I hear strange shrieks carried on the balmy night wind. However much I strain my ears, I can't fathom the nighttime howling from the hills. All the ground outside is pocked like a field of mole hills after a rainstorm. Armed British soldiers fill out the picture. I lar at the edge of the woods where the sewage gardens end.
Deep fissures rend the trunks of the huge eucalyptus trees abutting the kibbutz fence.
The resin drips, the aroma is good, the bark is rough to the touch. By the concrete post at the gate nearby some people are crouching. There are cries and shouts. Someone screams during lulls in the shooting while other run. One of my young friends suddenly shouts to me that the man at the gate, the one wildly screaming, is my father.