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Show felt relief. Her father had followed me into the room and now stood silently behind me, his arms crossed, as though his daughter's guard; I wondered where her mother was. I stood at the foot of Talma's bed and when I found the correct kind of courage I looked into her eyes. They had lost some of their heat, but none of their understanding. "It was my fault," she said. "I was standing too close to the edge. I wasn't looking. Do not blame yourself." Then she motioned me near and reached into a drawer, and when I was beside her she held out the photograph of herself in uniform. It was already signed, both in Hebrew and English, evidence that she knew I was coming even when I myself had been unsure. She smiled when I took it and I could tell that the rest of her recovery would not be difficult. It was the last time I saw her. It is a black and white photograph and in it Talma Levy is perhaps seventeen and her hair is cut short. It is a close shot, torso and face in semi-profile, against a background of blurred trees and low rectangular shapes that can only be tents. She is wearing a gray loose-fitting military blouse with faint stripes, and slung at her shoulder, so that it is forward and center in the frame, is a rifle. The gun does not succeed in making her look dangerous. She is at ease, an innocent and unaffected smile on her boyish face; it is in her eyes you will find that expression which makes me her |
