Fiction

EnZi Part One Odesa Chapter 23 The Negev Did Not Return From Operation

by Stanislav Dema
02/09/26
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Mood: 

Omer Adam & Infected Mushroom - Terkod lenetzach (Dance forever)

The next day, Zusya and his crew busied themselves with "Eitan." First, the machine underwent diagnostics of all units and mechanisms, then the mechanic drew up a repair plan: what to replace, what to adjust, which elements required scheduled maintenance. The machine was lifted by jacks and secured on a special stand: the "legs" of the mover were suspended, joints unloaded, safety supports placed under the belly.

The left support had received damage in battle—they had to remove the protection and disassemble the joints. The mechanics took apart the unit and went to the warehouse for spare parts. Zusya and Gur checked the power lines from the energy plant to the electric drive motors. It was work requiring great patience and skill.

The sun had already risen high. In the improvised field maintenance depot, it was hot as an oven, smelling of heated rubber, kerosene, and machine oil. Somewhere a compressor rattled, compressed air hissed as pneumatic lines were purged. Gas welding hissed, and a sledgehammer banged.

Finally, the main work was done. Zusya stood by the tool rack filling out the scheduled maintenance checklist:

— "Left support—defect No. 2 eliminated... Joint 34675-KJ—play within normal limits... Power lines—cable PL23 replaced... Radio station—antenna mount replaced..."

The hangar door creaked quietly. Major Lyubarsky entered and headed toward Zusya. They greeted each other without army formalities, friendly, but Zusya immediately noticed: the usual polite benevolence on the major's face was clouded by a shadow of sadness this time. His gaze—heavy, focused. He didn't walk around the machine, didn't look under the belly as he always did.

He approached, shook his hand firmly.

— Yakov, — he said quietly. — Let's go outside, talk.

Zusya understood something was wrong. He handed the checklist to Gur, carefully wiped oil residue from his hands with a rag, and followed the major to the exit.

They stepped out into the heat. The air trembled over the sand; a haze rose from the polished armor plates of the vehicles. At the edge of the motor pool stood a smoking area—a wooden gazebo with benches and a tin trash can, entirely soaked in the smell of tobacco and dust.

Lyubarsky walked slowly, not looking around. In the shade, he sank onto a bench, gestured for Zusya to sit nearby. For a few seconds, the major sat silently, as if gathering his thoughts. On his face was that special expression—tired, stony—found in people who have to say something very heavy.

He took a cigarette from his case, began clicking the lighter—no flame appeared. On the third try, a light flared. The major inhaled deeply, looked toward the horizon, and only then spoke:

— Yakov... bad news.

His voice was even, but it lacked its usual firmness.

— This morning a report came from fleet headquarters. The "Negev"—the frigate on which your wife served... — he stumbled, slowly exhaled smoke. — It did not return from operation. According to radio interception data—it was hit by Ottoman submarines off the coast of Haifa. The ship sank. There are no survivors.

For a few moments, Zusya simply stared straight ahead, unblinking.

The world around seemed to shrink—the sound of the wind disappeared, the hum of the motor pool receded somewhere deep. In his temples, it throbbed dully, unevenly.

He tried to say something, but his lips did not obey. Then he simply clasped his head in his hands, staring at the ground. It went dark in his eyes, his breath hitched as if after a blow.

— No... — he only exhaled. — No, this cannot be...

Lyubarsky was silent. He placed a hand on Zusya's shoulder—heavy, sun-scorched—and said quietly:

— Forgive me, Yakov. We all grieve.

Zusya did not answer. He sat motionless, looking at the ash under his feet, and emptiness slowly expanded in his head—just as hot and blinding as the desert around.

For some time they sat in silence. The major's cigarette burned down to the filter, and he mechanically stubbed it out on the edge of the trash can. Then he stood up, sighed heavily, and left Yakov alone.

Zusya did not move. The sun leaned toward sunset, but the heat still held. Through the open gates of the motor pool, the desert was visible—boundless, silent, resembling a sea in which the whole world had drowned.

He sat and felt nothing—neither pain nor anger, only a hollow emptiness. Everything inside had burned to the ground. Then he rose and slowly, staggering, walked to the edge of the camp, to where the rocky hills began beyond the workshops.

The sunset was bright, red, as if the sky were flooded with blood. Zusya stopped at the cliff and stared unblinking at the sun until it rolled behind the horizon.

— Lord... — he said almost in a whisper.

His voice sounded hoarse, like a stranger's. — Lord, why?

He was silent for a long time, then slowly continued:

— I believed. I believed all the time. I thought—You are with us. You gave us this land to live. That everything we endured—was for the sake of the future.

He ran a hand over his face, wiping away tears.

— We didn't ask for too much. Only to live. Only to be home. Why—again? Why again war, blood, pain? Why Hannah? She did no evil to anyone...

He sat right on the stones, clasping his knees with his arms. The earth burned.

— Tell me, what for, — he exhaled quietly. — If You are just, explain.

There was no answer. Only the hot wind tousled his hair and carried his words into the silence of the desert.

— You gave us land but gave no peace, — he said hollowly. — Or perhaps this is Your answer—that peace is not for the living?

He raised his eyes to the sky. Where an hour ago the sun hung, the first stars were already lighting up.

— I believe in You, — he pronounced, — but today... I do not understand You.

He sat like that for a long time until the last sounds in the camp died down. Then he slowly returned to the base and went to the motor pool.

He entered the hangar when it had become completely dark. The air was thick, smelling of machine oil and iron. "Eitan" stood large, powerful, looming black in the light of the dim duty lamp. But now Zusya saw in it the only refuge, someone to whom he could entrust his pain. Inside the hangar—silence, only the quiet crackling of the cooling corrugated roof sheets.

Zusya slowly climbed the armor, opened the hatch, and climbed inside. Sat in the commander's seat. Above the dashboard, a framed photograph was fixed—Hannah in a white dress, against the background of the sea, smiling somewhat childishly. He ran a finger over the glass.

— You always said that everything has meaning, — he said quietly. — Even pain. Even loss. That God makes no mistakes.

He closed his eyes. — But now, Hannah... I see no meaning.

Long silence.

— You know... — he said almost in a whisper, — I am not a holy man. I just wanted us to have a home. For our daughter to live under a peaceful sky.

He lowered his head, clenched his hands until his knuckles turned white. — And now it seems to me that everything we built, people will destroy again. Not God—people. We ourselves. Why should I live now?

He raised his gaze. The heavy deaf hatch was closed, and for a moment it seemed to him he was buried.

He sat in silence for a long time and thought. He called for death, then the face of Sarah—his daughter—appeared before his eyes. Zusya seemed to wake from a dream.

— But if You exist, — he pronounced, looking into nowhere, — then she exists too. Where there is no war, no death, and no pain.

He was silent, then added barely audibly:

— Someday I will see her. I know. Because if there is no eternal life—then God is a god of the dead, and all our faith is in vain.

He sat for a long time. It was dark as a grave in the cabin. The metal cooled, condensation dripped somewhere—slowly, evenly, like the ticking of a clock.

— Lord, — he said no longer in despair, but as if in request, — do not let me become hardened. Let pain not become hatred.

He placed his palm on the cold metal of the dashboard, as if on the shoulder of a living being.

— I will continue. Because that is what you would say, Hannah: "Live. Do what you must and take care of Sarah." Now a new hope and meaning of life appeared in his heart.

He turned on the lamp. The cramped fighting compartment was illuminated with red light. Everything seemed somewhat unreal. Zusya shook his head, as if chasing away a dream, then opened the hatch. Outside, echoes of distant cannonade were heard—the war continued, just as before.

He didn't sleep all night. It became cold in his tent, outside the wind howled, the canvas of the awning over the entrance flapped. On his knees lay a book—the Tanakh—old, with dog-eared pages and a worn binding. A book he hadn't opened for a long time.

He leafed through it aimlessly, simply turning pages, until he stumbled upon familiar lines:

> “It is of the Lord's mercies that we are not consumed, because his compassions fail not. They are new every morning: great is thy faithfulness. The Lord is my portion, saith my soul; therefore will I hope in him. The Lord is good unto them that wait for him, to the soul that seeketh him. It is good that a man should both hope and quietly wait for the salvation of the Lord.”

> 

Zusya looked at these words for a long time.

Whispered them to himself. At first without faith, then—with slowly returning warmth.

He leafed further—and his gaze stumbled upon another place, from a Psalm:

> “When I consider thy heavens, the work of thy fingers, the moon and the stars, which thou hast ordained; What is man, that thou art mindful of him? and the son of man, that thou visitest him?”

> 

He exhaled, as if lifting a heavy burden.

— Yes... — he said quietly. — What is man? Sand and dust. But You remember anyway.

He closed the book, pressed it to his chest.

The pain did not leave, but it became different—not fire in the veins, but an aching of the heart.

A clear and simple understanding arose in his soul: all he had left was time.

And with this time, he must serve not himself.

— Lord, — he said, looking into the darkness, — if You took Hannah from me, it means You want me to become different.

He rose, unlaced the entrance to the tent, and looked at the dawn. The desert was the same—boundless, pure, alive.

— Alright, — he said quietly. — I remain. I will not abandon Sarah. And I will serve You with my life as best I can—such as I am.

He returned to the tent, placed the Tanakh on the table, next to the map in the case. Now they lay side by side—the sacred book and the military map, like two sides of one life.

Outside, the steps of mechanics, the noise of turbines, the clang of metal were already heard. A new day was beginning.