‘She’s sensitive, poor little soul,’ remarked her sister-in-law, popping a sugar lump into her mouth and sucking a mouthful of coffee through it. ‘She’s artistic, like you were at her age.’
‘Artistic! I’ll show you artistic!’ snorted Samar. She reached down to the shelf below the coffee table and pulled out Leila’s notebook. With a flourish, she opened it and laid it in front of her sister-in-law. ‘Just look at that!’
Her sister-in-law leaned over and studied the page. The drawing was remarkably fine for a child of Leila’s age. The soldier on the page radiated menace. Every detail of his clothing and equipment was perfectly drawn – the gun, the radio, the body armour, the helmet, the multitude of straps, the boots – it was an exact portrait down to the last button. But under the helmet, where the face should have been, there was a sinister space. No mouth, no cheeks, no chin: only two baleful eyes, boring out of the emptiness with terrible ferocity.
‘It’s good!’ her sister-in-law exclaimed. ‘She’s captured it perfectly. Look at all the little details!’
‘No, look again,’ Samar insisted. ‘Can’t you see the terror? It’s too much. It’s … it’s not normal. This isn’t an Israeli soldier, it’s something inhuman. What other child produces things like this? Look at your boys! Out all the time, up to all kinds of mischief – it would take an alien from outer space to scare them.’
Her sister-in-law smiled complacently. ‘I know. They’re little devils, I tell you.’ She took another sip of coffee, and her smile faded as she replaced her cup on its saucer. ‘But they worry me too, Samar. They’re out of control half the time. How do I know what they get up to? Being cheeky with Israeli soldiers, throwing stones – making petrol bombs, for all I know – what they do is so dangerous! I tell you, I live in daily fear that one or the other of them will come home in a body bag. Since that time, last year – when Latif was beaten up so badly – they won’t listen to either him or me. They’ve lost all respect. They even seem to think that getting a beating was their father’s own fault! What’ll I do if they get in with those hardliners and decide to go and blow themselves up?’
‘They’re much too sensible. Don’t worry,’ Samar said automatically, as she had done many times before. But her mind was elsewhere. ‘You’ve made me realize something,’ she went on. ‘That day of Abu Hamid’s funeral, when Latif was so badly hurt, it was that evening that Leila’s first nightmare woke half the block of flats. Yes. It was then that all this trouble began.’
The next day was Friday, Palestine’s one-day weekend.
Yesterday’s autumn rain clouds had blown away, and the sun was shining over the broken city.
‘Put on your sweater, my darling,’ Samar said deter-minedly. ‘We’re going out.’
‘Out? Where?’ Leila looked fearful. ‘No, Mama. There might be monsters.’
‘Monsters? Don’t be silly. You’ve been watching too many scary cartoons.’ Samar made her voice enticing. ‘We’ll go to the ice-cream parlour. Your favourite place! We’ll each have a huge ice cream. Mine’s going to be a strawberry one. You can choose whatever you want.’
‘Chocolate and vanilla,’ Leila whispered.
‘What, habibi? I didn’t hear.’
‘Nothing,’ Leila said, but when her mother had turned away she picked up the sweater Samar had laid on the table and pulled it on.
The Israeli troops had withdrawn from the city for the time being, and the streets were filled with Friday shoppers. Stalls selling everything from socks to soap to scissors crowded the pavements. Leila clutched tightly at Samar’s hand, but slowly, reassured by the everyday normality of the bustling street, her grip began to loosen. Samar smiled.
Little by little, she told herself. I must draw her out little by little.
The ice-cream parlour was filled with families enjoying their Friday treat. Children, round-eyed with pleasure, sucked brightly coloured milkshakes through stripy straws. Mothers spooned sweet cold stuff into their babies’ drooling mouths, and fathers wiped cream off their black moustaches.
Leila, scooping up the last precious dribble of her chocolate ice, licked her spoon slowly. Her mother was chatting to the family at the next table, admiring their toddler’s bouncing curls.
Leila’s glance fell on the window, and through it to the street outside. She froze. An Israeli jeep was cruising past. The soldier sitting by the driver was holding a bottle of water. Under Leila’s scared, fascinated gaze, he lifted the bottle to his lips, tipped his head back and drank.
Leila tugged at Samar’s arm. ‘Mama! Israelis! Out there!’
Samar turned to look, but the jeep was already moving off.
‘It’s gone, darling,’ she said quickly, looking nervously at her daughter. ‘See? It’s miles away now. Nothing to worry about.’
But Leila was looking more puzzled than scared. ‘The soldier inside,’ she said. ‘It was drinking.’
‘Why not? It’s a hot day. He was probably thirsty.’
‘They drink then? Like us?’
Samar laughed. ‘Of course they do! Everyone has to drink.’
‘And eat? They eat food?’
‘Sweetheart, all human beings eat food! How can they live otherwise?’
‘But they’re not human,’ Leila said positively. ‘Uncle Latif said so. I heard him.’
Samar looked down at her, surprised.
‘Of course they’re human!’ she said. ‘What did you think they were?’
The waiter came over with the bill. Samar took out her purse and paid it. Leila took her mother’s hand as they left the ice-cream parlour, but she clutched it less tightly than before, and when at last they reached home she settled down happily with her crayons to draw.
It was after dark that evening when the dreaded roar of heavy armoured vehicles echoed through the deserted streets of Ramallah once again. Samar, trying to distract Leila with a story, prayed for them to roll on past, but they stopped at the crossroads just outside the entrance to the flats. Voices shouted in Hebrew. The yellow light on the roof of a jeep flashed on and off: its lurid flicker reflecting into the flat, on to the walls, the mirror above the china cabinet and Leila’s terrified face.
Samar went to the window and peered out cautiously from between the curtains. A prison van was pulling up now. Her heart sinking, Samar knew what to expect. The Israelis had come on a raid to take prisoners. That meant house-to-house searches. Already, several soldiers were running into the building next door. It would be their turn next, no doubt. The tramp of boots on the stairs, the shouts, the bang on the door would come any minute now.
‘Don’t worry, habibi,’ she forced herself to say. ‘They won’t come here. It’ll be fine. You’ll see.’
Leila had buried her face in the sofa cushions.
The monsters are coming! The monsters are coming! she told herself over and over again.
Samar came back to the sofa and put her arms round her. ‘It’s all right, Leila. You’re safe with me. There’s nothing to fear, nothing at all.’
But the anxiety in her voice spoke louder than her words.
And then came the knocking on the door.
Samar hesitated for a moment, then a strange look – a determined, decisive look – came over her face. She scooped Leila up in her arms, went across to the door, and opened it.
‘Ahlan wa sahlan,’ she said courteously. ‘You are welcome.’
Leila’s head had been buried in Samar’s neck, but her mother’s calm politeness surprised her so much that she looked up. The two Israeli soldiers standing on the threshold were much closer than she had expected, and she would have ducked her head again if she hadn’t seen the expression on the nearest soldier’s face. He was looking as astonished as she was. He was hesitating, as if he wasn’t sure what to do.
‘Thank you,’ he said at last, in heavily accented Arabic, and stepped into the flat.
‘Anyone else in here?’ the younger soldier said over his shoulder.
‘No. Just
me and my daughter,’ Samar answered calmly.
‘You deal with this lot then, Avi,’ the second soldier said. ‘I’ll go on upstairs.’
‘OK,’ said the older soldier, his eyes still on Samar’s face.
Samar shut the door behind him. ‘Please,’ she said, ‘sit down.’
The soldier, encumbered as he was by his body armour, helmet and gun, followed her to the sofa and sat down gingerly on the edge of it. Samar, with Leila in her arms, made to sit down beside him.
‘No, Mama, no!’ whimpered Leila, shaking her head violently from side to side.
‘It’s all right, my darling. Stop that now.’ Samar’s voice was still calm. She turned and spoke to the soldier.
‘Please,’ she said, ‘I want to ask something of you. I want you to let my daughter touch your hand. Just to feel it. Please.’
Leila’s eyes, which had been tight shut, flew open, and she looked at her mother in horror.
‘Touch him?’ she whispered. ‘I can’t, Mama!’
‘Look first if you like.’ Samar was pointing at the soldier’s palm, which was lying open on the sofa beside her. ‘You see? He has five fingers. A ring, like Papa’s. You can touch him. He’ll let you. Put your hand in his.’
Slowly, daringly, Leila put her hand into the soldier’s. His long slender fingers closed gently over hers. It was, without doubt, the hand of a man, warm and human.
‘Look at his face, habibi,’ Samar went on, in the same soft, insistent voice. ‘See his nose? His mouth?’
Leila looked. The soldier was gazing back at her, but in his face was only kindness and concern. Slowly, Leila withdrew her hand.
‘Thank you,’ Samar said at last, letting out a long breath.
‘She has been so frightened?’ The man almost sounded as if he was shocked.
‘Yes. For a long time. She has seen things … heard things … She thought that …’
‘For the children,’ he said, his voice suddenly gruff, ‘it is very bad.’
‘You have children?’ It was the question that Leila had wanted to ask.
‘A daughter. A little younger than this one. Sometimes she gets scared too.’
Someone banged loudly on the door.
‘Avi!’ yelled a voice. ‘Have you finished in there?’
Leila had shuddered at the sound and hidden her face again.
‘Don’t be scared,’ the man said. ‘It’s only Ofer. He shouts all the time. It’s just his way. You should hear him at the football match!’
He stood up. Samar did too.
‘One day, inshallah, this will all be over,’ she said, ‘and we will be able to face each other, every day, as human beings. But now you had better get on and do what you have to do.’
‘There’s no need,’ Avi the soldier said, opening the front door and stepping outside. ‘You’ve shown me everything I need to see. Why should I look through your possessions when you’ve show me your hearts?’
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
Over the course of fifty years, Joan Aiken wrote over one hundred novels and story collections for children and adults, the most famous of which were the James III series, beginning with the modern classic The Wolves of Willoughby Chase and concluding with The Witch of Clatteringshaws, which features Joan Aiken’s best-known heroine, Dido Twite. Joan Aiken worked as an advertising copywriter before becoming a full-time writer, and worked up until her death in January 2004.
Nina Bawden CBE was a most distinguished and loved novelist for adults and children. She was perhaps best known for the semi-auto biographical Carrie’s War (a novel about being evacuated during the Second World War, which has twice been filmed) and The Peppermint Pig (winner of the Guardian Children’s Fiction Award). Nina died in August 2012.
Tony Bradman has written a great number of books for children of all ages, and has also edited many anthologies both of poetry and short stories. His books include The Orchard Book of Swords, Sorcerers and Superheroes, a collection of retellings of classic stories, and the Space School series.
Joanna Davidson has been writing poetry and fiction since she was a small child. A graduate of English and Art History, she lives near Cambridge with her family and is writing a novel, War Child, about the consequences of war. She works as a freelance writer and charity consultant.
Jamila Gavin was born to an Indian mother and an English father, and her explorations of belonging to dual cultures has influenced much of her highly acclaimed work, including the three books in the Surya trilogy. Recently, she has published the Whitbread Award-winning Coram Boy and another highly-acclaimed historical novel, The Blood Stone.
Born in Vienna in Austria, Eva Ibbotson moved to England with her family when the Nazis came to power. After school she studied science and worked as a physiologist, but stopped to marry and raise a family. She began writing for magazines when her children were growing up and then switched to novels. Her award-winning books include The Secret of Platform 13 and, most recently, The Star of Kazan (both of which were shortlisted for the Smarties Prize) as well as the now-classic adventure story Journey to the River Sea (which won the Smarties Gold Award, was runner-up for the Whitbread Children’s book of the year and the Guardian Children’s Fiction Award and was shortlisted for the Carnegie Medal). Eva died in 2010.
Elizabeth Laird lives in Richmond but has been a traveller since the age of eighteen when she left her home in New Zealand to see the world. Along the way, she has witnessed first-hand the devastation caused by war and has written about it in novels such as The Garbage King, A Little Piece of Ground and Kiss the Dust. Her other books include adventure stories set in Africa and retellings of myths and legends from around the world – and comedies for younger readers, too.
George Layton is a highly successful actor and writer. He has created and written two award-winning television comedy series, Don’t Wait Up and Executive Stress, and has written and starred in numerous others. His West End appearances include Fagin in the Cameron Mackintosh production of Oliver! at the London Palladium directed by Sam Mendes. His first book, The Fib and Other Stories has sold over a quarter of a million copies and is on the National Curriculum. This was followed up with The Swap and Other Stories and The Trick and Other Stories.
Geraldine McCaughrean excels in retelling classic stories from the past and vividly re-creating the past in novels such as A Little Lower Than the Angels and Gold Dust, both of which won the Whitbread Children’s Book Award, Stop the Train and The Kite Rider. She used to write her stories while commuting to and from London while working in publishing, but she now writes full-time from her home in Berkshire.
Michelle Magorian worked in theatre, film and television before joining a novel-writing class where she took her first book, the Guardian Award-winning Goodnight Mister Tom, which is set during the Second World War and was made into a successful film. Her research for this book inspired her subsequent novels, which include Back Home, A Little Love Song, Cuckoo in the Nest and A Spoonful of Jam.
Margaret Mahy wrote for all ages – picture books for young children through to complex teenage novels which have won many awards, including the Carnegie Medal twice (for The Haunting and The Changeover), as well as poems and short stories and television scripts. Her work is often characterized by its offbeat blend of fantasy and humour. She lived in Governors Bay in New Zealand in a house she partly built herself. Margaret died in 2012.
Michael Morpurgo combines writing award-winning children’s books with running the charity Farms for City Children, with his wife Clare, from their home in Devon. Several of his books have wartime settings or are about the effects of war, including War Horse, Waiting for Anya, Kensuke’s Kingdom and Private Peaceful (winner of the Red House Children’s Book Award). In 2003 he was named the third Children’s Laureate.
Celia Rees began writing thrillers and supernatural stories for teenagers while working as a teacher. Now she teaches creative writing and thrills readers with spine-tinging stories such as Truth or Dare. Her hi
storical novels have been highly successful – Witch Child was shortlisted for the Guardian Award while Sorceress was nominated for the Whitbread Award.
Eleanor Updale is the author of the Montmorency books – a series of historical novels set in the late nineteenth century. These books have been translated into several languages, serialized on BBC radio and shortlisted for many awards; winning the Silver Smarties Prize and the Blue Peter ‘Book I Couldn’t Put Down Award’. When not writing fiction, Eleanor works as an academic historian. She has three teenage children.
More than a decade after his death, Robert Westall retains his reputation as one of the most powerful writers for children. He wrote many books, often reflecting his own childhood experiences of the Second World War on the home front in the north-east of England. These books include the Carnegie Medal-winning The Machine-Gunners, Blitzcat, A Time of Fire and The Kingdom by the Sea (which won the Guardian Award). He won his second Carnegie Medal for The Scarecrows. The introduction to ‘Hard Ship to Egypt’ was written by Lindy McKinnel, who knew Robert Westall for twenty-seven years and was his first reader and his partner for the last six years of his life.
About the Author
Michael Morpurgo’s novels for children have made him one of the most popular and critically acclaimed writers of his generation. He is the winner of the Red House Children’s Book Award, the Whitbread Chidren’s Book of the Year and the Nestlé Smarties Book Prize and has been shortlisted three times for the Carnegie Medal. Private Peaceful, his novel about two brothers serving in the First World War, featured on the shortlists of four major literary prizes and has been turned into a play. Five of his books have been made into films. In 2003 he became the third Children’s Laureate, a position he helped to create with the poet Ted Hughes to bring attention to the importance of writing for children. With his wife, Clare, he set up the charity Farms for City Children, in Devon, and for their pioneering work they were both awarded the MBE in 1999.
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