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walk over to the New York Times Building to buy the first edition of the paper, which—truth be told—is helpful to all foreign journalists in their work.
    That particular evening, clutching the newspaper under my arm, I cross Times Square, heading for the telegraphic bureau from which I dispatch my daily cable. That cable is never sent: I am run over by a taxi. Multiple fractures of the hip, the vertebrae, the ankles.
    The surgery lasts several hours. When I awaken, a cast is covering my entire body except my head and arms. For three longmonths, a hospital room becomes my headquarters. I need assistance to move or accomplish any task. I am unable to change position without calling for help.
    Fortunately, I have made a few friends among my United Nations colleagues and so, from morning till night, I am rarely alone. I especially remember Daniel Morgaine (
France-Soir
) and Alexander Zauber (
Iton Meyuchad
). The latter, endowed with a magnificent sense of humor, loves to make me laugh. And while laughing makes me feel better, it also hurts.
    On his first visit, he wants to know everything about my accident. I describe my various fractures, and as I mention each one, he nods and says, “It could be worse.” I have terrible headaches: “It could be worse.” My left ankle is broken: “It could be worse.” My knees are on fire: “It could be worse.” Surprised and somewhat annoyed, at one point I cannot hold back: “Really, Alexander, what could be worse?”
    And with a serious face, my friend murmurs, “It could have been me.”
    Another time, I remind him, a former yeshiva student, of a prayer that as a child I recited every morning: “Blessed be Thou, Lord, who has created man wisely. In his body, there are a multitude of arteries, cavities and openings: if but one of them were to be blocked or damaged, he could not survive an hour.”
    And I add, “Only now do I understand those words.”
    Alexander’s response: “If you don’t watch out, you’ll discover other similar prayers. And the Lord will help you to better understand other aspects of your body.”
    Several decades later, I discover things my body has kept secret all my life. Do I really need to know them?

20
    ONCE BACK in my room, I give in to fatigue. Everything exhausts me. To breathe, to open my eyes, to think—everything brings renewed agony. Am I out of danger? Not yet. They say so over and over. My wife and my son try to reassure me. Their voices reach me from afar: They are asking me whether I would like them to stay overnight, but a physician’s aide advises against it; the powerful medications will make me fall asleep soon. I hear them discuss: They would like to stay at least an hour or two. Their presence does me good. I’d like to intervene in their exchange, but a large tube has just been removed from my throat and it hurts.
    In spite of the sedation and tranquilizers, I sleep poorly. Nurses and nurse’s aides constantly manipulate my body, turning it inevery direction. Multiple injections, unending blood tests, checkups from top to bottom. No sooner do I close my eyes than I must open them again. My lids remain half closed. I think I dreamed, but I can’t recall clearly what the dreams were about. I do remember their color, though: gray-black ashes and an incandescent flame rising from a gigantic chimney consuming rows upon rows of books.
    Am I really saved? For good? I doubt it. Nothing seems real to me. Still, death has evidently decided not to claim my body as yet. A strange heaviness overwhelms me. It is in my chest, my head, and it pulls me down. Toward the void.
    I feel the proximity of the dark, implacable enemy. I no longer know where I am going, where I am, who I am. Nor even what I want. The doctors try to convince me that from now on, for a few days, a few weeks, I must be patient, that the feeling of being cut into pieces will disappear. But when? Tomorrow. The day after tomorrow. If only I could sleep a week, perhaps