Mitla Pass (20 page)

Real world below! Laborious grunts, curses, sharply delivered commands. I had kept my legs in good shape over the years, if not my liver, but my knees had been trashed out from years of skiing and motorcycling. Most writers try to imitate the tough-guy image. Having neither the desire nor stomach to murder unarmed animals, I drifted away from my imitation Hemingway routine and let myself become Gideon Zadok, whatever he might be. But it had all come too late to save the knees.

My feet barely brushed the ground when my body swung over like a pendulum and I whammed down hard on my right hip and was dragged along a stretch of ground. It had been much easier than I contemplated—or so I thought until I tried to move about.

Although my hip was numbed from the blow, I was still able to wrestle with my chute and Shlomo was all over me getting me unharnessed.

JESUS! GOD! I’D DONE IT! I FELT GREAT! GIDEON ZADOK! YOU’RE GREAT! GREAT! GREAT!

When Shlomo and I hugged each other like reunited refugee brothers, I realized my celebration was premature. I collapsed in his arms, then fell to the ground. While Shlomo helped me test my leg, the battalion was engaged rapidly in the organized chaos that follows a night drop. Officers and NCOs snapped orders in Hebrew that were responded to with amazing speed and efficiency, considering the blackness. They gathered into units at a rendezvous point around Major Ben Asher.

Shlomo assisted me as I hobbled to a medical tent where the injured were being collected. There were a dozen of us, mostly sprains but a few serious injuries.

Dr. Schwartz and a medic ran a flashlight over my body. My hip was ballooning and darkening, but after a few excruciating tests the doctor felt there was no break or fracture.

“What is it?”

“Nice, plump hematoma. You broke an artery that will collect a quart or so of blood.”

“Prognosis?”

“It’s going to be painful for the first night but in three days or so you should be able to start moving around.”

The doc lifted my shirt in search of further injuries and shook his head as he saw Natasha’s handiwork on my back.

“What the hell did you land on? A cactus?”

“Wound from a previous engagement,” I said.

“Remain here with the injured,” he ordered and went to the next man.

The officers gathered around Ben Asher as the Lions secured the landing. There was some argument and confusion among them. Apparently we had been dropped three miles off target.

So far, shithouse luck. No response from the Egyptians, who we believed were holed up inside Mitla Pass. They certainly must have seen and heard us come down. Ben Asher ordered his crack outfit, the Recon platoon, to move up close to the Pass and prevent any Egyptians from breaking out, then looked over the injured. The final tally was remarkably low. We had assorted sprains and bruises and only two paratroopers with broken legs. There was no way the injured could keep up with the rest of the battalion which had to force-march and dig in behind the Recon platoon. Two squads were left to guard us as the battalion moved out.

There were to be continuous air drops of supplies during the night, including jeeps. If and when they arrived, the jeeps could move the injured up to battalion.

A night of feverish activity lay ahead for the battalion to reach the proper site and set up defenses. The precise place was the Parker Monument, a stone near the eastern end of the Pass.

So here I was, at long last, the wandering writer in Apache country, with a basketball-sized hip and the exhilaration of the parachute jump knocked out of me. Out here in Moses’ bailiwick with the Lions. How romantic. The numbness was wearing off and pain was ascending.

Where were Valerie and my daughters? And Natasha? She was probably at the Prime Minister’s office, drawn and strained, waiting for word that the para drop had succeeded. Some triangle I had created. Oh shit, man, the pain was really coming on. I’d been enough of a hero for one day.

“Shlomo?”

“Yes?”

“It’s starting to hurt like hell, buddy. Soon as Doc Schwartz is free, maybe he can give me something.”

“Something” turned out to be a shot of morphine. Merciful stuff. It took over in minutes. Time began to pass in irregular flights ... I dozed and woke up fuzzy to the sounds of low-flying aircraft. Supplies were being parachuted in.

“How’s it going?” someone asked.

It was impossible for me to focus. “That you, Shlomo?”

“Yes.”

“I’m on queer street. Actually, it feels pretty wild. What’s happening?”

“Battalion has reached the Parker Monument. The Egyptians sent out a patrol for a look. We drove them back into the Pass. Well, everyone in Cairo knows we’ve arrived.”

He helped me to a sitting position and I luxuriated on a few sips of water.

“You might as well go back to sleep,” Shlomo said, “they aren’t scheduled to drop the jeeps for at least a couple of hours.” His voice sounded hollow and far away. ... I leaned back on a pile of rolled-up parachutes ... soft, lovely ... all things had become hazy ... really weird ... hey, Penny, how about Daddy reading you
The Little Engine That Could
... I could feel her sweet soft little cheek against mine ...

...why, Roxanne old bean ...you’re getting to be a woman ...Girl Scouts having a slumber party, giggling and shouting from the guest cottage ...there were three little bras in the freezer, some joke ...

Roxanne wants a formal gown? She’s barely twelve! Well, Dad’s going to the dress shop with you. I don’t want anything risqué ...

...you see, I never got my tuxedo but by God, my girls are going to have the most beautiful gowns money can buy! Gideon’s daughters are knockouts! I never did get to the prom—wonder what happened to the girl who invited me? What was her name? Phoebe. Yeah, Phoebe. I loved to dance with her; she’d make all the guys have hard-ons in two minutes—they’d limp off the dance floor ...

...sorry, Phoebe, I won’t be able to take you to the prom, but thanks for inviting me, huh ...

... I read that letter so many times, I knew it by heart. Why did I keep it in a top drawer and read it again and again?

Philadelphia, March 10, 1940

My Dear Son Gideon,

Finally I received from you a letter after a week of an empty mailbox. Do you know what that can do to a father, especially a sensitive, loving father like myself?

You have demanded of me that I supply you with a T-U-X.

Before I knew what T-U-X means, I had to find out. I had a hard time because all my friends are working people who likewise have no knowledge of a T-U-X.

When it was finally explained I was horrified, shocked at your ideas of grandeur. I don’t know whether you mean to get a job as a hotel porter or a servant for a millionaire family or become a music hall entertainer or work in a nite club. For what purpose do you strive for a T-U-X? To become a Charlie McCarthy dummy?

Anyhow, it is not something you should become involved with and I am sorry that I have to refuse you. It sounds to me like you are intending to go every night to a party.

Gideon, my sonny boy! You may think that I am old-fashioned, but I am not. I am an advanced modern thinker. I know the desires and moods of a young man but there is a limit to everything.

I never refused you a school ring, and I should have ...but, the reason for the delay is that I am again financially tied up and second, I inquired the price of such a ring and it should
not
—definitely—cost $9.00. You will be cheated to pay $9.00.

If you need so bad a suit clothing or other
necessary
things, I always do my best to see to it you should have it, even though there are delays due to finances but don’t be misled or ill-advised that a T-U-X is the only thing you must have. Don’t forget that the tux alone is not the end of it but the beginning. With a tux you will be asking for more money to go with girls to those places where a tux is required.

I beg of you, sonny! Do not be misguided. Think straight and listen sometimes to my advice. You are young and you can make the best foundation for your future life if you will listen to me and not go wrong. Take my advice and you will be thankful to me some day. After all, I have no other children to give advice and love to.

Your job now is school so you should not be all your life, a manual worker like me. Incidentally, didn’t you tell me you were cleaning the locker room at the school? Isn’t that enough for you to pay for your T-U-X?

I know I was supposed to see you in Baltimore next week but I can’t come. I have a cold and I don’t think it will be better in time. Besides I am financially strapped for a train ticket and the doctor said I shouldn’t travel. I am thinking of you, mainly, so I shouldn’t give to you my cold.

So tell your girlfriend that I am not old-fashioned.

I will not forgive you for not writing, so you had better write twice every week.

So long. Remember, I love you.

Your loving father,

Nathan

P.S. In addition to the regular $3.50 a week I am now paying support to your mother, I enclose an extra fifty cents for you. Sorry I can’t see you. Write!

“H
EY
, Gideon, wake up!”

“What ...wha ...wha ...”

“Get yourself together, Gideon. You’re crying like a baby in your sleep.”

I leaned against Shlomo and wept. ... “Sorry ...”

“Hey, forget it. It’s the morphine.”

“We’re in the middle of the Sinai, right?”

“Yes.”

“Sorry, I’m really wacko.”

“How’s your leg?”

“Don’t feel any pain.”

A piercing chill cut through me, sending me into sudden and rather violent shakes. It was bitter cold. Shlomo wrapped me in a pair of blankets and beat on me until I warmed.

“Desert really gets cold this time of the year,” Shlomo said.

“I’m freezing ...I’m freezing,” I said, praying for that blissful stuff to take me over. The painkiller surged through me and the floating sensations began again, only the coldness wouldn’t go away. Damned I’m cold ... “Daddy ...Daddy ...I’m freezing, Daddy ...”

Philadelphia 1926

Little Gideon’s mittens were soaked through. The numbness of his fingers matched the numbness of his nose and his toes.

“We’d better go home and get you warm,” Molly said.

“No,” he answered, “I want to finish the snowman.”

“Come on,” she said, picking her brother up. His weight forced her to tilt for balance as she puffed through the snow, out of Fairmount Park to the sidewalk. She looked right and left for streetcars and automobiles and seeing an opening, ran across Parkside Avenue.

She set Gideon down, took his hand and half dragged him up the four flights of stairs to their flat. Pain was setting in in the little boy’s extremities, and by the time they reached the door he was crying.

The odor of frying liver and onions reached their nostrils as Molly opened the door. That meant two things. A payment had been made to the gas company and the stove and hot-water heater had been turned on. It also meant that Momma had given the butcher enough on account for her to make a purchase. When they fell too far in arrears, Momma would send Molly and Gideon to the grocer or butcher to play on their sympathies. Sometimes the butcher was feeding his own family on scraps but couldn’t stand the stares of children who were obviously hungry.

“That child is not a well child,” Momma said. “You shouldn’t have had him out in the park for so long. You should get a spanking.”

“He’s fine, Momma, just a little cold,” Molly said, unbuttoning Gideon’s dripping jacket and laying it on the radiator. Momma went to the hot-water heater and lit a match. The fire flared on with a whomp and a hiss. Oh boy, hot baths, Molly thought. She stripped her brother and bundled him in his big wool robe with the Indian teepee designs on it, closed off the alcove curtain and changed herself, as well.

As they waited for the water to heat up, Momma opened the icebox and gave each of them a slice of apple. Momma bought old fruit that was about to spoil from the pushcart vendor and could often pick up a half-dozen pieces for a nickel or a dime.

Gideon ate shivering. They heard the slow, familiar steps of Nathan agonizing his way up the stairs. Nathan was Gideon’s daddy, but not Molly’s. She did not remember her own father.

Nathan entered and, without greeting, set his dilapidated briefcase on the table. He was a small man, barely five feet tall. His long, thin face was permanently etched in a pinch of dismay.

Gideon slipped off his chair and stood in front of his father and stared up at him until Nathan had to become aware of his son’s presence.

“Daddy, I’m cold,” the boy said.

For that moment, Nathan set aside his own misery, picked up his son, and held him on his lap. He rubbed warmth into the boy’s fingers and toes and wrapped his arms about him and rocked him back and forth tenderly.

Nathan sang the words of a lullaby in Yiddish. The child was a little bird and should not be frightened, for his mother and father were guarding the nest.

Gideon smiled and laid his head on his daddy’s chest and lingered. It was to be the lone memory of physical contact and affection from his father.

PART TWO
SHTETL BOY

WHITE RUSSIA

Wolkowysk, 1906

S
OPHIE
Z
ADOK
stopped kneading dough for a moment, wiped her hands on her apron, and rocked the cradle to soothe her screaming infant.

“You’re a beautiful thing, little Reuben,” she said, pinching his cheek. She sang in a sweet voice a lullaby about the parent birds guarding the nest. A change of diapers and a tit and Reuben was content.