praying in the synagogue. Or like an Arabic Qur’an recital on the radio. Two or three verses of singsong. A long pause. Then another two or three verses.
"I used to be a he-ro," Kebab sang-recited-complained. "Now I’m just a cow-ward!"
Long pause. We are enjoying it, like at the movies. Only Zuzik is sleeping.
We always knew that Kebab was a coward deep down. Most
people who boast about their misdeeds are cowards, just trying to cover up their anxiety. There are also wild people who are brave, like Nachshe. But they are not boastful.
"My cousin is a h-e-e-e-ro!" Kebab declares. "He killed three Bri-tish with the Le-hi." We are gradually losing interest. Tomorrow we have a longer patrol. We want to sleep.
"My Miri-am sleeps with my cou-sin!" Kebab is getting louder. Soon he will be sobbing. "She sleeeeeeps with him in the Haaaadaaaaasah Park." The hell with it. Shut up! Nobody is inter-ested in his dismal love life.
"Oh Miriam, o myyyyyy Miiiiiiriaaaaaam, why have you deserted me? I am a coward and my cousin is a pi-ig!"
"That’s enough! Shut your mouth!" Nachshe shouts.
"Let’s put him far away in the orange orchard," Sancho suggests.
"We can’t just leave him there on his own."
"Then put Zuzik next to him."
Zuzik is awake, and agrees. After that much alcohol he could sleep next to a firing howitzer.
"I want to Miriiiiaaaammm," sings Kebab as we carry him to the orchard. "Why do you sleep with my couuuuuuuusin?"
* * *
They let us sleep until twelve. We have a hearty lunch and set off on patrol. Kebab comes too. He is fully recovered and has no memory of the night before. When we remind him, he laughs like someone who knows that we are just fooling.
We set off with three jeeps. Before we leave someone reads from a typewritten sheet. We are installing the heavy machine guns on the vehicles and listen with half an ear. It is not something we need to be told anyway. "The Arabs who have crossed the border should be