By the time I received the letter describing what was happening at Avni, I already knew what David and the rest of my closest friends thought about me marrying Lily. On our first weekend leave, on the way to the base canteen, David pulled out a piece of paper. He had clearly written notes on it, probably because he was too nervous to say it all from memory. His “speech” was meant to lay out, realistically as he saw it, a picture I didn’t want to face.
He started with her current condition, which, while not the worst – and maybe even good – still pointed to darker days ahead. He told me, “While you were in Finland, the department head gave a seminar on diseases like hers. Based on what hesaid, it’s just a matter of time. Within months, maybe a year, she’ll get worse. In two years, you’ll be a widower.”
“What do you expect me to do?” I shot back, though the words felt automatic. “I still think their diagnosis is wrong.”
“I think you need to take the department head at his word,” David pressed, his voice unusually stern. “He never would have dared to say what he said unless he knew you were a doctor. I’m serious. He wouldn’t have done it.”
“So you’re telling me I just have to accept the verdict?”
“No,” David said. “But you need to know this is what people believe. I gathered the courage to tell you, and now you know. And so do the others.”
His words rattled me so much that all I wanted at that moment was to quit the officers’ course and run back home to Lily.
“But she’s in remission,” I insisted, almost begging. “That can last for years.”
“Yes, she’s in remission,” David agreed, “but according to the head of department – and his experience – it’s not going to last. Sooner or later, the disease will flare up again. She could lose consciousness, lose strength, become paralyzed, need dialysis – God only knows what else.” He didn’t spare me a single horror. Death was the only thing he didn’t mention.
“Wait, you’re not leaving any room for doubt,” I said, desperate. “What if it takes five years? By then, maybe there’ll be a cure!” I begged for a little optimism.
“He said there’s no chance. Which means by the time you’re twenty-seven, give or take, you’ll be caring for a disabled wife. She’s going to need care, the kind that some of our friends’ grandparents who survived the Holocaust needed. You’ll only be twenty-seven!” David was trying to force me to see reality.
I was in shock. My head dropped and tears welled up in my eyes. With just a few words, my closest friends shattered the dream that had taken root in me the moment I first saw her – no,the moment we became one. I couldn’t even be angry. They were just looking out for me.
“So you’re against the wedding?” I asked quietly.
“We love Lily,” David said gently. “She’s one of us now, like she’s always been here. We love you too. But we’re worried for you both.”
By the time he finished, I was crying uncontrollably.
“So what do you suggest?”
David put his arm around me.
“Stay with her, if it makes you happy,” he said. ‘But why do you have to get married?”
“You don’t understand what’s happening to me, within me,” I told him with all the passion I had left. “From the first second I saw her, I wanted to be with her. And now, I want to marry her.”
“You’re stubborn. I know you’ll do it anyway. Just remember, we only want what’s best for you both.”
I remembered what her father had told me when I first met him. Without even knowing it, David and the guys were echoing her parents’ warning. They were all trying to guide me. But as confused and overwhelmed as I was, I knew one thing clearly by the end of that night: I would propose to her, no matter what. No one – not her parents, not my friends, not even well-meaning doctors could deter that. The decision was ours to make.
“Behold, you are betrothed to me,” I said aloud to David as we walked out of the canteen.
Chapter 23
First Leave
On the way from the bus station home, I remembered the photos of soldiers returning to their families at the end of World War II. And then Lily leapt out from a corner where she had been hiding, jumped on me, and brought the memory to life. It didn’t help that I asked her to calm down – not because I wasn’t happy to see her, but because that level of exuberance was dangerous, even for healthy people. She refused to let go.
“My soldier is back from the war…” she whispered in my ear.
“What war are you talking about?”
“Let my imagination run free – I missed you so much.”
“I missed you too, no less than you. But … let’s go upstairs.”
“I love you.”
