KORCZAK WAS LYING on the top bunk of one of the many bunk beds in his room. A large piece of cardboard was perched against the windowpane, blocking the sunlight but not the heat. I wasn’t sure we would find him there. When he wasn’t on guard duty, Korczak would disappear for hours on end, and we’d try to guess where he’d pop up next. We usually got it wrong. On the second week of boot camp, the master sergeant of the training base caught him planting an herb garden behind the armory, and Yanai swore that only a week ago he had seen him walking out of the latrines after spending the entire morning there with an education corps guidebook. We were all familiar with Korczak’s book obsession. His idea of combat-ready was having something to read on him, and this time was no exception; we found him with his face buried in words again, lying on the bunk with a flashlight strapped to his head and his eyes fixed on a small black book. Military bunks weren’t designed for people as tall as him, and his large feet—one bare and the other in a gray sock—dangled over the bed.

“You have a visitor,” I said. He didn’t respond.

She approached the bed, tilted her head, and asked if he was reading The Stranger.

“I assume that if the IDF enlisted you, you’re equipped with the cognitive ability to read,” he replied. He looked up and blinded her with the flashlight before returning to his book. “On the other hand,” he whispered, “I’ve been wrong about that before.”

“What’s the book about?” she asked, her casual tone trying to mask the insult.

He replied that it wasn’t entirely clear. “Basically, about a guy who kills another guy because of the sun.”

She thought for a moment and then said that there was a time when killing because of the sun would have made no sense to her, but since enlisting it didn’t sound that far-fetched.

Korczak looked at her again. “Spend a few days here and you’ll wonder why it doesn’t happen on a daily basis.”

Placing her hand on the bunk, she said it was impressive he was able to read such a complicated book.

“Actually, I’m just looking at the drawings, don’t forget I’m a grunt.”

She smiled and explained that she meant the language, because he had recently immigrated.

“I lived here for a few years in the past, so you could say I’m cheating.”

“Really?” I asked, surprised.

“Yes,” he replied without further comment. I think that if she had asked, he would have explained.

“You’re from London?”

“Cheshire, if that means anything to you.”

“Oh! You’re the cat!”