On His Deathbed

On coming home after a long day of work at the paper's editorial, Shai tseirov was told by his wife that he had an urgent phone call from some mysterious caller - about an hour earlier.

'Who was it?' He asked surprised. 'Couldn't he call me at work or through my mobile?'

'It's a woman and she expects your answer.'

'Haven't you asked her what's it all about?' He went on asking, while putting down his case on the nearest chair and went over to her for a hug and a quick kiss.

'Alright I'll see to it right away.' He said holding his young wife still in his arms. 'If it's urgent...' He added detaching himself from her arms, and went over to the phone - for it did intrigue him.

He had better find out who it is in his wife's presence, he thought while dialing the mysterious caller's number. It could be some prank or an intruder, or who knows one of those young female students, which are employed at night shifts at the paper's offices.

It was a voice of a middle aged distressed female, her husband wishes to see him urgently. He listened to her with a worried face, mumbled something and hung up.

'It's some old timer's wife, her husband has some story for me.' He explained his wife. 'Was a big shot before he retired.'
'But who is he?'

'I don't know, never heard of him, one of those ex... you know.'
Is it serious, are you going to see him?'

'I don't know I haven't made my mind yet.' He replied quite perturbed. 'Why me, there're enough veterans whom he must have read and known of their existence, long before I became a reporter.'

'It might be some scoop you wouldn't wish to miss.
'Should I go then, is that what you think?'
'Yes, or they'll turn to one of your colleagues, or even to another paper.'

The next morning Tseirov packed his tape recorder and laptop, and drove straight to the address that woman had given him. He was not expected at the editorial up to noontime, thus he could see that man at his ease, and find out what he has to tell him. Must be some episode of anti-terror activities abroad no doubt, or some other hush-hush business, that won't take more than an hour or so to tell - that's what he thought, trying to figure out what shape that meeting would take.

As most of those who lived there must have left much earlier for their daily work, the road was empty, except a handful of cars that parked next to the pavement on both the road sides. Tseirov parked his car opposite the small house, his morning destination; switched off its engine and sat on for a few seconds taking a deep breath of air into his lungs, before picking his things and leaving the car. He opened the small painted gate walked the few steps to the main door, and stood there amazed and frustrated by his own excitement - before summoning all his courage to ring the door's bell.

He heard the footsteps of someone getting near and then the door was opened wide, by a middle aged woman who stood facing him for a friction of a second without a word.

'Do come in please,' she said in a low voice, and stepped aside to let him pass her. He made a few steps, stopped and turned around to watch her shut the door. She was clad very modestly in a light summer dress, had a lithe figure for her age, and looked rather young. A shade of sadness though covered her fine features. She must have been very pretty in her youth, he thought a bit confused, and she's used to hot adoring looks - he went on thinking as his eyes met her indifferent cold gaze, while she passed him and led the way to an open door bedroom.

A man was wrapped in a blanket in a narrow bed in that bedroom. His wrinkled pale face made him look much older than his real age. Even Tseirov who did not have experience in such matters, being in his mid thirties, realized that the man was enfeebled, drained, on his deathbed.

'Thanks, I'm glad you came,' said his host in low and weak voice. 'Oh do sit down,' remarked his host's wife, pointing to the chair and the law round table, which were set next to his host bed.

'Thank you,' Tseirov muttered, putting his bag on the table and statrted right away with his preparations; fishing out the tape, plugged it in the nearest electricity socket in the wall, switched it on - and then sat on the chair with a ready pad.

'Should we start with who you are, your background,' Tseirov suggested, for though he saw their name on the main door before he was ushered in, he could not remember it.
'No, no introductions just what I've got to tell, nothing more.'
'Do you mind telling me why you've turned to me, of all the old media stars?' Tseirov wondered aloud.

'I've read your essays for some time, and you're young and daring; you've got the guts to publish what I'll tell you.' He said in feeble voice and started to cough. His wife rushed to him and wiped his face with a paper towel; then left quickly and returned with a glass of some fruit juice, to revive her husband; and while she bent over her husband supporting his head with one hand and helping him to drink, Tseirov pondered whether he'll have a coherent story worthwhile for publishing.

Everything was settled at last, the wife drew back and his host after clearing his throat several times started to talk.

'I know things that just the very few know, and it troubled my conscious a long time. I haven't much time left, I should have been dead long ago according to my doctors, so I've decided to take that burden off my back.' Although he was actually whispering, he was exhausted after those few sentences, and left Tseirov wondering still, what it was all about. Words like "let's have it then", or "won't you get to the point" were on Tseirov's tongue's tip; but his host physical state and the wife who wasn't far off watching both of them, helped him to control himself.

'Over thirty years have already passed and thus I may speak of it quite freely. It's the 'Yom Kippur war that we fought in nineteen seventy three...'

'But that's a chewed up to boredom issue!' Tseirov protested surprised.
'Is it, have you ever thought what kind of a war it was? it was a staged war!'

'What? We'd over two thousand five hundred dead and over seven thousand wounded in that war, and you call it a staged war?'

'That's what I intend to tell you.' His host remarked stoically and again a short pause fell, in which the wife was treating her husband and Tseirov was catching his breath, wondering why he agreed at all to come to that man's deathbed.

'It was during the time of the cold war, but the two super powers were able in spite of their enmity to reach a mutual understanding on some delicate issues, like the middle east for instance.' His host went on whispering. 'They agreed on a forced peace treaty between the Egyptians and us... But a war had to be waged between the sides, with some success to the Egyptians, to heal their hurt pride...'

'And you know it and we don't!' Tseirov could not refrain from barging in with that note of sarcasm.

'Very few knew exactly what was going to happen, you could count them on one hand's fingers. I wasn't informed or told, or have eavesdropped, I simply reached these conclusions.'

'And you're the only one that could have reached such conclusions, aren't you?'
'No I'm not smarter then most of us, but most people prefer to repress such knowledge, push it deeply into their subconscious and forget it - they fear even to think of it!'

'But what makes you so sure, can you prove your fantastic theory at all?' Tseirov insisted stubbornly, not able to accept such incredible conceptions.

'Let's skip the Suez canal outposts that were forsaken and those who manned them either died or surrendered and were taken as prisoners of war...' His sick host coughed slightly, beads of perspiration appeared on his brow and temples.

Tseriov had to wait patiently again till his host's loyal wife would treat his husband.
'... Or the confusion during Saturday and Sunday, the arguments between the defense minister and the chief of staff; the fact the Syrian almost flooded the Golan Heights with some two thousand tanks and we weren't aware to it...? The apparently flops of our intelligence services, can you really believe it. But let skip it as I said and concentrate on one aspect, the Mossad main source of intelligence - the famous Marouan the Egyptian president's right hand, stepping in broad daylight into the Israeli embassy in London to offer his sevices... Or fixing a meeting with the Mossad's head a few hours before the Egyptian army crosses the canal, and coming to the meeting with an Egyptian embassy limousine with all the standards and the CD number plates; as if he came to coordinate the event...'

Coming back home much later than he was expected, Tseirov fell almost in the arms of his worried young spouse with a long and weary face.

'What took you so long? Where have you been? I've phoned the paper but no one...'
'I've spent the whole day with that couple, had lunch on their table, with his wife - the man is on his deathbed.'
'Oh, but got your scoop at least?'
'No the man is out of his mind, hallucinating. If it wasn't for his poor wife and the fact that he's about to die, I would have left much earlier, as soon as I've realized that he's simply mad.'