CORINNA
Memorial Day
I
get to the bus-stop on Haifa Road at nine twenty in the morning. I ask,
"Who's a veteran here at the bus-stop?" A young soldier smiles and says,
"Which bus do you need? To Nazareth? Just passed."
On the bench sits an elderly man, wearing an "Egged" cap. In a
Russian accent, he explains he only records number 502. "But," searched
in his bag, "Maybe. Yes. Got it. Got luck! Got table! Bus leaves Central
Station-nine o'clock, ten...."
The soldier took the timetable from him. Polished lieutenant's
insignia, beret on his shoulder, a white undershirt peeping through the
opening of his snow-white shirt. He says, "You have a meeting at twelve–
thirty? You'll make it."
He lifts his arm to stop a bus with a sign, 'to the military cemetery,'
and runs, and hops on with a nimble jump.
Buses stop on their way to Netania, Ra'anana, Tiberias.
The elderly man makes notes on his report sheet.
A soldier in blue trousers, a captain, walks by, signals to another pass–
ing bus, again with the sign 'to the military cemetery,' runs and gets on
with the same agile movement.
At nine-thirty number 820 arrives.
To Afula.
"You can continue to wherever you want, yes," says the driver. Upright
and robust, he smiles between neatly shaved cheeks: "How can I tell you
when we'll be there. You go out in the morning and you don't know what
mishaps might happen on the way, a traffic jam, roadwork, an accident.
Who can know in advance? If I tell you a time, what good will it do?
What good will it do.
What do you mean,
'It
will help to be reassured'?
Oh, not to worry! You mean, to be optimistic? I'm with you!"
On a seat nearby a fair-haired woman-girl is breast-feeding a large
baby. The flower-patterned T-shirt covers her breast. The baby's head
detaches and the mother enfolds the baby in her arms, turning to search
her bag. The woman next to her spreads her feeble-fleshed arms:
"Let me hold him for a bit. You don't want to come to me? You're
already afraid of strangers? There are many bad people in the world,
yes."
