I lay 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.
Shivers score my back, etched forever like scars deep into my memory and impressed into the dramas of my dream. One of my young friends suddenly shouts to me that the man at the gate, the one wildly screaming, is my father. I look towards the gate and see my father, Elkeh Yosselevitch, the great, noble Elkeh, stricken with rage and bitterness. Never in my life had I seen him so savage. The children warn me to be careful because the English are shooting.