38
Palestine 1947
Three days later, Irit and I found ourselves at the Jenin train station. As stations go, it didn’t meet the high standard of Paddington or King’s Cross or even Union Station in Toronto. Maybe something more akin to rural Arizona. We each hefted a rucksack and wore shorts and hiking boots. If we’d donned lederhosen, we could have passed for Swiss tourists. I fought an overwhelming urge to yodel. We found a substantial British military presence as every train station yielded the potential to be blown up or attacked by some insurgent group or another. Security appeared to be much more visible. We joined a queue so our passports could be scrutinized and likely we’d be questioned as to where we were going and what we were doing.
Irit looked like a teenager on an outing and
