Day After Night

  Leonie had worked hard at charming Lieutenant Lucas and a few other young German officers who were clean and good-looking, who treated her a little more like a girl than just a cunt. She flattered them in bed with coos and moans and passionate thank-you’s. When they brought her nylons and chocolate, she asked for books of German poetry. She improved her conversation and eventually they refused the other girls, which spared her from nights with men who never washed, and men who found pleasure in causing women pain.

  When she was with one of “her” men, she emptied herself like a bowl and watched herself perform, permitting herself to feel nothing but pride in her own efficiency. Leonie listened to Lotte’s rant with the same detachment.

  “When they do find out about you, they will shame you in public. They will send you away. Maybe they will even stone you to death, which would be very biblical, don’t you think? And so appropriate.”

  Lotte was enjoying herself. “I will tell you what is going to happen next, you little whore. You will tell that witch of a nurse that I am better now, that the water washed away all of my problems. And because you will say nothing about my past, I will say nothing of yours. We are in agreement, yes?”

  Leonie lowered her chin.

  “Now get out of here.”

  Leonie walked away, remembering the last time she had faced a question when “yes” would have meant death, and “no” meant life.

  In the brothel, she would dose herself nightly with two sleeping pills washed down by a tumbler of cheap brandy. That was how she slept through until morning, and woke up feeling nothing but hunger and thirst. But one morning, a burst of gunfire roused her long before the amnesiac cocktail had worn off.

  Leonie had opened a swollen eye and saw blood on the sheets. Her jaw ached, and her sex was bruised. Her legs were black and blue. It had been a horrible night, and worst of all, it had been Lucas.

  He had staggered in drunk with two friends who demanded a turn with the girl he claimed was so talented, so willing—truly the best whore in Paris. She had wept and begged, but he’d slapped her and let his comrade turn her on her face and sodomize her. One of them had the SS tattoo on his upper arm and he made her kiss it before forcing her to her knees while Lucas watched, and smirked, and played with himself.

  She closed her eyes and tried to sink back into sleep but a second burst of gunfire sent her flying to the window, where a flock of startled pigeons was flying around in tight circles in the deep, narrow courtyard. There, at the center of the flapping gray blur, Leonie saw a woman wearing a long gown. She floated midair, suspended among the birds, waving for her to follow. Leonie had opened the window and climbed onto the ledge when she heard a voice behind her say, “No.”

  She turned to see who had spoken, but there was no one in the room. And when she looked outside again, the pigeons were merely pigeons and the flying lady had vanished, a phantom of the drugs.

  She crawled back to the bed and thought about the voice that had stopped her. It had been a woman’s voice saying no to death, as peaceful as it might be. It had been her own voice, saying yes to life, as miserable as it was.

  That night, as lights-out approached, Leonie told Shayndel that she wanted to sleep in the infirmary. “There’s a girl with a fever in there, a timid thing from Lausanne who barely speaks. I thought I’d stay with her. Do you think I could get permission?”

  “Oh, just go,” said Shayndel, distracted and worn out after a long day of second-guessing and biting her tongue. “What are they going to do to us at this point? I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Good night,” Leonie said and kissed her cheek, ashamed of how easy it was to lie to her friend. She held her breath, as though she were diving into deep water, as she ran across the shadows toward the infirmary. Knowing the clinic was empty, she took the key from beneath a loose floorboard, let herself in, and locked the door.

  Feeling her way slowly through the dark, Leonie found Aliza’s desk and opened the drawer where she hid the candy. She sank to the floor and let one of the sugar marbles dissolve in her mouth, savoring the solitude along with the sweet.

  She could not remember the last time she had been completely alone. Madame had not permitted her to close the door to her room after they had found her with the razor blade; not that Leonie had been trying to kill herself. She knew exactly how deep to cut and when to stop. She glanced at the cabinet that held the needles and scalpels, but it was locked with a key that Aliza never left behind.

  Leonie crawled to the space between two cots and ran her fingers around the hem of her skirt. By the time she opened the catch on the safety pin, she was sweating and breathing heavily. But she grew calmer after pressing the point against her fingertip. It was still sharp enough.

  Leonie pulled off her shoes and socks and cradled her left foot in her hands and waited until her breathing slowed down, forcing herself to prolong the anticipation. Then, pressing her cheek against the inside of her knee, she pushed the tip of the pin into the space between her big toe and her second toe. She gasped quietly and welcomed the sensation, relaxing as pain took precedence over fear and memory.

  It was only a few moments before the throbbing started to fade. Leonie removed the pin slowly, squeezing at the tiny wound, putting her pinky finger to the warm blood and placing the salty drop to her tongue, exactly as she had in the brothel. That was where she had created this small, silent ritual of punishment and purification.

  She took her time, eight times in all, one foot after the other, ending with the worst jab, between the fourth and smallest toe. And then Leonie leaned back and closed her eyes, relishing a moment of respite, the closest she came to peace.

  Aliza found her on the floor in the morning, sound asleep, her cheek against the floor, fully dressed, her shoes neatly tied, her hands pressed between her knees.

  October 8, Monday

  Early morning was Shayndel’s favorite time of day. She savored the short walk from the barrack to the kitchen when the air was still and clear, free of the dust kicked up by hundreds of feet. She would look at the mountains, which changed color from one morning to the next, blue or gray or even gold, depending on the clouds and the angle of the sun. But this morning, she saw nothing but the ground in front of her.

  It had been a bad night, disturbed by dreams of running after things—first a train, then a child, then something she could not remember. She woke up worried about who was going to get out of Atlit and who was not, determined to pry the answer to that question out of Tirzah and Nathan. She would not let them dismiss her as they had yesterday. She would be immovable.

  Nathan was already in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a mug in his hands, watching Tirzah slice cucumbers.

  “Good morning, comrade,” he said. “Where have you been? We’ve been hard at work for hours.”

  Tirzah glared at him. There were dark circles under her eyes; clearly she hadn’t slept well either.

  “The breakout is tonight,” she said.

  “Tonight?” Shayndel said. “The Iraqis are getting out tonight?”

  “Not just them,” Nathan said. “Everyone is going. The whole camp.”

  “But there are,” Shayndel calculated quickly, “two hundred, at least.”

  “Yes,” Nathan said. “It will make for a dramatic story, don’t you think? Of course, you are to be the captain for your barrack. We’ll give you more instructions later today.”

  Tirzah said, “You should ask what she thinks about Myra in Barrack C and Regina in D.”

  Shayndel knew that she was grinning like an idiot, but she couldn’t help herself.

  “What do you think?” Nathan asked. “Can we depend on those two girls? Are they able to keep a secret? Will the others follow orders from them?”

  “Both solid,” Shayndel agreed. “But this won’t be easy with the little ones, you know.”

  “Look at her, worrying and biting her lip,” Nathan said. “I thought you’d be thrilled. I was even counting o
n a kiss.”

  “What’s the plan?” Shayndel asked, ignoring his puckered lips. “How are you going to take out the guards? What kind of transport is coming? Where will we be going?”

  “Relax, sweetheart. It’s all taken care of,” Nathan said. “Your job will be to help us to wake everyone up and get them dressed and out of the camp quickly and quietly. Come back before lunch and I will tell you everything you need to know.”

  “That’s enough for now,” Tirzah said, shoving platters of cheese and tomatoes into Shayndel’s hands, sending her out into the mess hall.

  Shayndel sat down, oblivious to her friends at the table. Her mind raced and wandered: swimming on the beach in Tel Aviv, picking kibbutz oranges, walking the narrow streets of Jerusalem.

  Leonie waved a hand in front of Shayndel’s eyes. “What are you thinking about?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Don’t tell me that. You look like the cat that caught the mouse. Are you in love?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Shayndel shrugged and scanned the room. Did Myra have enough Hebrew to communicate with the Palmach? Was Regina levelheaded enough to remain calm when things went wrong—as they were bound to?

  If only she could talk this over with Malka, her beloved comrade-in-arms, and a great judge of character. Shayndel and Wolfe used to call her “the Psychologist.” When Wolfe was planning a particularly nervy mission, he would ask Malka’s advice about whom to bring along, whom they could trust. Wolfe admitted that he tended to believe the worst about people, though he probably could have talked the guards in Atlit into opening the gates for them in the name of the glorious Zionist future, or for the sake of Allah, or whatever they needed to hear. His nickname had been “the Politician.”

  And I was “the Old Lady,” thought Shayndel. I brought up the rear and carried everybody’s doubts, the one they could count on to argue in favor of getting more information before setting out on a dangerous operation. It was my job to keep them from forgetting that they could get killed, too.

  Shayndel and Leonie chewed and swallowed in silence, lost in their own memories and worries. Everyone at the table noticed and Tedi asked, “Are you two having an argument?”

  “Not at all. Nothing like that,” Shayndel said, a little too brightly. “Time to clean up. I’ll see you all later.”

  “And you?” Tedi said, sliding over and trying to read Leonie’s mood. “I noticed you didn’t sleep in the barrack last night. Were you in the infirmary?”

  Leonie nodded.

  “I wish I could have done that, too. I barely slept because, well, because of what I told you about my … about the stench on that … woman.”

  The mention of Lotte sent Leonie to her feet. “I should get to the clinic and talk to Aliza about her.”

  Tedi watched her hurry out and regretted having told Leonie about her heightened sense of smell. Maybe Leonie would tell the nurse that she was crazy and ought to be locked up. Or maybe she was overreacting. Everyone seemed a bit tense today, Tedi thought; probably because of those poor guys in the locked barrack. Still, she couldn’t stop worrying about what Leonie might be thinking or saying about her, and decided to talk to her, even if that meant going to the infirmary, which she usually avoided. No amount of disinfectant, alcohol, or bleach could erase the acrid residue of terror and dread that accosted her even before she reached the door.

  Two guards were posted outside; a young Arab well-known in the camp for his quick temper, and an avuncular Brit with a receding chin. As she reached the step, they lifted their guns to block her way.

  Tedi pointed inside. “I have to visit my friend.”

  “First you have to smile,” said the Englishman, shaking a finger and grinning so broadly that she had no choice but to obey.

  “All right then,” he said and waved her in.

  Though it was still early, every surface in the clinic was littered with scraps of gauze, tubes of salves, needles and probes. The new arrivals had kept Aliza busy swabbing, dressing, and dosing their blisters, rashes, sprains, and pains. She had given away all of her candy, too.

  When Tedi walked in, Leonie was standing beside the nurse, holding a metal basin as Aliza lanced an ugly-looking boil on the shoulder of one of the new men.

  “What can I do for you?” Aliza asked.

  “I … I came to talk to Leonie,” Tedi stammered. “It can wait.”

  “Hmmm,” said Aliza, assuming she’d come for a dose of penicillin. “Come back when it’s quiet and we’ll fix you right up. But on your way out, make yourself useful and take the sheets over there to the laundry.”

  Tedi had to pass between two young men who were lying on cots; one of them had a swollen knee, which was propped up on a pillow. The other sat up, leaning against the wall, his face flushed and his eyes glittering.

  The man with the elevated leg said something in Arabic to Aliza, who laughed and translated, “He says you are too tall.”

  The feverish patient pointed at Tedi and said, “‘Ha Tikvah’? Yes? You are the ‘HaTikvah’ girl.” He sang a few bars of the anthem and Tedi smiled and nodded.

  “Ahh,” he said, placed his hand over his heart, and began to sing. The words were incomprehensible but the melody ached with longing.

  Tedi had never seen a more beautiful human being. His lashes were so thick, his eyes seemed ringed with kohl. His black curls lay in perfect rows across his damp forehead. He smelled of almonds.

  As he finished singing, Aliza clapped her hands and said, “He was singing from Song of Songs. Love at first sight! Leonie, did you see this? Just like in the cinema.”

  Tedi clutched the laundry to her chest and ran out, flattered and aroused by the baritone quaver, the olive-brown skin, and the face that reached for her like an outstretched hand.

  “Foolishness,” she muttered, as she bent over to pick up a towel that had escaped from her arms. That was what her mother used to say, rolling her dark blue eyes, whenever anyone spoke about romance.

  “Foolishness,” her father would echo sadly. Tedi stood up quickly, struck by the thought that perhaps her mother had never loved her father that way at all. The idea that her parents’ marriage had been loveless made her feel disloyal and lonely, and she pushed it away.

  She also tried to shake off the sensation of that young man’s voice vibrating in her own chest, and the mouthwatering smell of warm almonds. That really is foolishness, she scolded herself, starring down into the barrel of laundry.

  “Are you all right?”

  Tedi turned to see Shayndel’s worried face. “What are you looking at in there?”

  “Nothing,” Tedi said. “I was a little dizzy.”

  “This is not a good time to be sick. Maybe you should have the nurse take a look at you.”

  “I’m fine, really,” Tedi said.

  They heard Nathan’s voice in the distance. “Twenty more jumps and I will take off my pants.”

  “I think I’ll go see what they’re laughing about over there,” said Tedi. “Will you come?”

  Shayndel shook her head and went back to the barrack, where she sat on the bed and pared her nails as she told herself off.

  In the ten weeks that she had been locked up in Atlit, she had grown comfortable, and even worse, proud of her status among the other prisoners. She had become complacent and docile. She knew that Malka and Wolfe would have made fun of her. They would have expected more of her. Shayndel wondered if those two would be looking over her shoulder for the rest of her life.

  “Of course not,” said the voice of Malka that resided inside her head. “You will get married and have children and life will crowd out everything else. I will become an old memory, me and Wolfe. And don’t pull that face; you know I’m right.”

  Shayndel paced the barrack, trying to clear her mind and stay calm until it was time to get back to the kitchen. She found Tirzah sitting on the steps at the back door, smoking a cigarette. “Don’t ask me,” she said, before Shayndel could say a word. “I have
nothing new to tell you.”

  Shayndel sank down on the step and stared out at the mountains. It might be nice to live up there, she thought, but she didn’t much care where she was sent: mountains or desert, kibbutz or city, tent or bunker, as long as it was away from Atlit and these long empty days and Tirzah’s unrelenting scowl.

  Distracted, Shayndel scratched at her forearms until Tirzah slapped her hands. They sat together, disliking one another, until Nathan rounded the corner, dragging his feet and chewing his lower lip.

  “What’s the matter with you?” said Tirzah. “Did everybody stop laughing at your stupid jokes?”

  “You have all the sensitivity of a cactus,” he said.

  “I had no idea you were such a delicate flower.”

  Nathan kicked at the dirt. “It’s off for tonight.”

  Shayndel jumped up. Tirzah asked, “What happened?”

  “They didn’t say. Maybe they need another day to assemble the men.”

  “No, no, no!” shouted Shayndel.

  “Calm down,” said Nathan.

  “Don’t tell me what to do. I have to get out of here.” She knew she should lower her voice, but she couldn’t stop. “No more waiting. Now. Tonight.”

  Tirzah grabbed her. “What’s gotten into you?”

  “What’s gotten into me? Sleeping on a plank, surrounded by barbwire, watching other people get out while I’m left behind? Why am I still here anyway? Answer me. Why am I still a prisoner in this shit hole?”

  Tirzah lowered her voice. “If you don’t stop yelling, I am going to slap you hard enough to loosen some teeth. Do you understand me?”

  “Don’t be such a bitch,” Nathan said, putting his arm around Shayndel’s shoulder.

  “It’s a twenty-four-hour postponement,” he explained as they walked into the kitchen. “We go tomorrow night. The moon will still be dark, and if you think about it, the extra day is a blessing. We have more time to get ready.”

  “But what if they come and take these Iraqi men tomorrow morning?” Shayndel said. “Didn’t you say they were being sent somewhere else?”