Authors: L.L. Fine
*
"Good. But I’m not doing a simulation this time,"
he surprised her.
"What?"
She pursued him into his room, tube in hand. He entered –
and she, of course, had to stay outside. There was no space in the room for two
people.
"I have no time for experimentation. I'm going to New
York next week. Come with me."
*
And she came.
Not without doubts. Not without considerations. Not without
falling into despair again and again, and not without canceling one ticket only
to book it again two hours later.
Zomy did not bother to talk to her about it. For him, she
thought, it was obvious she would leave everything and go to New York. It
angered her. I’m actually doing him a favor! She did not owe him anything. On
the contrary, he would owe her his life.
Hopefully, at least.
And how dare he? How dare he ask her that, then ignore her!
Treat her as if she were, as if, well, obvious.
But finally she came.
Maybe something inside her would not let her abandon Zomy in
his time of need. Maybe it was something that her scientist’s mind would not
let her miss - so fascinating an experiment, so fateful. And maybe that
something was the female psyche which knew that Zomy treated her so, not out of
arrogance or disregard, but out of fear.
Fear of disappointment.
So she came, finally. Took an urgent vacation on the grounds
of wanting to see the family (which was true, in part). Did everything
regardless of him, studiously ignored his presence, as if a brick wall
separated them. He on his flight, she on hers.
And she came.
And now she cursed the moment when she’d agreed to go with
him, take a vacation, meet in New York, rent a hotel room, connect to the
monitor. Inject the virus.
Peck, Fitz. Peck Fitz.
And he began to flutter.
She ran to him, quickly preparing a small syringe, sticking
it in the hand muscle. Then, having no other choice, she tried to restrain his
twitching hands, and after a few seconds just climbed on the bed and lay down
covering him with her body, trying to mitigate the epileptic movements. She
tried to think what medication to use against them.
And she couldn't find one. Her stock was so limited.
Saliva began to erupt from his mouth, and his eyes rolled
back… long sequence of coughs… getting worse, getting weaker, more shaking of
his body.
Lia began to cry, as she struggled to keep him on the bed.
Deep in the lungs of Zomy, she knew, every moment, millions
of small hemorrhages were being created, at the same time as the planted virus
penetrated into millions of lung cells, splitting the nuclei of the cells, and
make them only God-knows-what.
She, herself, could only guess. Would viruses really only
replace a small section of DNA in another section, almost exactly the same, and
then stop working? Or, maybe they wouldn’t act according to her plan? And maybe
now that they were free of the syringe’s boundaries, they were replicating over
and over and over, rippling along the branches of the Tree of Knowledge,
erasing all traces of leaves and of its original fruits, twisting him out of
action?
The tics passed, and Lia fell heavily over the bed.
Zomy was still breathing. Very weak, very shallow, with only
slight expansion of the thorax, accompanied by the sounds of bubbling and a
trickle of blood from his nose and mouth.
She felt a sense of relief. Finally there was a problem she
could handle, something which she could really help. In cold, mechanical
movements, she put an airway tube in him, allowing free air passage and
connected him to a compact respirator. This caused a dramatic change. Breathing
became more regular and deep, precise to the beat machine. The change, of
course, said nothing about what was going on inside. The destruction continued
there, no doubt. And Zomy's life hung in the balance.
The question, in fact, was arithmetic. If the bubbles in
Zomy's lungs could still absorb oxygen and transfer it into the bloodstream,
Zomy would live. Apparently. If not, if the damage to the cells would be
irreversible, or if too many cells ceased to function at once, simultaneously,
Zomy would choke to death.
It was an equation. Simple, finite, respirator or
ventilator.
The pulse accelerated to nearly 190.
And again she began to think of a cure, a modest mix she
made herself, to inject in case - but then, with a sigh of despair, she gave up
the effort. Zomy's fate was far beyond her. It was not she who would decide
whether he would live or die. She didn't have the power.
And she leaned forward and kissed his sweating forehead, and
moved away from the bed.
The sounds of the monitor dimmed behind her. Became
irrelevant. With an effort she cut herself off from what was happening in the
room - the sounds, the sights - and watched from the window.
There was nothing she could do for him now, she knew.
What's the time? she thought suddenly.
Far beyond the escape window Zomy gave her, a few hours ago,
far beyond it now. And now she had no excuse. Whether she would or would not
leave the room, when it came to Zomy, she would not slip.
Outside the sun began to bleed for the sunset, and a group
of boys took advantage of the last rays of light for a neighborhood basketball
game. Flocks of birds suddenly rose up over the top of a tree, and Lia wondered
what scared them so much.
Behind her, Zomy dived deep into himself.
*
(3 days ago)
As always, Rabbi Eligad’s eyes expressed not the slightest surprise.
He listened carefully to Zomy’s plans, his legs in full
lotus position, hands relaxed at his sides. His radiated peace was not
disturbed even for a moment, in complete contrast to the storm that occurred in
front of him. Zomy moved in, out, heated, moving from side to side, explaining,
sometimes quietly, sometimes on the verge of shouting, what happened, what he
did and what he planned.
"... And that's it. I'll do it when we get there,"
he finished, and stole a glance at the rabbi. He was sitting still, in a lotus
position, in calm white clothes, his eyes softly watching Zomy.
"Why?" he asked, in the same soft tone.
Zomy shrugged and answered, as usual with the rabbi, very
frankly.
"Because I want to live."
"But you've been alive."
"I want to live more."
"What if I told you there is no problem. You will
live."
Zomy looked at him in frustration. How would he live longer,
but then…
In fact, he thought about it again, actually.
'You will live.' It was so fitting for Rabbi Eligad to say
such words, so quietly, with so much certainty, as if there was nothing in the
world that could appeal to that statement. As if there was no cancer.
And why he did not think of this before? Suddenly it was
clear - and had always been, in fact - that Rabbi Eligad could do things. Many
things. Of course, to help him overcome the disease. He had seen it happen many
times before. But…
"You couldn't help my father."
Nothing stirred Rabbi Eligad’s face, but his eyes that
earlier had expressed listening and participation, were now filled only with
love, as if his whole body hugged all of Zomy's soul.
"Your father," he said slowly, softly accented,
"did his job faithfully and conscientiously. Only after he finished his
lifeline was he allowed to join his fathers."
"Sorry!?"
Zomy never talked about his father with Rabbi Eligad. He
never even hinted, and the rabbi did nothing to raise the issue. And it was
strange, he thought for a second, considering the long years he lived there,
considering the thousands of conversations conducted on any subject. Almost.
"Your father had a cure. He used it regularly, and it
left him alive as long as he wanted. He had a purpose, he had a mission and he
stuck to it, despite the suffering he had to go through. When he fulfilled his
destiny, he had no reason to continue to suffer here. Then he went, and went
gladly. "
Zomy was left standing open-mouthed for several minutes. A
wave of memories flooded him, emotions from which he’d been free for many
years. He remembered again those dark days of his childhood, hours spent with
his father, at -
"What was his medicine?"
Rabbi Eligad looked at him with a steady eye, letting Zomy
get to the insights alone, without fear of the truth. As he always did with
him.
"What," Zomy said finally, "is my
medicine?"
"You made it yourself, I think."
"But still I did not take it."
"And if I tell you not to take it, will you listen to
me?"
Zomy did not answer.
"And again I ask, why."
It’s very annoying to talk to someone who already knows the
answers to your questions. And the purpose of the questions is to get you to
see into the heart of hearts, to yourself. See yourself naked, with weaknesses,
with all the ugliness, the inner truth. Annoying. But Zomy learned it long ago
transcended his own annoyance.
"Because, I want to make decisions for myself," he
said at last from his inner truth.
"What?"
"My life. My death. I want to be responsible for that.
It will be mine. Thanks to me. Because of me. Not you. With all due respect, I
want it to be for me."
"And you're willing to pay the price?"
"Behold the fire and the wood: but where is the lamb
for a burnt offering?”
Rabbi Eligad's eyes sparkled with pride.
*
(15 years before.)
Conscription center Tel Hashomer was, as usual in those
days, very crowded. Hundreds of youths, if not more, filled it to the brim,
filled it with plenty of earrings, belly shirts, torn pants, spiked hair and
acne. Loud voices were heard from all sides, childish laughter, shouts of
friends, and less friendly calls, military jargon.
"Yalla! Come here!"
"Tell me, where do we deliver the urine ..."
"Look, look at those babes ..."
"Come on, come on, it's your turn for the medic!"
"Not coming here again, not comi..."
"They are training paratroopers in …"
"Say, Air Force is…"
And in the midst stood one group, cohesive, dressed in
black. They stood there, like a herd of bison surrounded by wolves, in the
corner. They didn't use the chairs that were next to them. Alert, attentive,
close to each other.
The other boys tried to ignore them, although some threw different
looks at them, ranging from cold contempt to hot hatred.
"You come to be released?" taunted one of them,
tall, with glasses and short hair.
He received no reply. Their rabbis warned them to never
respond, to say nothing. Don't throw salt on the nonreligious wounds, they told
them at home. They are mere kidnapped babies, jealous fire burning in their
hearts. Do not mock them, don't spark fights. Go, fill your forms, always stay
together, and get out of there by afternoon prayers.
Still, boys will be boys. And snide looks, as well as
arrogance, were sent from the religious side of this invisible boundary.
"Go over there, kid. There's the queue for
goof-offs," Zomy heard the words from behind him a split second before he
felt hands on his back, pushing him forward with force.
He stumbled, tripped, lost his balance and fell forward on
his chest and face. Blood flooded his mouth, dripping from a cut lip.
A chorus of laughter behind him. The orthodox bloc
acknowledged his plight with a little crowded, bow-headed defensive movement.
Some of the faces wanted to get out of the circle, to help him. No one did.
Zomy stood up, quite shocked. He ran the back of his hand
across his face, and was surprised to see the blood. It didn't hurt much, but
he did not understand where the pusher was. He looked all round, but did not
see anyone who looked like he’d pushed him.
"I did not come to get released," he said, trying
to control the anger. "I came to do my duty."
"Wait," said one of the boys, with a surprised
face. "You came to enlist?"
Zomy looked at him, and suddenly he knew. It was the boy who
pushed him. He recognized the voice. For a moment he wanted to react violently,
but this moment passed quickly. Instead, he decided to be practical.
"Yes, that's what I said. Do you know where the…"
"There, there," the boy pointed to the other side
of the room. "But you'll have to wait, there’s a long line."
Zomy cleaned the dust from his black clothes, brushed his
hat and started for the right queue without looking back.
"Surely they’ll throw him out because of his medical
profile," chuckled someone behind him.
And the black herd, more surprised than anyone, became even
more tight.
*
Four hours later Einat, a military medic, raised a blonde
eyebrow. She was already a sergeant, soon to be released, and she thought she
had seen everything in the conscription center, but this she hadn't seen.
She was looking over her notes.
"To tell the truth, I don’t know what to do with you.
The Haredi Nahal can accommodate you, but ..."
"I know computers," he said shyly.
"You have an education?"
"Not officially. But I know computers."
She smiled. "Well, a little doesn’t mean anything. I
think you’d be better for the General Corps, but are you sure don’t want to be
released? It’d be a little hard in the army. I'm serious."
And she really was serious. There was something in that
skinny kid that touched her deeply. Touched her maternal nature which had not
yet sprouted or taken root. She honestly wanted to do well for him. Wanted to
embrace him. To pick him up, give him a home.
She could not know this, but years later, that's exactly how
a certain, green-eyed doctor would feel for him. It would be what would save
his life.