He was up with the sun and joined a rag tag group of people along the roadside following along in their wake. It was mid day when they reached the town and he wasn’t prepared for the turmoil. Shouting and screaming people ran past him he could hear the children crying and the sirens blasting. He edged himself along a wall to try and see what was happening. He looked up and tried to grab a pole sticking out of the roofline to hoist himself up. The heat and searing pain came immediately, smoke, crumbling wall dust covered him the sound took his hearing and he fell back among the hot stones, his hands caught beneath them. Silent darkness took him away.

Marie

She pulled on her smock and tied the black headscarf around her head. She was weary and her day was just beginning. Eight years out here and she was burned out. All the ideological fire was gone; she felt as though she was just going through the motions now. Maybe she would leave today, yes today would be her last. Walking past the rubble, the sirens blasting down the streets, the shouting and screaming did not touch her. She kept her eyes downcast until she reached the hospital. Stretchers already lining the entryway greeted her. The large room had been divided into critical and non critical.  She washed her hands in the basin and picked up her bag, moving to the critical area she squatted down and began examining the patients.

The children were always first, something inside her had become numb after so many. She cleaned and bound wounds sending some back to surgery, treating the burns with what medicines she had. She no longer conversed with her patients or asked them questions. She didn’t want to know about their families, their hopes their dreams. She recognized some of the children as former patients but did not speak to them.

She glanced over to the non critical side as she reloaded her bag and washed her hands. Her colleagues were on their knees working along the row of stretchers. Perhaps that is why she was still here, but her dedication did not match theirs. A multinational group of volunteers always full of themselves when they arrived. She watched the flame quickly die in their eyes when faced with the reality of this place.

She paused for a meal and sweet strong coffee late in the day. She was no longer among the critical but had moved over to the other side of the room. It was beginning to clear out now on this side and she noticed the man against the wall, his hands covered in bleeding bandages. Why hadn’t he been taken back to surgery? She moved over to his side and looked him over. Ah, he may be an Israeli, he wasn’t Arab. The man had begun to shake as she unwrapped the bandages on his hands. She winced at the sight; they were smashed. She checked his eyes, ah yes an Israeli or maybe not; an odd blue green like the Mediterranean Sea. She assessed his condition and determined he was critical. Rising from her knees she called a doctor over. He gave her a long look before he called two bearers to carry him back to surgery. Yes she knew but she didn’t care anymore. A patient was a patient.

John

The American surgeon bent over examining the hands before him “he’ll never play the piano again” he said to the anesthesiologist. He worked tirelessly over his patient knowing comments were made about the man’s origins. He didn’t get into conversations about nationality he was a professional and treated his patients equally.  He examined the man’s body for other wounds noticing the interesting scars here and there. He pulled the sheet back to treat the burns on the man’s legs and looked up, “he’s not an Israeli, see.” He pointed to the man’s uncircumcised penis. Looks were exchanged around the table and assistance was stepped up. The surgeon shook his head and continued on his wounds. The hands were bound and he was moved to the back room where beds were lined up against the wall. The surgeon removed his gloves washed his hands and put on a clean pair of gloves and stood by the table awaiting the next patient.

His eyelashes fluttered and he awoke in silence not knowing where he was, except in pain. He grimaced and turned his head, when he opened his eyes again it was to see a woman with a black headscarf watching him. He blinked his eyes to see her more plainly; blue eyes starred back at him. Her lips moved but made no sound. He was trying to concentrate on her lips why wouldn’t she speak up? She picked up a bottle of water and offered it to him he tried to reach out his arm and noticed his hand and became agitated. She pushed him back on the bed and offered the water bottle holding it while he drank. He was nauseous and she held a dish for him while he vomited and held the water bottle for him again only allowing small sips. He lay his head back on the pillow now noticing the drip attached to his arm and looked around, a hospital he was in a hospital of sorts. The woman walked around to the drip and shot something into it and he became alarmed, “No, No” he shouted. Her eyes widened and she looked around and patted him on the shoulder. He realized he could not hear his own voice. He watched her write something down and she held up a pad of paper. You cannot hear me?  It was written in French. He shook his head no. Could you hear before you came here?  He nodded his head. She left him alone. He felt the drug begin to move through his veins and he drifted back into the void.

Marie

She found the doctor and brought him to the patient’s bed explaining he couldn’t hear; perhaps from the bombs? The doctor a fellow Frenchman examined the patient’s ears and sent her for some medication. He cleaned the dried blood from the ears and dropped a solution in the canals. “Only temporary, he will regain his hearing.” He told her. She took the tray and moved away. He interested her, this patient. He had only spoken a word, perhaps he was English? Why was he here?

The American doctor waited for her outside the hospital to walk her back to the place she stayed. She would not leave after dark unless a man walked with her. The air was still filled with smoke. She asked the American about the man with the broken hands, she knew he had operated on him. “Well, like I said he won’t play the piano again. He’s going to need some follow up surgery when he gets home. I did what I could in this hell hole. How do you stand it Marie?”

“I can’t stand it for much longer. Very soon I shall leave.” He walked her to her doorway and she went inside, removed the headscarf and ran her fingers through her long black hair. She turned on a tap for a bath and there was no water again. Yes she would be going soon. She pulled off her filthy smock and threw it in a basket. I could leave tomorrow; I could have left yesterday.

The next day she came to the hospital and went straight back to the patients beds. The room was noisy with visiting families who called out to her as she entered. She ignored their cries and walked over to the man with the bandaged hands. He was sitting up in the bed with the sheet pulled across his stomach. They had not dressed him in a gown because of the large bandages on his hands. She told him good morning and watched as he fastened his eyes on her lips, he still couldn’t hear. She held her fists up like a boxer and boxed the air. The look in his eyes told her he was still in a lot of pain but he smiled slightly. She noticed someone had brought him some food and left it on the table by the bed. It angered her that they hadn’t fed him, how did they think he could feed himself. She asked him if he would like to eat and indicated the food on the table, he nodded yes and she fed him.

John 

He couldn’t remember the last meal he had, two, three days maybe. He was weak from hunger and readily ate the food. She offered him some water and he drank thirstily.  He wanted to talk to her, find out about his hands and his hearing and when he could leave. He tried to lower his voice so as not to shout, “My hands, what happened to my hands and my ears?” She smiled slightly at his accent and pulled the pad and pencil from her pocket. Your hands are broken in many places, you will need more surgery when you get home. Your ears will return soon. She smiled slightly when she showed him the pad and nodded her head. You are not English but Australian? He nodded yes. “When can I leave?” he asked. She screwed up her face and took the pencil again, maybe a week, the doctor will tell you. I will ask him to tell me too. He looked in her face and wondered if she was French or just spoke French. “I want to go now.” She starred at him a minute and took up her pencil again you are too weak to go, your burns have not healed, you cannot go now. You must wait.” He lay back on the pillow and closed his eyes. The woman picked up the food tray and left him.

He wondered why no one had asked him his name. What could they have written on that sheet of paper they kept coming by with checking his vitals? It worried him a little that he may have been recognized. He had been unconscious for some time and had no idea who had seen him. He had been bathed that morning by a plump woman with red hair who’s lips had moved in silent speech the whole time. He had no idea where she was from; he wondered if it mattered anymore. He thought about the note the woman had written about surgery when he went home. He hadn’t planned on going back home. He had no life there anymore.

His mind kept wandering back to Foley and what could have happened to him. People disappeared all the time in this part of the world and were usually found dead. He hoped he got out, Foley was smart but inexperienced. He had sent the message to Daniel hoping he would pull Foley out. Daniel should understand his reasons for not coming home. It wasn’t just the work he didn’t want to do anymore, the danger he brought with him; there was Bee and his child. He still had her face in his mind that last day in the bluff house. He hadn’t wanted to see the baby; he didn’t want to know. Foley…would bring up his son…Johnny; if Foley got out.

The woman was back again with a doctor who smiled at him. He began to speak and he lip read some of his words, he was probably an American he figured. The doctor unwrapped the bandages on his legs and put something cooling on the burns. He talked with the woman, smiled and waved and was gone. She had her pad out again  He says your burns are looking good, not serious. Your hands he says will need attention when you get home there is nothing else he can do. He says three days you can go. He nodded and looked away. Go where he thought and how with these hands, he couldn’t even feed himself or dress himself. What the hell was he supposed to do when he took a shit? He fell back on the pillow starring at the water marked ceiling. He turned and the woman was still by his bed he gave her a questioning look. Will someone come for you to help you? He met her eyes and slowly shook his head. What is your name? They didn’t know; he nodded his head toward the papers on the table and she picked them up and shook her head, holding them out for him to read. Written in English: white male, European, 30-40 years old. “John.” He said giving it the French pronunciation.

Marie

Jean. His name was Jean. She took the medical tray back to be cleaned and walked back to the entry room picked up her bag and went to work. People were still coming in from the bombing and needed her attention. She worked until dark again, checking on John throughout the day. She fed him his evening meal and gave him something for pain before she left. The American doctor walked her home again. “What will happen to him, the man with the broken hands, he has no one to come for him?”

“You seem awfully worried about him Marie,” he smiled down at her. “I don’t know, we have no control over what happens once they leave the hospital. He came from somewhere I guess he’ll go back.”

She thought about him that night, unable to take care of himself where would he go? He had been dressed in rags when he came in. His torn and bloody clothes had been tossed away. No one to come for him; it bothered her. Ah there was water tonight.

The next morning she was busy in the entry room until noon. She cleaned up and went to check on her patient. Again his food was on the table uneaten. She frowned and picked up the bowl. He shook his head and nodded toward his feet? “No, I need to pee all morning I need to pee.” She looked under the bed and pulled out the urinal. She guided him to the urinal and held it for him to relieve himself. This was something she did all the time she felt odd and couldn’t look up at him. When he finished she called out for someone to take it away. She pulled out her pad you should have called someone to help you. You don’t have to be miserable “I did” he answered and met her gaze. Ah, she thought they still think he is Israeli. She picked up the bowl and fed him and gave him a drink. I think you go tomorrow she quickly wrote.

“Why?” he asked. She looked around the room and wrote you are suspected Israeli you may not be safe here He gave her a long dark look, “No I go today can you help me?” She stepped back. This would require many things. He needed clothes he had no papers he had no one. I will see what I can do.

She took the food tray back to be cleaned, the American was smoking a cigarette outside the door and she stuck her head out. “Can I talk with you please?”

“Sure Marie, what’s up?”

“The man with the broken hands, he is not safe here. He has no one to help him. If I take him with me will you help me?”

“Take him where Marie, to your place?”

“No, I think I am ready to go home today.”

“I’ll help you get the guy out of here but I can’t do anything else you understand?”

“Yes. He will need some clothes.”

“I’ll bring them in a medical bag, you’ll have to dress him and get him out. I’ll sign him out as released from hospital to your care. I’ll fix it for you. I hate to see you go.”

“Thank you but I think I stay too long.” She smiled up at him and went back to her patients for the next hour until the doctor brought her a bag.

John

The woman was back and began unhooking the drip. She pulled the needle from his arm and applied a patch. He watched her face. Something was going up. She had two bags with her, her medical kit which she had filled with the things she might need and another bag which she opened and pulled out boxer shorts, jeans, a shirt and pair of sandals for his feet. She pulled the boxers up his body and then the jeans, button front which she struggled with. The jeans were a little tight. The shirt presented a problem so she cut the sleeves off to she could pull it over his hands. The doctor came by and gave her some papers saluted him and left. She nodded her head for him to follow and led him out of the building.

John felt a little woozy but kept his balance and kept up with her. She took his arm at the elbow and guided him through the rubble to her place. Once inside she pointed to the bed for him to sit. He watched her pull her clothes out stuffing them in a back pack. She removed her smock and slipped on a pair of jeans and a knit shirt. She pulled off the headscarf and her long hair fell down her back. When she turned John felt a quick intake of breath. She was beautiful. She took her pad out of the smock pocket, today I am going home. I will take you with me. “Where is home?” France. “I have no papers.” I have a hospital release for you into my care. I will take care of it.” “What is your name?” Marie  “Thank you Marie for everything.”

John would be glad when his ears came back; it was difficult trying hold a conversation. So she was going to take him to France. It wouldn’t have mattered to him where she took him. His mental state right now was scrambled. The loss of his hands left him vulnerable and helpless he needed her. Once in France and his hands taken care of he would figure out what to do with himself. He looked down at his bandaged hands. “How bad are my hands?” They are badly broken Jean you will not play piano. He looked up, “Well I never played before.” He realized there would be many things he would not be able to do.

They hopped skipped and jumped through several countries before landing a flight on Air France. John had no idea what stories she told about him but they never had a problem until they reached France.  John could not answer their questions and Marie tried. She finally pulled an agent aside and said something to him. He made a phone call and after that there were no problems. John was beginning to wonder who she was; especially when a car showed up at the airport to take them to her apartment; a diplomatic vehicle. He was becoming wary and kept looking at her. The car pulled up in front of an apartment building from the last century. She took his arm and led him through the doors and into the lift.  They got off on the 8^th floor and she showed him to her door. It was a large apartment for Paris and he walked around. It hadn’t been lived in for awhile. She went around opening the doors onto the little balcony and the windows.  John looked for the bathroom. “Marie, please .” She came at once and unbuttoned his pants and helped him to sit. Damn he couldn’t even stand to piss. She waited outside for the flush and helped him with his pants again. John was exhausted and hadn’t had anything for pain in the two days of travel.

She unloaded her purchases in her tiny kitchen, turned on her fridge and the gas for her stove. The apartment needed cleaning of the eight years of dust that had settled over everything but tonight she was oblivious to it all. But first a bath in her deep tub. The tub sat in the bedroom in an alcove. Jean was still asleep as she slipped down underneath water. She had a long soak scrubbing away the eight years of dust and smoke and blood of Palestine. She dipped down under the water to rinse her hair and came up wiping the water from her eyes. John was standing by the tub.