Killing Bezalel
Thank God soldiers are just meant to carry out orders, not to question or justify them. This induces peace of mind. This valley must be the most desolate region of the strip. From the flanks where we were camped, it seemed to be all rocks. Even scorpions might find it too torrid and dry, but our orders were to check that the handful of villages around _ hamlets really_ had indeed been vacated as the IDF had ordered.
Who would have been daft enough to prise out a living from these rocks? What would grow there? Where would the goats have found water? Where would the chickens scratch? What would these poor fedayins eat? They should have been grateful to us for making them up and leave, like they no doubt had been dreaming of for years, but for their inability to think for themselves, and their dislike of exerting themselves physically. Approach the place carefully, Colonel Levi had felt obliged to say, don’t assume anything. Avoid shooting, except when … unavoidable. In the unlikely event of your finding some idiot there, just tell them, firmly but politely, to pack up just enough for one donkey-load and to piss off outa here pronto. Unless they have a death wish.
There was myself Shimon Mendes da Costa, probably as mixed-up a young Jew as you could find. I was born confused and will no doubt be forever deprived of clarity. Dad is a Likud fanatic. This fact by itself is not responsible for my status, but dad would only marry Mum, from a Meretz family who always voted left, if she converted (to Likud). I was so much in love with your father, she said, I promised. Not that she reneged on all her principles.
I remember word for word one seder with the Toledano cousins. Easy enough to recall, when the same conversation was recycled three years in succession. Uncle Baruch was a peacenik, and never stopped talking of the two-state solution, end of occupation with complete dismantling of settlements, and the demolition of Dimona.
“Baruch,” father said making a face as if he had just swallowed some bitter potion, “when you talk of the wrongs we Jews have inflicted on them Ayrabs, I could tell you facts which make that goddam book Khirbet Khizey sound like Zionist propaganda. We went into their territory with the most sophisticated weapons, shot the poor bastards, massacred complete villages and stole their lands and drove them away into exile, refugee camps, unwanted guests in the countries of their Ayrab brothers who received them with closed arms and pressed lips. It was the biggest injustice, the biggest land grab since our Spanish ancestors exterminated the Incas and grabbed the Americas_”
“Entonces?” chipped in uncle Baruch, smiling as if he had cornered the right-winger and scored a point, although, having heard it all before, he knew what was coming.
“I’ll tell you, dear cousin, we turned this decrepit land they didn’t have the faintest idea what to do with, into one of the most modern and developed country in the West. We made it what it is, and we can’t let those savages back. Which is why we want the most sophisticated weapons, the F 15’s and F 35’s, the Iron Dome, the Merkeva tanks, the Uzis; which is why we need those A-bombs we make at Dimona; which is why we need to bomb the shit out of Iran now, and to destroy Hamas and make it toothless…”
This explains the clarity of my position in this war. As clear as mud. But I do want to become the next Amos Oz.
There was Abdallah the Druze. I knew few of his tribe, and was surprised to hear his views. He was an ultra nationalist, probably to the right of Bezalel Smotrich. Israel was an oasis of democracy in a desert of backwardness and corruption. What other nation on earth would opens its borders to allow in the sick from the country of the enemy attacking it? What about the new Netanyahu’s nation-state bill? I challenged him. Name me just one example of how this can affect me negatively, he retorted. I did not wish to enter into a big controversy with him. He was always looking at his wife Meriem’s pic on his phone.
Ze’ev readily admitted his admiration for Itamar and the Jewish National Front. He had wanted to go to yeshiva, but dad said one rabbi in the family was enough, so he went to Technion instead, and claimed that he was being head-hunted by IWI, the premier weapons manufacturer of Israel.
None of us knew anything about Ehud, except that come sunset he was out of action. His eyes were vacant, he didn’t hear when you talked to him, and only grunted back. Although I was in command, I felt powerless to confiscate his crack cocaine.
HQ had informed us that the hamlet even had a name: Kafr Ummeed. Behind us the flanks seemed luxuriant, the fields neatly ploughed or displaying shoots of recently emerging wheat or corn. Clearly no one was going to benefit from what Mother Earth was waiting to deliver to the absent owners. I mused to myself, unaware that I had given an incoherent voice to this sentiment. They are such a cowardly lot my Arab compatriots, sneered Abdallah in answer to this. They don’t know how to defend their territory. They only know how to bomb empty fields with their wonky missiles, or their own hospitals, their own schools. And naturally blame us afterwards. They’d never think of grabbing a gun and fight the enemy face to face. Fucking Ayrabs, you should talk, Ze’ev spat out. Don’t start, I felt obliged to say. What time is it, enquired Ehud as if that was a vital question. I don’t think he made an effort to hear Abdallah’s response. I didn’t either. On a mission, it is always best never to think of the time. The less you know about it, the easier it is to put up with the waiting.
We were convinced that the hamlet had been deserted. We had surveyed the environment with our Fujinon, and had detected no sign of life. We never saw any smoke rising from the chimneys, never any sign of goats or sheep grazing. Or chickens for that matter. Perhaps they cook in the night, Colonel Levi surmised, they know you’re watching them. There were a few measly things growing in front yard of one of the houses, tomato plants, okra or aubergines. It was Ehud who that morning remarked, Yesterday there were twenty-eight tomatoes on the plants, and today only twenty-one. Abdallah communicated this info to HQ, and an hour later came the order: Clear away Kafr Ummeed. Operation Five Missing Tomatoes, said Abdallah. The Ayrab sure can count, mocked Ze’ev.
After the three-day wait, we were ready. We set out an hour before sunrise, aiming to get to Kafr Ummeed precisely as day was breaking, and catch whoever, unawares. It was a fresh morning. It is surprising that even in midsummer the mornings can be so cold, with the temperature rising spectacularly as the day aged. We left heavier artillery at our base camp, and were equipped with our small but deadly Uzis.
There were no more than six houses, all made of stones and corrugated iron, all in a dilapidated state. We approached the first one, the door was unlocked and we burst in. It was obvious that there was no one there. We had managed the operation in utmost silence so far, and unless someone was actively watching, no one would have been aware of our movements. However, the moment we pushed open the door of the second house, we were confronted by a man pointing an old Winchester 1872 at us. I immediately knew that either it was unloaded, or the chap had no idea how to use it, but Ze’ev, with the reflex of a starving feline jumping on a mouse, shot him twice. The man shook his head, I think to signify that he was not going to shoot, and fell forward. We had paid little attention to the woman in torn rags, as it was obvious that she was defenceless and harmless, but lightning quick, she rushed towards a table and grabbled a kitchen implement. It was no more than eight centimetre long, and one had to look closely to identify it as a knife. It might have done some damage to tomatoes, okras or aubergines, but the potatoes must have felt invincible as it attempted to dig into them. In her thin hand it looked more ridiculous than dangerous. Abdallah shot her twice, in quick succession. If shooting the man could be justified in a court martial, not even the most biased court would have passed a verdict of justifiable self-defence against the Druze. Ehud cackled obscenely, I did not understand why.
The four shots that had rung out would certainly have produced some reaction from any putative fedayeen hiding in the other houses, but since there was none, it became clear that there was nobody else in the village. But a weak cough from a dark corner of the room shook us much more than would have a barrage of artillery fire. I felt my heart jump, and my companions opened wide their eyes, as if they had heard a ghost. Gingerly we approached this wooden box and beheld the baby. It was difficult to guess how old it was. It was lean and haggard, yellow with sunken eyes. It was clearly underfed, perhaps slowly starving. Typical of that lot, said Abdallah scornfully. Why the fuck did they not go south when the others left? Now that Israel has volunteered to send in food, they’d have been properly fed. Where else in the world would you find the enemy pacifying a rioting nation assuming the responsibility of feeding them. I knew otherwise, but chose to keep my thoughts to myself.
Ze’ev was the first one to see a bottle of watery milk by the side of the box, and surprised me by picking it up, holding it over the head of the baby and pushing the rubber nipple into its mouth, whereupon the little fellow began sucking it with surprising energy. He’s a little Arab baby, I teased him. How do you know it’s a he? asked Ehud absently.
Chaps, I said, don’t get too attached to the little nipper, what are we gonna do about him? There and then I dubbed him a boy. Suddenly the baby began to choke, and Ze’ev pulled the bottle away. The little chappie began to sneeze quite violently, and alternate this with a weak pathetic cough. It was clear that the child was seriously ill on top of being starving. I told Abdallah to get in touch with HQ and apprise them of this unexpected situation, and ask for instruction. To my dismay, HQ said lieutenant Shimon da Costa is in charge, he should take the initiative.
I read somewhere that a writer is someone who, faced with a thorny problem says, goodie, there’s a theme for a story, but my reaction showed that perhaps I am no writer. Come on chaps, let’s have your opinions. They all stared at me blankly, and suddenly in one voice they chorused, It’s your baby, Shimon. I knew what they meant. Yes, I entreated, but you surely have an opinion. Abdallah was the first to take the bait. Since you ask, Shimon, there’s only one thing to do, you should … get rid of him, meaning kill him. Although this was an obvious solution, hearing the words made me shudder. If that was indeed the consensus, as the leader the task would fall on me. Must think of a stratagem to get away from this. Ehud spoke next. The child is in such a poor shape that it’s gonna kick it unaided in two or three days anyway.
Suddenly a piercing scream filled the morning air. It was Ze’ev. He had turned red, and was in a frenzied state. That’s a human life you fuckers are talking about. A sacred human life. Abdallah sneered. Spare him and in four years he’ll be throwing stones at us, and in fifteen years he’ll be blowing buses in Tel-Aviv. Good point, agreed Ehud. We were amazed to see a single tear drip down Ze’ev’s cheeks. Although his lips were moving, no words could be heard for a while.
“Since we were married three years ago,” he managed to squeeze out, “Avital and I have been trying for a baby_”
“Have you tried fucking?” chimed in Ehud. Nobody laughed.
“Don’t know if it’s me or her. Or perhaps God wants us to wait. When I saw this baby, something in me moved_”
I thought your religion would be against taking a little unclean stranger in your midst, I said.
“Nah, on the contrary. Sanhedrin says, Whoever brings up an orphan in their home, it is as though they gave birth to him. Wasn’t Moses, adopted by the Pharaoh’s daughter? What about Esther who was adopted by her cousin Mordecai? Who the fuck were Esther and Mordecai, I didn’t ask.
“Fuck off Ze’ev, it’s an Arab baby you’re talking about,” teased Abdallah.
A sound like Khhrack, emerged from Ze’ev’s throat. “The child doesn’t know, does he? I mean that he’s an Ayrab. Avital and I will turn him into a little Jew. Little Bezalel …”
You’re talking rubbish Ze’ev, I pointed out. Think of the logistics of that. How are we getting him to base camp, let alone HQ? Remember how many times we stumbled on the rocky terrain before getting here. The little fucker will get a cracked skull before he’s two hours older. In the state he’s in, he doesn’t need a cracked head to die. Have you even given any thought to the fact that we are fighting a war?
“So basically you’ve decided that he must be … eliminated?”
“Is there an alternative?”
Infinite force against immovable object! I knew I didn’t have it in me to kill a baby in cold blood, so how could I order anybody else to do it. Leaving a sick child to starve to death was criminal. A slow death from starvation. At least a war crime. Even a crime against humanity. I have read about Nazis throwing babies in the furnace at Auschwitz. The Arabs often compare us to Nazis, but I know that we’re not of that ilk. Are we? I heard on CNN that we’ve been responsible for forty thousand deaths in Gaza, including tens of thousands of children. Certainly hundreds of babies not older than little Bezalel here. There’s a lot to be said to not seeing what you are killing.
Wordlessly I looked at each of my men in a questioning manner. Abdallah seemed to be weighing the situation, but quickly enough he shook his head. Ze’ev looked at me with a hate-filled expression, sneered and turned his head away. Ehud began by shaking his head, but suddenly started talking, as if to himself.
“The IAF is a true bunch of heroes, nobody can deny that, without them Israel would be lost, right? Daily they’re in the air, bombing the shit out of those fucking Palestinians in their refugee camps, civilian shields taking the hit for fucking Hamas. Killing hundreds in one go, children and babies. No one in their right minds would dream of blaming them, would they? Assuredly no one can stand over little Bezalel and lodge a bullet in his skull. I can’t see anyone plunging a knife in his little chest or slicing his throat.” I noticed that Ze’ev looked like he would readily do either of these last two acts to Ehud without batting an eyelid.
So you suggest we get the IAF to come and bomb Kafr Ummeed?
In the end, we wrapped the child in a sheet, and left him on a rock outside the house, and proceeded to leave the place. Three of us never turned to look at Bezalel, but Ze’ev could not stop giving himself “one last look” every so often. When we were a good five hundred metres away, next to a cluster of barbary pears, we drew lots, and the job fell to me. I couldn’t back out. Abdallah gave me the Fujinon. I knew that I could never bring myself to use the events leading to the death of the baby to further my writing career.
