Amos Oz - Where the Jackals Howl

Nahum trembled and said nothing.

“Come on, pal,” Itcheh went on, “come on. Let’s find ourselves a jeep. Have you got a cigarette you can spare? No? Never mind. We’ll go after them. How long ago were they seen going out? An hour? Half an hour? We’ll catch them this side of the Hartuv turn. One crisis after another tonight. Come on, get in, let’s go. Pity it’s so late. Rosenthal can start hanging a white flag on his jeep. What did you say? I thought you said something. Come on, let’s get after them. No time for coffee. Pity about that little guy. He just went out there and got himself killed. Pointless. Next time I’m not taking anyone who isn’t essential. The man who makes jokes about death is a bastard, the man who doesn’t is a bigger bastard. Say something. Well? Nothing to say? Talk. Say something. At least tell me what your name is. I’ve forgotten your name. I know you work in the store, but just now I’ve forgotten your name. I’m tired. Hey, look how fast we’re going. A hundred and twenty, a hundred and thirty, at least. And we’re not even at top speed yet.”

The night road was deserted and cheerless. Far away, on the slopes of the eastern mountains, the night sky reflected the dying flames of the ruined enemy village. And in the irrigation channels of the orchards the black water flowed noiselessly and was swallowed up in the soil of the plain.

6

NAHUM LEANED back in the worn seat of the jeep and turned to look at Itcheh. He saw only a mane of hair and a thick beard. For a moment he was reminded of his Bible classes and the prophet Elijah, wild and jealous, slaughtering the prophets of Baal on the slopes of Carmel. He, too, figured in Nahum’s imagination, as a faceless giant, all beard and mane. Itcheh controlled the vehicle with sleepy violence, one hand on the wheel and the other resting wearily on his knee. His heavy body leaned forward, like that of a rider clutching at his horse’s neck. Is it really possible that he secretly suffers from bad eyesight? The jeep tore up the road, zigzagging, screeching, and whining. Stormy gusts of wind slapped their faces with blasts of intoxicating scents from the orchards.

One after another the lights of the villages along the Coastal Plain slipped away and were hidden, hastily fleeing behind the backs of the travelers. Here and there were civilians who had left their beds and gathered beneath a lamp in the main street of their sleepy settlements, exchanging speculations and waiting for the light of the approaching day and the early-morning news broadcast, to discover the meaning of the noises in the night and of the fire reflected in the sky. Itcheh and Nahum did not pause to give explanations, nor did they slacken their speed. Once, at a dark road junction, Itcheh braked sharply at the sight of a suspicious figure standing at the roadside, wrapped in an overcoat or a blanket, as if lying in wait. Itcheh picked up the submachine gun that lay at Nahum’s feet and swung the muzzle toward the figure. “What’s up?” he demanded. The headlamps picked out a young man, a rabbinical student, dressed all in black. Only his face and his socks were white. The student wore spectacles and looked helpless. He gabbled something in Yiddish, and Nahum was surprised to hear Itcheh answer him in Yiddish, patiently and quietly. Then the man blessed them and they went on their way. The jeep sprang into motion, raced across the curve of the road and onward, to the edge of the incline, toward the hills of Jerusalem.

They met no one else that night.

Itcheh did not speak, and Nahum asked no questions. Quiet joy and secret longing filled his heart. He knew the truth and Itcheh did not. Itcheh was driving the jeep like a madman and he was driving Itcheh. The road began to twist. The willing jeep attacked the curves furiously, with squeals of burning hatred. Nahum asked softly:

“What kind of a man are you, Itcheh, what are you really made of?”

The sharp wind swallowed his words. Itcheh must have heard something else, for he answered a quite different question:

“From Rumania. I was born in a place very near Bucharest. You could even say it was a suburb of Bucharest. In the war we escaped to Russia and got split up there. Some died, some disappeared, and a few went back afterward to Rumania. My little sister and I traveled across Poland and Austria to northern Italy, and then Youth Aliya came and took us from there to Israel, to the young people’s training farm run by the religious movement. We grew up there. There are still one or two of the family living somewhere in Russia, but I’ve no idea where. Not that it matters to me now.”

“I suppose you’ll be a professional soldier,” said Nahum. “In ten years you’ll be a colonel at least. And then a great general.”

Itcheh glanced at the orderly in surprise.

“Not likely! In another year or so I shall be discharged. I’m saving up to buy a share in the bus cooperative, and I’ve got a good chance of playing center-forward for Petah-Tikva. Not now. Some time. I’ve still got a lot to learn. It may be there’ll be professional soccer in this country one day, and then I’ll be in the pink. I’ll marry off my sister and live like a human being at last.”

“And you haven’t lived like a human being up to now?”

“Like a dog,” said Itcheh with weary anger.

“Tell me, what were you saying in Yiddish to that guy?”

“I asked him what the matter was. He said he’d heard shots and was scared. I told him the Arabs should be scared, these days it isn’t the Jews who need to be scared of gunfire at night. And I took half a pack of cigarettes off him in exchange for my sermon. Do you want one? No? We’ll catch them this side of Castel and take care of that Rosenthal once and for all. We’ll take Bruria with us to Jerusalem. Do you know Jerusalem? Will we find a cafe open before morning?”

“It’s a dead city,” said Nahum. “Everything’s dead in Jerusalem at night. In the daytime, too, for that matter. Anyway, we won’t catch them at Castel or anywhere else if we don’t go faster. A lot faster. Rosenthal will take her to his house and straight into his bed, and we’ll be standing like a pair of idiots in the dark in the middle of Jerusalem, not knowing which way to go. We’ll look like Laurel and Hardy! So step on it, Itcheh, faster, fast as you can, step on it!”

Itcheh hit the accelerator furiously. The engine gathered up its last reserves of strength. The speed intensified, sullen, brooding, whining, roaring. And Nahum was filled with dread and longing. He knew where Bruria was now, and where the bastard Rosenthal was, and Itcheh did not know. He was making the mighty Itcheh race along the road in the night on a fool’s errand, and Itcheh did not know. Even now he was savoring the scent of her skin, the scent of strong plain soap, and the taste of her fingers on his neck, and Itcheh did not know. He put his hand into the pocket of his shirt and fingered the instruments, the sterilized lancet, the bandages, the vial of morphine, the rubber tube, all that would be necessary for an emergency operation when the jeep plunged into a crevice at the side of the mountain road. This, too, was something Itcheh did not know and could not know. Here at his right hand sat the man who would save his life in a little while. A grim and demanding assignment, which Nahum would fulfill, to perfection. An unknown orderly has performed an operation at night by flashlight and has saved the life of a national hero. Resourcefulness. Dedication. Cool nerves. Comradeship. Expertise. Also — in a whisper, a movement of the lips without sound — love, too.

Then one of the headlights suddenly went out: it flickered a few times, hesitated, gave in, and went dark. Still the jeep galloped eastward by the light of one blazing Cyclops’ eye that stunned the shadows in the hills. Like a phantom the jeep raced on, spurred to ever greater efforts at Itcheh’s hands; he was hunched over the wheel, biting his lips and ramming the accelerator down to the floor hard. He will be seriously injured, Bruria, critically injured, but I won’t let him die. I’ll operate and I’ll bandage him with devotion, and I’ll disregard my own injuries. You will owe his life to me, and I shall go away humbly. Itcheh is just an ignorant, overgrown bear cub: he knows nothing, understands nothing. Listen: he’s started humming to himself; he has no idea what’s going to happen to him in a moment.