Читать книгу Days of Lead - Moshe Rashkes - Страница 7

The next day I set off for Jerusalem with the convoy taking supplies to the besieged city. Trucks waited in line on the road. Great clumsy iron cranes protruded from them like masts. Soldiers wearing knitted woolen caps leaned against the armored car at the head of the queue. They gave me a casual glance and went back to their talk.

“Our armored cars aren’t worth a damn,” one of them complained. “The bullets cut through them like butter.” To me the gray armor plating of the waiting cars looked strong and powerful. But the soldier obviously didn’t think so.

“You’re wrong,” another soldier said. “Only really big shells can get through them.”

They gave me a questioning look. “Are you coming with us?” one of them asked. I nodded.

“You know,” another man said, with a wink at the others, “by the time we get to Jerusalem we’ll all be spitting blood.” They all laughed heartily. I forced a smile.

“Right, let’s move,” someone said. We all climbed aboard the truck.

The convoy set off. I felt uncomfortable. Above my head there was an opening. I stretched my hand out to it and let some cool air in. The winter wind eased the close feeling that made it so hard to breathe. I smiled at the five other fellows in the truck. They noted the expression on my face with sardonic interest.

“New?” asked the baggy-clothed soldier who sat next to me.

“More or less,” I answered.

“When you come to Sha’ar Hagai you’ll have a chance to learn something.”

“Yes, we’ll get a hot reception,” his mate added. Again, I forced a smile to my lips, taking a long, deep breath. The expression of peace and unconcern on their faces made me wonder if they weren’t trying to pull my leg.

I felt as if I was being held in a deep, dark, narrow cellar. The steel walls pressed against me. It was stifling. I could almost feel the air with my hand. Was that how the others had also felt when they traveled in an armored car for the first time?

I looked at my watch. Eight o’clock. I peered out through the open roof covering. The convoy was roaring after us: iron shapes groaning along and letting off streams of smoke behind. I turned my face the other way. A row of high mountains stretching as far as the eye could see, forming a gray, heavy mass. A continent of mountains towering up to the skies. Enemy territory. Breezy morning mists blew lightly over the peaks of the mountains, as if they wanted to hide what was happening there.

The cool wind burned my lips. I wrapped myself in my coat, but the cold still came through. For a moment it occurred to me that my mother was right when she insisted I take the coat. I wondered whether the sudden cold spell meant we were in for some rain. I glanced upward. Rough-edged clouds floated across the heavens. As they moved, their shapes changed. For a moment I tried to find some resemblance between the shapes of the clouds and the shapes of animals and objects: the face of a lion, a frog, a dragon. The brush of a malicious artist splashed its drops across the canvas of the skies.

“We’re not far from Ekron,” the radio operator remarked in his confident voice. Now the convoy left the tarred road and took the dirt track leading to the village of Ekron. We slowed down. The rains that had fallen there had turned the sandy soil into a viscous quagmire of squishy mud. The trucks slid to the side of the road. The armored cars rushed up to pull them from the mud, with the help of wire cables. We crawled along at a snail’s pace.

After two exasperating hours of hard work, the leading armored car announced a half-hour break. The trucks and cars gathered in the main street of the village. Through the open windows of the small white houses peeped the heads of boys and girls, while the men gathered outside in the street, next to the trucks.

The drivers made a hurried inspection of their motors and then went into the café at the corner. The boys who shared my armored car also went along. “Aren’t you coming with us?” they asked me as they went out.

“No thanks, I’ll stay here.”

I went out through the open door and remained standing in the street. My eyes strayed to the hills of Jerusalem. I had a strange feeling, as if somewhere far off in the peaks of those mountains the enemy was watching us.

The weather improved, and the sun emerged from the tattered clouds. I went on looking at the high mountain ridge; here rocks and green forests joined together in an impressive pano­rama. A spark of light flashed there and went off immediately. It flickered again, and then again. Heliograph signals. My feeling hadn’t been wrong. The enemy was watching us. I walked over to the leading armored car and reported what I had seen.

“Yes,” the report operator said, “we noticed the signals and asked for an aerial patrol. A Piper plane will pass over Sha’ar Hagai in about fifteen minutes.”

I went back to my place. The flicker of the heliograph stopped. Meanwhile everybody was getting ready for the next stage of the journey. The drivers and armored car men went back to their vehicles.

“What are you standing there for, like a bloody pole?” one of them jeered at me. I told him. “Oh, we know the Piper’s reconnaissance flights,” he sneered. “Those little one-horse planes. Every time, they go over and tell us the land’s clear and they can’t see a thing. Then later on we find out there’s an Arab behind every rock.”

Another soldier chimed in: “It’s not easy to spot their positions. They’re camouflaged. What can they do?”

“OK, OK,” the first one snapped angrily. “You can always find excuses. But meanwhile we’re getting the worst of it.”

The argument stopped when we heard the noisy voices of the returning soldiers, carrying oranges and bottles of squash. One even held a squawking chicken. They stuffed the goods into one of the cars.

“We’re leaving in five minutes!” someone called out from the leading armored car, which sped along the line of trucks. “Everyone load up at once!”

The soldiers clustered together in front of the cars. They were joined by several of the villagers, who waved goodbye warmly.

“Good luck!” came the voices of the women and girls, from the windows of their houses.

“Good luck!” whispered an old farmer who stood next to me, waving his battered old hat. I returned his greeting. He was the only person in the whole crowd who paid any attention to me.

The signal was given, and the convoy began moving toward the mountains. I opened the roof covering once more and looked out. On both sides of the road stretched green, verdant orchards and well-tended fields. I couldn’t see a soul about.

“We’re in enemy territory already,” the radio operator announced. His words sent a slight shudder through my body. I took a sharper look at the landscape. It looked the same as the countryside on our side of the border. The hum of a plane engine sounded far above us. The Piper patrol plane was flying overhead, its noisy motor chugging away and its squat, clumsy wings rocking from side to side.

“That Piper! Just a heap of scrap iron!” grumbled one of the soldiers. “I’m surprised it gets off the ground!”

It went on flying low over us, until it disappeared among the wadis that cut through the mountains.

“We’re getting close to Sha’ar Hagai!” the radio operator remarked. His thick, hoarse voice sounded faint and indistinct, as if he was talking to himself. Then he added, in a louder voice and a more definite tone: “I’ve got a feeling they’re waiting for us.”

“You’ll have to close the window just now,” the machine gunner warned me. “They can get you from those damn hills.” I shivered.

“Alright.” My eyes were fixed on the heavy machine gun lying on the floor like a faithful watchdog, sitting with its feet stretched out in front of it. “I’ll close it when we get to the hills.”

The hills came closer, and the pounding of my heart made them jump in front of my eyes. Then I calmed down a little, and the hills stopped shaking.

“Here’s Sha’ar Hagai,” my neighbor called out. He pointed to the place with his finger. I stared at the ridges of the hills, which seemed to merge into one another. A café built of yellowish stone stood on the crossroads leading from Jerusalem to Beit Guvrin. The shutters of the café were closed, and there was nobody about. On both sides of the winding road were steep, rocky slopes covered with pine trees. The densely-packed trees were inclined inward, as if they wanted to fall onto the road. A cry of warning echoed in my ears: “No entry!”

The roof covering had to be closed. For the last time, I looked back, at the coastal plain strewn with squares of green and patches of yellow sand, vanishing from sight behind the hills. I had a powerful urge to go back. If only I could go back to the training camp. But it was too late for that. I had to carry on. My worried eyes fixed on the road ahead once more. The narrow mountain pass we were now entering looked like a dark tunnel, long and closed.

I slammed the roof opening shut. It closed with a heavy metallic bang. It was pitch dark inside the car. I stretched out my hand to the shutter next to me and opened it wide. Through it I could see the white stones at the side of the road. They moved toward me. The speed of the armored car increased their blinding glare, as if the lights of thousands of small projectors were sending their rays toward me. My gaze strayed to the side of the road. Almost vertical slopes, strewn with stones, ran down to the edge like breakwaters.

The engine of the armored car groaned heavily, struggling to climb the road, which wound up the steep slope. Its incessant groan grated on my ears like the whine of a drill driving through my skull. I pressed myself against the opening. At that moment it seemed like the only avenue to light and sun and the green young life outside. Inside the car, the heavy iron plates pressed on me, radiating a stifling heat. The choking fumes of the engine seeped inside. I drew them into my nose and throat, coughing and swallowing my spit with difficulty.

The car sped past the water pumping station that stood on the rib of a rocky hill, next to the road. At the entrance to the station was an armored half-track, in front of which stood three British soldiers in black berets. They signaled to the passing trucks, pointing toward the hills.

“They’re telling us there’s an ambush over there,” the driver shouted.

“Don’t believe them,” the radio operator shouted back. “I wouldn’t be surprised if they put a few bullets into us themselves—” He didn’t have a chance to finish his sentence, before he was propelled into the air. I, too, was lifted into the air, floating. The sound of a heavy explosion hit me. A blinding streak of lightning covered my eyes. Murky darkness. A blow on my skull. My limbs were squashed.

—

I came to, stiff all over. My eyes squinted in the darkness. With every flicker of my eyelids, my head ached with pain. A bitter, burning taste, like foul sawdust, filled my mouth with sticky liquid. A crushing pain stabbed through me, clinging obstinately to my head, piercing through my skull. I heard a cracking, long ring in my ears, like banging on a thin tin plate. If only I could go back to the dim half-light, the dazed state from which I had just emerged. But everything was getting clearer.

I could move my arm now, but the movement sent a shudder of pain through my body. I put my hand to my head hesitantly. But I felt nothing, apart from a slight bump, a burning, stinging lump. I went on feeling for broken bones, but found none. Stretching forward, my hands came across a heap of ammunition boxes. My breathing was cut short by a direct stab of pain, which hit me like a blow to the abdomen. Closing my eyes, I doubled up. When I opened my eyes again I saw pale spots of light on the ceiling, vague, blurred openings in the wall of the armored car. The ceiling lay in front of me, on its side. I closed my eyes and opened them again. But the side wall was still above me. The car had turned over.

Fear. A wave of hot blood rushed to my head. A mad thumping in my heart. Fright. The chatter of a machine gun joined the ringing in my ears, banging away with a distant rattle, like faint voices. The shots came nearer. Their anger gathered like thunder. Machine guns snarling in staccato coughs. Guns barking somewhere, their thin sound almost swallowed in the salvoes of shots from other weapons. Another, lighter sound hovered in the air. Submachine guns. The convoy had run into an ambush. What about the other cars? I thought suddenly, panicking.

I lifted myself on an elbow, with great effort. Dizziness. Every-thing moved and shook. I felt I had to lie down on the floor, to hide. But I fought this oppressive feeling. Thin white smoke floated in a long trail over the pile of objects and boxes of ammunition in front of me. Choked groans and the sound of a man whispering. My heart leaped with joy to hear voices. Signs of life. I turned to one side, trying to get to my knees despite the pain. But I stumbled. I tried once more, and this time I made it.

My eyes fell on a figure lying next to me, a blurred, shadowy figure moving in the wind. I made out his face: a pale face struck by shock. Clenched lips moved, but I heard nothing. A hand came out and touched my shoulders. His face came closer. I heard some muffled words, slowly, like the sound of an echo among deep valleys. “What’s . . . hap . . . pened . . . to . . . you?”

I didn’t know what to say. I was confused. Stunned. Panic-stricken. Once more I felt my body and shook my head. “Nothing, I don’t think anything’s . . .” Talking made the ringing in my ears sound louder, like the whistle of a train slowing down. Tears of pain rolled down my cheeks. Crying made me feel more relaxed.

“What about the others?” I stammered in a choked voice.

“Two of them have been hurt. I thought you were too.” Now I recognized his wild forelock of straw-colored hair and peaceful blue eyes. It was the soldier who had grumbled about the poor aerial observations.

“They got us, huh?” He nodded his head, pinching his narrow lips in concern.

The bundle next to me moved, and out crawled the radio operator. “The set’s smashed,” he moaned.

“The accompanying armored cars will reach us soon,” the soldier next to me said. “They saw us turn over.” I picked myself up and looked through the open window. The shots thundering outside pressed against my ears and my forehead. From time to time the bullets hammered against the wall, which shook as if the steel was going to split. I had never imagined the sound of a shell could be so deafening. My hand, which rested on the wall, sweated, and shook with the vibration of the steel plates. Would I have the strength to lift myself another little bit in order to see what was happening outside?

Slowly I placed my cheek next to the steel wall. Its heat burned the skin on my face. A shell struck the wall near the shutter, and the shock of it threw me back. But I put my face next to the shutter again. Through it I could see a strip of road. At first, I could only make out the thick tires of the trucks. But I lifted myself up until I could see the trucks themselves. They weren’t moving, but their engines were still running. It looked as if the drivers still intended to continue the journey. On the other side of the trucks were the wild rocky slopes and the pine trees. Their closeness was frightening. They were so near, and yet I couldn’t see a human form anywhere in the area.

Where was the enemy? Where were the shots coming from?

I couldn’t detect any movement. But the shots became heavier. I had a growing feeling that trouble was on the way. We were facing a disaster. I had to get out of there! My eyes wandered around anxiously over the steep slope facing us. The treetops of the pines looked like a heavy cloud. My eyes penetrated it, noticing the small dark spots of the cones. Sunbeams filtered through the branches, winking at one another and changing shadows constantly, like a traffic light at a dangerous corner: “Danger, danger,” they said. I looked down at the trunks of the trees. A dark, sinister shadow, like a black and terrifying lake.