Claire was my childhood love. I heard Yonatan, a kibbutznik, lecturing on Marx and Tolstoy the day we both enlisted. Jacques was a painter; the sergeant major ordered him to smear the cannons with grease so they would shine in the parade. I met Hanoch after the army; every morning I would wake to the clatter of his typewriter—he was then writing “Solomon Grip.” With Shmuel I played chess; I loved the quiet that accompanied the game. Era, the editor, was my cinematic conscience.
My friends are no longer here. But I still speak to them through the memories.
