Chapter 2173 - 875: _4

"Israel will go to war," Barak interrupted him, "The Syrian civil war, where do the refugees go? They run to Lebanon, to Jordan, to Turkey, to Europe. Millions of refugees, blocked at the gates of the Golan Heights. And then? Then Hezbollah attacks from Lebanon, Hamas attacks from Gaza, Iranians attack from Syria. Surrounded by enemies. You've just come out of number 317, and you want to go back?"

Yossi's hand began to tremble.

"Hand over the list. Give it to me. I promise, those names will not have died in vain."

Yossi looked at him. "You promise? With what do you assure me? You couldn't even stop Rifat Assad. He killed twelve people, right at his doorstep. What did you do? You stood at the west side of the bridge, holding a cup of water and said, 'Have a sip, it's sweet'. The water is sweet, but life is bitter."

Barak stood up and walked over to him. "Yossi, I know you hate. I hate too. Hated for thirty-one years. But what use is hate? Can hate bring back the living? Can hate make those buried under the olive trees rise again?"

He pulled a photo from his pocket and placed it on the table. In the photo, there was an olive grove, with white cloth bundles piled under the trees, someone digging a pit, someone crying.

"Hassan took this yesterday. Twenty bodies. All came from number 317. All buried under that grove. Hassan stayed on the mountain for four days, dug for four days, cried for four days. He is still on the mountain, alone, watching those trees. Do you think he doesn't hate? He hates more than anyone. But he kept the bridge. He kept the water. He kept the people. Because he knows, hate cannot kill."

Yossi looked at the photo. He recognized those white cloth bundles. Inside each bundle was a person. A person who once lived, laughed, cried, loved. A person with a name, with family, with people waiting for them to come home. Now, they lay under the olive grove, entwined with the roots, mixed with the soil, rustling in the wind with the leaves of those olive trees.

He touched his chest. The paper was still there. He pulled it out and placed it on the table. The paper was thin, old, folded four times, with tearing corners. It was filled with names, written in Arabic, the handwriting shaky, as if written during trembles.

Barak looked at the paper and did not take it.

"Yossi, keep it. Keep what you should keep. Give it to whom you should give. When you should give it, give it then."

He turned and walked away. The door was open.

Yossi sat there, looking at the paper. The names on the paper, some he recognized, some he didn't. Among those he recognized, some were dead, some still living. Among the living, some were in Israel, some in Syria, some in unknown places.

He stood up, folded the paper, and put it back in the pocket on his chest. He walked out the door, down the long corridor, out of the building. The sky was already dark, streetlights were lit, dim yellow like sleepy eyes.

He stood at the door, unsure of which way to go. Haifa to the north, Tel Aviv to the south, Jerusalem to the east, the Mediterranean to the west. He stood at the crossroads, watching the lights, the cars, the people hurrying by.

He walked north. That was the direction of Haifa. The direction of his wife. The direction of his son. The direction he had waited for eleven years.

He left.

Golan Heights, Lake Tiberias floating bridge, dawn

Lieutenant Alvarez hadn't slept all night.

He sat behind a folding table, looking at the fog on the lake. The fog was dense, white, nothing could be seen. The lights on the bridge turned into clusters of yellow in the fog, like fireflies. The coffee in the thermos was cold, he hadn't drunk.

At the east end of the bridge, a car arrived. Not a truck, not a jeep, but a black sedan. The car stopped behind the tent, the door opened, and a man in a black suit, without a hat, without military rank, stepped out. He walked to the middle of the bridge, stood in front of Alvarez.

"Lieutenant Alvarez?"

"That's me."

The man pulled an envelope from his briefcase and handed it over. "This is a letter from President Hafez Assad to Mr. Victor."

Alvarez took the envelope. It was white, without a header, without a signature, sealed with wax embossed with the emblem of the Syrian president. The second letter. The first letter said, "The bridge remains, the water continues to flow, people are no longer killed." What does the second letter say?

"One more thing." The man pulled out a photograph from his briefcase and handed it over. "The President asked me to give this to you."

Alvarez took the photograph. In the photo, there was an olive grove, an old man standing beneath the trees. Wearing an old military uniform, hair completely white, severely hunched over, holding a cane. He recognized that face.

Hassan.

Much older. His face was full of wrinkles, his eyes sunken, cheekbones protruding, like a tree bent by the wind. Standing among those olive trees, looking at the camera, not smiling.

"The President said, General Hassan stayed on the mountain for seven days. Dug twenty bodies. All buried. Erected a monument. Names carved on it. He—he has aged."

Alvarez looked at the photograph. Hassan stood among the olive trees, those trees tall, leaves silver-green, rustling in the wind. He stood there, like a tree, also like a monument.

The man turned and left. Leather shoes clicking on the bridge, increasingly distant.

Alvarez stood in the middle of the bridge, holding the letter, holding the photo. He placed the photo on the table, alongside the blood-stained paper. Then he opened the letter. Inside was a single sheet of paper, with one line of words written in Arabic, the handwriting a bit neater than last time: