Dark Awakening
Three weeks later – Tel Aviv
A small electric space heater blew a warm breeze across Tom Donafin's face as sounds began to fill his ears with the reality that surrounded him. Still more asleep than awake, his mind wandered aimlessly between dream and consciousness. Finally he committed himself to wakefulness and opened his eyes, but was suddenly struck with intense pain as tiny bits of glass scraped across the inside of his eyelids. Instantly his eyes closed again as he winced and moaned and rolled in pain.
Tom lay still, trying to relax his eyes as he sorted through his memories. The last thing he recalled was the missile that killed Nigel and destroyed the car. He did not recall being knocked unconscious, nor did he have any idea where he was now. He listened for voices or some distinguishable sound but heard none.
"Hello," he said finally to anyone who might be nearby.
No one answered.
"Hello," he called out louder.
"So, you're awake," a man's voice answered in a not altogether friendly tone.
"Where am I?" Tom asked.
"You're in the apartment of Dr. Rhoda Felsberg on Ramat Aviz in occupied Tel Aviv." The man spoke quickly and his voice gave the clear impression that Tom was an unwelcome guest.
"How did I get here?"
"You were brought here nearly a month ago by my sister's rabbi who found you on the street."
"A month ago?! Have I been unconscious the whole time?"
"Pretty much."
"What do you mean, 'occupied Tel Aviv?"
"Just that," the man responded, not offering any more information.
"Occupied by whom?" Tom probed, becoming a little exasperated at the man's apparent unwillingness to provide substantive answers.
"The Russians," the man answered.
Tom didn't know whether to take the man seriously. He began to wonder if he had awakened in a psychiatric ward and the man he was talking to was a patient.
"You said I was brought here by your sister's rabbi. Is your sister the Dr. Felsberg you mentioned?"
"You got it," he answered.
"And she has been taking care of me?"
"Yep."
Tom desperately wanted to know what was going on and what had happened to him but he wanted to talk to someone who would give him reliable, complete answers. "Well, can I talk to her?" he urged.
For a moment there was silence. "Yeah, I guess so."
Tom heard the man dial the telephone.
"Hey, Rhoda," the man said. "He's awake and he wants to talk to you."
"I'll be right there!" Tom heard the woman answer.
A moment later Dr. Rhoda Felsberg arrived and went directly to Tom's side and began to check his vital signs. "Is he cognizant?" she asked, a little out of breath from running up the three flights of stairs from her office on the first floor. Like her brother, she had a New Jersey accent.
"Hi, there," Tom said, with a half grin in answer to her question.
"Oh," she said, a little surprised. "How do you feel?"
"Well, I have a terrible headache and when I opened my eyes it felt like somebody was dragging razor blades over them."
"I thought I got all the glass out," Rhoda Felsberg said, followed by an indiscriminate sound that Tom interpreted as a negative assessment of his condition. "When you opened your eyes, did you see anything?"
The full meaning of her question was apparent at once. "I don't think so," he said haltingly. "Am I… blind?"
"We can't say yet," she answered. Her voice had no emotion but seemed somehow reassuring. "I need you to open them again slowly and let me look inside. Then we'll go from there."
Tom felt her sit down on the bed beside him. Wincing, he opened his eyes, hoping desperately to see something. He didn't. He felt Dr. Felsberg's hands on his face as she examined him. They were strong but soft and, despite all else that was going on, he noticed the faint sweet fragrance of her perfume as she leaned down close to him and peered into his eyes with her ophthalmoscope.
"Can you see the light in my hand?"
"I can see a light spot."
"Good, at least that's a start," she said. "Your pupils both seem to be working properly. But I'm afraid there must still be a few tiny particles of glass." Tom felt her put some eye drops in his eyes, which brought quick relief from the pain. "I'm going to bandage your eyes to keep them closed until we can get you to an ophthalmologist."
"Will I be able to see again?"
"It's too soon to say for sure," she answered, as she helped him to a sitting position and began to bandage his eyes. "You should be glad just to be alive. I removed several pieces of glass from each eye when you were first brought here. You're actually very fortunate. If the glass had gone much deeper into your eyes, the vitreous fluid would have escaped and your eyeballs would have simply collapsed."
Tom had no idea what vitreous fluids were, but the thought of his eyeballs collapsing was quite alarming, and at least in this regard he did, indeed, consider himself fortunate.
"The scarring to your corneas is quite extensive," she continued. "In addition, both of your retinae have been burned. Was there a bright flash when you were injured?"
"Yeah, I think so," he said, thinking back to the last thing he remembered.
"The burns on your retinae are our biggest worry. The corneas can be replaced with transplants but there's no way to repair a damaged retina. I may be able to remove the remaining glass myself, but I'd feel better if we had a qualified ophthalmologist do it."
"How soon can that be done?"
"Well, it could take a while." The tone of her voice said 'a while' might be a very long time indeed.
"Why? What's going on here, anyway? Will you please tell me why I'm here instead of in a hospital?" Tom was trying not to panic, but it wasn't easy: he had just been told in gruesome detail that he may never see again.
"Please, Mr. Donafin. We're friends. We want to help you, but you've got to realize that a lot has changed since your accident. Israel is an occupied country. If you'll be patient I'll explain everything, but first you need to try to eat something."
Only then did Tom notice he was starving, so he didn't object.
From the kitchen Tom could hear the hushed conversation of Rhoda Felsberg and her brother Joel.
"So, now that he's awake are you finally going to move him in with your other patients?" Joel Felsberg asked.
"No," Rhoda answered. "I'm not."
"Why not?!"
"Because Rabbi Cohen said he should stay here."
"There's no reason for him to insist that you keep this man in your personal care."
"He's the rabbi," Rhoda answered, as though no further justification were necessary.
"Yeah, well he may look like Hasidim, with his earlocks and all dressed in black, but I've heard that the other Hasidic rabbis won't have anything to do with him." Right now Rhoda was glad that Joel wasn't more aware of religious matters; if he had been he would have known that Cohen's standing with the other rabbis was actually far worse than he imagined. It had not always been this way. At one time Cohen had been thought by many to be the heir apparent to the Lubavitcher Rebbe, Rabbi Menachem Mendel Schneerson, considered the most politically powerful rabbi in the world. Now, however, it was not only the Hasidic rabbis who wouldn't have anything to do with him; none of the other rabbis, not even the most liberal ones, would even mention his name without spitting to show their disgust.
"Oh, and since when did you start to care what the rabbis think?" Rhoda asked her brother, not letting on.
"The point is, he's a kook," Joel answered.
"Come eat," she said, not wanting to argue the matter.
"Rhoda!" Joel said, trying to get her back on the subject as she took the pot of soup and some bowls and headed back to Tom.
"Come eat," she said again more sternly, then added, "We'll talk about it later," though she had no intention of allowing the subject to reemerge.
Rhoda put a spoon in Tom's hand and set his soup on a tray in front of him. Tom found it difficult to eat without being able to see, and his first few bites were a bit messy. Rhoda gave him a napkin but as he began to wipe his mouth, he felt the scars that covered his face from the explosion. Silently, he traced the scars with his fingers.
"How bad am I?" he asked.
"You had lacerations over most of the front of your body. Most of the scars will disappear eventually," Rhoda answered. "Some minor plastic surgery may be needed later for some of the scars on your face. We'll just have to wait and see."
Tom reached down and felt his arms, shoulders, and chest. "Well, I guess I was never really that much to look at anyway," he said, trying to hide his pain in humor.
"So, how about that explanation? What am I doing here and when can I see an ophthalmologist?"
"The night after the war began," Rhoda explained, "you were brought here by Rabbi Saul Cohen, who found you buried under rubble about five or six miles from here. Since then, you have been either unconscious or disoriented and delirious."
Tom shook his head. "I don't remember anything since the explosion," he said.
"Well, unfortunately, the war didn't go so well," she continued. "Israel fought hard but it soon became apparent that the Arabs were getting the upper hand. The United States and Britain tried to help by providing emergency supplies and food. I think they could have done more, but a lot of their politicians kept saying they couldn't afford a war, especially after both countries lost so many people just two months earlier in the Disaster. Then it was discovered that the Russians were supplying arms to the Arabs. Of course, the Russians denied it, but the U.N. Security Council voted to set up a blockade of the Arab ports."
"You're kidding! How on earth did they ever get the vote past the Russian delegate on the Security Council?" Tom asked.
"That's the really strange thing. The Russian delegate didn't show up for the vote," Rhoda answered.
"That's crazy," Tom blurted. "The Russians made that mistake in 1950 when they boycotted the U.N. because of its exclusion of Red China. That's what allowed the Security Council action against their allies in Korea. The Russians would never let that happen a second time."
"Well, I don't understand it, but they did," Rhoda said.
"I don't know what the big mystery is," Joel said, sarcastically. "I think they had the whole thing planned ahead of time."
"What do you mean?" asked Tom.
"Joel, just let me tell the story," Rhoda said. "You can give us your theories later."
"Sure, go ahead. But he'll figure it out pretty quickly for himself if he's got half a brain."
"Where was I? You made me forget," Rhoda chided her brother.
"The U.N. voted for a blockade," Joel reminded her.
"Okay, so there were a lot of charges back and forth but finally the Russians agreed not to provide any more arms to the Arabs, and the U.N. agreed not to impose the blockade. A few days later things seemed to be changing in Israel's favor. We had taken back a lot of land that we lost earlier and what was left of our Air Force was clobbering the Arab air and ground forces.
"Then the Israeli Intelligence – the Mossad – found out that because the Libyans couldn't get additional conventional weapons from the Russians, they were planning to launch a chemical attack. To prevent that, the Israeli Air Force launched a preemptive strike against the Libyan chemical weapons storage facilities. Unfortunately most of the air strike didn't get through because the Libyans anticipated the attack.
"When it became apparent that there was no other way for Israel to stop the chemical attack, Prime Minister Greenberg sent a message to the Libyans saying that if Israel was attacked with chemical weapons, we would immediately respond with a massive nuclear attack on Libya."
"So Israel finally admitted it has nukes?" Tom asked.
"The exact wording of the message wasn't released to the press, but he apparently made it very clear that's what he meant," Joel answered.
"Anyway," Rhoda continued, "despite their agreement with the U.N., the Russians agreed to sell the Arabs additional conventional weapons, claiming it was the only way to prevent a chemical/nuclear exchange."
"Yeah," Joel interjected. "It was a perfect excuse for the Russians to do exactly what they wanted in the first place."
Tom still didn't understand what Joel was driving at, but for now he let it pass. Rhoda continued. "So the Mossad tracked the Russian ships they thought were going to deliver the arms to Libya, and just before they entered Libyan waters, our Air Force attacked. They sank four cargo ships and a bunch of escort vessels, but it turned out the whole thing was a decoy. While most of the Israeli Air Force was busy in the Mediterranean and the army was busy with the Arabs on our borders, advance teams of Russian commandos landed north of Tel Aviv and took over an airstrip. The whole thing must have been planned perfectly because no sooner had they taken the airstrip than Russian troops and equipment began landing."
"Wait a second," Tom said. "You mean Joel was telling the truth about Tel Aviv being occupied by the Russians?!"
"Not just Tel Aviv," Joel answered. "It's the whole country."
"Man, what a world to wake up to!"
"Yeah, seems that some of the Russians weren't happy with the way things have worked out since the collapse of the Soviet Union," Joel said. "Some of them still want to rule the world. Of course, they told the U.N. they were simply responding to our 'unprovoked' attack on their naval vessels, and that they were really just a peacekeeping force. They said their only intention in occupying Israel was to prevent a chemical/nuclear war. And just to make it seem more legitimate they brought a few troops from Ethiopia, Somalia, and a few other countries so they could say it was an 'international' peacekeeping force. Only now they refuse to leave."
The next morning Tom awoke to the smell of breakfast cooking and the sound of Rhoda Felsberg's voice calling his name.
"Mr. Donafin, are you awake?" It was hard for her to be sure with his eyes bandaged.
"Yes," Tom answered.
"Do you feel like having some breakfast?"
"That sounds great, thank you. But actually the first thing on my mind is finding the bathroom."
"I can bring you a bedpan, or if you feel like you're ready to walk a few steps, I'll guide you there."
Tom was already standing, though his legs felt incredibly unsure beneath him. "I think I'm ready for the real thing," he said.
"Come on then," she said, and put his hand on her arm to lead him through the apartment.
"I'll take it from here," Tom said when he felt tile instead of carpet beneath his bare feet.
"Can you find your way back to your room? I need to go check the breakfast."
"Sure," Tom said. "I'll bet I can even find the kitchen."
Rhoda set the table for two and finished cooking the meal. She watched as Tom slowly made his way to the kitchen but did not offer help or interference. "A little to the left," she said finally, as he was about to walk into a doorjamb.
When Tom found the table and sat down, Rhoda noticed even through the bandages that he had a very strange look on his face. "Is something the matter?" she asked.
"I'm not sure," he said. "When I was in the bathroom I noticed something that didn't seem… uh… quite right. I, uh, well… I… " Tom stammered for another moment. Had he been able see, he would have seen the look of embarrassment on Rhoda's face as she realized what he was talking about. "Never mind," he said finally, and Rhoda was glad to let the subject drop.
"I have some good news," Rhoda said, quickly changing the subject. "I called an ophthalmologist friend and he said he can see you first thing tomorrow."
"That's great!" Tom said.
"Don't get too excited, yet. He only said he could examine you and try to get the rest of the glass out, not that he can get you admitted for surgery."
"Oh. Well, maybe he can at least tell me what my chances are of getting my sight back."
"Yeah, that's what I'm hoping for."
"You, know," Tom added, "there's no reason I have to have the surgery done here, is there? I could go back to the States."
"Well, yes, you could," Rhoda said hesitantly. "Ben Gurion Airport is in pretty bad shape, but I understand that the Russians are still letting a few flights out."
Tom noticed an unexpected hint of disappointment in her voice.
"Speaking of the States," Rhoda continued. "Isn't there anyone you need to call to let them know you're alive?"
Her voice said she was fishing for something she didn't want to ask outright. Tom let it pass and replied to her direct question. "I don't have any family," he said. "My parents, two brothers and a sister all died in a car wreck when I was six. That's how I got this mangled-looking skull. I was the only one to survive."
"Sounds like you've had your share of close calls," Rhoda offered.
"Yeah. I guess so."
"Did they do surgery on you?" she asked out of professional curiosity.
Tom let out an odd chuckle. "Yeah. They waited a while though. They figured I'd die within a few days anyway, and even if I did make it, I'd be a vegetable. I guess I'm lucky it happened so long ago, back in the days before they'd pull your feeding tube to hurry you on your way. Anyway, four days after the accident I woke up and started talking to the nurse. That convinced them I might make it," he said dryly, "so they went in and dug around and pulled out a bunch of broken pieces of skull and a few extra brains I guess I didn't need. They left me with a steel plate that has a habit of setting off metal detectors at airports."
Rhoda smiled awkwardly.
"I do have a friend I should call," Tom said, getting back to her original question. "He probably thinks I'm dead."
"Is that Decker?" Rhoda asked.
Tom gave her a funny look. "How did you know that?"
"You mentioned him several times while you were delirious."
"Oh."
"Anyone else?" she asked.
"Well, I had some friends named Rosen here in Israel but they died in the Disaster." Tom was going down a very short list of the people he counted as his friends. Until the Disaster, Joshua and Liana Rosen had visited him every day at the hospital in Tel Aviv. Their son, Scott, had survived the Disaster, but Tom hardly counted him as a close friend. "I really ought to call NewsWorld" Tom said. "That's where I work. But to tell the truth, I'd rather wait until after we've been to the ophthalmologist before I call them. I'm a photo-journalist, or at least I was. I'm not sure there's much call for blind photographers."
"No. I guess not."
"How about you?"
"Pardon?"
"Your family."
"Oh, well, of course, there's my brother, Joel, who you met yesterday. His wife and son died in the Disaster. I really liked her, and he was a real sweet kid. The three of us used to go to worship services together. That's how I know Rabbi Cohen. Joel's a computer systems analyst for the Israeli government doing something with strategic defense, but he's not allowed to say what. That was before the Russians relieved him of his responsibilities, of course. I feel bad for him; he's lost nearly everything in the past couple of months. My parents and younger sister live in the States."
Tom nodded and after an appropriate pause asked Rhoda if she knew what time it was in Washington.
"About midnight," she answered after doing a quick mental calculation.
"Good, Decker ought to be home. Can I use your phone?"
"Sure," she said. "I should warn you that getting an overseas call out is not an easy task. There's really no logic to it. After the occupation began, I called repeatedly to let my folks know I was all right. I must have dialed a hundred times before I got a call through. When I did, it went straight through and sounded as if they were right next door. Of course, it's not just from the occupation. There was a lot of damage from the war." Rhoda dialed the number Tom gave her, and handed him the phone. "The middle button at the very bottom redials," she said. "If you don't get through, feel free to try as many times as you like."
"It's ringing," Tom said, surprised.
"That won't happen again in a million years," Rhoda said, surprised by Tom's stroke of luck. Tom waited as the phone continued to ring. "What's the matter?" Rhoda asked after a minute.
"No one's answering."
"Well, don't give up too quickly. You may not get another call through for a long time."
New York
Decker was already in his chair at the conference table when British Ambassador Jon Hansen and the other members of his senior staff arrived for a special meeting. The excitement of Decker's new job was still fresh.
"Decker," Hansen said before he even sat down, "I need one of your best speeches for this."
"I'll have the draft ready by one o'clock, sir," Decker responded. "I've done a search in the computer archives for any speeches you've given in the past on the make-up of the Security Council and I ran across one where you talked about reorganizing the Council on a regional basis. Of course we don't want to detract from the main issue, but if you like, I think I can work that in as a minor theme."
"Yes, that will do nicely. That's been a hot topic for years with the countries not on the Council."
"Peter," Hansen said, turning his attention to his chief legal council, "what's your final prognosis for this effort?"
"Well, for the benefit of the others in the meeting, let me just restate that there's no way in hell that this measure will ever pass, if for no other reason than simply on the grounds that it violates the United Nations Charter. There is no provision for removing a permanent member from the Security Council. You might, however, expand on Decker's suggestion and go for a complete reorganization. Another option you might consider would be to attempt something along the lines of what was done in 1971 when the Republic of China was removed from its seat in the U.N. because the General Assembly recognized the People's Republic of China as the true representative of the Chinese people."
"Let's not get carried away, Peter," Hansen said. "Remember, this is entirely for effect. We don't actually want to get the bloody thing passed."
"Jack, what about the poll of support from the other members?" Hansen asked his legislative assistant. "Are we sure that we can at least get this thing to the floor?" Jack Redmond was a native of Louisiana and the only other American besides Decker on Hansen's staff. When Hansen came to the U.N. he had wanted someone who understood American politics and this outspoken Cajun seemed just the man for the job.
"There should be no problem getting it to the floor, but I can't guarantee seconding support," Jack answered.
"That's fine. As long as we can get the proper coverage of my speech, I think we'll be all right."
"Ambassador," Decker interrupted, "from a media point of view, I think that may be a mistake. Unless we can get someone to second the motion, there's a good chance that the press may focus more on the hopelessness of the motion than on its symbolic nature."
"Good thought," Hansen said, after mulling it over for a second. "I think you're probably right. If nothing else, perhaps we can get one of the Arab countries to second the motion. After all, they're not very happy with the Russians right now either. Jack, find me that second," Hansen told his legislative assistant.
"Okay, any other thoughts or objections before we pull this thing together?"
There were none.
"Jackie, do you have anything to add?" Hansen asked his daughter.
"Your meeting with Russian Ambassador Kruszkegin is set for noon tomorrow in the Delegates Dining Room."
"Okay," Hansen said, "then we're set. Tomorrow at three o'clock, in plenty of time for the evening news in America and the morning news in Asia and Europe, I will make the motion that in response to their invasion and occupation of Israel, the United Nations General Assembly should permanently remove Russia from its position on the Security Council.
"All I have to do now is have lunch with Russian Ambassador Kruszkegin and convince him it's nothing personal."
Friday, November 28 – Tel Aviv
"Are there a lot of Russians on the streets?" Tom asked as Rhoda drove him to the ophthalmologist's office.
"Too many," she answered, but then added, "Actually there are not as many as you might expect. They patrol the streets but the main forces are camped in the hills in the wilderness areas. Apparently they're trying to limit the resentment of the people. I think they realize that filling the streets with soldiers would just result in more violence, both by the soldiers against the people and vice versa. Besides, if they had a bunch of tanks rolling through the cities it wouldn't do much for their claims that they're just a peacekeeping force. It's really the best possible arrangement for the Russians, I suppose. They keep their soldiers on a short leash in the unpopulated areas, and maintain a minimum show offeree in the cities."
"Sort of the iron fist and silk glove approach," Tom interjected. "Is it the same in the other cities?"
"Yeah, as far as we can tell. In Jerusalem the Russians shut down work on the Temple to pacify the Arabs. But they want it both ways, so to keep from further angering the Jews, they haven't destroyed any of the work that's already been done."
"Is there any kind of organized resistance?" Tom asked.
"There are reports of small groups sniping at the Russians in the hills but I don't think they're very well organized. In the cities the people are less violent but they're just as resistant."
"What about the Russians' ultimate goal? Your brother seemed to think the whole thing had been planned out from the very early stages. Does anybody know what the Russians want with Israel? Have there been any public statements of their long range plans?"
"They say they'll leave when the threat of a nuclear/chemical war is removed from the region. But Joel says they already control all of Israel's nuclear weapons. If they planned to dismantle them they would have started by now. Of course if they do leave we'll be sitting ducks for the Arabs. The Russians have confiscated and impounded all military equipment as well as most of the small arms from the people. It's a lousy situation, but right now if the Russians left we'd have no way to protect ourselves except with picks and shovels.
"I suppose I'm not looking at this very optimistically, but at best this is going to be a long term arrangement. At worst the Russians will declare the occupation a success and leave us to be slaughtered by the Arabs. It's actually quite clever: it's a perfect excuse for them to stay indefinitely."
"I wonder when the next plane leaves for the U.S.?" Tom mused, but Rhoda didn't laugh.
When they arrived at the ophthalmologist's office, Tom took Rhoda's arm and she led him to the door. Inside, the receptionist greeted her like an old friend.
"So this is the special patient you called about. How's he doing?"
"Well, that's what we're here to find out. How long before Dr. Weinstat can see us?" Rhoda asked as she surveyed the nearly full waiting room.
"Dr. Weinstat said to handle this as an emergency since the patient may still have some particles in his eyes. He's finishing up with a patient now, so it should be only a few minutes."
Tom continued to hold Rhoda's arm as they sat down to wait. The chairs were closely placed and it seemed natural to continue the contact. It was a moment before Tom realized he was still holding on. His first thought was to let go, but at the same instant it occurred to him that Rhoda did not seem to object. Even through the soft fabric of her blouse, the warmth of her skin seemed to penetrate the cold darkness that surrounded him.
The two sat silently. The receptionist's comment about him being the 'special' patient had not escaped his attention. He didn't want to assign it too much meaning, but he thought briefly about asking Rhoda to explain the reference. No, he thought. If he spoke he would disturb the moment and she might feel compelled by propriety to lightly pull away her arm, and then he would be compelled by the same propriety to release it. Better to leave things as they were. Then, unexpectedly, she spoke.
"Dr. Weinstat is a good doctor," she said.
"Good," Tom answered, inanely.
It was only small talk. Apparently she was as aware of the silence as Tom was. What was important was that they were carrying on a conversation, however unimaginative, and she gave no hint that she wanted him to let go of her.
In the examination room, it took the ophthalmologist only one quick look in each eye to make his diagnosis. "I'm sorry, Mr. Donafin. The damage to your cornea is very severe. The scarring from the shards of glass and the corneal burns have formed a nearly opaque cover over about ninety percent of your crystalline lens, and the rest isn't much better. As bad as it is, I'm surprised you still have any light perception at all. Ordinarily we might consider corneal transplants, but in this case, with the ancillary burn damage to the retinas, I think we'd only be causing additional suffering with no real hope of improvement in your sight."
It was all so quick. So quick and so final. In those few short words, stated with such stark clinical coldness, the doctor had pronounced him permanently blind.
"If you'll lean back, I'll put some fluorescein in your eyes so we can locate the glass that's still bothering you," the doctor said. When he finished, the doctor put an antibiotic ointment in Tom's eyes and reapplied pressure bandages to keep the lids from moving. "Now, leave that on and come back tomorrow so we can see how you're doing. Dr. Felsberg," he continued, now addressing Rhoda, "will you be bringing Mr. Donafin back in tomorrow?"
Rhoda nodded, and then stated her intention verbally for Tom's benefit.
"If you'll let Betty know on your way out, she'll try to schedule a time convenient with your schedule."
"Thank you," she said, in response to the professional courtesy.
"Oh, and ask her to give you some pamphlets about learning to live with blindness."
Tom knew that it was entirely normal for doctors to carry on conversations as if their patients were nowhere within earshot, but right now what he knew made little difference. What he felt, there in the blackness that he had just learned would be his permanent home, was that he was being talked about and not to. It was as if he weren't a real person anymore because he was blind. He knew it was just the beginning. He had known blind people over the years. He knew how they were obliged by their blindness to always wait for the conversation of others. Even in a crowded room he had seen blind people forced to stand silently until someone spoke to them. The day before, Tom had joked about it, but now the reality of the end of his career as a photographer hit him full force.
In the car Tom was silent as Rhoda got in the other side. "How are you doing?" she asked sympathetically, as she put her hand on his.
"Not very well," he answered. "And what's worse, I don't think the whole thing has really hit me yet. I keep thinking that I'll just get these bandages off and I'll be able to see again."
"Well," she began as she caressed his hand to comfort him, but then she couldn't think of anything else to say.
Tom turned his hand to hold hers; he needed all the support he could get right now. "I have no idea what to do from here," he said. "I can't work. I have some savings and three years of back pay coming from News World that'll last me for a while, but then what?" He felt like saying something cliché like "I'd be better off dead," but the warmth of Rhoda's hand told him that wasn't true.
"Tom, I know you're feeling angry right now, and cheated, but there are things in life which we must simply accept, because even if we don't they remain the same." She sounded as though she was speaking from experience.
They sat for another few minutes in silence holding each other's hands. "Tom," Rhoda said finally, "there's someone I want you to meet."
Tom thought he knew who she was talking about. "Your rabbi?" he asked.
"You'll really like him," she said, confirming Tom's question. "He asked me to bring you by when you were back on your feet."
"Yeah, I guess it's about time I thanked him for digging me out and bringing me to you." Reluctantly, Tom let Rhoda's hand slip free so she could drive.