Lola fell from the veranda rail and hit the curbstone at the edge of the lawn, three meters below. Shocked, […]
Yom Kippur. Outside, the sounds of running feet and neighbors’ cries fill the air. The door swings wide open, and for a moment, Munch’s The Scream seems to echo through it. Yossi rushes inside and turns on the radio transistor: “This is The Voice of Israel broadcasting from Jerusalem. It is now three o’clock, gmar chatima tova.” Aryeh Golan’s urgent voice invades the room: “The IDF — The Israel Defense Forces, spokesperson reports that just before two this afternoon, Egyptian and Syrian forces launched a widespread attack in the Sinai Peninsula and the Golan Heights. Our forces are actively engaging the attackers.”
My brother dons his uniform, hurriedly stuffing whatever he can grab into his tattered duffle bag, then says his goodbyes to me and our elderly parents: “War has broken out; I need to return to base. I must hitch rides to Sinai. Take care of yourselves.”
“What will become of Yossi? When will we see him again? May God keep him safe from harm,” my mother murmurs. My father, thunderstruck, sways where he stands. In a desperate attempt to steady himself, he grabs the white tablecloth. The festive tableware set for our end-of-fast meal slowly slides and crashes to the floor, shattering our hopes for a ‘gmar chatima tova’ — that we be sealed in the book of life.
Even as he leaves, another arrives. At six o’clock, as we watch Golda Meir speak, a knock sounds at the door. Dafna (our Daffi), clad in her Gadna uniform, enters. Dafna finished her studies a year and a half ago and has been guiding the Gadna youth pre-military program for my class ever since. She completed her national service at Soroka Hospital and has been studying nursing at Ben-Gurion University for six months. Her practical studies are conducted at Soroka Hospital, where I volunteer.
“Good evening, sorry for the interruption. Vicky, your class is volunteering at Soroka Hospital. Hurry, the car is waiting outside.”
My father “gets up on his hind legs”, his voice muffled but firm, “I’m sorry, Dafna, but Vicky is only fifteen. She isn’t going anywhere. She’s staying right here with her parents.”
Dafna shakes her head, her fiery hair lashing out and brushing against the officer ranks on her shoulders. “I’m sorry, Vicky’s father, but the high school principal has determined that all Gadna classes are to assist in the war effort. Vicky, who volunteers with the MDA, has been assigned to Soroka Hospital.”
Before my father can embarrass me further, I quickly interject, “I’ll be coming in a second.”
I hastily pack a few clothes and toiletries into my jean bag and slip away from my father’s bear hug. I make sure not to look back, lest my mother’s sorrow and tears turn me into a pillar of salt.
“Hey, girl, running away from home?”
I know Yaron is joking. I bow my head, and my black curls fall forward, shielding the flush creeping up my neck and spreading across my face. I remain silent.
Everyone knows Yaron Partosh, the commanding officer of the Gadna at our high school, who graduated with honors a year ago and volunteered for a year of community service in Beersheba’s struggling neighborhood D. He's aware of my volunteer work with MDA — Magen David Adom, Israel's National Emergency Pre-Hospital Medical and Blood Services Organization, which has prepared me somewhat for what lies ahead at Soroka Hospital.
We arrive at the hospital at sundown. Tents have been set up on the wide lawn to accommodate the myriad of young volunteers. Radio transistors blare news updates alongside recruitment slogans for reserve units, and songs play continuously: “I’ll Wait for You,” “No Need to Worry,” “Let It Be.”
We rush into a large hall transformed into a makeshift triage center to receive the injured expected from Sinai via the helipad.
The injured start flooding in from the very first night. Their agonizing cries, the burnt smell, the blood, and the grim scenes quickly dispel any youthful joy. We work in silence, bent and somber, helping to evacuate the wounded and assist the medical staff.
On the third day, the flow of casualties markedly increases, and around midnight, we encounter a young soldier severely wounded in the frontal lobe. His dirty bandage slips from his forehead, revealing wounds visible beneath his blood-soaked black locks. Despite the transfusions and painkillers, he writhes in agony. Lying on his side, his lower back is torn and peppered with shrapnel. He doesn’t know his name; no identification tags are found. Daffi looks at him, and his blue eyes meet hers with fear and pain. He reaches out his hand to hers, and she responds gently, holding his hand to comfort him.
I lose all sense of time, each day blurring into the next. I assist the nurses in the neurological ward, changing bed linens, distributing food and letters. In the evenings, I join the others at the helipad to help transfer the wounded to the emergency room.
***
Yesterday, after helping Yaron transfer a man with injured limbs to the orthopedic ward, I felt the earth slipping from under my feet. It was eleven o’clock at night. For two whole weeks, I had been unable to sleep due to the horrific sights of charred injured bodies squeezing into my bed. A buzzing in my ears began, I wobbled and then fell. Yaron softened my fall and cradled me in his muscular arms.
“Tell me, when was the last time you ate a decent meal? Are you getting any sleep at all? I see you running around all the time.”
“I don’t remember,” I whispered, still unsteady.
Without many words, Yaron led me to the cafeteria and bought us both shakshuka. We wolfed it down with challah bread and washed it down with a large cup of cocoa.
“Look, I don’t care about the war right now. We are going to get some sleep, recharge, and reset.”
In the corridor near the cardiology ward, we found an empty bed. We lay down, and I tried to sleep. The moment I closed my eyes, amputated, charred bodies tried to squeeze in with us on the narrow bed. Yaron saw my discomfort, wrapped his arms around me, and commanded, “Sleep.” A comforting scent of pine needles filled my nostrils.
Overcome by exhaustion, without any self-control or awareness, I pressed as close to him as possible and buried my face in the hollow of his neck.
“You smell so good,” I said indulgently.
“Stop with the nonsense,” he ordered again. “I’ll sing you a song, and you’ll fall asleep from boredom in no time: ‘Cloudless skies, a yawning moon, a hot cup of coffee, a toast with melted cheese, the wisps of smoke from a thin cigarette. A pleasant tiredness descends upon you. A beautiful girl falls into her sleep.’”
He repeated these silly lines like a whispered mantra, holding me tightly, and his pleasant scent became my refuge. The charred bodies slept with us, all fitting in one bed.
The next morning, I woke up smiling, hungry, and lovesick in an empty bed. I searched for Yaron amid the hectic assignments but couldn’t find him. It had been his last day with us. Due to the war, he was drafted earlier, and I never saw him again.
At noon, as I returned the clean bedding to the neurological ward, I saw Daffi washing the blue-eyed soldier, trying to lighten his mood and distract him from his pain.
After two weeks of surgeries removing shrapnel from his head and back, he still couldn’t remember who he was or his own name.
For him, only the present existed. Daffi was his entire world, his anchor. She cared for him devotedly, bathing him, changing his dressings, feeding him, and taking him for walks on the hospital lawns in his wheelchair. She made sure to talk to him and importantly, refrained from pestering him with intrusive questions about his elusive past. She called him “pretty-eyed David,” and he called her “my beloved Abishag.”
I often saw them growing close, cuddling. Initially, Daffi resisted his advances, but she soon let down her guard and surrendered completely to their love.
In the third week of the war, during one of my rounds delivering mail, I heard shouting and heartrending cries from the corridor outside David’s room.
“What do you want from me? Leave me alone.”
“Raffi, it’s me, Tamara, your wife. We’ve been married for two years. And this is Gil, our son. He’s six months old. We love you, and we’ve been so worried about you. Everyone is waiting for you to come back — your family, your students, our friends at the kibbutz.”
“I don’t know you, and I certainly wouldn’t have married someone like you. You’re not my type. Do me a favor, don’t try to pin a baby on me. I have a girlfriend. Her name is Daffi, understand? This is Daffi, my girlfriend. Daffi, meet this strange woman who I can’t understand what she wants from me.”
“David, I mean Raffi, stop shouting at her. You’re scaring the baby, your son Gili. Please, stop!” Daffi pleaded, her voice choked with tears. She was deeply unnerved by these shocking revelations, overwhelmed.
“Daffi, please stay out of this. Let me handle this nuisance alone.”
“Raffi, please,” the woman also pleaded, “try to remember. It’s only a matter of time and patience. And I have the patience, I’ll wait.”
“I don’t want to see you. Get out of my sight,” he roared.
Tamar’s crying intensified. She left the room, leaning against the corridor wall. The sweet baby she clasped in her arms wept as well. Her legs buckled, and she collapsed onto the corridor floor.
Whispers emanated from inside the room. Osnat, the social worker, emerged into the corridor. She bent down to Tamar and helped her to her feet. Offering hugs and comfort, she escorted Tamar out until they both vanished from my view.
Near the room, on the floor, I spotted a crumpled piece of paper. I picked it up. It was torn and obviously part of an official document. Driven by curiosity, I read what was written on it:
“In the first week of the war, a soldier was brought to the hospital with injuries to his lower back and head trauma. An inquiry by the casualty officer revealed that he belonged to one of the tank companies that fought at the Suez Canal. The soldier was identified as the company’s second-in-command, Lieutenant Raffi Tzabar. He was the sole survivor of a brutal battle in which his entire tank company was destroyed.
Raffi’s physical condition has improved, but due to the head injuries, he suffers from amnesia. He cannot remember anything about his past or his identity, and he experiences violent outbursts typical of post-traumatic stress disorder.
Raffi is being treated […].”
I glanced into the room whose door remained open and saw David, Raffi, pulling Dafna towards him. She couldn’t stop crying. He tried to embrace her in the shelter of their bed, in a desperate attempt to comfort her and recreate their shattered bubble of happiness.
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