The Cat at the Wall by Deborah Ellis Page A

volley of machine-gun fire from above.
    Were they shooting at the shooters? Nobody told me. There was a lot of shouting but no one seemed to be talking to anyone.
    The helicopter rose up again, out of the range of the sniper’s rifle fire. That didn’t stop all the noise.
    My hearing as a cat is very sensitive, something people don’t ever think about when they are making loud noises. They never check to see if there is a cat around before they light a firecracker or shoot a gun.
    I was small compared to all the people and buildings, but a bullet could easily still find its way to me. I’m sure many cats have been killed in war, not that you ever hear about them on the news. Maybe, if I ever become a human again, I could give speeches in schools about this, and make people more aware of how war is bad for cats.
    Some of the boys who had been Ms. Fahima’s students helped her round up the little kids and get them and the knitting lady into the old lady’s house. They left the kids with the lady and returned to the street.
    There seemed to be shots coming from all directions now. I couldn’t tell who was shooting. Was the Israeli army shooting at the snipers? Were the snipers trying to kill Aaron and Simcha? Did anyone really know what the heck was going on?
    Behind me, Omar wailed with fear and would not shut up. Aaron and Simcha were running around the little house, one moment at the window with their rifles, the next ducking down to take cover. Each time they ducked, they pulled Omar to the ground with them so he would be out of the line of fire. Each time they popped up again, he popped up, too.
    I did not want to see him killed.
    Some of the people in the streets called out for quiet.
    “This demonstration solves nothing!” they said. “Let’s calm down and keep everyone safe.”
    Others called for blood. “Death to Israel! Kill the Jews! Push them into the sea!”
    The whole thing was a colossal mess.
    One of the rioters brought out a megaphone. He must have been some sort of bigwig rioter because he climbed up on a rock and the others paid attention to him.
    “The Israeli army is holding a Palestinian boy hostage!” he shouted in Arabic. “They have killed his parents at a checkpoint, and now they want to kill him. They won’t be happy until every last Palestinian is dead in the streets. We say no more! No more!”
    Rioters took up the chant and the noise got worse.
    “What did he say?” Simcha asked.
    “He said the army killed the boy’s parents at a checkpoint,” Aaron told him.
    Ms. Fahima, with fear all over her face, tried again to open the door.
    “Let me inside!” she cried out in Hebrew. “Let Omar go and take me in his place!”
    “Do you think it’s true?” Simcha asked. “Do you think his parents got killed by our soldiers?”
    “If it’s true, they’ll tear us apart if we go out there,” said Aaron. “Get away!” he shouted at Ms. Fahima.
    Next came the tear gas, the small black canisters hitting the ground and spewing out bad-smelling fog. Rioters picked up the canisters and threw them back at the Israeli troops, but more kept coming.
    The window I was sitting in had a lot of cracks around the windowpane. Cats have a strong sense of smell and tiny lungs. But no one cared about that.
    “Back away from the house! Let the soldiers leave and no one will get hurt!” came an order from the army over a loudspeaker.
    The rioters ignored it. They started to pound on the door. It was not a strong door. It would not take them very long to break through.
    I was thinking of sliding under the sofa to try to stay safe, when a rock broke through the window. I was covered in shattered glass.
    In the same instant, some rioter plunged an ax into the door.
    They were going to get in. People were going to die.

Twenty-three
    —
    Which brings me to the day I died.
    The day my detentions were erased, Ms. Zero asked me to stay behind at the end of school.
    I have to admit, I was curious to see