8
Palestine 1947
I sauntered around the back of the café. I noticed barrels of trash and one of the cooks sitting on a wooden crate quietly smoking. A laneway ran the length of the block. A moment later, I heard the arthritic cough of an ancient lorry round the corner, its gears gnashing painfully. It listed critically to the left. A stale marshmallow would puncture any one of the tires. As I watched it slowly make progress, a voice hissed in my ear.
“Don’t turn around. I am going to put a hood over your face. This is for your own protection.”
I stiffened but didn’t move. I smelled onions and figured the voice belonged to the cook. The hood came down over my head and the light of day disappeared. I heard muffled voices. Pairs of hands guided me forward. I felt myself being hoisted upwa
