Chapter 2158 - 873: Victor’s Fist

Golan Heights, Tiberias Lake floating bridge

As Jonathan Ben-Joseph walked across the west end of the bridge, the sun had just risen directly above the lake.

The water was golden, the sky was blue, and the distant Tiberias City was white.

He stood at the bridgehead, squinting his eyes for a long time.

Sunlight he hadn't seen for twenty-five years stung his eyes, but he couldn't bear to close them.

Old Moses Levi was still holding that cup of water, the glass was empty, yet he still held it.

"Would you like another drink?" he asked.

Jonathan shook his head. "It's enough, one cup is enough."

The old man nodded, placing the glass on the bridge railing. The cup was plastic, the transparent kind, just a few cents at the supermarket. Sunlight shone through the cup walls, casting a round spot of light on the bridge surface.

"Have you been imprisoned for twenty-five years?" the old man asked.

"Twenty-five years," Jonathan said. His voice was still hoarse, like a machine unused for a long time, each word needing a great effort to squeeze out from his throat.

"Where?"

"Outskirts of Damascus. No. 317."

The old man nodded. "I was imprisoned in Kirkuk for twenty-five years. Iraqi prison, half the size of the Syrians', rats outnumbered people."

The two stood at the bridgehead, one sixty-seven, the other fifty-seven, one just released, one released three days ago. They looked at the lake, at the pigeons, at those still embracing, crying, laughing at the bridge's east end.

"Do you hate?" the old man asked.

Jonathan was silent for a long time. "I don't know. I hated for twenty-five years, but I can't hate anymore."

"Me too," the old man said.

The two stood there, without speaking again.

In the middle of the bridge, Major Sanchez was tidying up the folding table. On the table were three empty coffee pots, two ashtrays, three lists, and that white flag. He folded the lists and put them in his briefcase. The white flag was folded and put into his jacket pocket. The coffee pots and ashtrays were left to the mess sergeant—they were borrowed from the camp.

"Major," the aide walked over, "General Hassan's car has returned again."

Sanchez looked up. At the east end of the bridge, the military jeep stopped behind the tent, Hassan stood next to the car, not coming over. He looked at the two people at the west end of the bridge, looked at Jonathan, looked at Moses Levi, for a long time.

Then he turned around, got into the car.

The car door closed, the engine started. The jeep turned around, headed east. This time driving very slowly, like waiting for someone.

Sanchez stood in the middle of the bridge, watching the car slowly disappear into the dust.

He picked up the walkie-talkie.

"Connect me with Colonel Barak."

The phone was connected.

"Colonel, the prisoner exchange is completed. Forty for forty. Not a single one missed."

Barak was silent for two seconds. "Major, thank you."

Sanchez said nothing. He hung up the phone, stood in the middle of the bridge, watching the sunlight on the lake surface. The sun had started to lean west, turning from gold to silver. In the distance, the outline of Tiberias City blurred, like a painting gradually fading.

He turned to walk towards the west end of the bridge.

Miriam was still standing by the roadside, holding a baby in her arms, the child holding a flower stood by her side. Jonathan stood next to her, one hand around her shoulder, the other touching the child's hair. The yellow flower still tucked into his tracksuit pocket, already wilted, petals curled up, yellow turning pale.

"Mr. Ben-Joseph." Sanchez stood in front of him.

Jonathan looked at him. "Major."

"What will you do next?"

Jonathan was silent for three seconds. "Go home. Haifa. I still have a mother."

Sanchez nodded. "Haifa is a nice place. I've seen it from afar on a ship."

He took out a business card from his pocket and handed it over. The same as the one given to Hussein yesterday, only a name and phone number, no title, no unit, no address.

"If you need anything, call this number."

Jonathan took the card, looked at it. "Mexican?"

"Mexican."

Jonathan put the card in his pocket, together with the wilted flower.

"Major, what's your name?"

"Sanchez."

Jonathan extended his hand. Sanchez grasped it. The two people's hands gripped tightly, forcefully.

"Major Sanchez, you've built a good bridge."

He let go of his hand, turned, wrapping his arm around Miriam, holding the child, walking towards the bus parked by the roadside. The child looked back for a glance, waved at Sanchez.

Sanchez waved back.

The bus drove away. Only Moses Levi, the old man, remained standing at the west end of the bridge, holding a cup of water again.

"Major, are you still here?"

"Still here."

The old man took a sip of water. "What about tomorrow? Will you still come?"

Sanchez looked at the lake surface. "I'll come. There are still things to do tomorrow."

"What things?"

Sanchez didn't answer. He took out that list from his pocket, turned to the last page. The line in the blank space was still there:

"Jonathan Ben-Joseph, 317."

He wrote another line below:

"Number 317 prison. How many people are left?"

He put away the list, into his briefcase.

"Mr. Levi, do you know prison number 317?"

The old man's hand shook. Water spilled out, splashing on the bridge, wetting a small spot.

"I know."

"Who is imprisoned there?"

The old man was silent for a long time. "Syrians. Opposition. MSL Brotherhood, Communists, Kurds. And some—" he paused.

"Some what?"

"Some Israelis. Not prisoners of war. Spies. Mossad, Military Intelligence Bureau. Arrested, not admitted, not exchanged, not released. Imprisoned until death."

Sanchez's fingers tapped on the bridge railing. "How many people?"

The old man shook his head. "I don't know. I was imprisoned in Kirkuk for twenty-five years, heard about 317, never seen it. Anyone who goes in, never comes out."