Page 48 of One of Them

T oday it was her ankle that woke her, a dull, persistent pain that seemed to emanate from deep in the bone and wrenched her out of sleep.

Some days it was her shoulder that throbbed hideously, and on other days her wrist. Sometimes it was everything at once, dull, pounding waves of pain that broke over and over again.

Fully awake now, Delia could feel how dry her mouth was, her lips. She reached awkwardly for the metal pitcher on the nightstand, but when she tried to pour from it, she missed the glass, and water dripped down onto the floor.

This was not the first time she’d done this.

She didn’t even call out; she knew no one would come, at least not right away.

It wasn’t an emergency, after all. She’d been marooned here in the kupat cholim —the clinic—of the kibbutz for two weeks.

Right after the blast, she was taken to the hospital in Be’er Sheva, a trip she barely remembered.

But after they put casts on her ankle and on her wrist—both broken—they’d sent her back here to the kibbutz, her plans to leave the country postponed until she’d healed.

She couldn’t put any weight on the ankle, and the thought of navigating a plane flight with crutches seemed more challenging than it was worth.

Besides, she had no compelling reason to be in Paris, or New York for that matter, so she might as well stay here.

The rotating trio of women who took care of her—one named Bila, another Vered, and a third whose name she kept forgetting—were competent, if brisk.

Well, she understood that they were stretched thin.

The explosion that had landed her here had unnerved and upset the entire community.

The dining hall had been destroyed, and plans for rebuilding were already underway; Delia heard the hammering and banging outside the room.

She did wonder about the wisdom of this plan; it was clear to her that the question was not whether another attack would happen but when.

Just days after the attack here, there had been news of another, this one at Kibbutz Revivim, which was about three kilometers away.

That one had been deadly too—it was the baby house that had been bombed, and three children were killed.

The tension that incited the first attack hadn’t been eased, or even addressed.

But the kibbutzniks were stubborn, and they weren’t going to surrender their claim to this land.

Didn’t they understand that the people they had chased away had an attachment as fierce and as deep as theirs?

Not that she said this to anyone, because no one would have wanted to hear it.

Mostly she spent the days by herself, first sleeping a lot, and then, after a few days, looking through the window at the desert that stretched out beyond the perimeter of the kibbutz.

Apart from Anne, who came right after the explosion and whose visit was nothing more than a blurry memory, Delia’s only other visitor was Sophie, who showed up every morning before she went to work, and every evening when she’d finished.

Sometimes she would bring bread, which had been baked that day, and a small crock of butter; she knew how vile Delia found the spread that was used more widely here.

“Where did you get this?” Delia asked.

“Someone brought it to me from Tel Aviv,” Sophie said.

Delia was surprised by her appetite, given that she was just lying here most of the time.

In the evenings Sophie brought wildflowers that she gathered just outside the confines of the kibbutz—small yellow ones that looked like dandelions, clusters of tall, deep red ones, and irises, which quickly became Delia’s favorites.

When the doctor came to check on her, he decided that Delia should start getting up and moving around on crutches.

It was Sophie who helped her navigate first around her room, then the hall of the kupat cholim, and finally outside.

Delia welcomed the chance to move around, hobbled as she was.

Walking with the crutches was tiring, so she took frequent rests.

Her mother was with her through all of it.

“I think you’re getting stronger,” she said after the first week, when Delia had walked as far as the children’s house.

“Then why don’t I feel that way?” Delia was exhausted by the trip.

“Sometimes you can’t see the progress when you’re in it. But that doesn’t mean it’s not happening.” Sophie pointed to a wooden bench just outside the beit yeladim. “You can rest here. I’ll go inside and see Asher, and then I’ll walk you back to the clinic.”

Delia said nothing. She hadn’t wanted to see Asher since that day he’d flung the wooden animal at her head, and she didn’t want to see him now.

She understood that there was something wrong with him, and he couldn’t be blamed for his behavior.

Still, she found it upsetting to be in his presence.

And she resented how Sophie seemed so patient with him.

Where had all that patience been when she was a little girl?

Sophie was in the beit yeladim for quite a while. When she finally emerged, her expression was tight, her face drawn. Delia heard screaming from inside; without asking, she knew it was coming from Asher.

“Everything all right in there?” she asked.

“Nothing is all right.” Sophie’s tone was clipped. Hard. “And it never will be.”

Delia waited, but Sophie said nothing more. Instead, she helped Delia up, and together they walked back to the clinic.

The next day Sophie brought Delia a thin blue envelope. Who would be writing to her here? She looked at the postmark. Paris. Anne. She was back in Paris now. “Could you open it for me?” Delia asked her mother, and when she had scanned its contents, she set it aside.

“A friend from Paris? Gaby?” asked Sophie.

“No, not Gaby.” Delia hadn’t given Gaby her address because she hadn’t thought she would be in Palestine very long. But now that she was stuck on the kibbutz, she realized she should write to her. “A friend from college, actually.”

“The girl who was here the day after the explosion?”

“Anne Bishop.”

“It was good of her to come. And she brought pastries. Is she a close friend?”

Delia was about to say no, but stopped to consider it first. Anne was trying to be her friend; was there a special term or status for that? Friend-in-training? Delia remembered eating one of those pastries the next day; it was cloyingly sweet, and she hadn’t been able to finish it.

Sophie didn’t come the next day. She had told Delia she wouldn’t be able to get there in the morning but would be there in the evening.

Delia looked around the little room. On the nightstand were a few newspapers and a tattered magazine, but all in Hebrew, which she could not read.

Nothing on the walls, though there were curtains at the windows; they were embroidered, like the ones in the dining hall.

Someone had spent hours doing that, creating something lovely even here.

Delia swung her legs around and reached for her crutches.

Sophie had been right—she was getting stronger, and getting stronger made her feel restless.

She didn’t want to stay inside any longer; she wanted to be outside, feeling the warmth of the sun on her face and arms, letting the breeze ruffle her hair.

She’d become more nimble with the crutches and made her way to the front desk. Vered was sitting behind it.

“You go out?” she asked in her thickly accented English.

“Yes. I’m going to take a walk.”

“Sophie go with you?”

“No. She didn’t come today.”

“She come later.” Vered seemed certain of that.

“Maybe. But I don’t want to wait.”

Vered looked like she was about to say something else, but then someone called to her from down the hall. It sounded urgent, and she got up. “You be careful,” she said.

Delia was well aware that she needed to be careful.

But she didn’t plan on leaving the confines of the kibbutz.

Since she’d already proved she could walk to the beit yeladim and back, that’s where she would go.

Outside, the day was mild, though the breeze was stronger than she’d anticipated; it blew sand into her mouth and whipped her hair around her face.

Maybe a chamsin was on the way; Sophie had told her about that fierce desert wind and the destruction it could cause.

When she reached the children’s house, she paused in front of the gray metal doors.

No sound came from behind them, and she wondered if the children were even in there—maybe they’d gone outside for a walk?

But when she peeked inside, she saw that they were seated at a low table with sheets of foolscap in front of them; scattered around were the large, fat crayons that they used to draw.

She went in and stood by the door. When one of the metapellot —caretakers—looked up at Delia she was able to string together a simple sentence in Hebrew: “Anee bat shel Sophie.” I’m Sophie’s daughter. The woman smiled and gestured for her to come in.

Delia saw that most of the children worked with some attention and even gravity, though a few were scribbling, loops and lines of color that covered the page.

And then there was Asher. He sat still in front of his sheet of paper, not drawing, not doing anything.

But with a sudden, deft movement he plucked a crayon out of the hand of the girl sitting next to him.

Her mouth twisted into a frown as she tried to get it back, but he’d already gotten up and began to move around the table, snatching crayons as he went.

One girl started to cry, and two boys followed him, intent on retrieving their purloined crayons.