“Maybe we should exchange hats,” I said to the young man. “That way I shall remember you.”
He was utterly dumbfounded. Already he’d lost his jacket. Now somebody wanted to take his hat as well. But the eldest of the group gave me an intelligent, perceptive look, as if he’d grasped my intention even before I’d made up my own mind.
“By all means take it, sir … it will bring you good fortune … you shall return safely to your wife and children …”
“But I’m not married. I’m a lover.” Brazenly I challenged them. “I’m a lover of other men’s wives.”
The man of God didn’t lose his composure, but looked at me as if seeing me now for the first time.
“Then may you find your counterpart … return home safely.”
On the horizon plumes of dust were rising. A moment later, as if unconnected with them, came the boom of artillery. The start of the working day. Men began running. Again the shells came groping for me, trying to destroy me. The religious-affairs sergeant came running to move his party, to get them away from here. The camp was struck in haste, covered over with earth. At the side stood a party of soldiers starting to dig in. I hadn’t even had time to say goodbye.
Now I knew what I must do. I must escape. I could do it. I thought of nothing else all that day, crouched in a corner inside the half-track, keeping quiet, avoiding all unnecessary contact with the other men, trying to efface myself. It was a day of blazing heat, a thick dust cloud shut out the sky. The sun was hidden. Visibility, hopeless. All day the radio sets crackled as units tried desperately to locate one another. And covering everything, the yellow, menacing dust. We were advancing on the canal. They’d broken through to the other side and we were to join forces with the troops who were crossing the strip of water in a continuous column. Towards evening we dipped our hands in the bomb-racked waters. New officers arrived and told us what was planned for tomorrow.
But I was already well advanced in plans of my own. Clearly this was a war without end. What could I do on the west bank of the canal? Even on the east bank I’d found nothing useful to do.
So, stealthily, I made my preparations. I packed into a small knapsack the sacred objects that I’d collected over the last two days. Hat, black jacket, tassel. I prepared meat and cheese sandwiches, filled two water bottles. And in the night, in the last watch, when the time came for me to go on sentry duty, I took my equipment, went to the edge of the camp and slipped away behind a hill. I dug a shallow pit and buried the bazooka. I stripped off my army clothes, tore them to shreds with the bayonet and scattered the shreds in the darkness. I took from the knapsack my white civilian shirt and my black woollen trousers, put on the tassels and the stolen jacket, put the hat down beside me. I had a fortnight’s growth of beard, and from my tousled hair, which had grown wild, I could make rudimentary side curls.
So I sat in a cleft of the rock, not far from the canal, shivering with cold, watching the dim skies, which were lit up from time to time by explosions, waiting for the dawn, hearing them rouse the men of my unit, moving them on. I listened hard to hear if they were searching for me, if they were calling my name. But I heard nothing, only the hum of engines starting up. Nobody had noticed my absence.
For a moment I was astonished at being obliterated –
But I didn’t move from my hiding place. I sat and waited for the first signs of light, greedily finishing off the sandwiches that I’d brought with me for the next day. At last the light came, creeping around me like a mist. A rainy dawn, almost European. I hid the last remnant of my army life, the knapsack itself, shook the dust and sand from my clothes, trying to straighten them, to put some shape into them. Then I put the hat on my head and started walking out of history. Heading east.
Soon I found myself on a road, and before long there was the sound of a vehicle approaching from behind, a bullet-ridden water carrier, water still streaming from the holes. I was still hesitating, wondering whether to flag it down, when the vehicle stopped beside me. I climbed in. The driver, a thin Yemenite, showed no surprise at the figure clad in black who sat down beside him, as if the whole desert were full of religious Jews, springing out from among the hills, just like that.
Oddly enough he didn’t speak to me, not a single word. Perhaps he was running away too, perhaps he’d just now come under fire and was returning the way he came. I don’t think he even noticed what kind of person he’d picked up. The roadblocks gave us no problems. The military police didn’t even glance at us. They were busy with the transport coming from the opposite direction, with men trying to get through to the fighting zone, to the western shore of the canal.
In Refidim I got out, didn’t even have time to thank the driver. The confusion there was even greater than before. Men running, vehicles travelling in all directions. And I, so light I was nearly floating, already feeling the effects of freedom, began wandering about the base, quietly looking for the way north. But I noticed that people were turning their heads to stare at me. I was attracting attention, even in the crowd. Perhaps there was something unreligious in my bearing, or in the way I wore the hat. I grew more and more apprehensive, walking at the side of the road, shrinking, trying to keep out of sight among the storehouses and tank shelters. And suddenly, on one of the paths, there, straight in front of me, like in a nightmare, was the tall, bald-headed officer, erect as ever, thin as ever, still with that arrogant and empty look in his eyes. I nearly collapsed in front of him. But he passed by without recognizing me, continuing on his way with that same slow, provocative walk.
So I must have really changed, a change that I myself had not yet grasped. I stood hiding in the shadow of a wall, trembling with shock, watching him as he crossed to one of the shelters. Something blue caught my eye. Grandma’s car. I’d almost forgotten it.
Suddenly I resolved to liberate the car as well. Why not? I’d wait till it was dark and take the car with me. I made a mental note of my surroundings, so I could find the place again, and went to look for a synagogue in which to hide until evening.
The synagogue was deserted and dirty. It looked as if a squad of soldiers had been billeted there a few days before. Ammunition pouches were scattered on the floor. The ark was locked but there were a few prayer books lying on the shelves and in a little cupboard I found a bottle of wine for Kiddush.
And there I sat all day, alone, sipping the warm, sweet wine, glancing through a prayer book to familiarize myself with the first rudiments of prayer. My brain grew hazy, but I didn’t dare go to sleep, somebody might come in and surprise me. Towards midnight I left the synagogue, carrying a nylon sack full of prayer books. If anyone challenged me I could say I’d been sent to distribute prayer books to the troops. The base was quieter now, people moving about with less animation. I even came upon a soldier and a girl-soldier embracing. As if there were no such thing as a war.
The Morris was parked between two battered tanks. It was covered in dust. The doors were locked, but I remembered that one of the windows had a defective catch. And so I succeeded in getting inside. My hands trembled as I held the wheel, resting my head on it. It was as if an eternity had passed since I’d been parted from the car, not just a few days of war.
I’d already prepared a piece of silver paper taken from an old cigarette packet, and just as in the past, when I was taking the car at night without grandmother knowing, I bent down beneath the wheel and found the point of contact of the ignition wires. And the battery, the new battery that you’d fitted for me just a few weeks before, Adam, it responded at once to the light touch and set the engine in motion.