Like every Israeli, I knew they were there, and I pretended I knew them, even pretended I liked some of them, the safe ones—we talked about them like that, the safe ones, the dangerous ones—and I never would have admitted it, not even to myself, but they might as well have been lawn mowers, dishwashing machines, taxis, trucks. They were there to fix our fridges on a Saturday. That was the old joke: every town needed at least one good Arab, how else could you get the fridge fixed on Saturday? And if they were ever anything other than objects, they were objects to be feared, because, if you
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