the prisoner, salutes him with her hand, and he responds; but one of the soldiers kicks him and he is quiet again.
After that you walk for a long time, into the haze of the night, away from the camp, you are waiting for a convoy to arrive and pick you up; exhaustion descends upon you, and nothing seems real, maybe because of this half rain that falls, the last rain of the season. The prisoner’s back is warm against your hand, and at that moment, perhaps due to the absolute silence around you, broken only by the sound of footsteps and the occasional muffled cough, the light that shines off the wet road, the air seems free of enmity, fighting, war, and it is almost impossible to believe that the man in front of you is your enemy.
That place still lives inside you, you said, that night and the long walk and the gradual coming of the dawn, and the young man, he lives inside you too, you said. You don’t know what became of him, but you remember his dark hair, and his brown eyes and the unique way he had of walking, the way he held himself erect, you said, the way he walked straight and proud, though he faced prison, captivity, the darkness of a cell for years; he walked tall and straight in the night, and you decided as you walked behind him, your hand against his back, you decided that you would ask the girl in the petrol station to marry you.
C HAPTER 17
December 4th, 2000
D ear Sareet,
I am writing to follow-up on our phone conversation of last night, now that it seems certain that Avi will live. The last few days have been exceedingly difficult. I would like to thank you for your help and support at this time, and for your willingness, and indeed enthusiasm, to drop everything immediately and rush to Avi’s side.
I understand your need to come and visit, that you intend to come anyway, even now that Avi will live, and I understand the delicate nature of the decisions you need to make, whether or not you should bring your other children. That decision must be yours alone, you must do what you feel is best, both for you and the children, though often, in times like this, the interests of the children are overlooked. I am not sure how old they are now, nor what they know of Avi.
I must advise you that Avi is deeply traumatised and perhaps I should explain to you, now that I have the time, the exact events of that evening. It was a Saturday, he came to visit that morning, we sat on the patio for a time and I smoked a cigarette, it was a mild day for early December and the sun was pleasant. I hadn’t seen him for a month; he has lived in Tel Aviv for some time now, a different life from what we have here. Nevertheless he has adapted well to city life.
He did some chores for me, as you know I’ve had some trouble with the gardens over the past few winters. I brought him round the gardens and he climbed ladders that I find hard to negotiate, pruned my wisteria, the roses and honeysuckle (you will appreciate how unruly and out of control they become), and he did great work with the bougainvillea, though it’s an extremely tough plant to prune. We ate lunch together before he left, he spoke about his work in Tel Aviv, his plans to travel next year, to the Far East, and then on to Australia. I told him that it’s a good time to go as far as I’m concerned, for there is no denying that life is hard here, and people feel under siege, particularly in cities such as Tel Aviv and Jerusalem. Indeed I urged him to return to the safety of the kibbutz, I told him that he could have his pick of work: in the cotton fields, the orchards, or the factory. It’s what you know, I said, you belong here, and besides it is safer, you’ll earn a good wage, you’re a good worker; but he shook his head and said that he likes Tel Aviv and city life, and though he feels the need to be careful, he does not feel under siege.
Well, who am I to stand in the way of Avi and his youthful plans. Why I was just a young man when I left my family,
After that you walk for a long time, into the haze of the night, away from the camp, you are waiting for a convoy to arrive and pick you up; exhaustion descends upon you, and nothing seems real, maybe because of this half rain that falls, the last rain of the season. The prisoner’s back is warm against your hand, and at that moment, perhaps due to the absolute silence around you, broken only by the sound of footsteps and the occasional muffled cough, the light that shines off the wet road, the air seems free of enmity, fighting, war, and it is almost impossible to believe that the man in front of you is your enemy.
That place still lives inside you, you said, that night and the long walk and the gradual coming of the dawn, and the young man, he lives inside you too, you said. You don’t know what became of him, but you remember his dark hair, and his brown eyes and the unique way he had of walking, the way he held himself erect, you said, the way he walked straight and proud, though he faced prison, captivity, the darkness of a cell for years; he walked tall and straight in the night, and you decided as you walked behind him, your hand against his back, you decided that you would ask the girl in the petrol station to marry you.
C HAPTER 17
December 4th, 2000
D ear Sareet,
I am writing to follow-up on our phone conversation of last night, now that it seems certain that Avi will live. The last few days have been exceedingly difficult. I would like to thank you for your help and support at this time, and for your willingness, and indeed enthusiasm, to drop everything immediately and rush to Avi’s side.
I understand your need to come and visit, that you intend to come anyway, even now that Avi will live, and I understand the delicate nature of the decisions you need to make, whether or not you should bring your other children. That decision must be yours alone, you must do what you feel is best, both for you and the children, though often, in times like this, the interests of the children are overlooked. I am not sure how old they are now, nor what they know of Avi.
I must advise you that Avi is deeply traumatised and perhaps I should explain to you, now that I have the time, the exact events of that evening. It was a Saturday, he came to visit that morning, we sat on the patio for a time and I smoked a cigarette, it was a mild day for early December and the sun was pleasant. I hadn’t seen him for a month; he has lived in Tel Aviv for some time now, a different life from what we have here. Nevertheless he has adapted well to city life.
He did some chores for me, as you know I’ve had some trouble with the gardens over the past few winters. I brought him round the gardens and he climbed ladders that I find hard to negotiate, pruned my wisteria, the roses and honeysuckle (you will appreciate how unruly and out of control they become), and he did great work with the bougainvillea, though it’s an extremely tough plant to prune. We ate lunch together before he left, he spoke about his work in Tel Aviv, his plans to travel next year, to the Far East, and then on to Australia. I told him that it’s a good time to go as far as I’m concerned, for there is no denying that life is hard here, and people feel under siege, particularly in cities such as Tel Aviv and Jerusalem. Indeed I urged him to return to the safety of the kibbutz, I told him that he could have his pick of work: in the cotton fields, the orchards, or the factory. It’s what you know, I said, you belong here, and besides it is safer, you’ll earn a good wage, you’re a good worker; but he shook his head and said that he likes Tel Aviv and city life, and though he feels the need to be careful, he does not feel under siege.
Well, who am I to stand in the way of Avi and his youthful plans. Why I was just a young man when I left my family,
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