Following Orders

The prisoner did not open his eyes as Oded opened the door. The chair on which he sat stood in the centre of the room, directly underneath the single bare bulb that cast just enough light to throw dark shadows in the corners of the room. His arms were behind his back, secured by a length of rope to the ladder-back of the chair, his ankles tied to the legs in a similar fashion, and his chin rested on his chest, curly hair falling forward to hide part of his face from view. What could be seen of his face would have made most men flinch, the dark skin marred with bruises and scrapes, the full lower lip split down the centre.

But Oded had seen it a thousand times before, and outwardly he gave no reaction. This kind of treatment was…a disturbing necessity, in the war against Israel’s enemies. The prisoner was an Iraqi, Oded knew that much, the only member of the Republican Guard captured alive after they had mounted an unsuccessful attack on the border. He had been held here five days now, questioned by men Oded had spoken to only briefly. They told him that the Iraqi had given no information, even under the usual methods of interrogation. The evidence of those methods were painted across the man’s face, written in the pain-tremor of his muscles as he fought to stay still. But he had not broken, had told them nothing.

Which was why Oded was here. It was strange, he mused, how many men who held onto their silence under the painful process of interrogation would spill their secrets when confronted with kindness. After days of beatings, sleep deprivation, starvation, the man who brought them food, water, cleaned them up, could receive more answers from a captive in a few short hours than his colleagues had in the preceding few days.

It was a deceitful method. The man who showed them care was as much enemy to them as the men who had beaten them. The information gathered was reported to the same people, used for the same purpose. For this reason alone, Oded took no pleasure in his work. There was of course satisfaction in being able to hand his superiors a neatly typed file, detailing the future movements of their enemies. Information that could further their cause, that could save the lives of his countrymen. But to create and nurture the spark of hope that blossomed as the captive began to believe that they had a friend here, an ally, a way out? There was no satisfaction in that, no pride. Only the shame of deceit.

There was no hope in this man’s eyes as he opened them, fixing Oded with a look of tired defiance. Oded knelt down before him, laying several items at his feet. Food, a simple soup with bread, a lidded-jug full of cold water and a tin cup to drink it from, a further bowl of warm water, a cloth, and a small knife.

He picked up the knife, walked around the prisoner to cut the bonds from his arms. As the ropes fell to the floor and as circulation was restored to his lower arms the man bit off a small pained noise, muffled as he pressed his lips together.

Oded moved back to stand in front of the prisoner, watched as the man awkwardly rested his hands in his lap, left cradling the right. The index, middle and little fingers of the right hand were held at a painful angle, swollen, obviously broken, and the blood flaked from the skin as it was moved.

The left hand didn’t seem to be in much better shape, all four fingers tucked tight down. Oded reached for the shattered hand, supporting the palm so the fingers rested on his wrist, his other hand reaching down for one of the items on the floor. The man went very still, and Oded realised he was expecting a twist of his broken fingers, a painful press on the ragged skin. Instead Oded picked up the cloth, dipped it in the bowl of water, and began to gently wipe away the crusted blood. The Iraqi swallowed down another sigh of pain at the pressure, dark eyes confused and wary at the sudden tender treatment.

They were always like this at first. Hesitant to believe after the events of the recent days that they were now being shown mercy. They suspected a trick, expected sudden pain. But when none came, they began to soften, to hope, to trust. Sometimes this took weeks. Sometimes it took hours. The time span was different, but the response was the same. Everyone broke eventually, one way or another.

“What is your name?” Oded asked softly in Arabic. The man said nothing, eyes fixed on a point past Oded. The silence stretched on as Oded continued to clean the battered hands, trying to avoid jostling them more than was necessary. “It would not hurt to tell me your name.” he pressed after a moment, arranging the prisoner’s hands back on his lap.

The brown eyes flickered down towards him, the first real reaction he had seen that was a conscious movement, and not a pain response. It was encouraging. Interaction was the first step in winning a captive’s trust. To engage them in conversation was to have half the battle won.

“It might.” the man said finally. He flexed his unbroken fingers, staring at them as though they could grasp the solution to his situation.

“My name is Oded.” Oded offered. Ragged damp cloth in one hand, he reached out with his other and brushed the prisoner’s hair behind one ear, baring one side of his face. The expected flinch was there but it was slight, and Oded found himself admiring the other man’s self-control.

It was something he had taught himself to do over the years, to be able to admire a captive’s skills, his manner, his courage in the face of the situation, all without losing sight of his job, of the fact that the man before him was an enemy. It had become necessary, the same way that reminding himself that the men he tended to were “the enemy” had become more and more necessary of late.

He dipped the cloth again, and began to draw it across the prisoner’s cheekbone, wiping away yet more blood and dirt. The graze there was not deep, but he felt the man fighting not to flinch as the cloth moved across it. He almost succeeded, until the cloth shifted and Oded’s thumb began to smooth across his skin. He jerked back so quickly that Oded was forced to grab the seat of chair to prevent it from toppling, pulling it towards himself. He sat back on his heels, watching as the man fought to bring himself back under control, eyes closed.

“I am sorry, my friend.” Oded said softly, hands resting on his own knees. The words were partially true, It had not been his intention to startle the man. It was his job to win the prisoner’s trust, to gain co-operation that way, not to cause further injury or invoke additional fear. But that flinch, that reaction, gave him something he could use - the power of physical contact.

“Sayid.” The prisoner spoke quietly, his eyes still lowered. Oded stilled, waited for a moment.

“I am sorry, I did not hear you.” he responded, trying to prompt more from the prisoner. Now the man did look up, gaze determined as it settled on Oded.

“I am not your friend. My name is Sayid.” His gaze flickered briefly to the food and water on the floor, then fixed again on Oded, almost challenging. Oded found himself becoming more and more impressed, against his will. Sayid, if that was his name, knew the rest of his unit were dead. Knew that there was no hope of rescue for him, that his only release would be in death. And he knew what would lead up to his death, what he could expect. And yet still he remained defiant, telling them nothing. Oded lifted the cloth again, gestured with it to the food on the floor.

“Well, Sayid. Are you hungry?” Sayid’s gaze was still wary, waiting for the trick he was sure would come, but when Oded said no more he allowed himself to give a small nod. “If you will allow me to finish tending to your injuries, I have brought you dinner. It is little, but it is enough.”
“Injuries caused by your men.” Sayid noted softly. Oded dipped his head in acknowledgement of the comment. On one hand he was surprised - had the prisoner spoken to his earlier interrogators in such a manner, he would be in a far worse state than he was now. On the other hand, it was obvious from what he had seen that Sayid was a proud man, as well as a strong one, and the chance to comment on the irony of the situation was probably far too appealing to pass up.

“That is true.” Oded agreed. “You would not answer their questions.”

“I will not.” Sayid answered, and Oded was not sure for a moment if the prisoner was agreeing with his statement, or correcting it. Perhaps, he decided after a moment, it was both. Instead of giving this a reply he continued to clean Sayid’s cheek, until the water was tinged pink and the skin showed clear. Without comment he moved the cloth down to the split lip, careful not to apply more pressure than was necessary.

The pain was still obvious in the tremor that ran through Sayid’s controlled posture, and this time Oded was careful not to allow his skin to make contact with the other man’s. One shock in a day was enough, was plenty, and it would give the prisoner something to think about as he was left alone over night. When the cloth began to come away white, no longer picking up streaks of red with each pass, Oded lay it to one side.

“I have brought water.” he stated simply, lifting the jug and half-filling the cup, setting the jug back on the floor and making to hand the cup to Sayid. The prisoner reached tentatively for it, tried to wrap his right hand around it, using the unbroken finger and thumb to hold it while the back of his left hand supported it. It fell almost immediately from his grasp and Oded caught it, managing to avoid brushing against the man’s hands. Sayid reached for it once more, a noise of frustration stifled low in his throat.

Oded held out the vessel, watched as Sayid tried again to hold it, managed to raise it to his lips before it fell, the water streaking down the front of his vest, the metal cup clattering across the floor. Sayid’s swallowed once and stared at Oded, and Oded could almost read his thoughts. This was some new torture, Sayid was sure of it, to be offered these things, food, water, hope, and have them snatched away at the last moment, seemingly by his own weakness. Oded shook his head.

That had not been his intention.

He had simply tried to give the prisoner some measure of dignity, allow him to at least feed himself. He reached out, retrieved the cup, and half filled it again. He moved to kneel, and this time he held it up, rim half an inch away from Sayid’s lips. The Iraqi looked sideways at Oded, evaluating. Whatever he saw in Oded’s eyes was enough, and he bent his head, allowing Oded to tilt the cup and trickle water between his swollen lips, lowering it every few moments to allow Sayid to swallow without choking. He refilled the cup a few times, until half the water in the jug was gone, then set down the cup and picked up bowl of soup and the bread.

Oded rested the bowl on the prisoner’s lap, and tore off a small chunk of the bread then held it out to Sayid, questioning. Sayid closed his eyes for a moment, then shook his head, and Oded could see how much the gesture cost him. That, he understood. To be captured was bad enough, to be beaten, worse. But to be reduced to the level of a child, hand-fed because you were incapable of doing so yourself. He shook his head at his own thoughts.

The man had brought this upon himself, had been out with the intention of killing innocent Israelis when he had been taken prisoner. This alone justified any indignities that he suffered, and more beside. But still Oded could not share the feeling of wrongness as he dipped the piece of bread in the soup, gently brought it up for Sayid’s lips, waited for the other man to take a bite, allowing him to chew and swallow before repeating the gesture, until only crumbs and dregs remained in the bowl.

He tried to think of something to say, and found himself lost for words. Perhaps it was the other man’s silence. Oded had attended to men who had been treated worse than this. Had cleaned the wounds of those beaten so badly they stirred to half-consciousness only when he had lifted them to sit upright, had forced water into them to stave off the dehydration that was trying to claim them.

He had held men that were dying, ones who had known they were dying, not in that abstract, “numbered are the days of man born of woman” way they all were, but men who had drawn their last breath within the hour.

Yet somehow this was different.

Perhaps it had been that the other men had spoken to him. Some had ranted and raved, fanatics for their cause to the end. Some had begged and pleaded, beseeching Oded to kill them, put an end to their pain when they could endure it no more. There had been some in his arms that Nature would not have claimed that day, their journey onwards hastened by simple actions and even simpler motives. But all of them had spoken to him, had asked something of him, be it mercy, understanding, sometimes only the austere comfort of human interaction. But they had all wanted something from him.

Sayid had spoken less than two dozen words to him in the time since he had entered the cell. Not one of those words had been a request. He had responded to Oded, yes, but it had been in silent gazes, sharing more in a look than all the moments since Oded walked in could have imparted had they been filled with words. Somehow Oded felt he knew this man, had known him in times past and would know him again.

He stirred himself out of his thoughts, realising Sayid was watching him with more than a little curiosity.

“If you give me your word that you will not fight, I shall undo the rest of your bonds.” Oded informed him, managing to keep his voice even. “There are guards stationed down the corridor, outside this door. Even if you were to manage to leave the room, you would get no more than three steps. But I believe it would be best if you were able to stretch your legs, yes?” Sayid nodded, and Oded reached for the knife. “Do I have your word?” he asked, eyes meeting Sayid’s once more. Another small, tight nod, another crack in the pride this man wore around him.

“You have my word.” he said quietly, and Oded went to work on the ropes, slicing through them in a matter of moments. He cleared the items around Sayid’s feet to one side, folded closed the knife and tucked it into his pocket then stepped back to allow the prisoner to stand.

Sayid rose shakily to his feet, the chair toppling backwards with the effort. He managed a half step sideways, away from Oded, and his knees buckled.

Oded darted forward, put his hands under Sayid’s elbows, supporting his weight. He was surprised to note that the other man was considerably shorter than he was, the muscles belying a slenderness that was more apparent now he was upright. As Sayid looked up, Oded felt his breath catch in his throat at the burning gaze that bore into him, hatred as clear in that moment as if the man had written it a thousand times across the walls of his prison. He had to fight not to look away, and distracted himself with idle explanations.

“You have been in one position for too long, it will take a moment for your circulation to adjust, to wake up.” he told Sayid, waiting for that stare to drop, flicker at least. The prisoner took a few heavy breathes, and Oded felt the muscles of his upper arms flex against his hands. The curly hair had fallen over Sayid’s face again, and he shook his head, flicking it back. Oded felt some of the weight on his hands lift as Sayid began to support himself, and slowly let go, ready to grab again at the first sign of another stumble.

Sayid took a few more tentative steps, reaching the wall and leaning his shoulder against it for a moment. Oded slowly lowered his hands, waiting. Sayid looked up, caught him watching. After a moment he inclined his head, thanks and an acknowledgement in one gesture, although of what Oded was not quite sure.

As Sayid paced, slowly gaining more confidence with each step, Oded backed away, gathering up the empty soup bowl, the bowl of blood-tainted water, and the cloth. He piled them together, transferred them to one hand. The jug of water and the cup he left where they were, and waited until the prisoner looked over at him.

“The water you can keep. I shall bring more tomorrow.” Sayid tilted his head, appraising, weighing the truth in Oded’s words. Whatever answer he was looking for he found, and he nodded.

“Thank you.” There was too much sincerity in the simple words, and Oded paused, one hand raised to the little metal shutter that covered the door grill.

“It is my job.” he answered, turning away before he had to watch Sayid anymore. He slid back the cover, and a moment later the one on the other side grated back.

“Yes?” asked the guard, and Oded could see he already had his gun unholstered, held loosely in one hand.

“I am finished for today.” Oded told him, and there was a jangling noise as the guard pulled out the key, opened the door. As the door clanged shut again behind him, Oded turned for one last look.

Through the wire mesh of the grill, just before the guard fastened the cover back into place, he could see Sayid. Standing in the centre of the room, looking down at the chair, head bowed. Alone.