David Grossman: To the End of the Land

For a moment she could see herself at fifty, tall and thin and withered, a scentless flower taking long, quick steps, her head bowed, a wide-brimmed straw hat hiding her face. The boy with the donkey laugh kept feeling his way toward her, getting closer and then farther away — it was as if he were doing it on purpose, she realized, like this was a kind of game for him — and he giggled and made fun of his own clumsiness and floated around the room in circles, and every so often he asked her to say something so he’d know which direction she was in: Like a lighthouse, he explained, but with sound. Smart-ass, she thought. He finally reached her bed and felt around and found the chair she had put out, and collapsed on it and breathed heavily like an old man. She could smell the sweat of his illness, and she pulled off one of her blankets and gave it to him and he wrapped it around himself and said nothing. They were both exhausted, and each of them shivered and moaned.

Still, she said later from under her blanket, your voice sounds familiar. Where are you from? Jerusalem, he said. I’m from Haifa, she said, accentuating slightly. They brought me here in an ambulance from Rambam Hospital, because of the complications. I have those too, he laughed, my whole life is complications. They sat quietly. He scratched his stomach and chest and grumbled, and she grumbled, too. That’s the worse thing about it, isn’t it? she said. She also scratched herself, with all ten fingernails. Sometimes I’m dying to peel all my skin off, just to make it stop. Every time she started talking, he could hear the soft sticky sound of her lips parting, and the tips of his fingers and toes throbbed.

Ora said, The ambulance driver said that at a time like this they need the ambulances for more important things.

Have you noticed that everyone here is angry at us? As if we purposely …

Because we’re the last ones left from the plague.

They sent home anyone who was feeling even a little bit better. Especially soldiers. Wham-bam, they kicked them right back to the army so they could make it in time for the war.

So there’s really going to be a war?

Are you kidding? There’s been a war for at least two days.

When did it start? she asked in a whisper.

Day before yesterday, I think. And I told you that already, yesterday or the day before, I can’t remember, the days get mixed up.

That’s right, you did say … Ora was dumbstruck. Clots of strange and terrifying dreams drifted through her.

How could you not hear? he murmured. There are sirens and artillery all the time, and I heard helicopters landing. There are probably a million casualties by now.

But what’s going on?

I don’t know, and there’s no one to talk to here. They have no patience for us.

Then who’s taking care of us?

Right now there’s just that thin little Arab woman, the one who cries. Have you heard her?

That’s a person crying? Ora was stunned. I thought it was an animal wailing. Are you sure?

It’s a person, for sure.

But how come I haven’t seen her?

She kind of comes and goes. She does the tests and leaves your medicine and food on a tray. It’s just her now, day and night. He sucked in his cheeks and said thoughtfully, It’s funny that the only person they left us with is an Arab, isn’t it? They probably don’t let Arabs treat the wounded.

But why does she cry? What happened to her?

How should I know?

Ora sat up straight and her body hardened, and she said coldly, quietly, They’ve occupied Tel Aviv, I’m telling you. Nasser and Hussein are already sipping coffee at a café on Dizengoff Street.

Where did you come up with that? He sounded frightened.

I heard it last night, or today, I’m almost positive, maybe it was on her radio, I heard it, they’ve occupied Beersheba and Ashkelon and Tel Aviv.

No, no, that can’t be. Maybe it’s the fever, it’s because of your fever, ’cause there’s no way! You’re crazy, there’s no way they’ll win.

There is, there is, she mumbled to herself, and thought, What do you even know about what could or couldn’t happen.

LATER, she awoke from a quick doze and looked around for the boy. Are you still here? What, yes. She sighed. There were nine girls in the room with me, and I’m the only one left, isn’t that annoying? Avram liked the fact that after three nights with her he still didn’t know her name, or she his; he liked little mysteries like that; in the sketches he wrote and recorded at home on his reel-to-reel, in which he played all the parts — children and old men and women and ghosts and kings and wild geese and talking kettles and any number of other characters — there were often brainy little games like this, creatures that appeared and disappeared, characters imagined by other characters. Meanwhile, he amused himself with guesses: Rina? Yael? Maybe Liora? She seems like a Liora, he thought. Her smile is full of light, so there must be an or in her name.

It was the same in his room, he told her. Almost everyone in Room Three had left, including the soldiers. Some could barely walk, but they still sent them back to their units. Now there’s only one other guy with him, not a soldier, actually someone from his class who came in two days ago with forty-one point two, and they can’t bring it down, all day long he dreams and tells himself a thousand and one nights — Wait, Ora cut him off. Were you ever in training at Wingate? Do you happen to play volleyball? Avram let out a small yelp of horror. Ora held back a smile and put on a stern expression: Well, isn’t there any sport you’re good at? Avram thought for a moment. Maybe as a punching bag, he said. Then what youth movement are you in? she asked angrily. I’m not in any movement, he said, smiling. No movement? Ora flinched. Then what are you? Just don’t tell me you’re in a movement, Avram said, still smiling. Why not? Ora was insulted. Because it’ll ruin everything for us, he said with an exaggerated sigh. Because I was starting to think you were the perfect girl. Ha! she spat out. I happen to be in the Machanot Olim. He jutted his chin forward and stuck out his lips, and gave a long, brokenhearted, canine howl at the ceiling. That’s a terrible thing you’re telling me, he said. I only hope medical science will find a cure for your suffering. She tapped her foot briskly. Wait, I know! Weren’t you with your buddies at the Yesud HaMaale camp once? Didn’t you have tents in the woods over there?