Community Ledger
The once-pristine walls of the rented villa now stood as a grim testament to the night’s violence, pockmarked with dozens of angry, jagged bullet holes. Each crater in the plaster was a silent scream, a frozen moment of terror etched into the very fabric of what had, mere hours ago, been a sanctuary. Moonlight filtered through the shattered windows, casting eerie, elongated shadows across the floor—a macabre dance of light and dark that seemed to pulse with the lingering echoes of gunfire.
The acrid stench of gunpowder hung heavy in the air, an invisible fog that clung to every surface and seeped into the lungs with each shallow breath. It mingled with the metallic tang of spilled blood and the musty odor of disturbed dust, creating a noxious cocktail that assaulted the senses and turned stomachs. This was the scent of survival, of lives forever altered in the span of a few terrifying minutes.
Shards of glass crunched underfoot, a discordant symphony accompanying each cautious step through the wreckage of what had once been their temporary home. Overturned furniture, strewn papers, and personal effects lay scattered like the discarded playthings of a malevolent giant, bearing mute witness to the chaos that had erupted in this once-peaceful space. In the deafening silence that followed the firefight, the house seemed to hold its breath as if waiting for the subsequent explosion of violence.
The air vibrated with tension, heavy with unspoken fears and the sickening realization that life as they knew it had irrevocably shattered—much like the family photos that now lay face-down amidst the debris, their broken frames a poignant metaphor for dreams and innocence lost.
Simon sat, trembling, in the dimly lit kitchen. The weight of what he’d done pressed down on him like a physical force, threatening to crush his soul. Yoshua’s words cut through the fog of his thoughts, sharp and precise as a surgeon’s scalpel.
“Anyone who isn’t a psychopath suffers after they’ve killed a human for the first time,” Yoshua remarked, his voice a low rumble that seemed to reverberate through the room. His eyes, dark and fathomless, bore into Simon with an intensity that made the physician flinch. Simon could only manage a weak nod, his throat constricting around words he couldn’t bring himself to utter. The metallic taste of fear lingered on his tongue, mingling with the phantom copper of spilled blood.
Yoshua leaned forward, the leather of the worn armchair creaking beneath him.
“Now you understand the difference between a surgeon and a soldier,” he said, raising a glass of vodka to his lips. The clear liquid caught the light, shimmering like liquid diamonds.
“You’re spilling the vodka,” Sasha interjected, his voice tinged with concern as he watched Simon’s hands shake violently. The glass clinked against his teeth as he struggled to steady it, finally resorting to gripping it with both hands like a lifeline.
“I’ve sliced through the flesh and sinew of hundreds of people,” Simon whispered, his voice hoarse and barely audible. “But they were patients. This... this was different.” He swallowed hard, fighting back the bile rising in his throat.
“On purpose, I killed another human being.” Sasha’s hand found his shoulder, providing warmth and comfort.
“It was them or you,” he said softly, his words a gentle reminder of the harsh reality they faced. Simon’s eyes glazed over, lost in the vivid replay of the moment.
“Although they were trying to kill us, I watched my arrows penetrate the flesh of another person. I saw the light... the light go out of their eyes.” His voice cracked, raw emotion bleeding through.
“My mind told me this was a clear case of pekuach nefesh – a threat to life. Yet, I have a hard time accepting what I did. Something has changed within me, irrevocably.” Yoshua leaned back, his weathered face etched with lines of experience and sorrow.
“Simon,” he began, his tone gentle but firm, “every person has the right to defend themselves. Defending one’s life is a positive commandment.”
“How do you do it, Yoshua?” Simon pleaded, searching the veteran’s face for answers, for absolution. Yoshua’s gaze turned distant as if looking back through the years of conflict and survival.
“First, I have killed no one that didn’t deserve it,” he said, each word measured and heavy with the weight of memory. Simon’s eyes blinked in response.
“I have killed terrorists, murderers, and enemy soldiers. I have witnessed enemy combatants kill Israeli troops who had surrendered.” His jaw clenched, a flicker of old rage passing across his features. “Those barbaric soldiers received no mercy from me.” He paused, taking another sip of vodka before continuing.
“For thirty-five years, I have protected the people of Israel. I don’t have nightmares from that.” Yoshua’s eyes refocused on Simon, softening with understanding.
“But I remember my first kill, Simon. I remember the weight of it. It changes you, yes. But it doesn’t have to break you.” The room fell into a heavy silence, broken only by the soft clink of ice in Yoshua’s glass and the ragged sound of Simon’s breathing as he wrestled with the new, darker reality of his world.
Yoshua glanced at Simon and Sasha. He lowered the tone of his voice to reveal a personal fact.
“I have nightmares from watching my friends get blown apart or murdered in horrendous ways.” Simon laid his hand on Yoshua’s shoulder.
“Yoshua, if you ever need someone to talk to, you can always turn to me, “ Simon said.
Yoshua smiled at Simon and clapped him on the shoulder.
“We are brothers-in-arms now. It changes everything.”
“Thank you, Yoshua,” Simon replied.
Sasha came over to refill everyone’s glass.
Simon watched Sasha and Yoshua’s little rituals. Professor and student hugged each other and pounded one another on the back. They controlled their emotions by reaffirming life. They could sense the reality of surviving the firefight by touching each other. Hundreds of bullets had split the air around them. It only took one to kill a man. The words of the last stanza of Adon Olam (Lord of the World) went through Simon’s mind.
“As long as my soul is with my body, the Lord is with me, and I am not afraid.”
******
Sasha took Simon into his arms and hugged him.
“Nice shooting, doc.” The two men parted, and Yoshua held out his hand to Simon.
“Try to make a compartment in your mind to keep these difficult memories. You are a doctor. You save lives, but these men forfeited their lives once they made their unprovoked attack. God has been merciful to you. You have received a meaningful gift. You got justice for your murdered wife.”
“Why don’t I feel better?” Simon asked.
“Revenge turns out to be meaningless. It hurts you almost as much as it hurts your enemies.”
*****
Following the firefight, police headquarters in Granada sent replacements to Commander Moreno in Nido de Aguila. They arrived four hours later. The new police station adjacent to the chapel has now returned to its full complement.
Commander Moreno received his replacements, who brought new additions to his armory: ten automatic assault rifles and bulletproof vests for each man.
“From now on, everyone will go armed with his sidearm and rifle,” Diego ordered.
“I want two officers to guard the chapel twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week,” Commander Moreno ordered.
“What about our other duties, Commander?” one officer asked Moreno.
“Your other duties include dealing with an ever-increasing number of visitors and press that have flooded the town. I will request more men,” Moreno replied.
“No one thought being assigned to a team of archaeologists would be dangerous. We will not be complacent anymore. I want you to wear your protective vests and helmets on duty,” Commander Moreno ordered.
Comments