engine. It is bitterly cold. The men have no winter clothing. Many of the few pieces of equipment that are sent to us get lost on the way. First the workers in the storerooms help themselves, then the higher ranks, then the "veterans," until there is not much left for new immi-grants. Jamus and I had already given the people in the back our coats when we set off. We are freezing and our teeth are chattering.
"Give it a try," Janek says. Nehemia turns the key and suddenly everything is brightly illuminated. Janek is simply a column of fire. His gasoline-soaked clothes are burning. Helpless excitement. The Moroccans jump out. I look for a blanket and find none. Janek alone retains his composure. He rolls in the sand and extinguishes the flames.
He needs to be taken to the hospital straight away. His face and hands are black, his clothes torn and burned. Maybe we can take him to the police station at Beit Dagon for first aid? But how can we get him there without a vehicle?
"I will walk," Janek stutters. I go with him. We both walk. Maybe the cold wind will temper his pain a bit. I count the paces out loud to take his mind off it. Janek grits his teeth, and walks in silence.
Half-way there the truck catches up with us. They managed to start the engine. Jamus helps Janek in and they drive off toward Jaffa. I walk back to the men. They are standing by the road like sheep with-out a shepherd. One of them is lying on the ground. When the shout of "fire" went up, he jumped out like a swimmer, head first. He is probably suffering from concussion.
It has started raining again. All we can do is wait for our truck. In the meantime we might all catch pneumonia. A truck is approach-ing. I stand in the road and wave. I almost get run over and it races past as if the driver couldn’t see me.
Minutes pass. Some of the men are already coughing. Some are whispering in French. I can just make out that they are talking about the good old days in Morocco, before they had the crazy idea of vol-unteering for the Israeli army. A wet road in the early hours of the morning is not the best place for Zionist education.
Ten minutes. Twenty minutes. In the distance headlights appear. I stand in the middle of the road and wave my arms like a windmill. A respectable private car, which could take the wounded man. The driver goes around me, with two wheels off the road and races past