Page 44 of One of Them

She dressed quickly and took the note with her when she went downstairs—it was her proof and her protection. There he was, smiling, and when she sat down, he reached across the table and took her hand. She smiled back but couldn’t find the words that seemed appropriate.

“Good morning.” His voice was tender, a caress all by itself. “I hope you slept well.”

“I did.” That wasn’t much but at least she’d managed to reply.

The waiter appeared and took their order; when Drew asked what she wanted to eat, she said, “Whatever would be quickest. We should get out of here as soon as we can.” Suddenly it seemed imperative to get out of these ill-fitting clothes—the coarse cotton dress he’d found was too small, the jacket even more oversize than the pajamas.

To get away from the violence of the day before, those images returning, diluting the happiness she’d felt earlier.

She hadn’t found out if he’d heard anything more—had there been any retaliation?

But at least she knew that Delia was alive.

Drew said she was in the hospital in Be’er Sheva, and Anne would see her soon.

* * *

Once again, Drew climbed into the jeep while Anne watched.

He was headed to Chatserim to photograph what had happened there, but she didn’t want to see it again—the memory would stay with her for a long time.

He’d be back that night, and then the next day she’d go to Tel Aviv to catch her plane to Paris.

Delia was supposed to be going with her, but obviously, that wasn’t going to happen.

Anne got the directions to the hospital from someone at the hotel; it wasn’t too far, and he’d been kind enough to draw her a little map on a scrap of paper.

Soon she came to a pastry shop and stopped.

Wouldn’t it be nice to bring a box of pastries to Delia?

Silver bells jangled when she walked through the door.

Ahead of her was a man in a glowingly white shirt making his selections; it took her a moment to realize that it was Ahmed, her guide from the day before.

She said nothing, but when he turned away from the counter holding a string-tied box, he recognized her.

“So it’s you again. You’re all right?” he asked. “No harm done?”

“I’m fine,” she said. “Thank you again for getting me away from there so quickly.”

“It must have been frightening for you.”

Anne was about to say yes, it was, but then he added, “You Americans are so soft. Nothing bad has happened to you in a long time. But bad things have been happening to us longer than you’ve been alive.”

“Bad things can happen to anyone.” She surprised herself by answering back.

“They happen to some people more than others.” The bells jingled again as he left the bakery. The sound, so pleasant just a moment ago, no longer was.

To distract herself, Anne looked into the glass case, which held an assortment of sweets—thin layers of pastry shaped into nests or balls or sliced into diamond shapes, crushed nuts oozing from their centers, glistening with syrup that pooled at the bottom of the tray.

She bought several before heading back out into the street.

Stopping at a wide avenue, she waited to cross.

A horse drawn wagon paused almost directly in front of her, the horse’s black, unblinking eye seeming to regard her calmly.

She wasn’t calm, though. Far from it. She was exceedingly agitated, a strange mixture of ashamed, defiant, thrilled, and frightened.

The explosion the day before. What she had done with Drew.

She didn’t think it was wrong, exactly, but it would take some adjusting to; she hadn’t thought she was the kind of girl who would go to bed with a boy—or a man—before she was married.

She wished she could talk to someone about this.

No, not someone, she wanted to talk to Delia.

Delia —Delia had done the same thing, more than once, and with a man who was married besides.

Anne remembered how shocked she’d been. Now the shock had faded, and she longed to talk to Delia about how you could still be a good girl even if you’d broken the rules, rules that you’d never thought to question before.

Well, she was on her way to visit Delia now, although she knew there wouldn’t be an opportunity for such an intimate conversation.

She walked past a few small stores, and several storefronts that were empty.

Grocery, pharmacy, another bakery, cobbler—nothing really captured or held her interest until she saw, in the second-floor window of a building across the street, several mannequins that displayed lingerie.

She was tempted to go up and have a look, but not now.

First she had to get to the hospital. If there was time after that, she would do it then.

And look, here she was in front of a three-story building covered in a grainy pale-peach coating that looked as if it had been spackled on.

She went inside. Delia’s room was on the third floor, no elevator, so she climbed the stairs, bakery box in hand.

There, in room 306, was Delia, looking small and shrunken amid the white pillows, sheets, and blanket.

Her wrist was bandaged, her eyes were closed, and she was breathing lightly through her mouth.

“Shalom?”

Anne turned to see the woman sitting upright on a chair by Delia’s bed. She hadn’t noticed her when she came in.

“Hello,” Anne said. “I’m a friend of Delia’s. From school. I was visiting the kibbutz yesterday, and I was there when the dining room was bombed.”

“It’s been totally destroyed,” the woman said. “But I’m sorry, I should have introduced myself. I’m Sophie Rossner, Delia’s mother. And you are... ?”

“Anne Bishop.” So this was the French-speaking sculptress mother Delia had talked about. Anne tried not to stare at her.

“You said you know Delia from school. From Vassar?”

Anne nodded, not really trusting herself to say anything. Did Delia’s mother know she had been expelled? Or that Anne was instrumental in it? But then Delia’s eyes opened, and Anne was spared having to say anything.

“You have a visitor,” Sophie said.

“Anne?” Delia’s brow furrowed in concentration. “What are you doing here? I thought I saw you at the kibbutz yesterday—or did I imagine that?”

“I was there. I was looking for you.”

Delia’s eyes fluttered shut as she nodded. “I know... I was supposed to meet you... and the guide...” she said. “But I didn’t, I went by myself...” She trailed off, and soon it was apparent that she was asleep again.

“She has a concussion,” said Sophie. “So she’s been drifting in and out. The doctor says that’s normal.” She patted a metal chair beside her. “Why don’t you sit down? And you can put your package down too.”

“Oh, this is for Delia.” Anne handed the box to Sophie. “Maybe you’d like one?”

“Not now,” said Sophie. “But thank you.”

Sitting next to Sophie, Anne couldn’t very well scrutinize her the way she would have liked to, so she focused on Delia, who, though still sleeping, had started muttering. The words were mostly indistinct, but Anne caught a few— no, stop, why did you, no, no, no. She sounded fretful. Anxious.

A nurse appeared at the doorway and said something to Sophie in Hebrew. Sophie stood up. “Visiting hours are over,” she said. “We have to go. But you can come back this evening if you want.”

“All right. Maybe I will.” Anne wasn’t sure if she would. “You’ll take the pastries, though? Delia might like one.”

“I think she would.” Sophie smiled, and Anne could see that, yes, she had been very beautiful and was even beautiful now. “It was nice of you to bring them.”

Once she’d left the hospital, Anne made her way back to the building where she’d seen the lingerie shop.

Her visit to Delia had not been entirely satisfying, but at least she’d tried.

And she’d seen for herself that Delia, though wounded, was essentially all right—she’d recover.

That in itself was an enormous relief. Climbing a narrow, poorly lit flight of stairs, she arrived at a landing with a single door.

It was partially open, so she gave it a small push.

Once inside, Anne’s eyes scanned the room.

There were the mannequins she’d seen from across the street.

The windows she’d seen were, from this vantage point, revealed to be smeared and dusty; there were clear arcs left where someone had tried to wipe them.

She walked toward them, passing a few metal racks from which hung various undergarments, but mostly the merchandise was heaped on glass counters, loosely folded, spilling out of fragile cardboard boxes, frothing from tightly packed drawers. “Hello?” called Anne. “Anyone here?”

“Hello!” a voice called out from somewhere in the back of the shop. “Can I help you?”

Anne detected an accent—German? She looked around until she saw who’d spoken—a small woman who wore a crocheted shawl and dangling pearl earrings.

Her gray hair was done in braids pinned on the top of her head, and her thin legs, encased in dark, ribbed stockings, poked out from the hem of her jersey dress.

“Do you mind if I look around?”

“Of course,” said the woman. “Take your time.”

Despite the haphazard presentation, Anne could see that the slips, chemises, and negligees were exquisitely made—the silks, the satins, even the cotton, of the highest quality—and many were trimmed with lace, embroidery, or both.

Much of the stock was quite old and looked like it was from twenty or thirty years earlier.

How unlikely to discover such finery here!

Anne picked up a sheer white nightgown and held it against herself. “Come.” The woman gestured for Anne to follow and led her to an oval mirror that hung on a rather grimy wall. The nightgown looked as if it would be flattering—that square-cut neckline, the lace strips that made the straps.