Selected Detective
THE ALMARI II CAMP

The old woman hit something, asked what was going on. The young man replied, then looked back at the detective. “As I had told them back then, and that's what I'm telling you now: we did it to be brave. Youunderstand? That'sthat's all. There's nothing else. If you don't trust me, take me and hold me.”

He stared intently at the detective, defiantly, then turned his gaze back to the television screen which aired scenes of two men fighting, rolling around in a place like a large pool of black oil. Ben-Roi examines the note, then looks at the old woman, then at the ground document whose corner is folded over her head. Ben-Roi knows that he is being tricked, lied to, can be seen in the tension that is on the man's shoulder, a short and nervous pull as he smokes his cigarette. He could have been bluffing, knowing that he was shooting in the dark and had no evidence that he was lying. He can take her into custody, interrogate her as he normally would, interrogate her in the usual way he does and that won't work either.

It stalled on his story in 1990, and it sticks there now. Ben-Roi won't get anything else out of him. Except.... Ben-Roi slowly stood up, walked towards the television and turned it off. He did not feel proud of what he was going to do, only that he was unable to see any other way anymore.

“I can make it difficult for your brother,” he said. The breath of this young man looked choked.

“He has only been serving a sentence of two years, only for association. When the sentence is raised, it may be up to five or six years. You think he can handle it?”

“Fuck you!” Ben-Roi clenched his teeth. He did not feel comfortable playing mind games like this, never felt comfortable, even after the death of Gaul, when hurting Palestinians seemed to be the main important thing in his life. Now that he had started, he had to watch it.

“Six years in Ashkelon,” he continued. “Six years with rapists and murderers and depraved people. And they're still good people compared to the guards, hard times, Madji. I'm not sure Hani can handle it. So, do you want to tell me why you burned that flat?” The old woman could see a tormented expression on her son's face and nyerocos something to him, anxious, wanting to know what he had just said. The young man replied, his eyes never separated from Ben-Roi, his body looking tense tightened with a belt that held him in a chair.

“Basic jerk you're Israeli!” reworked. The detective said nothing.

“Tepen your cat!” The cigarette had burned to its butt and, with trembling hands, he had finished his cigarette into the ashtray, pressed it hard, pulverized it so that the muscles of his forearm stiffened and enlarged. He looked at the shattered butts, shaking his head bitterly, as if he were looking at a shadow of himself; then, holding the wheel in his chair, he moved in that space, as if he were looking at his own image, return the ashtray to the top of the television and return to the old woman's side. There is a long silence.

“Off The Record?” he finally spoke. Ben-Roi nodded.

“Dan Hani? You'll leave him alone? You won't hurt him?”

“Hold my talk.” The young man snorted a taunting sign. He glances at Ben-Roi, then looks at the floor again.

“I got paid,” he muttered, his voice almost inaudible. Ben-Roi took half a step forward.

“By whom?”

“Pamanku. He was in business with a man in Cairo, exporting citrus fruits, lemons, that kind of thing.

One day the man called, saying he needed help. I want the apartment burned. He will pay a good fee. Five hundred dollars. But it has to be done quickly. There's no question. Then, my uncle called me.”

“You know who that man is?” Madji shook his head. “I never spoke to him. My uncle set everything up.” He raised his hand and began to rub his eyes. “Gad, Getz, like that. Not egypt name.”

Ben-Roi wrote all of that in his notebook.

“And your uncle? Where is he?”

“Have died. Four years ago.” Outside, there was a metallic sound as if someone had just kicked a paint can. Ben-Roi is too immersed in the interview so he doesn't pay much attention to it.

“So, Gad, Getz this, he called from Cairo, offered five hundred dollars to burn the old woman's flat.

“We don't know whose flat it is. He only gives address.”

“And he didn't say the reason? No explanation?” The young man shook his head.

“You don't think it's weird?”

“Of course we think it's something strange.What should we do? refused it? We want that money.” Ben-Roi stares intently at him, then returns to the cot and sits down again.

“Good, so he told you to burn the flat. Then what?”

The young man shrugged his shoulders. “As I had told them back then, we went to the Jewish Territory. There was an alley behind the building; Hani stayed there to watch, we went up to the flat, broke the windows, poured oil on everything, and started a fire. Someone saw us coming down, chasing us, and we got caught. That'sthat's all.

As I had told them back then.”

“What's in it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Inside flat. What's in that flat?”

“How can I remember? It happened fifteen years ago!”

“You must remember something.”

“I don't know! Furniture, Table, TV. Owned by anyone.” He pulled another bar of marlboro, slipped it on his lips and ignited it. There was a clattering outside, and what sounded like whispers.

“There are so many papers.”

“That's why the place burned down so quickly. Plenty of paper everywhere.”

“Newsletter?”

“Not, no. Photocopies and the like. Everywhere, piled up. Like kind...” He stopped, trying to find the right word. Ben-Roi recalls what Weinberg's women said about Schlegel who, when he returned home from work, always brought a stack of papers from Yad Vashem.

“File?” he asks.

“Ya, kind of archive. You can barely move because of the paper. And on one of the walls, in the living room, there is a large, burning photo, this big..” He made a movement with his hands.

“A boy. In certain uniforms.black and white. You know, like a photo made a long time ago. That's the only picture in that place.” There was more noise outside, the clattering of feet. There was a crowd of people who seemed to be passing through that alley.

“And you don't know the man in the photo?” Ben-Roi asked, not paying attention to the voices outside.

“Never seen it before. Like I said, it's an old, black-and-white photograph. Not family, I guess.” The detective shines his eyes while wondering.

“How did you know about that?”

“I don't know. I'm just not like family. Raised like that, and affixed to the wall. It was more like he was smoking his cigarette like the picture you get at the police station. You know, like the people who are wanted. That's how it's about. Image sought by police. Weird.” He inserted a cigarette into his mouth and, moving his wheelchair back to the television, took an ashtray, and put it on his neck and continued towards the kitchen area. There was a rumbling sound of pipes, and then splashes of tap water lit up.

He reappeared moments later, with a glass of water sandwiched between his thighs.

“That's all I know,” he said. “Nothing else.” He returned to the old woman's side and turned his chair.

Ben-Roi asks a little more questions, but it is clear that this young man has already told the truth, and after a few minutes, accepts that he has got what he wants, he closed his notebook and prepared.

“Alright,” he said muttering. “That's it.” It was not very important to say goodbye this was definitely not a social visit so, by reinserting his notebook into his pocket, he simply nodded his head and moved towards the door. As he walked, the old woman said something behind him.”

“Ehna Mish Kilab.” Ben-Roi's turning around.

“What is it?” Madji looked up, smoking his cigarette.

“What did he say?” Ben-Roi repeated his question.

The young man exhaled a coiling smoke. “She said that we are not dogs.”

The old woman stared intently at the detective. His expression was neither fear nor challenge, only dull and boundless sadness. Ben-Roi half opened his mouth making a response, telling him about Gaul, how they separated his head, cut off his legs, the same person whose face was now plastered on a poster at the camp like a hero. But he could not think about what he was going to say, any word capable of expressing the depths of his loneliness and hatred. And so, shaking only his head, he turned around, walked towards the door and opened it, “Al-maut li Jew! Al-maut li jewish!”

A loud explosion hit his face. The small alley, once deserted, was now filled with young men, with visible teeth, clenched hands, eyes shining with joy, passionate hunters and knew they had cornered their prey.

A moment of silence, just a few seconds, like a wave was at its highest point before it broke off towards the shore, and then the horde sped closer to it, shouting.

“Uqtul! Uq! Uqtul Al-yahudi!” Ben-Roi doesn't even have time to react. He was standing at the door. Then, dozens of pairs of hands had gripped his jacket, his shirt, his hair, and he was pulled out into the alley.

Someone pulled the gun from its sheath and blasted it into the air right next to his ear, making him deaf; near the back of the crowd he caught a glimpse of a Palestinian boy who was asked by a taxi driver about the direction was laughing clapping his head. The snare felt around his neck and tightened; something slammed into his stomach the baseball bat, the wood, beat him, drained him.

“I died,” he thought, choked with fear and at the same time strangely detached, as if he was watching an assault video rather than actually being part of it.

“My Lord, I'm dead.” He tried to put his arm on his head, protecting himself from the blows. But they snatched again and hit him on the back. Spit rained down on him from all directions, hot, sticky, flowing down his cheeks and chin like a snail path. He felt himself being pushed down an alley as if caught in a muddy crack.

And then, as quickly as the beginning of the incident, the attack suddenly stopped. At some point he was beaten and pulled, next, inexplicably, the crowd dispersed and withdrew behind the wall of the alley, leaving him curled up, with a buzzing sound echoing in his ears. at first he thought it was a blow; then, as soon as his senses began to clear again, he realized that it was the voice of a woman's cry. He remains in his condition, coughing, fear when moving a inch will trigger new violence again. Then, slowly, he straightened his body, the rope still dangling from his neck like a tie that was attached randomly.

Madji was sitting at her door, her face paled, her hands clutching the wheels of her chair. His mother, stooped and weak, was standing outside, waving her hands, banging the crowd, warning them. Although from a distance he was the smallest person in the alley, people seemed to be afraid of his presence, unable to endure his fiery gaze. He kept shouting for almost a minute, moving his hands in a hoarse voice, then stepped closer to Ben-Roi.

“Active?” Ben-Roi looked around wildly, blood pouring from his temple, his whole body trembling, and did not understand what the old woman was saying.

“You injured?” shout Madji.

Miraculously, with the ferocity of such an attack, he felt no pain. A few bruises, injured lips, a rope that burned his neck were just ordinary wounds, nothing serious. He tried to speak, but his words seemed to stall in his throat, and finally all he could do was give a slow nod, like a wooden doll with a broken neck. The old woman leaned over to pick up her gun, which had fallen into a tussle, and, while limping forward, gave it to Ben-Roi, who had fallen into a tussle, raise his weak hands and put his sleeves on Ben-Roi's chin that was covered in bloodstains.

“Ehna Mish Kilab,” he said slowly. “Mish Kilab.”

Ben-Roi looks into his eyes for a moment, then turns around and steps away from the alley, pulls the rope from his neck and reinserts his gun into the holster, the whispers of the crowd followed him like a gust of angry wind.

Down there, the taxi driver was standing near his car, shaking. “I told you it was dangerous to come here,” he said. “I told you...”.

“I don't care what you say!” hiss Ben-Roi, sambal opens the passenger door, throws himself into the car and pulls the bottle out of his pocket. “Bring me out of this fucking shit hole. Take me away now.”