"How many Iraqi soldiers are in Wadi Sarar?" he asks.
"Bi-hayat Allah, ma b’aref’3 the Arab yammers.
"Qadesh Iraqi fi Wadi Sarar?"4 the officer shouts, hitting him on the chest. The wounded man moans and says nothing.
"Don’t give him anything to eat or drink," say the officer and pre-pares to leave.
The doctor shrugs his shoulders. The whole thing is nothing to do with him.
"But ... but he is wounded, isn’t he?" the squeaky voice of the little nurse suddenly burst out. Her face is red.
As if bitten by a tarantula the officer whips round: "Why are you interfering?" he screams. "In a week we will attack Wadi Sarar. Do you want our people to be killed?"
"No," admits the shocked nurse.
"Then shut your mouth and mind your own business!" says the officer and leaves.
The next morning I feign blood poisoning and am returned to the medical tent. The nurse is not there. A nice, fat medic removes my plaster, spreads some colorful ointment, mumbles something about poor diet and vitamin deficiency, and covers the painful area with a new plaster.
I want to ask about the wounded man. But I dare not introduce the subject. I wait until the medic has completed his work. Then I offer him a cigarette and casually ask about him.
"Oh, that Arab?" asks the medic indifferently, "he’s buried."
"What, buried?" I ask.
"Of course," says the medic. "That’s what you have to do. Or should we preserve him in alcohol?"
I feel like asking whether he died of his wounds or whether he was finished off. But I don’t ask. I am afraid of the answer.
* * *
A person has died.
If he had remained in Masmiyya, he would be still alive. His wife would have a husband, his children a father. I try and imagine his departure. He tells his wife that he is going to Lod to earn some money. The children run after him. A boy and a girl. He sends them back to their mother, half laughing and half strict. "When is Papa coming back?" asks the girl. "In a few days" says the mother. "He will