I Am Ariel Sharon Page 5

  — A reflexive reaction, he declares after running a series of tests. It doesn’t necessarily mean he’s regaining consciousness.

  Then, to soften the blow, a touch of hope:

  — You know, Gilad, the human brain is a vast mystery. We’ve barely scratched the surface. Anything is possible.

  With these words, the doctor leaves the room.

  As the Nightingale approaches the bed, she casts a distinct silhouette in the neon-lit room.

  — Does he hear us? Gilad asks, staring intently at his father.

  — Maybe. Maybe not.

  — Does he understand what we’re saying?

  — We should behave as if he hears and understands us.

  Gilad places the photograph of Vera in front of his father.

  The cardiac monitor goes berserk.

  Erratic beats of the heart. Blood pressure in freefall. The alarm goes off. Red and green alerts light up the screens. The guard posted outside the room bursts in, his gun pointed at the machine. A flurry of footsteps in the hall. Before Gilad is even able to grasp what’s going on, he and the guard are ushered out by the nurses and emergency personnel. Vera’s framed photograph falls to the floor and is kicked like a football between the feet of the medical team. Arik is rushed into surgery.

  Gilad, his head bowed, waits in the family room of the intensive care unit. One hour. Two. Three. Four … He loses all sense of time. Then suddenly she’s there, the woman with the bird’s name, ghost-like but strangely reassuring. She rescues the picture in its broken frame from the waste basket. The glass falls away, revealing Vera’s face.

  — Here … I’m so sorry.

  Gilad takes it from her.

  — Thank you.

  He kisses the pale image of his grandmother.

  — What’s happening to Aba, Verochka? Where is he? Who’s he with? Why did he react like that?

  The photograph does not respond.

  — His routines are unchanged, his health is good. No bedsores, no blood clots, no pneumonia … zero complications. You see, Verochka? I’ve become a medical expert. You always wanted me to be a doctor. Everything was going so well for Aba. So, why?

  — Gilad.

  Uri Dan is standing in front of him, appears drawn. No sign of the Nightingale.

  — Uri …

  Of all Arik’s friends, Uri Dan is the one most devastated by his mishap. Never has there been a closer relationship between a politician and a journalist. The Legend of Ariel Sharon was born thanks to Uri, and Uri would never have become the war correspondent he is now without Arik. One day in 1954, just nineteen years old, Uri the journalist walks into Arik’s office unauthorized. He’s audacious, brimming with energy. He wants to participate in the raids on Arab territories and become a war correspondent. Arik, lieutenant colonel, twenty-six, tells him he needs to undergo basic training, become a parachutist and an officer; he’s certain the diminutive guy will be exhausted by the training and stop bothering him. But Uri comes back! He spends two years with the troops, at the heart of the reprisals against the Palestinian guerillas in the Gaza Strip and the West Bank led by Sharon, who’s been promoted to full colonel. It’s the start of a long friendship.

  When Uri is scorned for his lack of objectivity, Uri laughs.

  — Nothing will ever make me say anything bad about Arik!

  Uri’s declarations of loyalty have always boosted my father’s morale, never more so than when the rest of the world was clamouring for his head, thinks Gilad. He stares at the journalist, who’d rushed to the hospital the moment he heard about the stroke. Now, what with Arik in a coma, Uri is an orphan, disoriented, depressed, unable to accept what’s become of a man invincible in his eyes. It was Uri who crowned Arik “the King of Israel” after his crossing of the Sinai during the 1973 war against Egypt. Even the Palestinians recognize his power. He is the worst of enemies. Arik occupies a formidable place in the nightmares of their forced exile and their uprooting, in the heroic stories of a people persecuted.

  The bulldozer!

  The Butcher of Beirut!

  Nicknames that secretly please Arik.

  — Better to be feared than liked.

  That’s what Uri tells him whenever he senses the old lion wavering, or when a measure of doubt flickers across his features — as it did most notably in 1982, after Sabra and Shatila.

  Massacre, cries the international press!

  War crime, shout the Palestine sympathizers!

  Monster, claims the whole world!

  And as the Israeli political elite, that band of bloodsuckers, bad-mouth their own general and minister of defence, as they salivate over the recommendation of the Kahan Commission of Inquiry into the Events at the Refugee Camps in Beirut that Arik be relieved of his duties, Uri defends his friend with every weapon his profession has placed at his command.

  — Men, women, and children shot and hacked to death. Pregnant women eviscerated!

  — Arafat has only himself to blame for daring to raise arms against Israel.

  — Christian Phalangists unleashed upon the refugees!

  — It’s their civil war. What does it have to do with us?

  — You armed them, you trained them, you invaded the country and handed them the camps on a platter!

  — That’s called military strategy.

  — Who sent the Tzahal into Beirut?

  — Ariel Sharon. So?

  — Who left such a trail of blood and destruction?

  Ariel Sharon, the only one who never made a secret of his intentions: Arafat, the PLO, they had to be liquidated. And if he’d not been prevented from eliminating Arafat in Beirut, then we wouldn’t have had to deal with that snake in Oslo. Why be content with peace when we can have victory?

  The man facing Gilad is a shadow of his former self. Uri is seven years younger than Arik but, since his friend’s illness, age has ravaged his features.

  — Any news?

  — He’s still in the operating room.

  Gilad hands him Vera’s photograph.

  — She was quite a woman! He’s alive today because of her. A hard mother in tough times who raised a tough man.

  — But at what price, Uri? They made a monster of him.

  — Is it such a bad thing to be a monster among monsters?

  Gilad wishes the world knew the bon vivant, the gentle parent who never missed a chance to embrace him, and not the belligerent politician ready to bring everything crashing down on a whim; the farmer assiduously naming each avocado tree and lamb on the farm; the soldier resolutely blowing up houses over the heads of Arabs. In the run-up to the elections, the leftist press reminds citizens of every vice his father had, every mistake he has ever made, even implicating him in the trouble Gilad’s brother Omri is having with the police — his violation of party financing laws, falsification of documents and perjury. Arik refuses to throw his eldest son to the wolves but, instead of seeing an exemplary father’s devotion for what it is, the media use the opportunity to tarnish his reputation! Gilad promises to one day write a memoir of his father that will nail shut the mouths of his detractors once and for all.

  — I don’t care, Aba, whether you’re complicit in Omri’s shenanigans or not. Whether you’re a murderer or not, whom you have killed and how. I don’t care! Wake up, that’s all I ask.

  Gilad’s entreaties remain stuck in his throat. Arik is in the operating room. Nothing to do but wait and bring everything to light.

  At the beginning of the electoral campaign, Finkelstein, the American campaign adviser, suggests Arik might improve his public image by playing on his status as a grandfather and family man. Gilad likes the idea. But Uri, like all who worship Sharon, the powerful and intransigent general, is indignant.

  — Grandfather of the Nation? Really?

  Tired of the revolts rising agains
t him from the heart of the party he founded thirty years before, Arik slams the door on the Likud. Although the general population supports the move, the reaction within the political arena is one of scorn. The bulldozer bulldozes his own party! The only antidote to his reputation as a hothead is to put his greying hair on display: make a virtue of his advanced age instead of having him compete against the young. Play the experience card. Exploit the empathy that accrues to the father figure, especially one surrounded by grandchildren.

  The ruse works. The polls prove it. The result is incontestable: Kadima, the new party on the block, wins the election.

  — Uri, says Gilad, breaking the silence. You remember, at the beginning of the campaign? Finkelstein was right.

  Aghast, Uri sets Vera’s photo down.

  — The election turned your father into an innocuous old man. And now look at him, lying on a bed and letting himself be cut up by surgeons as others profit from his victory!

  — That’s not the point. My father’s fighting for his life because of his temper and his voracious appetite. But people love him for that.

  No, not for that. These vulnerabilities contradict everything Uri knows of Arik — Sharon the combative and audacious risk-taker! They contradict the story the journalist has been telling for his entire career. The Sleeping Giant, the nurses call him. What a farce! He, Uri Dan, who created an unshakeable, foundational myth of him. Myths are eternal. Surely they cannot end in such a pitiful manner. Can they?

  In the beginning, Uri came to the hospital pretty well every day, convinced Arik would soon wake up and make a mockery of all their sad faces.

  — Had you, didn’t I! I just needed a bit of a rest, that’s all. In this country, you have to play dead to be left alone.

  What would Uri not give to hear that mocking voice now …

  — Wake up, Gilad, your father’s legacy is in peril.

  In April, the cabinet declared him totally and permanently incapacitated. Unanimously, Gilad. Totally and permanently incapacitated. Who’s running the show now? Ehud Olmert!

  Uri never understood what Arik saw in that man. Since the onset of Arik’s coma, Olmert has committed the country to a war against the Hezbollah that’s being lost on every front. He has succeeded neither in destroying the Lebanese militia nor recovering the soldiers captured by them!

  — But Arik, what are you doing, wasting your time in an ICU? 2006, that was your year!

  Uri’s voice echoes in the hallway, Gilad’s sigh the only reply.

  Ever since the retreat from Gaza, Arik’s ways have been harder to fathom.

  Establish settlements to control the territory. Never, ever surround Israel with walls or solid borders. Leave a way open for expansion. Present the Palestinians, and the rest of the world, with a fait accompli.

  One war at a time.

  One settlement at a time.

  One bulldozer at a time.

  This was Arik’s vision, one he would defend his entire life.

  But then, suddenly, he withdraws from the Gaza Strip. Dismantles the settlements. An about-face Uri can’t understand. Arik can talk all he likes about the reasons behind his decisions: Bush’s declaration against the right of return of the millions of Palestinian refugees uprooted in 1948 in favour of maintaining large blocks of Israeli settlements on the West Bank. An American “road map” towards a resolution of the conflict that was made-to-measure for Israel — and which, moreover, mulls Uri, short-circuits international law, the Geneva Convention, the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, and the resolutions of the United Nations. All the judicial apparatus that has been a thorn in Israel’s side for seventy years. This, using a favourite term of Arik’s that he’d inherited from his father, is “practical Zionism” at work.

  But pragmatism has never been Uri’s strong point. If there’s one thing he understands, it’s the power of the image. Jewish soldiers dragging Jewish settlers off expropriated land? An intolerable image. Uri does all he can to dissuade his friend. But Arik is stubborn, and refuses to budge from his position.

  — We’re talking about four hundred agricultural holdings, no more. And they’ll be compensated.

  Uri never thought he’d find himself writing a negative word about Arik. And now he’s taking issue with him in their discussions as well as criticizing him in his articles. For his report on Israel’s Channel One, he wears an orange tie to signify his solidarity with the settlers. Arik, who never misses one of Uri’s appearances on television, flies into such a rage he turns off the set. Usually, Uri receives a phone call from Arik after an appearance. This time, no phone call. It takes the mediation of a mutual friend and the promise he’d made to Arik’s mother Vera never to burn bridges to save the friendship.

  All that happened a year ago but 2005 seems a decade away now. Uri can’t help connecting Arik’s stroke to his ideological weakening. A slippery slope, it is: frailty engenders frailty. The stroke is hard on everyone, but for Uri it’s a political as much as a personal defeat. His career is inextricably tied to that of his friend, the man who represents all that is best about Israel: strength, audacity, power.

  His visits to the hospital taper off, but not a day goes by without his checking on Arik’s condition, either with Arik’s doctor or with Gilad. From time to time he brings his notebooks and reads Arik excerpts from their numerous interviews. Fifty years of conversations. The book is published, but what good does that do? Arik’s not there to congratulate his confrère.

  Uri has a fit of coughing.

  — You’re making me sick with worry, old friend. If you don’t wake up, I’ll soon be joining you.

  Steps in the corridor. The surgeon approaches, accompanied by the Nightingale.

  — Give us some good news, Doctor.

  — Mr. Sharon is alive, but … we had to remove a third of his large intestine.

  Silence.

  — He’s alive, Gilad, murmurs the Nightingale. Alive.

  — For how long …

  — It’s up to him to decide when to die.

  Arik is returned to his room. In Gilad’s and Uri’s eyes he still seems silent, inscrutable, while in fact he’s struggling to make himself heard.

  I’m here. I’m here. I’m here!

  — Aba, the operation went well. Inbal and the children are coming up with falafels garnished with pickled eggplant, the kind you …

  Gilad stops talking. His father no longer has a digestive tract with which to enjoy his favourite foods.

  I don’t have enough intestine.

  The realization pulses through the room. From Gilad to Arik to Uri to Gilad to Arik. Clear. Indisputable.

  Arik breathes. Inhales through his nose. Exhales through the hole Vera’s bullet left in his chest. Air leaves him. Everything escapes him. The music. His breath. His voice. He empties himself out. Closes his eyes, curls in on himself as though tying a knot. Anything to plug the hole.

  — Okay, okay, so there’s a hole in your chest. But what’s one hole considering all you went through in Latrun? The Arabs practically castrate you in ’48 and yet you survive. You fall to the ground, bleeding profusely. You lose the battle and half your troops. But faced with death you arise stronger than ever! You form Unit 101 and take your revenge.

  Uri is perorating. Telling stories. Saying anything, it doesn’t matter what. Anything but this silence and the unequivocal conclusions it brings on.

  — Arik, squeeze my finger if you can hear me.

  He squeezes and squeezes the journalist’s index finger. To no avail.

  — Uri, even if he is conscious, he won’t have recovered from the surgery. Let him rest.

  — I saw his eyelids move.

  — The doctors say those movements are involuntary.

  — What, you believe the doctors now, Gilad?

  No! I’m here. I can hear you. I can feel you. I fe
el your hand, Gilad. I feel your little finger, Uri. Talk to me about Unit 101.

  — Arik?

  Yes! Yes!

  — Arik.

  That voice.

  He gathers all his strength. Opens his eyes. Uri. Gilad. And behind Gilad, he sees her. The woman-voice talking to him from the shadows. Where has she come from?

  — Arik.

  Don’t they see her? Gilad! Uri! She’s right there!

  — His eyes are open, Uri, it’s true. Is he seeing angels? The dead?

  — It doesn’t matter. As long as he’s not seeing enemies.

  Not enemies. Only her. Don’t go. Don’t leave me alone with her!

  — Arik.

  The softness of her voice makes him shiver. His pupils quiver. Right. Left. Everywhere but in that woman’s direction. A moment ago, she was wearing his mother’s face. His mother was chasing him, firing a bullet into his chest.

  — Don’t be frightened, Arik.

  Who is this woman?

  — Why won’t you look at me? Haven’t I done everything you’ve asked? Haven’t I brought you to the beginning of the story?

  Who is she?

  — Say my name. You know who I am.

  She’s speaking so loudly. Her voice tears him from that universe he wants so much to return to, where he can be with his children and his grandchildren again. Where once again he is the strong man, the warrior, the old lion, the bulldozer, and yes, the butcher. Why not all the characters Uri created for him. All except the sleeping giant.

  — Arik, you don’t belong in that other world anymore. Your lips are dry.

  She is sitting on the edge of the bed. On the nightstand is a pile of books and a bowl filled with snow. Is the bowl still there?

  — It’s from the forest.

  She slides a spoonful of snow into his mouth. Its freshness feels good. Colour returns to his cheeks.

  She wipes his forehead.

  Where did they go? Uri has disappeared. Gilad has disappeared.

  — Arik, be calm, she says. Be calm. What you’re seeing isn’t what they see. There is here and there is there. And you are neither here nor there.