One of the armed guys, who’ll never miss a chance to fire, lets loose another round, and the other one shouts, “Quiet.” The one who appears to be their leader asks me what happened, and I explain that they tried to break into our house because they thought we had food. I calm down and speak to him with the respect due to a new master. I find I talk more simply in the hope that he’ll understand me better. “They have no shame, trying to break into a house full of women and children. My wife is inside, trying to feed our baby to get her to stop crying, and these people just break in. They have no consideration.” I know that to our new leaders shows of respect and honor are very important. “People have no shame anymore,” my father adds from behind me.

“They have food,” the grocery store owner shouts again. He’s facing them now. “The guy you’re talking to bought out half my store. He knew before everyone that there would be a war. People at his newspaper must have told him.” I shake my head. “I got ready just like everyone else,” I say quietly to the armed guy facing me, who has no idea what to do but still feels obliged to impose order. He’s even enjoying it. “If you do have food, you’ve got to share some of it,” he says. “People are starving to death. Give away some of it, okay?”

“Okay,” I say, and put down my stick. I realize I have no choice. There have already been break-ins at the homes of people who are considered wealthy. We’re not in that category, of course, but nothing is going to stop these people, who are convinced we lack for nothing. “All right,” I say again, speaking louder. “There isn’t a single piece of bread in my parents’ house. It’s all in my house.”

As soon as they hear this, the crowd starts running as fast as they can toward the new houses behind my parents’. The two men shooting in the air don’t deter them this time and they break into a wild gallop, bending over but continuing the race for the loot. The armed men follow, trying to get things under control. I turn around and, looking at my family, I see how sorry they’re feeling for me. We hear the sound of the door breaking, which doesn’t disturb us too much. Children and adults run out with big smiles on their faces, carrying sacks of rice, sugar, salt, coffee and flour. They break into my brother’s house too, but don’t find as much. We don’t need any of those things. Whatever we could use we moved to my parents’ house in the morning. I sit down on the front steps and look at the people. Most of them I recognize. They’re from our neighborhood, after all, some of them close neighbors. The commotion soon dies out, and everyone moves away, probably looking for the next arena. The two armed men come back to me. “I’m sorry,” the leader says. “We wanted you to share some of it, but they got it all. Don’t worry, I know the ones who took it, and we’ll bring some of it back. You have my word. And we made sure they didn’t take any of the furniture or appliances. The only thing they took is food. Don’t worry, we’ll be back.”

I stay sitting there on the steps. In our house we know we won. My brothers and father go to check out the new houses. I go inside and wipe off the blood with a dry piece of paper. My wife brings me a glass of water. I drink half of it and hand it back to her. I go into my boyhood room and lie down, my face in the pillow. My body is trembling and my face is on fire. I shut my eyes and cry in silence.

My mother comes in. I manage to open my eyes just slightly and see her through my wet eyelashes. She leaves the room and whispers, “He’s asleep,” then shuts the door behind her.

I lie on my bed and think of my mother, picture her as if she were a little girl before a class trip. Then I think of her rushing about in the kitchen, preparing sandwiches, wrapping them in silver foil. The sandwiches are my father’s favorite, with fried ground meat and pickles, sliced lengthwise. He won’t touch them if she slices them the usual way, four such sandwiches for him and two for her, with cheese. She’ll eat whatever there is. It’s food for the trip. She rushes about, wearing a colored scarf on her head, sweating, short and fat. When I was a child, I hated how my mother looked. It took me a long time to realize she was considered a pretty woman. She still is, for her age.

In my daydream my brothers are asleep by now, but I can’t doze off. I could never fall asleep on days when my parents went away for their regular ten-day vacation. Always ten days, always in July, sometimes to Turkey, sometimes to Eilat, or Sinai or Egypt, and lately to Jordan too. It happens every year, and I just can’t get used to it. In fact, it gets worse as the years go by. I stand there in silence, leaning against one of the kitchen walls, and watch her. She’s preparing coffee. In a moment, she’ll be pouring it into a thermos bottle, because my father can’t last half an hour without his extra bitter coffee, with no sugar.

It’s late, and my father went to bed long ago. Their suitcase is packed and soon their food will be packed too. All my mother has left to do is to fill a few bottles with water and put them in the freezer. They’ll be frozen by the time she and my father leave, and the cold water will last all the way to Cairo. She finishes, takes another look in the fridge, counts the sandwiches and mutters to herself as she tries to make sure she hasn’t forgotten anything. The bus will be arriving soon, and they’ll be leaving at five A.M. She has just two hours left. Everything’s ready.

“Come on, get into bed,” she tells me, taking off her scarf and using it to wipe the perspiration from her face and forehead. How I hate that gesture of hers. My mother doesn’t care about me. I’m convinced of it. Mother never understands what I am going through. If she did, she’d never have go and leave me home alone. When I told her earlier in the evening that I didn’t feel sleepy, because I’d slept a lot in the afternoon, she believed me, and when I say good night to her now and head for the children’s room, she’s sure I’m going to sleep. My mother isn’t the kind of mother who tucks her children into bed at night. She keeps saying she can’t understand women who are sad that they’re childless, and that only crazy women have children. My mother brought three children into the world and she keeps telling her girlfriends and us that it’s too many. My mother doesn’t love us. At least she has never told any of us that she loves us. Sometimes I think my brothers have no problem with it, because they seem pretty happy. For me, having a mother who hates us is tough, but I never mention it to anybody.

I stay awake. I know Mother is still awake too. How she loves these trips. She keeps telling people that without these annual trips she’d collapse. She works like a dog all year and then come the ten days without dishes, without cooking and especially without children. I hear her get into the bathtub to bathe and I picture her fat body with all the soap and water. My father wakes up half an hour later and he too begins to get dressed. They talk quietly, in order not to wake anyone. I can’t hear what they’re saying. I wait another few minutes, wipe away my tears and get up to go to the kitchen. Soon they’ll be leaving. I say good morning and they don’t reply. They’re checking their papers and their passports. “Go wait outside,” Father says. “Watch the bags, and call us when the bus gets here.”

I sit on the steps next to their bags. Dawn is breaking, and it’s a little chilly even though it’s summertime. The hair on the back of my hand bristles and I enjoy the feel of the goose bumps on my skin.

What could possibly happen? I ask myself, and try not to answer the question. They go away every year and in the end they come back. I struggle not to think all the bad thoughts that race through my mind, because I know that if I do, they’ll probably come true. I know for sure that if anything bad happens to my parents, it will always be because of me. I have to think positive. I’ll try to concentrate on the presents they’ll bring me. I bet they’ll bring me sneakers and maybe this time they’ll get the right size.