Vals Im Bashir Page #3

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along the way

If I came close to death

I couldn't say

I bombed Beirut every day

Our daily routine was this:

Get up in the morning,

prepare breakfast

on those frying pans,

potted beef and eggs.

On the beach.

- On the beach.

Take a quick swim,

back into uniform,

then go after some terrorists.

Someone yelled, "Frenkel!"

I noticed a boy holding an RPG.

A kid.

Frenkel, was I there too?

Sure. From training camp,

you were with me wherever I went.

Even there?

- Yes, there too.

Good to know. Of course I was there.

Is it possible that I can't remember

such a dramatic event?

We call them "dissociative events".

It's when a person is in a situation

but feels outside it.

I was once visited by a young man,

an amateur photographer.

I asked him in 1983, "How did you

survive through that grueling war?"

He replied, "It was quite easy.

I regarded it as a long day-trip."

He told himself.

"Wow! What great scenes:

shooting, artillery,

wounded people, screaming..."

He looked at everything

as if through an imaginary camera.

Then something happened:

his 'camera' broke.

He said that the situation

turned traumatic for him

when they arrived in the vicinity of the

stables in Beirut.

The Hippodrome.

He saw a huge number of carcasses

of slaughtered Arabian horses.

"It broke my heart.", he said.

"What had those horses done

to deserve such suffering?"

He couldn't handle seeing

those dead and wounded horses.

He had used a mechanism

to remain outside events,

as if watching the war on film

instead of participating.

This protected him.

Once pulled into the events,

he could no longer deny reality.

Horror surrounded him

and he freaked out.

You told me earlier that

you can't remember being in the orchard

where the boy with the RPG was.

Can you remember other things?

Like going home,

chatting with friends,

events from that time,

something that maybe reminds you

of that time?

Yes, in detail.

- For example?

I can remember perfectly

every furlough.

I remember when I was about 10,

there was a war going on.

And everything came to a halt.

All the fathers were at the front.

All children sat with their mothers

closed up indoors,

behind closed blinds in the dark.

Just waiting for a plane to drop a bomb

and kill them all.

No one even dreamed of going outside.

When I went home from Lebanon

for the first time in six weeks,

and saw that life

was carrying on normally.

My goal on leave

was to get back my girlfriend Yaeli.

She had dumped me the night before

all of this started.

Remember, how?

Add some Sprite...

Ready?

Bottoms up!

The memories are coming back.

I met people who served with me.

I almost have the full picture.

At which point?

- The first day of the war,

the siege on Beirut.

You remember

that Yaeli dumped you a week before?

How do you know?

Didn't you know

that I was in love with her for years?

No, I didn't know that.

It's true.

What's wrong?

That was 20 years ago.

It's OK. I'm not angry.

At least you had your home,

your family.

What home? What family?

You have no idea.

My father...

To comfort me,

he told me that in his war,

World War II...

Russian soldiers in Stalingrad

were given 48 hours leave

only after one year on the front.

They got on a train,

arrived home at the station,

kissed their girlfriends

on the platform,

then had to get back on board

to head back to the front.

Understand?

He thought it would comfort me.

In fact, he was right.

After only 24 hours

I was called back to duty.

Back then, a new trend started:

car bombs.

Still popular today.

They're a blast!

A real blast!

So I arrive at this villa

on the outskirts of Beirut.

Everything is made of gold.

Fancy sinks, marble,

gold fixtures and all that stuff.

An officer sits in front of the TV.

He doesn't look at me.

He keeps repeating:

"Fast forward."

Fast forward.

THE PLUMBER COMES 2

I'm here to check your plumbing.

- Down here.

Have you seen my tool?

- Which tool?

Fast forward.

Stop.

He changes the tape and says:

We received a tip-off

about a red Mercedes.

It's coming to blow up your men.

- So?

Blow it up first.

Every red Mercedes?

- Are you an idiot?

Did the Mercedes come?

We waited all night

for the exploding Mercedes,

for this impending disaster.

Then, in the middle of the night,

the phone rang.

Bashir is dead.

Which Bashir?

- Bashir Gemayel,

the elected president of Lebanon.

A brother, an ally, a Christian.

Murdered.

Wake everyone up.

You'll be in Beirut in two hours!

I don't remember much

about the flight to Beirut,

except that I was having

obsessive thoughts about death.

Because my girlfriend Yaeli

had dumped me the week before.

Death would be my revenge.

She would be ridden with guilt

for the rest of her life.

While fantasizing about my death,

we approach Beirut.

A city with hotels, beaches,

and people scurrying about.

We land at the international airport.

Our Hercules army helicopter

lands next to jets from Air France, TWA,

and British Airways.

I was excited

like I was going on a trip abroad,

excited all over.

At some point I simply take off

and walk into the terminal.

It felt as if I was on a leisure trip,

a sort of hallucination.

Like standing in a terminal

waiting to choose my destination.

Before that '80s departures board,

the choice is all mine.

I see the 14:
10 to London,

the 15:
20 to Paris,

the 16:
00 to New York...

I wander through the terminal

and see the duty-free shops:

jewellery, tobacco,

alcohol...

While I'm still on this trip,

I suddenly realize what's going on.

Through the window I see

that all the TWA and Air France planes

are just bombed- out shells.

And the shops are empty,

they've long since been looted.

And the schedule board

hasn't changed for months.

Then I start to hear sounds, voices.

I hear shelling in the city

and the bombing by the air force.

Slowly I begin to realize where I am

and I am afraid

of what will happen next.

We start walking

from the airport to the city.

Tall high-rise hotels

hover above us.

The sea is at our side.

We walk along a promenade

towards a large junction.

Then we come under sniper fire

from the upper floors of a hotel.

We can't see where it's coming from

or who is shooting.

A wounded soldier was lying at the

junction, but we couldn't get to him.

We were scared to death.

Then, in the middle of this hell,

that TV correspondent

Ron Ben- Yishai suddenly shows up.

He's walking upright,

dodging bullets like Superman.

Strolling along as if nothing's wrong,

while bullets whiz past him.

In front of him, a terrified cameraman

crawls forward.

Trembling with fear,

he can't see beyond his helmet.

It was a large junction.

One lane led directly

into Hamra street,

to the West Beirut district of Hamra.

I remember the sizzling sound,

a sort of hissing noise...

They were firing masses of RPGs,

and it sounded

like a Native American

arrow-shooting range.

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