The Marsh Angel, Hagai Dagan [free e reader .TXT] 📗

an isolated event for now, she said, reflecting for a moment. Anyway, even if they do try something else, they operate mainly in the eastern sector, so that doesn’t really concern us. Okay, I need to brief you on how we do it down here, so let me show you our station and the reception room. Afterwards, we can go get lunch, go over some materials, and then, when I feel certain I’m leaving the house in good hands, I can go home.

The house?

Yeah. For us, it’s like our home here. Is it not like that for you guys?

Not quite…

Honestly, I’ve been to Kidonit once. Seems a bit depressing. I’d never switch with you guys. Okay, let’s go. She started skipping— literally, skipping— through the narrow paths between the structures, her head full of curls bouncing and bobbing after her.

Tamir quickly realized why they called the place their home. The atmosphere was casual and affable. There were no physical barriers or distinctions between the reception stations and the intelligence analysis desk. The whole place was a curious amalgam, a small cramped space expertly navigated by soldiers speaking to each other without deference to rank or stature. Tamir had never actually seen a commune, but he imagined it probably looks a lot like that.

Next to the intelligence analysis desk, a translator and transcriber who presumably had no work to do at that moment were sat deeply absorbed in a game of chess. Tamir thought that he could definitely feel at home in a place where they played chess. Everyone greeted him with a friendly nod of their heads, accompanied by a look of certain wonderment. After showing him all of the stations and going over a couple summaries and logs of the various networks they monitored, Neta took him to the mess-hall to get something to eat. Tamir was surprised by the order, cleanliness, and aesthetics of the long rectangular table, set with white china crockery instead of the plastic plates and cutlery he had gotten used to in other bases. There aren’t a lot of us here, Neta explained having noticed the incredulous look on Tamir’s face, so we decided we could afford to spring for something a bit fancier. The dishes served to their table were also nice and carefully assembled. When Tamir tasted the food, his jaw dropped. Neta snuck a glance from the corner of her eye, and smiled. Our cooks are soldiers on reserve duty, she said. The cook here now is the chef of a hotel in Nahariya. Our base-commander cares deeply about what he eats, so he pulled some strings.

Tamir said the food here was significantly better than the food served in his kibbutz’s mess-hall.

Well, kibbutzes and military bases, they’re pretty similar, aren’t they? Neta said. My family’s of Austrian descent. We take food very seriously. Just preparing goulash, for example, is an art in and of itself.

My kibbutz was established by Hungarians, Tamir said, but honestly, the goulash in our mess-hall isn’t anything to write home about. Where do you live?

In Denia.

In Mount Carmel?

Yup.

Tamir recalled the neighborhood, its spacious villas tucked away behind fences and private gardens. He glanced at Neta from the corner of his eye. Her nose was cheeky, slightly upturned in irreverence, and for some reason made Tamir think of different sexual positions. Her eyes were narrow and a bit slanted. Her eyebrows were thick and light-colored. Her curls kept bobbing of their own volition, as if inertia kept them in a state of perpetuum-mobile.

After they finished eating, Neta cordially said goodbye to her friends at the table, briefly exchanging banter, and the two turned back to the intelligence analysis building. Everything was a very short distance away from everything else. Tamir asked if it doesn’t feel a bit claustrophobic at times. Sometimes, maybe, she said, but that she then simply goes outside and walks along the base’s fence overlooking Lebanon. Do you wanna go out and see the antennas?

Do you mind if we just skip it?

She looked at him quizzingly. Do you have a problem with antennas?

We’re not on the best of terms.

She laughed. So, you don’t want to go out at all?

We can go look at Lebanon.

Right, we can, she said. They left the building and walked towards the fence. The sun lowered over the sea near Achziv, casting a soft, dim light over the mountains. They found an elevated lookout point and stood there. Neta extended her hand and gestured over to the mountainous landscape sprawling to their north. That’s Beit Lahia, she said, it’s become a hotbed of Hezbollah activity recently. There, see that truck? See the yellow flag? That’s them. It could be Hallal, or Hussam, one of the mobile stations in the Lahia area. And there, follow my hand, a bit further north-west, that’s ‘Alma al-Sha‘ab. The road continues west all the way to Naqoura. Well, you know the map. Now, follow the road to the east, that’s Btaichiye, then Matmoura and Dhayra. You see? We’re not like you guys. In Kidonit, you guys are far away from the action, but we’re practically a part of the Lebanese landscape. Hezbollah and us?— we’re this close. You can practically feel them.

Is it nice?

What?

To feel them.

She laughed. He turned his eyes back from the Lebanese villages to look at her. One last ray of sunshine refracted over the mountain tops, enveloping Neta’s curly locks in a bronze halo. Honestly? she said, sometimes I feel like they’re my friends. I know them very well, their mannerisms over the radio, their nicknames, their banter, all their little schticks… I’ve spent the last year of my life in their company. As far as I’m concerned, that’s a long-term relationship.

I agree.

And do you feel close to them as well?

I’m more interested in someone who let an Acre dialect slip.

What?!

It’s a long story.

It sounds interesting, perhaps you’d like to tell me sometime. For now, I think I’ll head home. I’m trying to time it so that I’ll arrive precisely when the