I returned her smile, though I saw no cause for levity. My mind was churning. I'd assumed that I had fallen victim to a robbery, but robbers generally take their victims' wallets or at the very least empty them of money before leaving them behind. My attackers had done neither, which made me wonder as to their motives.
But that question could wait. I had more pressing business to attend to.
"What's your name?" I asked.
"Rona."
"Can you help me up, Rona? It won't wait much longer."
She opened her mouth, likely intending to berate me for my recklessness, but in the end, she merely shook her head in the manner common to women confronted by foolish men and leaned over me, cautiously sliding one arm under my back, grabbing me under one armpit. Her other arm curled around my calves, just under my knees.
"This will hurt," she said, her tone implying that it was nothing but just punishment for my obstinacy, and heaved. The movement stole my breath away. It was the only reason why I didn't cry out. The pain was hot and biting and bone-deep, but then I was sitting, propped by Rona's strong arms.
"Ready?" Rona said, and when I nodded, she heaved again, and this time I did make a sound, a low guttural grunt, but then I was standing, my bare soles stinging at the coldness of the floor, and step by slow step, Rona helped me across the room and into the bathroom.
At the end of this journey, no more than twenty feet in length, I was soaked in sweat. Rona wasn't even breathing hard. She must have been made of steel.
"Do you need more help?" she asked.
I shook my head. More stupid obstinacy, I thought, as I swayed a little on my feet, my stomach roiling, but Rona didn't argue. She told me she'd wait outside and left me alone. I was wearing hospital clothes, which were easy to maneuver out of, fortunately, and I urinated for a long moment. Once again, I filled the toilet bowl with red. Whatever recovery my kidney had done since the night of the demonstration had been erased, and likely more besides.
Turning from the toilet, I caught sight of myself in the mirror. My skin was flush with fever. My face was a mess of injuries. My bottom lip was torn and puffy; my left cheek bruised a violent red; half of my forehead abraded a raw pink; my right eye bloodshot and ringed with purple; my nose swollen and misshapen. No wonder I had trouble drawing breath.
But at least I wasn't blind or paralyzed. Like Rona said, it could have been much worse.
"Thank you," I told Rona after she helped me back to bed.
She tucked the blanket around me, then looked at me thoughtfully before saying, "Normally, I wouldn't have agreed to help you get out of bed—you might have fallen, and then I'd be in trouble—but something tells me you would have tried to do it on your own. You're a tough one, aren't you?"
"What makes you say that?"
She pointed at my midsection. "Your scars. I saw them when we were examining you after you were admitted. Those are gunshot injuries, aren't they?"
"Yes."
"May I ask how you got them?"
"In the War of Independence. Fighting the Egyptians in the Negev."
"You were lucky then, too," she said. "Two gunshots in the torso—most wouldn't have survived that."
"It's all relative," I answered. "The truly lucky ones didn't get shot at all."
"That's true. And the scar on your shoulder?"
"Another gunshot," I said, not sure why I was being so forthright. Perhaps I was enjoying her attention and the chance to act the strong man before her eyes now that I was so weak I could hardly stand on my own. "A grazing wound."
"But not in the War of Independence."
"How can you tell?"
"Scars age just the same as people do. This one's fresher than the other two. So is the one on your side. That one was made by a knife, I think. Am I right?"
"You have good eyes."
She shook her head. "Just experience. I've seen such wounds before." She paused, licked her lips, making up her mind, then said, "But I've never seen anything like the ones on your back."
And just like that, all my preening enjoyment evaporated. The other scars were marks of pride; the ones on my back were anything but.
"No. I don't suppose you have," I said, regretting having been so open with her.
Her gaze was equal parts pity, horror, and morbid curiosity. It made me shrink on the inside. "They're lash marks, aren't they?" she asked.
They were. The ugly legacy of a whipping I'd received from a sadistic guard in Auschwitz. I couldn't say how many times he'd lashed me, I'd lost consciousness during the whipping itself, and the scars crisscrossed and overrode each other, making counting impossible.
I averted my gaze from Rona's inquisitive face. "I'm tired. I don't feel like talking anymore."
"Oh," she said, and I could imagine her cheeks reddening. "Of course. You should rest. Shall I bring you some food?"
My appetite had gone, but in my mind I was back in Auschwitz, where appetite had nothing to do with eating, so I said, "Yes. Thank you, Rona."
She left, returning a short while later with a tray bearing food and pills for the pain. She helped me sit again, propping me up with pillows. She dawdled after setting up my meal. "I'm sorry if my questions upset you, Mr. Lapid."
"That's all right, Rona," I said, swallowing the pills and then picking up my fork. "You did nothing wrong. And please, call me Adam."
She nodded. "Is there anyone you wish me to call, Adam, tell them where you are? Family or friends?"
"No. There's no one."
