DESERTER IN ALGERIA
Chapter 1
DAY OF DOOM
It was deathly quiet in the courtroom when the young man stood up to plead. He had sat withdrawn throughout the trial, listening. His eyes glowed brightly, like someone who knows much greater hardship than sitting in a courtroom waiting for a sentence. He had even smiled quietly at times when some officer explained to the judge just how serious an offense it is to desert the army, especially when it's Israel's army. The sailor had cost the state a lot of money. The training of sailors is expensive, and he had deserted. An unforgivable step that cannot simply be excused.
Then the young man stood up and calmly let his eyes sweep through the court. At the judge, at the officers, and at the small group of interested sailors who had worked with him on the Ararat before he disappeared. The silence in the courtroom suddenly became electrically tense. Here was someone who truly wanted to say something.
"Your Honor, I don't want to plead. I don't want to say I'm innocent. I admit it's wrong to desert, but I would like to explain why I deserted. Perhaps then you will understand better."
The judge leaned forward expectantly. He could tell when a man truly had something to say in court.
He looked at the young man before him. The pale young man with the serious face deeply etched with the marks of hardship. His story is a long one. The young man speaks with passion. He believes that what he did is justified in light of...
His story quickly grips the audience. He takes them away to a quiet summer night along the milk-white beach of Oran on the Algerian coast...
In the port city of Oran on the North African coast, a brooding silence has descended. The sun slowly sets behind the restless, rolling waves of the Mediterranean Sea. Cargo ships rock alone on the waves between cranes that tower into the sky like silent sentinels.
Along the harbor, where greedy waves caress a long, white sand ribbon, three young sailors of the Israeli Navy walk. Ahead of them, the lights of Oran begin to twinkle. There's distraction for a young sailor in Oran. The nightclubs with their authentic North African atmosphere, the young veiled girls with enticing curves gliding through the misty lights... The three quicken their pace.
Suddenly, one of the sailors stops. His eyes scan the sand in front of him, and his face tightens.
"Come on, Ismael, it's getting late, the places are filling up!" One of his mates pulls at his sleeve.
But the young sailor stands dead still. He stares intently at the white sand. He bends down and scrutinizes the tracks in front of him carefully. Then he looks up again. There's a strange flicker in his eyes.
"Go on, I'll catch up later."
"But Ismael, what's the matter now?"
"You wouldn't understand, but tonight I've found something I've been searching for the past ten years!" His finger traces the ground."This track was made by the foot of the man who killed my parents in Beirut. Go ahead, my friends, I have work to do in Oran..." The two sailors slowly walk away from the young sailor with the strange light in his smoldering blue eyes...
Like a bloodhound, he follows the trail in the mysterious twilight. His pace quickens, and he bends low. The track he follows meanders aimlessly through the sand. The young man's breath quickens feverishly. There is now no doubt, his search ends tonight. The man who left this track, short left foot and right foot of normal size, is the man he has been seeking for ten years.
The trail veers towards the city. The young sailor looks up. Ahead of him, two soldiers of the French Foreign Legion are walking. Their white trousers, caps with a white flap at the back to protect from the scorching Sahara sun, and blue-and-red jackets stand out brightly against the twilight.
