By the time the Israeli military found Itamar, the two dead soldiers, and the bodies of Haj Ayman’s boys, Israel had already raided hundreds of Palestinian homes, arrested more than 1,800 Palestinians, mostly young men and boys, and terrorized whole towns looking for them.

“What did he say about why they were in the woods in the first place?” I asked.

“Itamar’s story was that he and the dead soldiers had spotted and followed a Palestinian carrying a rifle. They couldn’t radio for help—their equipment wasn’t working. He claimed someone knocked him out as he and his fellow soldiers were handcuffing the terrorist. When he regained consciousness, the two Palestinian attackers were standing over bleeding soldiers. Then Itamar reached for his gun, like in a goddamned James Bond movie, I guess, and shot them dead. Itamar and Mhammad staged the scene so the evidence supported the testimony he gave to his superiors.”

“How did they miss the receipt if they staged the scene?” I asked.

“I’ve thought about that for years. There are only two explanations. One, they truly didn’t notice it. Two, Itamar planted it. Just like my brother took the Polaroids for leverage, maybe Itamar wanted his own leverage.”

It was getting late. Bilal’s aunts should have arrived by now. As I helped him inside, he turned to me. “You still want to marry me?”

The telephone rang. It was Bilal’s aunts calling to check on him. They couldn’t come to stay because the military had imposed a curfew unexpectedly until 5 a.m. On his side of the conversation, I heard, “Thank you, Auntie. But it is not necessary for you to come anyway. I can take care of myself… . Yes, Auntie… . Thank you, Auntie. She left some time ago. Yes… . Thank you, Auntie. Good night.”

“She wanted to know if I left?”

“How did you guess?”

We laughed. The phone rang again. It was Jumana calling to say that Bilal’s aunts had called her to check on me.

“What did you tell them?”

“I said you were with Bilal, surely committing terrible sin,” Jumana said.

“Okay. Good.”

“See you tomorrow. I hope you commit sin.”

“Really, what did you tell them?”

“I said you had a terrible headache and were already in bed.”

Mosquitoes had left little red welts on my arms. “Wait here.” Bilal hobbled to the kitchen and returned with a saucer of olive oil. “Here,” he said, taking my hand. He dipped his fingers in the oil and rubbed it into my skin. That sweet silence I had come to know in his presence settled around us. When he was done, we lay in each other’s arms and slept.

A Time for Us

A TIME FOR US