The next day the weather was pleasant. The winter sun slanted over the barren hills of Judea, scattering its caressing rays generously. The trees and bushes stretched their branches upward in a relaxed way, trying to catch and absorb every shred of warmth. The damp earth and chilly rocks seemed to be stretching themselves out and throwing off the bleakness of winter.
“On days like these, visibility is good and you’ve got to watch out for snipers,” the section commander, Ilan, warned me. We were making a reconnaissance tour of the area, and he was showing me the way to the outpost. “They fire from the heights on the other side of the valley.” The stone-strewn terrain that stretched in front of the dense forest did not look like a place from which danger threatened. “The sniping comes from the edge of the forest,” Ilan added, as if he had read my thoughts. He pointed toward the domed hill with a beefy hand.
“You’ve got a nice pair of field glasses,” I interrupted, changing the subject and looking at the glasses that hung over his shoulder.
“Yes, they’re really first-class.” He patted them affectionately. “I got them as a present from an old friend of the family. We live in the same neighborhood, not far from the Tel Aviv seashore. They date back to World War I.”
“The First World War?”
“Yes, they’re ancient. The friend who gave them to me was once the commander of a warship in the German Navy. When the Nazis came to power, he left and came here. I was given the field glasses when I was ten.”
“How old are you now?”
“Eighteen.”
“Just like me.”
He looked at me as if estimating my age, and then said: “You look younger.”
“You’re right. And it annoys me. People think I’m still a child.”
“And how old do I look to you?” He fixed me with his clear eyes.
“At least twenty.”
“That’s because I have a broad skull. It makes you look older.”
“Yes,” I said, “and you have an athletic body.”
A happy smile spread over his full face. “Actually, I’m not much of a sportsman.”
“Then you must have done a lot of physical work,” I tried again. He smiled and shook his head.
“Guess again,” he prodded me. “If you can’t get it this time, I’ll tell you myself.”
“Right,” I agreed. “But first finish your story about your neighbor.”
“Where was I?”
“You were saying that you got the field glasses when you were ten.”
“That’s right . . . Well, every morning he used to go out on the porch and look at the sea through his field glasses. Probably felt like a captain. He noticed me looking at the glasses with such longing day after day. And when I turned ten, he gave them to me. When he put them in my hand, he sighed and muttered to himself: ‘For me it’s all over.’ Maybe he imagined all the time that he was really on the bridge of his old ship, and when he parted with the field glasses, he also parted from his dream.”
While we were talking, we came to an arch made out of concrete pillars. Several neglected stone houses were scattered on the other side of it.
“From now on keep your head down,” Ilan said in a serious tone. “Over there is an enemy machine gunner who fires on the dining room.” He didn’t give me a chance to ask any questions before he sprang from his place quickly and ran toward the door of the building. I sprinted after him. A salvo of shots boomed out with a sharp explosive sound, like a series of hammer blows that shattered the clear glass of the frozen air. Chips of stone, enveloped in thin dust, spattered over me. I ran quickly and leaped into the opening of a sandbagged position at the entrance to the dining room.
“Not bad for a start,” Ilan jeered. I called out a few words to him, which were swallowed up in my short, quick breathing. About three hundred meters away was an exposed stone hill, shaped like a banana, whose dome faced our direction. Beds of stone dotted its slopes with thousands of white spots, like mushrooms that had come out on the face of the slopes that stretched down in steps to the valley below. A low stone building in the center of the hill was the only thing there that wasn’t carved by nature.
“Where are they shooting from?” I asked, after I had tried but failed to discover signs of human beings in the area.
“From the building.”
“Those machine gunners are real bastards,” I snorted. “To fire at three hundred meters with a machine gun—and still miss!”
“Don’t ask for trouble,” Ilan picked me out. “You’ll annoy them.”
“Well, shall we continue on to the position on the slope?” he asked, as if trying to find some sign of hesitation on my part.
“Why not? After all, we have to get there. Isn’t that so?”
We began running toward the buildings on the slope, until we flung ourselves inside a foxhole dug on the side of the hill. Several soldiers lay on blankets spread out on the ground. They gave us a casual look. “Maybe you’ll stop walking on our blankets?” one of them complained.
“Move aside, and stop telling me what to do,” Ilan reprimanded him. But no one answered. I peered out of the foxhole. The eastern part of the battle front stretched along its whole length.
The white mountain peaks looked like the tops of mosques. A wall along whose ridges blue mist crept, trying to climb up to its lofty peaks. In the middle stood a chain of low hills that ran southward, like a low barrier. It looked like a row of extinct volcanoes. Unlike a wall of great mountains, this barrier was open and cut through by ravines, which began with broad breaches of the hills and continued in narrow corridors that wound down steeply to the gaping abyss that stretched down to hollow and ominous horizons.
“From here you can see the Dead Sea,” Ilan explained, following my glance. The sea looked like a long, narrow stain, or like a dark blue cloud that had sunk between the yellow slopes of the mountains.
“Let me have a look,” I said. He held the field glasses out to me. I brought them close to my eyes. Through the glasses the ravines that dropped down toward the Dead Sea looked even deeper. Now I could feel sharply the emptiness that hovered in the intervening space.
On the right a verdant valley stretched out. Low stone fences crisscrossed it, making it look like an inlaid checkerboard. A long, low hill shaped like a finger stuck out into the valley, as if it wanted to stop the valley from sweeping it up and into the deep ravines behind it. At the end of this finger, near the place where the nail would be, lay the enemy village. It was hard to see it: its houses, built of natural stone from the surrounding hills, merged and blended with the colors of the earth.
“Now I’ll show you the other parts of the front.” Ilan smiled good-naturedly. “We’ll have to run all the way again,” he summed up.
We hopped and leaped between the trees and the buildings on the slopes. When I rose up, I felt even more vividly the depth of the ravines that surrounded the hill. I was slightly giddy, as if I stood on the brink of a deep chasm. The snipers! A hair-raising shudder passed through me. I got gooseflesh. I felt thousands of frozen needles pass over my body. There was a salty feeling in my eyes. It was hard to breathe. Every step was torture. We reached the gate, exhausted and sweating. From there we went on marching through the open field, toward the other side of the front. I stopped for a moment and asked Ilan to lend me his field glasses again. Through the lenses my eyes moved over the high plateau of the Hebron mountains, which stretched to the east and linked up with the sandy-peaked mountains and chalk cliffs of the Judean desert. My gaze returned to the ravine that sprawled out in front of me. It was only one of the thousands of other ravines that isolated and cut off the rocks of the desert, and which also ran eastward. Within the ravine itself stretched a low range of hills, a miniature version of the great plateau of the Hebron mountains; this also ran into the deep depression of the Dead Sea.
In the center of the valley lay Bethlehem. Its houses spread over two hills that lifted themselves above the floor of the valley. My gaze swept over the streets of the town in the hope of finding some clue about what had happened near it a few days before. But I found no trace of this. Peace had stamped its impress on the place. The trees in the courtyards adorned the impressive stone houses with wreaths of green. This earthy scene also had a certain heavenly touch, in the shape of round-domed churches whose high spires rose far above the roofs of the houses. The crosses climbed even higher than the tops of the spires, as if they wanted to force their way through to the piece of sky that joined the peaks of the Hebron mountains and the Judean hills.
“Why are you staring over there?” He sounded curious.
“Are you in a hurry?”
“Yes, I have to be in the outpost next to the Bethlehem road.”
“You know what?” I suggested. “Go along there, and I’ll join you in about ten minutes. I want to get the feel of the terrain.”
“Alright,” Ilan agreed. “But watch those damn snipers.”
“Be seeing you.”
He gave me a friendly wave. I could make out the thick, stubby fingers of his hand as it waved. “See you.”
He went off, and I sat down on a rock next to one of the pine trees scattered around the area. I went on scanning the graduated slopes that surrounded the twin hills of Bethlehem like rings. On the shiny black asphalt road winding between the houses of the town, I could make out the movement of men and vehicles.
The boom of a shot broke in my ears. I threw myself to the ground. The sound of an explosion reverberated in the valleys around, like a chain of staccato thunder. From the pine tree that stood in front of me, a hail of pine needles fell down, and I heard the wings of a frightened raven who fled from its hideout with scared cawing. Absolute quiet. I peered through the stems of the thorn bushes that covered the earth. From the houses on the slope came sounds of commotion and muffled shots. An impulse drove me to crawl to the place. I made good progress, until I came to a row of foxholes dug next to the barbed-wire fence that stretched along the Bethlehem road.
“What happened?” I puffed in the face of a soldier who peered out of the foxhole.
“A sniper got Ilan.”
“Is it serious?”
“Wounded in the leg. They’re taking him to the first-aid post.” He gestured to the nearby building. I hurried there. Ilan was lying on a stretcher, with a few soldiers gathered around him. A gray woolen blanket covered his body. His pale face turned to me. I could see clearly the expression of shock in his eyes. They looked much bigger.
“You can have the field glasses,” he groaned, looking at them. They were lying on the ground. “You wanted them.”
“Yes, don’t worry about it.” I was embarrassed. “How do you feel?”
“It’ll be OK,” he tried to reassure me. “Got me in the leg.” Sweat covered his face, and his swollen lips quivered with weakness.
The soldiers took hold of the stretcher, picked it up carefully, and went out to the company headquarters. Ilan’s head shook about and lolled, turning toward me. There was a hint of apology in his glance, as if he was asking my pardon for the interruption of the reconnaissance trip. I waved goodbye to him. He smiled sadly until he disappeared from my sight.
I made my way back to the company headquarters slowly, getting there about ten minutes later. The secretary stood in the courtyard. “What’s happened to Ilan?” I asked her.
“He’s gone to the hospital in Jerusalem.”
“Is he badly hurt?”
“The doctor has sent him to the hospital.”
“Well, if he says so.” I didn’t think a wound in the leg needed treatment in a hospital.
Ilan died suddenly the next day. The doctors stated that this was caused by a blood clot. But I knew for sure, just knew, that he died because that had been his fate. No other reason. When I first heard the news, I couldn’t grasp it, and didn’t move a muscle—until the awareness of the tragedy sank in.
It was strange that after I had reconciled myself to his death, the image of his features became blurred in my memory. But I still held the field glasses he had left behind for me. When I gripped them tightly, thoughts flashed through my mind, rushed up and down my brain . . . Ilan . . . He used to live near the seashore. That’s what he had told me. I also used to live there, in a faded yellow house, whose paint was peeling from the walls because of the winds from the sea. I tried hard to remember if I had met him as a boy. He may have been one of the kids in the nearby suburb. In my memory arose a winter day: a stormy, windswept sea, whipping foam on the waves, and a thin mist, cold and whitish, hovering on the face of the waters and spreading on the shore.
Children stood on the sand, collecting wooden planks and broken barrels thrown from the ships that crashed on the rocks off Jaffa. From time to time the waves thrust forward, and the children fled with happy cries. Then the waves retreated, leaving on the coast traces of oil and tar, which floated on the surface of the waters. The children began fighting among themselves over a piece of broad, dark wood, which had been thrown up on the shore. In my mind’s eye I could see their faces, heated by the argument. I stood some distance away from them, but I didn’t intervene. I listened to the sound of the sea. The incessant noise of the waves sounded harsh and rough at first. But slowly I became used to them, and they sounded like a faint humming, soft and prolonged, rather like a seashell put close to one’s ear. The children were still quarreling over the wooden beam. A black, oily plank. Now I remembered what it had looked like, and it occurred to me that it was nothing but a floating coffin. A black coffin. Ilan was dead.
On the same day, I went out to the field again—the field that looked out at Bethlehem.
“I’m going out to look for enemy snipers,” I informed the company commander. But in my heart there was already a dull feeling that every human target across the border would be fair game for me. A wild impulse forced me to hunt down human prey.
With elastic steps, like a hunter walking on tiptoe, I reached the rock on which I’d sat the day before. I lay flat on the ground. The valley lay spread out before me like an empty watermelon shell. My pricked-up ears caught the rustle of the thorn stems and the treetops moving in the quiet wind. My searching eyes didn’t discover any target in the area. Never mind, I thought to myself, I still have plenty of time.
Once more I looked over the part of the front I could see. The long wait made me notice something I hadn’t realized before: the movement and life latent in every clod of earth. The beginning of this revelation was limited to the area lying literally under my nose. The thin, long stalks of wild grass drew my attention to their minute motion. Looking at them casually, I noticed that no two stalks moved in the same way. For a moment it seemed that they were breathing and alive as if they were made to move by a pulse of life. After looking still harder, I noticed a marked difference between each of the stalks, and in the texture of the fibers, which gave a distinctive fingerprint to every stalk.
I went on to examine the thorn bushes that were scattered all over the area. Their dry branches waved in the air with a staccato, nervous shudder. Here too I found a hidden independence in every prickly arm that moved in its own special, private rhythm. The constant movement of the weeds and thorn bushes united to form a glittering sea of shuddering and incessant movement. Inside it, in the dense, tangled undergrowth of grass and bushes, ladybugs crawled about. I held a hand out to the nearest ladybug, but I didn’t touch it, for fear of crushing it. Since boyhood I had been taught not to harm this tiny, delicate insect, with its shiny red cover and black dots. This was really ironic. My heart was full of compassion for this ordinary little insect, while my gun was ready to take another human being’s life.
I looked further off, to the trees. Their branches moved. Now I could make out the movement of each branch of the trees, the quivering motion of the leaves, like fish caught in a net. Here was a tiny, almost invisible motion of the slow-moving trunks, and here too I discovered the restrained independence in every leaf, like the leaf that fell off not far from me and continued blowing about.
Captivated by the perpetual motion of the greenery, I peered once more at the open spaces of the valley. Through the round window of the field glasses, everything seemed to be moving. The crosses on the spires of the churches looked as if they were hovering in the air, like birds spreading out. Suddenly the blood rushed to my head. There was a man in front of me! Not more than five hundred meters away. He marched along the whitish stone fence that stretched like a thick rope up the slope of the mountain. He was making for the fields behind the ridge, and would have to pass over the open stony plateau that met the end of the fence. Here the road began to wind and twist, and he would have to slow down. That would be a good moment to hit him, against the clear background of the white stones.
Eagerly, keenly, like a hunting dog that sticks close to its prey, I followed the slow walk of my quarry. With a cold calculation I estimated the height of the target, in order to aim my gun straight at its center. The blade of the rear gun sight rested on the imaginary center of the man I wanted to kill.
The wooden butt, which pressed so hard against the flesh of my right cheek, caught my eye. A faint spark of light was thrown from the back of the polished wood. A long line of broken light danced on the luminous brown butt. The fragile ray of sun bothered me. I passed my thumb impatiently along the wood where the light struck it, in order to cover up and hide the reflection that shone right into my eyes.
I was eager to press the trigger, and this soon became a burning desire. The pressure of my clenched hand on the trigger made me feel a sharp twinge of pain in the tensed muscles of my whole hand. At the same time, I sensed a sort of dull pleasure, the kind one feels in waiting for something exciting and anticipated. I was caught up in a new desire, one I had never known before. It swept me off my feet. I couldn’t oppose it. The nearer my target came to the sights, the weaker my resistance became. My mind was drained of all thought, and the whole of my being was focused on the finger held against the trigger. Now I felt the slight tremor of my finger even more than before. The finger carried my body with it, like a tiny but powerful crane, and dragged it forward to the black edge of the rifle. The front rifle sight was now touching the target, who slowed down, turned around a little, and then stopped. The blade of the sight blended into the figure. Now the man was trapped in the dead center of the sight. My breath stopped. My finger closed on the trigger with a slow, springy motion.
The gun thundered, recoiled, and sank at once into the hollow of my shoulder. The end of the barrel moved in front of me, hiding the target from my sight. I pushed the gun down excitedly and stared at the rocky terrain, which stuck out as white as the sails of a lonely ship in the wide expanse of a murky sea.
Where was he? I lifted the field glasses and swept them hurriedly over every rock and clod of earth. Had I hit him? I thought I had. But I couldn’t be sure. I went on searching for some sign or other. Even if I hadn’t actually hit him, it was obvious that I had frightened him, or so I consoled myself, anyway. This made me very happy. It wasn’t a feeling of hatred, or even one of personal animosity. At that moment the concept of “enemy” had lost its meaning. Suddenly the idea of shooting at another man gave me a feeling of intoxication.
From that day onward I began to enjoy sniping. Every now and then I went out to look for targets. I lay in wait for the enemy snipers who fired at us from the stone building in the center of the stony hill. I also became used to shooting at animals, and in the course of time this became a daily habit.
The next day some new soldiers arrived, the section I was going to take over. They looked like a wild bunch. They were standing in the courtyard of the company headquarters when I saw them first. They weren’t standing in a proper line, and their guns were swung carelessly over their shoulders. They glanced around with expressions that showed their contempt and dissatisfaction. The fact that they had to wait for me didn’t seem to please them.
“I’m the deputy section commander,” said the full-faced, swarthy fellow who stood in front of the row. “My name is Sasson,” he introduced himself with a smile. He paused for a moment and then went on: “There’re fifteen of us here. Counting me, of course.”
“Been here long?”
“More than two weeks.” He smiled happily, exposing a row of gleaming white teeth. He went on, still smiling: “Before that I was an assistant to the instructor in the training camp.” When he finished, he continued looking at me. The constant grinning annoyed and provoked me. It contained something I didn’t care for, something which made me very angry at that particular moment. Maybe it was the self-confidence that shone out of his vigorous face, or the expression of strength in his prominent cheekbones, or his stubborn, square-cut chin. What did I have against him? Was I annoyed because he showed the self-confidence I lacked myself? He looked straight at me, as if waiting for an answer, and this broke the chain of my thought.
“Yes,” I answered, “you can help me a lot.” Some grumbling sounds came from the other soldiers, and I heard a loud whistle. “Any complaints?” I asked in a soft voice. The soldiers were watching every movement of my face. A rustle of excitement and amusement came from the ranks. “You!” I shouted suddenly, wildly at the first soldier I happened to see. “Do you have any complaints?” I repeated the question again, provocatively, fixing my eyes on his. He tried to move his gaze, but couldn’t.
“No, no,” he stammered. Quiet, complete quiet. I could see the surprised look in his fellow soldiers’ eyes. The silence seemed like a good moment to walk along the straggling line and take a closer look at them. My eyes met a familiar face. Detected a hint of a sneer. But a second look told me this was only embarrassment. It was Benny. I remembered him from the depot for greenhorns.
“Don’t I know you from somewhere?”
“Yes,” he answered. “From the depot.” His dark eyes rested on me quietly.
“I’ll talk to you later.” I then turned toward the other soldiers. “And now,” I said, “we’ll go off to the outpost. Follow me, in single file. And watch out for snipers.” They looked scared at the prospect of being hit.
“They’re firing from the hill opposite,” I couldn’t help adding, with sadistic pleasure.
“I’ve got a stomachache.” One man stepped out of the line. “Where can I have a shit?”
“Go to the forest,” I said angrily. “And hurry up.”
He rushed off, while the other men encouraged him.
“He’s a real character, that guy,” one of them chortled.
“Oh, that Shabtai,” Sasson snorted in disdain. “He’s shitting in his pants already. What’ll happen when things really get hot?”
“Then he’ll get chronic diarrhea,” someone said, and everyone laughed.
These jokes at Shabtai’s expense went on until he came back. He went to his place in the line, still tightening the belt of his pants.
“Well, I hope you’re feeling better now,” Sasson jeered at him loftily.
“And now,” I shouted, trying to sound very serious, “follow me—in one row.”
I marched forward, and the soldiers followed me in a single line.