Lawrence Durrell - Judith

At the sound of his voice the girl opened her eyes on the trembling sky; a chain of images floated incoherently across her mind, evoked by the voice and the terror in it. They scorched her mind. She saw, but very indistinctly, Isaac leaning over her with a cup of tea — only he was wearing a Nazi uniform and his eyes were glaring as fiercely as her own. She raised an imploring hand and turned her head away. The shadows of men fell on the deck, she counted them. They were men in uniform and their footsteps on the hollow decks of the “Zion” sounded like the tramp of feet in jackboots.

“Ah!” she said in a desolate ringing voice full of resignation, “So you are taking me back.”

“Yes.” Isaac’s homely voice sounded like the rasping of a professional storm-trooper. “Back.”

They had already rigged up a bunk in the evil-smelling forecastle and she allowed herself to be carried down to it, speechless with fatigue. The hot drink was delicious and she would gladly have drunk more of it, but she fell asleep on the second mouthful. As for her companion, they did not move him, but put some blankets over his sleeping form with a pillow for his head. This done, the crew sat down in exhausted attitudes all over the ship and swore with surprise at being saddled with such unusual passengers; without a word of warning, too! They scratched their heads, gazing at Isaac.

He, for his part, was thinking in terms of extra rations and the hundred and one hazards they still had to face. The possessions of the refugees lay about the deck and he started to gather them: a smashed fibre suitcase, again with its entrails extruding like a squashed bug, a small haversack with the end of a cracked mirror sticking out of the side. That must belong to the girl. He carried it down to her and watched her sleeping for a moment in the uncomfortable bunk. From time to time she was shaken by a sudden gust of short breathing, like a child after crying itself to sleep. Her features were well formed; her forehead was high and white and her closed eyes framed by broad serene lashes. But she was filthy. Her hair had been cut off in a clumsy series of rats’ tails and all down one side of her neck ran the livid line of some skin infection. She smelt of the concentration camp.

Isaac shook his head and went on deck again, calling out “Engine room!” in his hardest tones, recalling everyone to their senses again. There would be time, he told himself, to smash up the other crates and dispose their contents in the hold once they were on their way. But he must not ignore the exacting timetable which alone might give them an even chance of breaking the night blockade.

“Zion” snorted and shook and lifted her bows towards the outer sea, which was already taking on the gold and peacock tones of evening. “About five hours,” said Isaac, looking at his watch. Their landfall that night would be another deserted harbour off the long spit of Famagusta in Cyprus. Somewhere out there on the opalescent horizon, the ships of the blockade cruised, restless as greyhounds. A faint evening sea-breeze, damp with the promise of mist, was slowly rising from the east. He took it on his cheek with satisfaction as he consulted a compass bearing. It was beautiful, it was calm — as deceptively calm, perhaps, as the two figures which lay side by side on the prow: the dead man and his son. Isaac went forward and sat by them for a while with Nadeb, gazing at their stillness and pallor as he loaded another pipe. They looked, he thought, as if they were listening for something. He was possessed by a great calm, a great resignation as he felt the slow swell of the sea under “Zion’s” keel. The sun was sinking into a deserted horizon. A couple of gulls hovered over them with curiosity, crying shrilly. He turned to Nadeb. “What do you know about burial at sea?”

“Nothing. I’m not religious.”

“Nor am I. We’ll have to do something, read something.”

“Well, you have a Bible.”

“What about weights?”

“There’s some pig-iron in the ballast. The boy shouldn’t need so much. But there’s no spare tarpaulin.”

“We’ll use some flags from our collection. Not likely to see a use for the Latin Americans, are we?”

The two men sat smoking and deliberating as the “Zion” plunged on towards the outer sea. Nadeb finally leaned forward and, with a sharp movement of the wrist, snapped off the small identity discs. He sat holding them in his hand.

“Identity,” he said reflectively.

“Yes,” said Isaac shortly and surprised himself (for he was not, as far as he knew, of a philosophic turn of mind) by adding “It doesn’t seem to matter, to make much difference when you are dead, being a Jew or not. It’s while you’re alive, my boy.”

Nadeb grunted and busied himself in disposing the limbs of the corpses, lashing their ankles together and passing a cord round their breasts to pinion their arms securely. “About time,” he said sombrely. “The rigor is beginning to set in. Here, knot this one.”

They stood for a moment gazing down at their handiwork. The shaggy prophet from his nest of blankets amidships gave a sudden quavering cry and moaned: “And the Lord shall recognize his own.” They looked at one another and smiled grimly.

“We must move him below,” said Isaac slowly. “We can’t have him screaming once we are off the coast. Nadeb, there’s some morphia in the medical kit — it would give him some sleep. I’d like to radio the Agency about them, but I don’t see how we dare. We might give our position away.”

He padded back to the locker and busied himself with sorting flags. Nadeb called for a sail, needle and twine. “Well,” said Isaac at last, having made his selection. “One can be Brazilian and the other Chilean. It will puzzle their Creator. What else to do?”

They waited until darkness before performing their perfunctory and awkward ceremony and consigning the bodies to the sea. Then they carried the gaunt figure of the prophet below. Lastly, all hands fell to breaking up the remaining crates and shipping their contents — automatic weapons in glistening water-proof covers. That, at least, was a job with which they were familiar.

Night had fallen.

For two days and nights she lay in a pleasurable doze of exhaustion, lulled by the swing of the sea to healing sleep, or woken by the sudden shutting off of the engines and a silence punctuated by the thud of feet on the decks and the hoarse voices of the crew about their business. She had begun to recover not only her reason, but her self-possession: Isaac no longer wore a Nazi uniform when he came down to give her food by the dim light of a pocket torch. At first he had had to feed her, but now she could even sit up in the evil-smelling bunk, although she ached in every limb. The old man asked her no questions, though from time to time he placed a rough hand on her brow to reassure himself that she was no longer feverish. The touch of his calloused palm was delicious and reassuring. For her part, she only showed concern for the fate of her haversack, and a deep relief when Isaac turned the torch on it. “Give it to me,” she said in a hoarse but melodious voice, and placed it behind her head like a pillow. Isaac tended her silently and with concentration, like a gardener, and his pains were rewarded sooner than he had expected, for by the end of the second day she was able to reach out a hand and say: “I want to try and stand. Will you help?” To his delight she could not only do so, but could also walk.

“Nothing broken?” he asked anxiously.

“No. Just bruises. I must be blue all over.”

“They’ll go.”

“I know. When do we… arrive?”

Isaac gave the small ghost of a chuckle.