walked slowly home.
6
Rescue
Moshe Sachar held the young woman firmly as the breakers caught their bodies and swept them, like driftwood, toward shore.
“We made it!” he shouted above the roar.
The woman could only nod in exhaustion as she struggled to find footing on the shifting sand.
“Hold on to me.” Moshe stood in the shallow water and pulled her out of the waves. She was crying, he noticed, as they stumbled the last few yards to the beach. Little sobs shook her slender shoulders as she fell in a heap on the dry sand. The warm salt of her tears mingled with the cold drops of the Mediterranean.
“You’re home,” he said, gently stroking her head as if she were a child. “Home, little girl.”
She shivered still, but gradually the sobs diminished and she slept.
He scooped dry sand over her like a blanket; then he, too, began to drift into sleep. Surely Ehud spilled his cargo onto this same beach hours ago . The Ave Maria would have chugged off to another destination. Moshe hoped that the refugees had not been met by a patrol of immigration officers and carted back to Tel Aviv for deportation. He also hoped that the two of them would not be spotted by the British soldiers who checked the beach regularly for illegal immigrants. Right now, though, he was too tired to think. For an instant he wondered what the woman’s name was. Then they both slept where they had fallen… .
A hazy sun cracked the horizon to the east, pushing back the darkness and bringing with it the fresh memory of the night before. Moshe opened his eyes and lay very still on the sand next to the woman, examining her sleeping features as if he were seeing her for the first time. Her head was turned away from him, and her long, dark hair was thrown back from her face, revealing a graceful neck and slender shoulders. Her wet white cotton camisole clung to her slender figure.
As he gazed at her, Moshe felt a stirring that made him turn his eyes away . He sat up suddenly, spilling sand into the breeze that skimmed the beach. Her soft white arms were folded across her waist, and as she moved slightly, Moshe caught a glimpse of the numbers tattooed on the inside of her left forearm. During her imprisonment by the Nazis, she had been 7645–8927, and beneath the number was the jagged black scar of an SS lightning bolt and the words Nur Für Offiziere: “For Officers Only.” The mark of a prostitute assigned to the brothel for Nazi officers.
Moshe turned away as revulsion and deep sadness overcame him.
He wondered if this young woman still remembered her own name.
Slowly she stirred with the awareness that he was awake. She opened her eyes―a deeper, clearer blue than the sea from which they had come. Almost as if by instinct, her right hand moved to cover the tattoo on her left arm. She seemed to feel no shame at sitting in her underclothes with a strange man on the beach. Her shame was that he would know that there had been other men—many other men—and each had left within her soul a gaping wound until, perhaps, there was no part of her own soul remaining.
Moshe pretended not to notice her gesture. Instead he gazed out to sea. “Good morning.”
She sat up and began to brush the sand from her body, careful to keep her left arm from view.
“Are you well?” he asked, still not looking at her.
She continued to brush away the sand almost angrily.
“I know you can speak,” Moshe said impatiently. “I heard your voice last night.”
“Am I well?” she snapped. “And how do you suppose I am, half frozen and covered with sand?”
“Well, you’re alive!” Moshe bellowed, losing all patience. “No thanks to that stupid stunt you pulled last night. We could have been warm and clean right now if you hadn’t jumped―you all snug at a kibbutz and me on my way back to Jerusalem. I should have let you drown.”
“Yes,” she said with resignation, “perhaps you should have.” She stopped brushing and hugged her knees to
6
Rescue
Moshe Sachar held the young woman firmly as the breakers caught their bodies and swept them, like driftwood, toward shore.
“We made it!” he shouted above the roar.
The woman could only nod in exhaustion as she struggled to find footing on the shifting sand.
“Hold on to me.” Moshe stood in the shallow water and pulled her out of the waves. She was crying, he noticed, as they stumbled the last few yards to the beach. Little sobs shook her slender shoulders as she fell in a heap on the dry sand. The warm salt of her tears mingled with the cold drops of the Mediterranean.
“You’re home,” he said, gently stroking her head as if she were a child. “Home, little girl.”
She shivered still, but gradually the sobs diminished and she slept.
He scooped dry sand over her like a blanket; then he, too, began to drift into sleep. Surely Ehud spilled his cargo onto this same beach hours ago . The Ave Maria would have chugged off to another destination. Moshe hoped that the refugees had not been met by a patrol of immigration officers and carted back to Tel Aviv for deportation. He also hoped that the two of them would not be spotted by the British soldiers who checked the beach regularly for illegal immigrants. Right now, though, he was too tired to think. For an instant he wondered what the woman’s name was. Then they both slept where they had fallen… .
A hazy sun cracked the horizon to the east, pushing back the darkness and bringing with it the fresh memory of the night before. Moshe opened his eyes and lay very still on the sand next to the woman, examining her sleeping features as if he were seeing her for the first time. Her head was turned away from him, and her long, dark hair was thrown back from her face, revealing a graceful neck and slender shoulders. Her wet white cotton camisole clung to her slender figure.
As he gazed at her, Moshe felt a stirring that made him turn his eyes away . He sat up suddenly, spilling sand into the breeze that skimmed the beach. Her soft white arms were folded across her waist, and as she moved slightly, Moshe caught a glimpse of the numbers tattooed on the inside of her left forearm. During her imprisonment by the Nazis, she had been 7645–8927, and beneath the number was the jagged black scar of an SS lightning bolt and the words Nur Für Offiziere: “For Officers Only.” The mark of a prostitute assigned to the brothel for Nazi officers.
Moshe turned away as revulsion and deep sadness overcame him.
He wondered if this young woman still remembered her own name.
Slowly she stirred with the awareness that he was awake. She opened her eyes―a deeper, clearer blue than the sea from which they had come. Almost as if by instinct, her right hand moved to cover the tattoo on her left arm. She seemed to feel no shame at sitting in her underclothes with a strange man on the beach. Her shame was that he would know that there had been other men—many other men—and each had left within her soul a gaping wound until, perhaps, there was no part of her own soul remaining.
Moshe pretended not to notice her gesture. Instead he gazed out to sea. “Good morning.”
She sat up and began to brush the sand from her body, careful to keep her left arm from view.
“Are you well?” he asked, still not looking at her.
She continued to brush away the sand almost angrily.
“I know you can speak,” Moshe said impatiently. “I heard your voice last night.”
“Am I well?” she snapped. “And how do you suppose I am, half frozen and covered with sand?”
“Well, you’re alive!” Moshe bellowed, losing all patience. “No thanks to that stupid stunt you pulled last night. We could have been warm and clean right now if you hadn’t jumped―you all snug at a kibbutz and me on my way back to Jerusalem. I should have let you drown.”
“Yes,” she said with resignation, “perhaps you should have.” She stopped brushing and hugged her knees to