And so I began to move — north, east, God knows. I had no sense of direction, I was just looking for signposts. I’d stop and ask which was the way back to Israel.
“Which Israel?” the military police would reply with a laugh.
“Doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter, just get me out of the desert.” The bulk of the transport was moving in the opposite direction. Tanks, artillery, giant ammunition trucks. A khaki river roaring along with dimmed lights. And I in the little car running against the tide, moving aside to the edge of the road and even so upsetting the smooth progress of the convoy. I heard the muffled curses — “Holy bastard, chooses this time to tour the Sinai” — but I didn’t respond, just smiled pleasantly, weaving in and out of the traffic, never pausing but pressing on all the time, as if possessed, speeding along the battered roads, away from the desert.
In the morning I reached the big canteen at Rafah, exhausted by the long drive but drunk with freedom. I went in to buy food, and went cavorting from counter to counter, drinking soup, eating sausages, munching chocolate and candies. Then among the crowd I saw a group of religious Jews, men dressed in black like myself, watching me curiously, astonished to see me eating so wildly, so anarchically, prancing from meat counter to dairy counter and back again. I decided it was time to leave. But at the door one of the religious Jews stopped me, clutched my shoulder.
“Wait a moment, we are forming a minyan for the morning prayer …”
“I prayed yesterday …” I broke away from his grasp and ran to the Morris, started the engine and fled, leaving them to their astonishment.
A few kilometres farther on, the desert ended abruptly, there were palm trees at the roadside, white houses, sand dunes ringed by little orchards. Israel. A wonderful smell of the sea. I slowed down, stopped. So — I’d escaped. Now I felt the full weight of my weariness, I felt dizzy, could hardly keep my eyes open. I left the car, breathed in the morning air. The smell of the sea enticed me. But where was the sea? Suddenly I wanted the sea, I needed to touch it. I waved down the speeding car of a tall senior officer who drew up beside me. “Where is the sea?” I asked. He was incensed at the question. But he showed me the way.
And I found a pure, clean beach, silence all around, like another world. No country, no war, nothing. Just the murmur of the waves.
I lay down under a palm tree, facing the sea, and went to sleep at once, it was as if I’d inhaled ether, I could have lain there for days. But the setting sun broke into my sleep and I woke up, stretched out in the sand. A little sand hill moved above me and sheltered me. Such a pure kind of warmth. I dozed again, enjoying the sea breeze, turning over in a bed of sand, and still lying there I stripped off my clothes, the black coat, the tassels, my trousers, underwear, shoes and socks. I lay naked in the sand for a while, then rose and went to bathe in the sea.
How wonderful it was, solitude all around. To be alone again after long days among crowds of people, quite alone. The gentle silence. Even the whine of the aircraft was swallowed up by the murmur of the waves. It seemed the local Arabs were afraid to leave their homes because of the war. I put on my underwear and strolled about the beach as if it were my own private shore. Time came back to me. Sunset approaching. The sun, a Cyclops’ eye on the horizon, watching me calmly.
I went back to the Morris, which was standing faithful and quiet, its face to the sea, and I had a sudden shock. Inside the car was all the officer’s luggage. He’d been using my car as a storage cupboard. Some folded blankets on the back seat, a small bivouac tent, even his mysterious map case was there. I opened it nervously and found that it really did contain maps, a stack of detailed maps of the Middle East, Libya, Sudan, Tunisia. In a little box were the new insignia of a lieutenant colonel. He was expecting promotion. There was also a white linen bag containing two old, cracked, hard-boiled eggs, their shells turning pink. Without thinking twice I peeled them and ate them hungrily, while reading an interesting document that I’d found. It was a sort of will that he’d written, addressed to his wife and two sons, written in elevated tones and a poetic style, something about himself and the people of Israel. It was a strange mixture — destiny, mission, history, fate, endurance. A bloated anthology of righteousness and self-pity. A chill passed through me as I thought of the rage he’d fall into when he discovered that the car had gone. He wouldn’t rest till he’d found me. Perhaps he was already in pursuit, perhaps not far behind. He hadn’t seemed really involved in this war.
I took all his maps and papers, tore them into little pieces and buried them in the sand, threw the empty bag into the sea and cleared the car of all the rest of his property. In the trunk I found a large can of paint and a brush that had been left there after the lights had been blacked out, back in the base camp.
I had a sudden inspiration –
I’d paint the car black, change its colour. I set to work immediately, stirring the paint to thicken it a little, and in the dim afterglow of sunset, with brisk brush strokes, I painted the car jet black. Standing in my underwear as the light faded, turning my car into a hearse. And I was adding the last touches of paint, humming an old French song to myself, when I sensed that I was being watched. I turned around and saw on the little sand hill behind me a number of shadowy figures. A little group of Bedouin in flowing robes, sitting there, watching me at work. I hadn’t heard them approach. How long had they been there? The paint brush fell into the sand. Now I wished I hadn’t discarded the bazooka. I had only my bayonet.
I could see they were fascinated by me. For them I was a real event. Perhaps they were considering my fate. I’d fallen into their hands, such an easy prey.
But they apparently sensed my fear, and with a slow movement they raised their hands high to greet me, a sort of half salute.
I smiled at them, bowing slightly from a distance, then turned to the heap of my clothes and dressed in a hurry. The shirt, the tassels, the trousers, the black jacket, the hat. Suddenly it occurred to me that in these clothes I was sure to be safe from them. And they, following my movements, were astonished indeed. I saw them stand up to watch me more closely. Hurriedly I gathered the rest of the things together and buried them in the sand, in the dark, knowing that anything I hid would be unearthed the moment I left. I leaped into the car and tried to start the engine. But it seems that in my agitation I missed the point of contact and the engine just groaned.
After a few moments of futile attempts I saw them approaching, standing in a circle around the car, a few paces distant. They watched me fumbling under the dashboard. They were certain of one thing at least, that I’d stolen the car. I kept smiling at their dark faces, groping again feverishly for those goddamn wires. At last I succeeded, bringing the engine to life and breaking the silence, switching on the lights, sending out twin beams of light onto the dark sea, starting to move, turning, sinking in the sand, the wheels digging deep.
Meanwhile the crowd of onlookers had grown, like a flock of birds settling at night. Children, youths, old men springing up from the folds of the sand. I bent down to examine the tyres stuck in the sand, returned to the car and tried again. The engine cut out. I started the engine again and sank farther.
Then I turned to the silent shadows and wordlessly appealed for help. They’d been waiting for this sign. Instantly they leaped at the car, dozens of hands sticking in the wet paint. I felt the car moving, hovering in the air, carried up to the road. The wheels touched firm ground. I drove forwards a short distance and stopped. Climbed out and looked back at the group of shadowy figures standing silent on the road, took off my hat and waved it in an elegant gesture of thanks. I heard a mumbled response, something in Arabic, presumably a farewell.