Читать книгу Days of Lead - Moshe Rashkes - Страница 6

“This war isn’t going to last long,” Yehuda said. “It’ll soon be over. You can take my word for it.” His eyes glittered with enthusiasm, and there was a hint of derision in their corners. Was it aimed at me? Because I was stuck there in the training camp, far from the places where the real fighting was going on?

“You really think so?” I asked hesitantly.

“What a question!” Yehuda gave me a knowing wink. “We’ll finish them off right away!”

His confident voice made me feel ashamed. I wanted to open my mouth, to protest. But he stopped me with a decisive gesture. “In general I’m fed up with training greenhorns. This training camp isn’t my line.” I nodded in agreement. “I’m going to the front,” he added. “Must get a few shots in before the whole thing’s over.”

“Yes, you’re right,” I muttered. “I’m also fed up.”

“I’m leaving camp tomorrow,” he snorted proudly.

“Has the camp commander agreed?” I asked, taken aback.

“Listen to me,” he retorted with a swagger. “That Old Ramrod cuts no ice with me. I just forgot how to train the men. I lost my memory, get it? So, he had to get rid of me.” My astonished look only increased his flow of words. “Look, chum,” he went on, “I wasn’t born yesterday!” His eyes rested on me for a moment while he savored his triumph. It was almost as if he was asking me, “Aren’t I terrific?”

“You certainly know the ropes,” I said with envy. “I just haven’t got the courage to get away with tricks like that. The only thing I can do is to ask Ramrod for a transfer to a combat unit . . . Think I’ve got a chance?”

“Huh!” Yehuda snorted. “You’re just wasting your time. You’ve got to be smart, on the ball—like me. Else you’ll stay right here. The OC will keep you in camp until the war’s over.”

“Rubbish,” the platoon commander, Arthur, chimed in. “You boys are just looking for trouble.” And he added, in a strict tone, “What do you need it for? Do what you’re told to do, and don’t poke your nose where it’s not wanted.”

“He’s dead right,” added Yehiel, the instructor, who was standing next to us. “War isn’t a game of tag. Don’t be so anxious to get to the front.” He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a photograph.

“Have you seen this?” he asked.

“No, I haven’t.”

Yehiel held it out to me. “These are our boys. The enemy’s spreading it around.”

I glanced at it, and my blood froze. I felt like choking. Paralyzed. Our soldiers: a heap of naked bodies, their limbs cut off; a smashed white hand, fingers clenched, stuck into the air as if trying to grasp it; drops of clotting blood trickling over their pale skin. Our boys . . . The photograph shook in my hands. Heads bashed in, with ears cut off. Black splotches covered their faces. I looked desperately for their eyes, or at least for the place where the eyes should be, but they weren’t there. Instead I saw hollow black pits, dark caves. Their feet had also been cut off. Ropes were tied around their waists. “No, no,” The sight left my hands and feet trembling and gave me a feeling of weakness and slackness in my muscles.

“I’ve seen atrocity pictures before,” Arthur said. “Those shots of the German concentration camps. Naked bodies, gas chambers, rows of corpses lying in trenches. You must have seen them.”

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s what war’s like. Perhaps it’s the symbol of fate. If you’d been in the camps, you might have been dead too. But you’re here, in Tel Aviv.”

“It’s all a question of luck,” Yehiel summed up. He took the photograph from me and stuffed it back in his pocket.

“It couldn’t happen to me,” I blurted out.

“Why not?” Arthur jeered. He took a pipe out of his shirt pocket, knocked it against his palm, and emptied out the stale tobacco. I was silent. A fatherly smile spread over his face, as if he wanted to say: “Really, my boy, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I coughed slightly, to indicate that I didn’t agree with him. “Well, I’ll be seeing you,” I said abruptly, strolling to the center of the camp.

Near the parade ground stood Old Ramrod, looking at the recruits passing by. He was staring at a group of greenhorns, standing next to the taps outside the dining room, who had just finished cleaning their messtins. “Hey, you there!” the OC shouted. “Don’t you intend to turn off these taps?” The greenhorns, who wore faded, threadbare clothes, stopped in their tracks, panic-stricken, and gazed at him like a flock of frightened ducks. “Is that how you behave at home, too?” he yelled. The recruits stood rooted to one spot, unable to move. “Well, hurry up and turn off those taps at once!” he roared impatiently. They hurried to the dripping taps, their boots spattering mud over their trousers as they closed them. Then they made for their huts, leaving trails of mud behind.

I came up to Ramrod. Suddenly he turned to me, in a movement that took me by surprise.

“Well?” he asked. “Want something?”

“I w-w-wanted to talk to you,” I stammered.

“Then come to my office at one,” he dismissed me.

—

At one o’clock I presented myself in his office. Ramrod was standing behind a broad desk. He gestured to a chair, and I sat down slowly.

“Well, what’s it all about?” he asked, fixing a stern eye on me.

His penetrating stare scattered all my thoughts, and I didn’t know how to begin.

“Well?” he encouraged me.

“You see, here in the camp . . .” The words stuck in my throat. I breathed deeply and raised my voice: “I want to go off to the front . . . to fight . . . like all the others . . . To leave the camp . . .”

His lips clenched in a worried expression. “Listen,” he growled in quite a kindly tone, “the war’s only just begun. There’s no need to hurry.” He stopped abruptly, leaned back in his chair, and went on in a soft voice: “And don’t think that our soldiers will always be in rags, as they are now, without proper uniforms, without enough arms. The day will come when all these things will change.”

“But . . . but . . .” I mumbled, confused and unsure of myself.

The OC cut me short: “I don’t intend to keep you against your will.” He went on in an angry voice: “Think about it until tomorrow, and then, if you still want to leave, you can go.” His voice hinted that our talk was over.

“Right,” I said. I got up from my chair like someone who had just had a tongue-lashing, and went outside.

Arthur was standing on the porch. “Well, did you see him?” he questioned me.

“Yes, I’ve just been there.”

“So?”

“I want to leave.”

A shadow of disappointment crossed his face. “You need this like a hole in your head,” he said, and stalked off.

I was more determined than ever to go—now that Old Ramrod and Arthur had both tried to persuade me to stay. As if I suspected they were trying to deprive me of a valuable and rare experience. It was true that the photograph Yehiel had shown me had put me off for a while. But its shocking effect was wearing off: the picture had become a collection of faded images, details that had no connection with one another, like a tune that one remembers vaguely but can’t hum from beginning to end although it rings in one’s ears.

Did I really want to go to the front? Was that really what I wanted? For a moment I almost changed my mind. After all, Old Ramrod was also against it. Could I go back to him and tell him I had decided to stay? I walked off to the fence at the end of the camp, thinking about this.

A group of soldiers walked past me quickly. Their clothes flapped as they marched, a collection of old clothes bought from a secondhand dealer. All different shades of khaki. And the hats . . . Each of them wore a different kind of knitted woolen cap. I looked at myself. Tight khaki trousers and a thin olive-green shirt. I had brought these clothes from home. That was two months ago, and I hadn’t been given a uniform yet. How much longer will this go on?

My thoughts were confused, and this made everything seem gloomy and miserable. The skies were overcast. The cool wind made my teeth chatter. The middle of winter—and I didn’t have a coat. Until then I hadn’t bothered much about things like that, despite the rain that had already fallen twice during outdoor training sessions. The recruits complained every time they were soaked by these sudden bursts of rain. I would open my shirt to the falling drops, as if I wanted to get soaked through to my bones, and call out: “That’s the way to get tough, boys!” As it grew colder, we ran in the rain, clothes stuck tight to our bodies, our teeth chattering. Although we wallowed in mud for hours on end, not a single man fell ill.

But now I felt the cold more than ever before. I could have asked for a short leave so that I could go to my parents’ home and fetch a coat. But wearing a civilian coat would have spoiled my military appearance—or so I thought. And then I imagined my parents’ puzzled looks if I arrived home in the dead of winter wearing light summer things.

“Why aren’t you wearing a coat?” they had asked me anxiously the last time I had been home.

To which I replied casually: “I have to get tough, to get used to little things like that.” And when I noticed their skeptical look, I went off to the bathroom to have a cold shower. “You see,” I called to them boastfully, coming out shivering with cold, “I’m getting used to it!”

But my father continued looking at me suspiciously. “Do you have enough clothes and food?” he asked.

“Of course, Dad,” I declared confidently. “What do you think?” His skeptical expression told me I had not succeeded in dispelling his suspicions. This prompted me to add: “You can see I’m getting used to suffering. Spartan education.”

“Why not take the coat, all the same?” my mother said in a tender voice, holding it out to me. I refused it with pretended annoyance, although inwardly I would have liked to have taken it.

“No, I don’t need it!” I protested. “Please let me alone. I don’t need anything.” They looked at me sorrowfully as I left.

But now I really missed the coat. My skin was rough, like a chicken whose feathers have been plucked. Perhaps I was scared? Afraid to leave the camp? Was I going to change my mind? . . . I turned back, as if running away from my doubts, and returned to the OC’s office.

“I want to see the OC,” I snapped at the secretary.

“But you’ve just seen him.”

“Yes, I know. But . . . it’s something important.”

She smiled and walked into his office. In a moment she was back. “OK . . . go right in.”

Old Ramrod didn’t seem surprised to see me again so soon.

“I came to tell you,” I blurted out quickly, “that I’ve decided to go.”

“You’ve decided?”

“Yes, yes,” I mumbled nervously.

“Good, if that’s the way you want it.” A sad smile appeared on his face. He was silent for a moment, as if he was thinking about something far away. “This afternoon you’ll be transferred to the Sarona camp. There you will present yourself to the camp commander. They need platoon commanders.” The OC seemed to be choosing his words carefully. “I’m sure you’ll make a good fighter,” he ended. Silence. We looked at one another. The old battle-scarred soldier, and the untried young star who was anxious to get a taste of war. Our eyes met. This meeting of our eyes meant a lot to me: it was a sort of pact between two generations of warriors, a silent agreement to what I considered to be the duties and privileges imposed upon every generation in turn. I regarded myself as representing enthusiasm and strength, while Ramrod stood for experience and advice. I knew that the war in which I was going to take part would be a life-or-death struggle. But I didn’t care. At that moment I regarded the need to face the danger of death as one of my deepest desires. Without this experience, I wouldn’t be a man, and I wouldn’t be worthy of continuing the soldierly tradition that I had just joined, in the silent pact with the OC.

“I hope we’ll meet again,” Ramrod said as we parted and shook hands warmly.

“I hope so too,” I echoed as I marched out. His eyes followed me. “Hope to see you,” I mumbled again, dodging outside. The secretary, who was standing outside the door, glanced at me curiously.

“Well, what happened?” she asked.

“I’m going to the front,” I announced proudly.

“What do you say!” she called out in surprise. “The old man must be in a good mood today!”

I went to my room, collected my few belongings, and stuffed them into my kit bag. I loaded it onto my back and went outside to inform the platoon commander of my transfer. I found him near the camp, watching a group of soldiers being taught how to throw hand grenades.

“What’re you doing here with a kit bag?” he asked.

“Well, I got what I wanted,” I replied.

“What’s that?” Arthur exclaimed, as if he couldn’t believe his ears.

“Yes, Ramrod’s transferred me to a combat unit. I’m on my way now.”

“And what do you say about that?” he barked.

“I’m saying nothing,” I answered with ill-concealed pride. “I’m leaving right away, and no regrets. This is my big chance.”

“Yes, yes,” Arthur grumbled to himself. From sheer force of habit, he pulled out his pipe. “I wish you the best of luck,” he added, before putting the pipe into his mouth. He came up to me and patted me on the shoulder. “So you made it, huh?” We shook hands, and then I lifted my kit bag and went off. Arthur followed me with his eyes, clenching his pipe tightly.

About half an hour later, I reached the company’s head­quarters at Sarona. A group of soldiers was working with two machine guns placed on the ground. “Where’s the OC’s office?” I asked the instructor. He didn’t reply, but pointed to a nearby two-story building with a red-tiled roof. I went into the corridor of the first floor. A cardboard sign hung on one of the doors. I looked at it: “Company Adjutant’s Office” it proclaimed in red chalk letters. I knocked at the door.

“Come in!” a choir of voices called out. I went inside, and found several instructors clustered around the adjutant’s table. He was giving rapid-fire answers to questions that came at him from all sides. He didn’t notice me. I came up to the table and shouted in a loud voice: “Hullo!” He looked up at me in surprise.

“Well?” he muttered, as if annoyed at being disturbed.

“I’m here!” I proclaimed triumphantly, expecting him to share my joy. But he looked at me as if he didn’t understand what was going on. “I’m reporting for duty,” I added, lowering my voice, embarrassed.

“Oh . . . you’re reporting for duty,” he mumbled, looking through the papers scattered on the table. Suddenly he raised his head as if he had remembered something. “Yes, of course, you’re being transferred to Jerusalem. You’ll talk to the company commander in a moment.” He dashed into the commander’s office with rapid steps, as if he was doing a dance. When he came out a minute later, he announced: “You can go in now.”

I entered the room, my heart beating with excitement. The commander welcomed me with a charming smile. He inspected me with his peaceful blue eyes like a good-hearted school teacher looking at his favorite pupil. “Sit down, please,” he said calmly. He picked up a packet of cigarettes from the desk and held it out to me.

“No thanks,” I said. “I don’t smoke.”

The OC took a cigarette, lit it slowly, and drew smoke into his lungs. He breathed the smoke in with enjoyment, as if freeing himself of a heavy pressure that squeezed his lungs. “I’m sending you to Jerusalem.” He stopped, to test my reaction, and then went on: “It won’t be a picnic up there.” A slight smile spread across the corners of his mouth. “But I’m sure you’ll do a good job there with your platoon.”

A wave of joy swept over me. I felt like a schoolboy whose teacher had just taken him out in front of the class and said: “Excellent! Full marks!”

“Your first headache will be how to get to Jerusalem,” he went on. “The road is blocked, but occasionally convoys get through. Try to get onto one of those tomorrow. When you get there, contact Erez, the commander of the platoon, in the Building of the Pillars. That’s on the main street, you know. Take some leave right away so that you can say goodbye to your folks, and don’t forget to take warm clothes with you. It’s cold up in the mountains, very cold.” I nodded. “OK then. Tomorrow morning at six.” He rose and shook hands with me warmly. “Goodbye.”

When I went out, the adjutant gave me a travel pass.

“So long,” I said to him happily as I left.

“We might still meet again” he said, with a rather mysterious tone in his voice. That evening I said goodbye to my parents. “I’m being transferred to Jerusalem,” I remarked casually, adding immediately afterward, in a reassuring voice: “Nothing to worry about.”

They looked at me sadly. “Do you have to go?”

“Yes, of course,” I made light of the whole matter. “But it’s really nothing dangerous.”

“Look after yourself, my boy,” my father said, patting my back encouragingly. “War isn’t a game, you know.”

“And don’t forget to pray every day,” my mother added in a pleading voice.

“You know I don’t pray as often as you do.” I wanted to show her that my new job wasn’t risky.

But she gave me a sad look, and when she saw I was still stubborn, she said: “Alright, then I’ll pray for you. I’ll pray every day.” She added, “Take warm clothes . . . I’ll get a few things ready for you,” doing her best to stop herself from bursting into tears.

“It’s not necessary. Really not,” I tried to calm her. “I’m not going to the end of the world. Don’t worry. Please.”

“At least take the coat,” my mother said in a voice choked by tears, holding it out to me. I couldn’t refuse. I took it protestingly and kissed her on her forehead. They both hugged me warmly.

As I left the house, they waved to me until I turned the corner.