"Dakhilkum! Ma bidnash namut! Ma bidnash namut!"6 They don’t want to die. At the same time they know with terrible certainty that they are going to die. They keep talking in the desperate hope that nothing will happen to them as long as they are talking.
Kebab raises his rifle. One of the men sinks to his knees, grasps his hand.
"Ya khawaja!"7 he shrieks. In my life I have never heard such beg-ging and moaning.
"Hey! Look out!" Zuzik shouts.
Some way away, at the other end of the field, an Arab gets up and runs away. My jeep races after him.
Idiot! If he had lain quietly among the wheat we would never have noticed him. Before we catch up with him, from behind us come the sounds of two shots.
The Arab knows that he has no chance. He stops running and waits until we arrive. He is very calm. Speaks quietly. His name is Ahmed. He lives in Daba and knows the people from the neighboring kibbutz well.
"That’s true!" the kibbutz member who is accompanying us con-firms. "I know him. He was always OK. He even wanted to sell us some land." Boby, the company commander, hesitates. "Maybe we should take him prisoner?" he asks uncertainly. But Kebab has caught up with us. There is no holding him.
"Don’t be childish!" he laughs. That is a deadly argument. Boby is nineteen. Six or seven years younger than most of us. He is very sen-sitive on this point. Actually he is a good boy, who doesn’t like such things. But he is afraid of appearing soft before us, childish, unmanly. And the command ...
The Arab smiles. It is that terrible, tortured smile of someone who knows that his fate is being decided at this moment, and who hopes that a calm expression might influence his judges. But the smile only annoys Kebab. "What are you smiling at?" he shouts at him. "Inta bitmut,"8 with shining eyes like a bird of prey.
"Inshallah," says the Arab. Kebab loads his rifle. I want to turn away, but cannot. I feel sick.
My God! Why will I never be able to get used to this sight?
Tarzan is also pale. The kibbutz member opens his mouth, as if