Lawrence Durrell - Judith

The woman still held her hand with cool composure. In the half-light the girl looked at her with curiosity: she was of slender build and appeared to be dressed in some sort of apron. She was watching the diminishing light of the convoy on the long straight road. “Now let’s cross,” she said, and still held onto the wet hand of her charge. They crossed a number of fields in darkness. At last they turned into another lemon grove and paused before the door of what looked like a large deserted barn. The woman pushed open a door and gently led her into what must once have been a granary. Yet a big fire blazed in the hearth and clouds of steam rose from cauldrons of hot water. Two old women, clad like Bessarabian gypsies, were busy with sponges upon the body of what seemed to be a dead man. Judith Roth looked around her with surprise. The dark-haired woman pressed her hand and smiled at her, as if anxious that she should not be alarmed by the unfamiliarity of their surroundings. “This is a temporary transit hut,” she said, “for our refugees. Some of them are in bad shape, you know.”

The corpse on the long trestle-table opened its mouth and crooned gently. Though apparently still asleep, he had begun a long rambling recitative in which the name of the Jordan river kept creeping in as a leitmotif. The Jordan would wash his sins away if only he could reach it — such was the burden of the song. Judith’s companion chuckled briefly. “The old boy’s going to be in luck when he realizes we’ve got the Jordan outside the front door.” The two women hummed under their breath as they filled the sponges and crushed the warm water over his emaciated body. They were humming some strange old melody, full of quarter-tones and odd syncopations of rhythms — it was uncanny — as if they were washing a corpse before laying it out. The woman followed the direction of the girl’s gaze and said: “He will feel much better for a wash and a change of clothing. Afterwards, I’ll sedate him for the night. I’m a doctor, by the way. Naomi Hourzan. Come by the fire now and strip.”

Still dazed by the rapid succession of events, Judith Roth complied like some dumb animal. Her fingers wrestled numbly with her tattered clothing. The doctor helped her deftly and tactfully, talking quietly to her. The old women crooned softly as they dried the body of the recumbent prophet, combing his beard and hair, and dusting his body with talc. Naomi Hourzan dragged a long low table across to the firelight and motioned her charge to lie down while she busied herself with a small suitcase from which she extracted a stethoscope. “You’ve been expected for some time,” she said. “Now lie still, I want to look you over.”

“Expected?” said Judith Roth numbly. It all seemed part of the weary phantasmagoria of the whole journey with its mad air of desperate improvisation, its changes of scene. The firelight made her feel drowsy. She felt the cold node of the stethoscope on her back. Once or twice she winced as the cool deft hands touched her, and the doctor returned to the tender spot to reassure herself that nothing more serious than a bruise was the cause of the pain. “Well,” she said at last, “so far, so good.”

Judith Roth lifted her head and said slowly: “There’s nothing broken, Doctor. But I haven’t had my period for months now, and I have got some skin infection — probably syphilis, or something as disagreeable.”

She turned on her back and pointed at her throat.

The doctor lowered her dark head for a moment to examine the red rash at close quarters. She smiled. “Nothing of the kind. You simply have the traditional scabies of the camps. It will wash away in a fortnight. I have something for that, you’ll see.”

She was called away by the two old witch-like women, for the prophet had now been washed and dressed anew in a baggy suit of clothes. He had begun to snore. Deftly, the doctor gave him an injection. Smoothly, they decanted him onto the stretcher and bore it away through the door. Judith sat watching them with a dull and uncomprehending eye.

The door opened again and the doctor returned with the two old women. “Now for your bath,” she said. “Lie back and enjoy it.” Obediently, Judith Roth lay back and closed her eyes. It was a luxury to feel the warm steam rise around her. The loaded sponges crushed the warmth into her body, the water drained onto the earth floor of the barn. The women took up their slow meditative crooning again. How rich and sweet was the smell of the warm soap-lather! She felt their hands sliding over her, sliding over her breasts and flanks. While they worked, the doctor sat down and took up pen and paper. “Well, I shall be able to report your safe arrival at any rate,” she said, “but I must fill in the data for them. It’s a bore, I know. Age?”

“Twenty-nine.”

“Last address?” At this Judith gave a harsh laugh. It would have sounded vainglorious to have given the name of the camp where she had spent the last months. Her laughter ended with a sob.

“I mean home address,” said the doctor quietly; “you never know when it will be of use, for example, if you have other family.”

“I haven’t,” said Judith. “Our house is now a Headquarters for the Hitler Youth. My whole family is dead. Luckily my father died before all this… started. He used to say he was proud to be a German. He could still afford to be in those days.”

“Gently,” said the doctor. “I did not want to upset you.”

“Then why don’t you leave me alone? Have I come all this way to fill in forms?” Her eyes glared from the mask of soap. The old women made soothing noises.

The doctor took a turn up and down the room with her hands behind her back. She drew a breath and said mildly: “You see, I know nothing about you except your name. I was asked to report on what physical shape you were in. This I propose to do. But as for the rest of the questions, we can leave them — though I can see their point in asking them. Occupation, for example. I see they have put you down for Ras Shamir in the north. I happen to be the doctor of Ras Shamir myself, so we shall meet again. But it would be a help to know if you had any special skills which might be of use to the kibbutz. It’s a farming community, living a hard life.”

“As far as occupation is concerned,” said Judith Roth incoherently, “I have spent six months digging up corpses with a spade and breaking them up into smaller and more convenient pieces. Frozen corpses.” But then she suddenly groaned and turned her head from side to side. “I am so sorry, doctor,” she said. “It was stupid of me. Please forgive me!” and she extended a soapy hand to touch the doctor’s.

“There’s nothing to be sorry about.”

“But there is. I am being unpardonable. Forgive me.”

The two old women had turned her now onto her front and she was able to raise her head and smile at the doctor, her eyes full of tears. “I used to be a mathematician before the university sacked me. You see, doctor, I was sent to a camp first of all by mistake, I think. Then I was released because they hoped I would lead them to some information they wanted. Some papers of my father’s. Well… the Agency kidnapped me. Otherwise I imagine I should be back by now in… I won’t mention the name, and now I’m here in a strange place where I don’t know a soul. It’s confusing. Doesn’t make sense.”

“Well, Rebecca Peterson appears to know you, or something about you.”

“I have never heard the name before.”

“She’s our camp secretary. It was she who asked for you at Ras Shamir. I saw her signature.”

“She asked for me?”

“By name.”

“Rebecca Peterson,” said Judith Roth, and, after deeply considering, shook her head with certainty. “It means nothing to me.”