Martyrs’ Crossing by Amy Wilentz Read Free Book Online Page A

ambulance.” She had heard him talking about the ambulance to Zvili, in Hebrew. She understood some words.
    Doron knew the issue was even less clear. It wasn’t about the ambulance; the ambulance was for his injured man. But what if he couldn’t get headquarters to let her in? The computer said she was the wife of Hassan Hajimi, a terrorist who was in jail on the Israeli side. So? If he couldn’t get her through, then she and the boy would be stuck, ambulance or no ambulance. He trusted her feelings about the boy’s condition. She knew, after all, didn’t she? This was a medical crisis, not a terrorist ruse. Even a terrorist’s kid can’t help being sick.
    She was murmuring to the child; Doron couldn’t hear the words. She hardly looked up. Headquarters had put Doron on hold again; they had a lot to deal with at all the checkpoints, but still. He kept having to identify himself and explain the urgency of the predicament. How many times did they have to hear it? He was listening to computerized ragtime. She ran her fingers through the boy’s hair.
    With one ear on the phone, Doron turned to the man who had been her advocate. He was tired of the guy’s presence. “You get out, now. You’ve done your duty. Go home.” The man shrugged.
    â€œI’m glad you’re in, miss,” the man said to the woman, in Arabic.
    She said nothing. He shrugged again, and turned and walked away from the trailer door. Doron watched him trudge up the road toward Ramallah.
    Doron hung up and called again. On hold again, more mouse music. An operator, another operator. It was too late to get through to the normal numbers. He didn’t even know who he was waiting for. He had already ordered the fucking ambulance, he kept pointing out to whoever would listen. All he needed was permission to let the woman and her son cross over. The phone receiver felt like a toy in his hand.
    â€œI’ll take a taxi,” she said. “Just let me through, and I’ll take a taxi from here.” There was always a line of taxis waiting on either side of the checkpoint, even during a closure. God, he just wanted to zip her across. She was right, a taxi would be faster. Who knew when the damned ambulance would come? He had told them his man had a light injury. They were probably busy.
    Her dark eyes were imploring.
    He shook his head and pointed at the phone.
    The boy started to gasp. Her eyes widened. Doron wanted to hurl the receiver across the guardroom and watch it shatter, but instead, he sat there, mentally screaming for them to pick the fuck up. Pick it up. Pick it up. Another operator gave him a secure number to call. He scrawled it across the back of an empty cigarette pack before he dialed. It rang and rang, and then, surprise, someone picked up. They asked for the woman’s name. Which checkpoint? they asked. Shuhada, Doron said. Then there was more waiting. Finally, they came back on.
    They are not permitted to enter Israel, the voice on the other end said.
    But her papers seem in order.
    Not permitted, Lieutenant.
    But she goes back and forth all the time.
    Not during closure, the voice said. Not during this closure.
    But an ambulance is already on its way.
    Not permitted.
    The ambulance is here. Doron slammed down the phone. Lights were flashing through the slits in the guardroom. He heard a siren wailing. He stuffed the empty cigarette pack into his jacket pocket and stood.
    â€œI am so sorry,” he said to the woman. “They just won’t permit it. I don’t know what to say. Sorry.”
    She didn’t even look at him.
    â€œWhere’s my injured man?” Doron asked. The men pointed. The private was standing quietly in a different corner. His wound was still bleeding—they’d hit a part of the face that bleeds profusely even when the injury is not serious.
    â€œYour ambulance is here, go on.” The private started moving out delicately, as if