Mitla Pass by Leon Uris Read Free Book Online

so, this time. Val, I kept telling myself, it may be thirty-six hours before you get any information. If I could only close my eyes and wake up tomorrow with him standing over me. If I could only talk to someone about it!
    All my options to kill time lost their appeal—reading a new book, sewing a couple of dresses for the girls, giving them a heavy dose of school lessons. I didn’t seem to be able to concentrate.
    Maybe jump into the car and take a trip up to Jerusalem, or go up to the archaeological dig at Hazor. No, I didn’t even want to take a long walk on the beach. I should be on hand if a telephone message comes through.
    I found myself having tea with a couple of the neighbors. Nice girls, South Africans. Part of their families stayed behind in Johannesburg to operate the family businesses. Earnings were sent to Israel where the other part of the family had immigrated and started up new enterprises. Lifetime Zionists with clear-cut goals.
    Where was Gideon now?
    “Little more tea, Dara?”
    “Thanks, Val. Little jumpy today?”
    I didn’t totally trust Dara Myerson. She was too gorgeous. They all flirted with Gideon.
    I almost lost it. I dropped the kettle and grabbed the sink for support.
    “Val, you look the color of paste.”
    They helped me to the bedroom and Selma left to find Dr. Hartmann. Dara said she’d take the girls for the day and see to my meals.
    “What’s wrong, Mom?”
    “Just a little dizzy spell.”
    “Are you starting your period? Is it premenstrual tension?” Roxy asked. Roxanne had become very worldly about menstruation. She was a lady-in-waiting, about to start up at any time. She carried a sanitary napkin around with her everyplace, in case the big event should occur.
    Dr. Hartmann treated a lot of concentration camp survivors. His medical bag was full of goodies. The girls were gone and it became quite peaceful as the medication took hold ... wheeeee ... praise the Lord ... baby’s flying ...
    The fucking clock had barely moved. It was only eleven in the morning. “Oh, cripes.” I breathed deeply. It hurt, bad. The only other time I remembered feeling this kind of pain was during those hours of waiting when Penelope’s life hung in the balance.
    I focused in on the photograph on the dresser. There he is, staring down at me. Rear Admiral Warren Ballard and Mother. Mom’s big-brimmed hat was gushy with lace. Both of them had military stiff backs and white gloves. Their joint smiles registered .001 on the Richter scale. Bulldog Ballard.
    San Francisco Bay Area, 1944-1953
    H IS SOFTEST TOUCH felt like a blackjack. If it didn’t cruise at twenty-five knots, or wasn’t 90 proof, the Admiral usually wasn’t interested, particularly if it was a voice that came from inside a little girl. We were commodities. Mother was a grade A commodity. Sweet Sister Ellen was a commodity, bless her pissant soul. Brother Tom was no commodity. He was a male!
    But Tom let the old team down. Yea, Tom! Instead of following Bulldog Ballard into Annapolis, Tom was somewhere on a mountaintop in South America, teaching ungrateful Indians how to use fertilizer.
    Anthropology! What the hell is anthropology! Married a God-damned Peruvian woman, half-Indian, that’s what!
    “Best not to mention Tom this Christmas,” Mother had warned; “the Admiral’s maudlin about it.”
    No such problems with Sweet Sister Ellen. Navy forever! Fred Barrington, now there’s as fine a young officer as this man’s navy has laid eyes on in ten years. That lad will be commanding a cruiser before he’s thirty-five. Yoicks! A cruiser before thirty-five! Sweet Sister Ellen, who, in secret, could outdrink the Admiral and Fine Lad Fred, had delivered a little boy. He was a little shit, but at last the Admiral knew the old tradition would live on despite brother Tom’s perfidy.
    I was the baby. By the time it was my turn at bat, Sweet Sister Ellen had caved in and Brother Tom had waved his middle finger under the Admiral’s