Days of Lead. Moshe Rashkes

it. It was almost as if they had gained independent life and will and were acting separately from the other parts of my body, which were drawn to the ground and clung to it. My right hand held the handle of the gun, and my finger squeezed the steel trigger. It made me feel better. The machine gun barked. Its butt made my shoulder shudder. Tongues of flame and smoke flickered from the jerking mouth. On the other side of the gun sights, I could see the astonished faces of the enemy soldiers spread out in front of me. They dropped to the ground quickly and took shelter. The machine gun rattled on. I fired at every hillock and bush, my senses reeling. Fired for all I was worth. The field was empty. Nobody there. They’d all gone into hiding. Only the officers’ voices went on echoing.

      The machine gun stopped firing: the magazine was used up. I reached my hand to the case of ammunition lying on its side. My palm snaked into it and froze on the spot. The case was empty. No ammunition. That was the end. The stones in front of me suddenly became as tall as the soldiers who pushed forward with cries of triumph, which turned into a deep wail. My eyes were fixed on the enemy soldiers. Their strained faces hunted my gaze. Swarthy and bathed in gleaming sweat. Their mouths opened in a yell, which bared their white teeth.

      The awareness of my coming end made every movement of theirs seem slower, as if they were crawling. It might only have been the effect of the burning sun shining in my eyes. The heat . . . the heat . . . The burning machine gun, which I still held, was radiating some of its heat. The stones I lay on burned like coals. Fatigue seized me, dulling my senses like a drug, dulling the pain and sorrow of leaving life. In reconciling myself to this, I felt no regret or despair, just acceptance of my fate. At this moment a sudden inner urge dominated me. Hurriedly I collected the hand grenades from the belts of the dead men next to me. I pulled out their pins frantically and threw the grenades at the enemy.

      The grenades I threw exploded. The attacking enemy soldiers were swallowed up behind the stones once more. But they kept up their guttural cries: whispering voices, the groans of wounded men, and loud shouts of command. They were fixed to the ground, not moving. I felt a sudden twinge of contempt for them. What were they waiting for? Why were they delaying the end? But as long as I had a breath of life left in my body, there was only one thing I wanted. I had always cowered at the touch of iron. Even as a boy I hated the touch of metal against my skin. It made me shudder. When two pieces of iron were scraped against one another, it annoyed me and gave me gooseflesh. That’s all I asked for: could I die now, without feeling the iron touch me, without the hated metal tearing my flesh?

      Of the four grenades I had collected, there was only one left. I looked at it affectionately. My whole world was concentrated in this small round lump of iron. My fingers closed on it, held it tightly. I brought it up close to my eyes, next to my burning face. The iron squares on the outer casing looked like a crossword puzzle. A puzzle whose answer was life or death. At that moment an idea flashed into my head: killing myself. The grenade, my last friend in the outpost, would help me carry out this last wish. Suddenly its touch became soft and relaxing. No, it wasn’t made of metal. It was gentle and soft. This idea appealed to me so much that I felt I was going to break into a shout of joy, like a mischievous child. They wouldn’t have the pleasure of killing me. No, I’d spoil that for them. I began pulling the pin out, and relaxed my tense grip.

      Suddenly, a shock aroused my whole body, a hidden memory came to light in me, flowed inside me, made me tense and alert. My hand clenched the grenade once more, and my fingers stroked its bulging shape. A spark of life. Why should I die? There was a bag full of hand grenades in the little stone post on top of the hill, about twenty paces away. I sprinted there, jumping over the rocks and thorn bushes. The bullets whizzed around me. The stubborn chatter of the machine guns had a dry, cruel twang. I rushed forward, throwing myself with all my strength onto the stones in front of me.

      I slid forward on the jagged stones, until stopped by a large rock that blocked my path. I went on crawling. My hand was cut and my face scratched and bruised. The rough ground cut my nose and lips. My hands and knees were sticky with blood. My palm was still clenched around the grenade, but I went on dragging myself toward my goal. Every movement of my body seemed to last for hours. How much longer would I have to drag myself? The ten strides that still lay ahead seemed like a long trek, endless . . .

      My ears were blocked, and I couldn’t hear the sounds of the explosions. All I could hear was my labored breathing. In front of me was a winding passage surrounded by stones piled high. I crawled inside it. It was so narrow that I felt my breath coming back at me from the walls. A rush of hot, damp air struck me in the face, like a summer wind. I lifted my head quickly. Two frightened black eyes were fixed on me. An enemy soldier!

      The contact of our eyes was enough for me to take in every tremor of his face. The wide-open eyes that stared at me were afraid and taken by surprise. It’s strange how quickly one’s thoughts work. He aroused a feeling of pity in me. Was it because I had already reconciled myself to my fate, that I could allow myself so much compassion toward him? Had despair driven the fear out of me? He was young, about my age. Perhaps a few years older. I was sorry for him. Was he a fellah, a villager? It looked like it. His skin was swarthy, his white teeth gleamed healthily. No, they were not as healthy as I had at first thought. Spots of black rot showed in his two front teeth. I could also make out a crown of shining gold in the back of his mouth. Perhaps he wasn’t a fellah after all?

      Our glances broke away from one another. I had to carry on! Each of us would fight for his life. That is the rule of war. I felt no hatred for him and would have preferred him to just disappear, to run away. But he was in my way, and I had to destroy him. Suddenly he vanished from my sight—but not from my senses. I knew exactly where he was. He had retreated to the other side of the rock. I had no doubt that he was aiming his gun at the passage at this very moment. He was waiting for me to walk into his trap.

      I clambered lightly over the rock, and from there, I sprang to the other side with a sudden leap. I threw myself with all my might onto the place where he was probably hiding. While I was still falling through the air, I saw him pressed against the side of the rock. He was squatting on his knees and elbows, his gun aimed at the passage as I had guessed. I fell onto his back. One of my hands was stretched out to push away the submachine gun that he turned toward me. The other hand, which still held the grenade, came down on the back of his neck with terrific force. The grenade acted like a club. A heavy, dull crunch, like a nut being cracked open, mingled with a choked groan of pain: “Aaahhh.” The gun fell out of the soldier’s hands, and he fell, face downward. A violent twitch pulled his head down between his shoulders. I went on beating his head with the grenade, as hard as I could. After every blow, he gave a choked rattle. Jets of warm blood spurted over my face and hands. I continued smashing the grenade down on his skull with uncontrollable anger. I was half-mad by that time. My clothes were red with his blood. They soaked through with it. He tried to move, with the last drop of his strength, to stretch his hand out toward the gun that lay in front of him. But a crushing blow to his skull put an end to that.

      The grenade in my hand was red. Blood dripped from it. The warm touch of the blood made me even more insane. Without knowing why, I pulled the pin of the grenade. A click. The wick lit up with a hiss. Four seconds left until the explosion, but it seemed as if hours went by without the grenade going off. I lost all sense of time. His blood-spattered head hung in front of my eyes. He was my enemy and had wanted to kill me. Here was his gun, which he had aimed at me. But I had gotten him first. His friends weren’t very far away. They were out for my blood. I heard the rustle of their approaching steps, steps coming closer.

      The grenade . . . I threw it at the soldiers creeping toward me, threw as hard as I could. It exploded in the air with a sharp, strident blast, like a giant whip cracked over the hills, followed by an angry clap of thunder that echoed around the valley. Cries of pain from behind the rocks. The splinters of the grenade must have hit them. I had to get to the bag of grenades. On a sudden impulse, I picked up the machine gun that was lying on the ground, and rose to my feet, firing in all directions, firing and yelling with all the strength of my lungs. I ran along like this, shooting and shouting furiously, until I ran into the stone fence. I stumbled over it and rolled over into the outpost beyond it. The gun fell out of my hands and struck me on the head.

      Dizziness. Black and red circles whirled and galloped before my eyes. Their orbits