Get out of my way, father. Get out of my way quick before I put a clip in this rifle and do what you taught me to do with it. Just do me the favor of dying peacefully, and I’ll run like a zombie to trash Sheikh Dahr all over again, or grab a hoe and root out every weed and clump of crab grass from Lebanon to Egypt until not a blade remains. I’ll throw myself like a madman on any patch of wilderness. I’ll plant all the trees you want. I’ll marry Jewish girls from the four corners of the earth to enrich the national gene pool. I’ll make you twenty grandsons, each tougher than nails. I’ll plow the rocks and then the sea, anything you say. If only you were already dead and could watch me take charge, during an assault, say, when the officers have all been killed and some shitass squad leader turns into the big hero and saves the day. Take my word for it, father. Everything will be just as you planned. I guarantee it. Just do me the favor of dying first so your son can start to live.

Yonatan turned his back on the sleeping cottage, stooped to pick up one of his father’s stocking caps that had fallen to the ground, rehung it on the laundry line, and moved on. Near the bakery, he turned left to take the muddy shortcut leading to the front gate.

On reaching the bus stop just outside the kibbutz, he realized he had forgotten his cigarettes. Well, who needs them? As of this minute I’ve stopped smoking. Enough. No looking back.

Yonatan stood by the roadside for some twenty minutes, waiting for an early riser in a car, truck, or army vehicle to give him a lift. The first full rays of sunlight dawned over the hill of Sheikh Dahr. He swung his rifle to the east to mow down the sun with a hail of bullets the minute it dared lift its fiery head. A cocka-doodle of roosters broke out in a rah-rah chorus of joy over the coming of the new day, the new day, the new day. “Shut the fuck up!” snapped Yonatan out loud, and laughed. Shut the fuck up, dear comrades, we’ve heard enough out of you. Morning bells are ringing, ding dong ding. Whoever’s good and washes after weewee will get a cup of hot chocolate. And who is not here today, boys and girls? Little John is not, teacher. Little John went to bed with his stockings on. One shoe off, one shoe on. And now he’s gone. Diddle diddle dumpling, my son John.

When, as in a child’s drawing, the sun finally poked its head over the hills, Yonatan did not shoot. He bowed low in mocking obeisance instead and politely inquired if he might be of help.