Mitla Pass - Leon Uris [61]
I have heard from my landsmen (people who came from my home town) of Wolkowysk. Some of them are among the great pioneers of Israel, such as your late Uncle Matthias (Matti), while others have escaped from brutal Nazi horrors. All of them are wonderful people. I love them. From the Wolkowysk community came a great many intellectuals, rabbis, poets, writers, etc., a small but very vital community. They have asked repeatedly to honor you with an evening but are feeling like so many shmattes (rags) and shnorrers (beggars) by your evasions that you are too busy. It would especially be good for Valerie and the girls to learn of their great cultural accomplishments and particularly so they shouldn’t go around thinking that you are an elitist snob ...
Gideon crumpled the letter angrily in his fist and felt his breath growing short and his chest tightening. He took a Tedral pill to stem the attack.
“Dad,” he cried from his foggy weariness, “for God’s sake, I’m in trouble. Tell me I’m good. Tell me you’re proud of me! Where is my wife? Where are my girls? Dad, I really need somebody to hold my head.”
The rumpled letter trembled in his fist. He took aim for the trash can, then laid the letter on his desk and straightened it out and put it in its file.
Dawn.
Gideon rolled up the wooden blinds and watched the sea outside as daylight came. He stood over the candles and worked up enough breath to blow them out, then wobbled to the couch. His heavy eyelids could no longer remain open.
“Daddy,” he said as sleep conquered him. “Daddy, I’m so cold. I’m so cold. Daddy, warm me up ... Daddy ...”
GIDEON
MITLA PASS
October 29, 1956
D DAY, H HOUR MINUS 40 MINUTES
THE FORMATION OF DAKOTAS plodded deeper into the Sinai, crisscrossing the paths of Moses. The sun made its final gesture, blinking behind the mountains.
The cabin of our plane plunged into darkness. Heat of the day rose off the desert floor and clashed with night air spilling down the mountains. As the formation reached a risky altitude of five hundred feet, fits of turbulence awakened even the deepest sleeper.
Major Ben Asher, the Lions’ commander, waved his hand for Shlomo and me to come up front, where they were crammed in over the navigator’s desk.
I did a double take, staring at the pilot. I hadn’t noticed before, but the pilot was a woman. Ben Asher read the latest message and beamed.
“Hello, writer, squeeze in. Everything looks good now. Our aircraft report no Egyptian air or troop movement along the entire Canal. They haven’t got a camel’s ass of suspicion.”
As Shlomo and I worked our way back to our seats, one by one the paras awoke, yawned, belched, smacked dry lips, fiddled with adjustments on their gear, patted their weapons as though they were girls’ backsides, and chatted about the promising news.
The cabin grew so dark I had only vague outlines of their faces. A few of them were bearded, like lions. Many wore kipis on their heads and had opened prayer books and bobbed and weaved, even though they could not read the words for the darkness.
I was suddenly struck by unadulterated, all-consuming terror. I felt my entire body locking up and feared that normal movement was gone. The perspiration salted my eyes and my lips turned into dry eroded cakes. I became afraid to breathe too deeply for I knew that when I exhaled I would whimper out loud.
My heart pounded audibly as the plane climbed abruptly from under the Egyptian radar range to the jumping altitude. Shlomo’s hand gripped my arm.
“You’ll be all right,” he whispered.
“What’s the Hebrew word for Geronimo?” I asked.
“Geronimo?”
“That’s the American paras’ battle cry. Aren’t we supposed to give a bloodcurdling yell as we jump?”
“Believe me, you’ll find something to scream,” Shlomo said.
The resolution of fear is one of the writer’s greatest reasons for being. What does a man fear most? Being tortured? Being locked in a ward