I held on to the scarred
receiver and dialled Shalev's home, his family.
His wife picked up. I recalled her deceptive fragility and her two
well-attired, well-mannered offspring. She always carried baskets with
her - one with food and one full of reading material. They did not
bother to inspect their contents at the gate anymore, that's how
predictable she was.
"Hello, this is Shmuel" - I said and read the note to her.
Silence ensued, chased by defiant sobbing:
"This is not true. We do love him" - whimpers.
"Shalev" - I hesitated, distressed, under the shadows cast by his
hirsute skull - "Shalev, please, she is crying..."
To the receiver:
"I am giving you Shalev."
Shalev held the handset in his plump hand and listened attentively.
"Are you there?"
He kept mute for many minutes, digging a moat of silence against the
verbal onslaught of his wife. He listened to his daughters, head
tilted, eyes moist, lips clenched.
Then, gently, he replaced the mouthpiece in its cradle, stifling his
children's whining.
There he stood, bent, broken, brow kissing the frosty metal,
reluctantly driven away by the minacious grumblings of his fellow
inmates. He mournfully dragged his feet along the silt-spattered road
to our barracks.
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