuous, as if the whole time he was collecting evidence against me.
Meanwhile the quartermaster, silent and scowling, was laying out eating utensils, greasy mess tins, a bayonet.
“A bayonet? What’s this bayonet for?” I was laughing almost hysterically. “This is a war of missiles and you’re giving me a bayonet.”
He didn’t answer. He stooped and picked up the bayonet, and gripping it between his thighs he drew it from the scabbard, ran his finger lightly over the blade, took off some black oil, sniffed it with an expression of disgust, then wiped the blade on one of the blankets and without a word put the bayonet back in its scabbard and tossed it onto the pile of equipment.
I signed a long list, running into two or three columns. I had forgotten my army number and I had to look again at the draft form to be reminded of it. But he already knew it by heart and corrected me disdainfully.
Finally I wrapped everything up in one giant bundle. The quartermaster helped me to fold the ends of the blankets while the officer stood over us giving advice. Then the quartermaster loaded the bundle onto my back and we went out into the darkness. It was nearly midnight. I staggered along under the crushing load while he strode in front, bald, thin and erect, the dead hand in his pocket, a small map case slung on his shoulder, the little transistor beaming its broadcasts direct to his ear, dragging behind him his very own soldier, his personal man.
He led me to the armoury. I was already on the verge of collapse, hunger turning to nausea, to the need to vomit up something I hadn’t eaten. A sour, bitter taste in my mouth. The load grew heavier on my back. Suddenly I realized how close I was to tears, real tears. At the door of the armoury I collapsed, my equipment scattering.
The armoury was open, lit up. Men were standing in line, most of them officers drawing revolvers and submachine guns. He by-passed the long line and went straight in, glancing at the rows of rifles and machine guns as if they were his personal property.
Finally he called me to sign for a bazooka and two containers of bombs.
“I’ve never touched a weapon like this,” I whispered, afraid of annoying him.
“I know,” he replied with sudden warmth, smiling to himself, amused at the ingenious idea of saddling me with a bazooka.
Now I was so laden with equipment I couldn’t move. But he had no intention of taking me anywhere.
“Hurry up and sort out your belt and knapsacks. I’m going to find transport to take us down to the front.”
And suddenly, with despair, I understood, in the dark it came to me in a flash what he intended, this ageing officer who still reeked of aftershave lotion.
“You’ve decided to kill me,” I whispered.
He smiled.
“You haven’t heard a single shot and you’re already thinking about death.”
But stubbornly, angrily, I repeated what I’d said:
“You want to kill me.”
But he was no longer smiling. Dryly he said, “Sort out your equipment.”
But I didn’t move. Something was broken inside me. A spirit of rebellion seized me.
“For half a day I’ve eaten nothing. If I don’t get some food I shall collapse. I’m already seeing you double.”
He said nothing, not batting an eyelid. Still that arrogant, empty look in his eyes. Then he put his hand into the map case, took out two hard-boiled eggs and gave them to me.
At one o’clock in the morning I was already in uniform, shod in heavy boots and lying half asleep under the open sky, in the growing chill of the night, my head heavy on the big knapsack that was stuffed with blankets and my old clothes, my feet propped up on the bazooka and the bombs. White egg shells scattered around me. The belt harness, which was spattered with bloodstains, I’d never have managed to put it all on by myself, without the help of the ginger-haired girl who had taken pity on me. She too was being harassed and hounded by the officer, who gave her endless instructions, sending her running from one end of the camp to the other. Now I saw his silhouette flitting about like something from a dream. He was searching in vain for transport to take us south, to the desert.