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

he thought any motion would increase the bleeding.
    Doron heard a low voice.
    â€œAnd what ambulance are we going to take?” It was the first time she looked directly into his eyes.
    He looked back at her. What was he going to do with her?
    The child looked up at him from her lap with panicky eyes.
    Oh, God.
    He watched her fumble with the inhaler again. It never seemed to work.
    â€œLieutenant,” she said.
    The child was turning blue.
    â€œOkay. Okay. I’m letting you through,” he said to the woman. “Come on, get up.” He gathered up her jacket and documents and the inhaler. She picked up the boy, who hung limp in her arms. Doron looked at him and felt the panic gather in his stomach like a hard ball.
    Zvili blocked their way.
    â€œMove, Sergeant,” Doron said.
    â€œNo,” said Zvili.
    â€œNo?” Doron said. “No?”
    â€œThe woman is the wife of a terrorist,” Zvili said.
    â€œMove, Zvili,” Doron said.
    â€œNo,” Zvili said, planting his feet at both sides of the doorjamb. “She could be a part of some plan. What do we know? Headquarters said she can’t come in; I heard you talking to them. You can’t let her in.”
    â€œYou better get out of his way, Zvil!” another soldier shouted from behind them.
    â€œHave you looked at the boy, Zvili?” Doron asked the question in a very even tone with spaces between the words. Marina stood very close to Doron. He looked down at Ibrahim. Was he breathing at all? Still, behind Doron’s ball of panic over the boy, he worried, he worried—was he doing the right thing? Was Zvili right?
    â€œHurry, hurry,” she said.
    She turned to Doron.
    â€œLook at my boy,” she whispered to him.
    He looked again.
    â€œOkay, that’s it,” Doron said, and Zvili moved aside.
    They all rushed through the door together, as the emergency medical crew of the ambulance rushed toward them. The doors to the back of the ambulance had just opened. A man in a white coat ran to the injured private, who was just ahead of Marina and Doron and holding the red rag against his cheek.
    â€œNo,” shouted Doron at them. “Here, here.” He pointed, and the white-coated man saw the boy. Doron saw a look of concern pass over the man’s face.
    The man felt the boy’s pulse and he put his hand above Ibrahim’s mouth. He bent down and put his ear against the child’s chest.
    He stood and started shouting and everything began to jump around Doron and Marina. Now everyone was acknowledging an emergency. The white-coated man plucked the child out of his mother’s arms and rushed him into the back of the ambulance. Marina ran after them and Doron followed her. The bleeding private stood off to the side, watching, dabbing at his eye. Everyone inside the ambulance was shouting, green monitors beeped, a nurse leaned over. The child lay pale against the white stretcher, a mask over his face, a white hospital blanket thrown across him, emblazoned with big black Hebrew letters. Marina kept trying to push through the technicians to get to him. Finally they let her hold his hand.
    The siren was still going. Doron stood outside thinking, I am the enemy, I am the enemy. The ambulance’s spinning light made the rubble at his feet appear and disappear. The little bits of glass and pebble seemed to dance around him in a circle, flickering. He saw Zvili walking back to the trailer. The private’s damaged face flashed in and out of view. In the artificial light, the slender-legged watchtower with its searchlight at the top looked pitifully fragile. It looked as if a child could blow it out like a candle.
    The next thing Doron knew, the man in white was walking stoop-shouldered over to the bleeding private. Doron turned and looked toward the ambulance. It was as if everything had come to a halt. A nurse sniffled loudly. There was an odd silence except for the mother sobbing against