I

FICTION

I

Crazy Old Man

Continued from preceding page

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WE'RE FIGHTING FOR YOUR LIFE

proud of it. He stood at
parade rest, in the middle of
the room, with his hands
clasped behind his back and
his feet spread about a yard
apart, according to regula-.
tions. That was the way he
had fallen asleep.
"The kid," Uzi whispered to
me. "Our only chance is the
kid."
He punched him in the
stomach, and the boy doubled
up and fell, knocking over a
small table with his shoulder.
The coffee cups and a half a
bottle of brandy shattered on
the tile floor.
All of a sudden, there was
a pounding on the door that
didn't stop until I opened it a
crack and saw the old man.
He had phylacteries bound to
his forehead. We had inter-
rupted his morning prayers.
"What is it? What's hap-
pening here?" he asked me in
Yiddish.
"Go away," I told him. "It's
none of your business."
I tried shutting the door in
his face, but he stuck one foot
inside and with surprising
strength threw it wide open.
"Who is it?" Uzi asked.
"Rosenblum," I told him.
"From across the hall."
"Well, get rid of him."
The boy, who was still on
the floor, raised himself up on
his elbows and stared at the
old man.

"Get him out of here," Uzi
repeated.. In the distance,
maybe three or four blocks
away, up Ben Yehuda Street,
there was an explosion. The
windows rattled. The Arabs
were shelling us from the Old
City. As a matter of fact,
when I look back on it now,
they had been shelling and
mortaring us all night long,
at irregular intervals. We were
just impervious to it; only our
bodies reacted instinctively
every time there was an ex-
plosion. Everyone — even the
lieutenant, I noticed with
satisfaction — contracted his

shoulders and ducked his
head.
Once, about seven in the
morning, when an ambulance
clanged up Jaffa Road in the
direction of the King David,
I went to the window to take
a look. The street was strewn
with rubble: broken glass,
glittering in the fresh light,
rolls of toilet paper, the
burned-out wreck of an old
Packard sedan, and frag-
ments of the beautiful, rose-
colored stone, quarried from
the Judean hills, from which
the houses of the New City
are built.
The old man unwrapped his
phylacteries from his
forehead.
"You were born here?" he
asked Uzi.
"What of it?"
"Were you?"
"Yes, in Haifa, where I live.
So what?"
"And you, if I remember, in
ml Aviv," the old man said to
me.
“yes: ,
He slammed the door shut
behind him and stood there,
with his arms folded across
his chest. He said, "Let them
go."
Maybe, from the tone of his
voice, the boy guessed what
the old man intended; any-
how, he tried to smile, with
his swollen lip. The lieutenant
yawned, delicately covering
his mouth with his hand.
Then the old man spouted
from Isaiah, in a hoarse,
singsong voice. " 'No lion
shall be there, nor any
ravenous beast shall go up
thereon, it will not be found
there; but the redeemed shall
walk there.' Let them go," he
said.
Uzi dragged the boy to his
feet by the collar and hit him
in the stomach again. He
retched but didn't bring
anything up.
"Well?"
The boy shook his head.
Uzi hit him again and let him
drop on his back to the floor.