The Girl Who Stole My Holocaust. Noam Chayut

of the family approached me. Like any other chance “officer in charge,” I was not authorized to read Ottoman maps. What do I know of property laws? Perhaps I don’t even know of their existence? Who even decided them? And what have they to do with me? What do I care whose land this is? What business is this of mine? After all I just need to ensure the well-being of the fellow who is here to survey this plot of land and pass the map on to whoever ordered it made and paid for it and will build whatever he will on it.

      But this particular escort was not meant for surveying land, preparing a map or marking the route of future construction. The officials had come there to post paper notices on olive tree trunks. And this was the content of the notice, more or less: This area is confiscated by the State for security purposes according to such and such regulations and by force of this and that law. Owners of the area may appeal within the time frame allowed by law to the legal authority set by the same law or regulation or edict or …

      I don’t recall the exact words, of course, but I do remember that even then it seemed ridiculous to post such notices on the trunks of centuries-old olive trees that did not speak Hebrew, and anyway they had been planted there long before laws and regulations and edicts had been issued in Hebrew in this country, at least this time around, and if an olive tree were found that was old enough to understand, its owner certainly wouldn’t, and even if he did, he would not be allowed to cross the checkpoint in order to appeal to the proper legal authority. At any rate, the official, wearing sandals, jeans and a light striped shirt, looking so out of place in this dusty landscape, took out a camera and photographed the grove and the trees with the notices posted on their trunks.

      Then we escorted the civil administration vehicle to the main road. This time we passed through the village itself and not through the barrier. I don’t remember the reason for changing our route, perhaps the road was especially rough and dangerous because it had not yet been completed. For some reason, I recall stopping on our way, at the village outskirts, where I opened the Jeep door and “stormily” disembarked—and here, my little thief, I must digress: the term “stormy disembarkation” is etched in my memory ever since my Jeep appeared on Israeli television news. It was in Ramallah’s city center that we once stopped TV reporter Uri Levy and his film crew. This was during Operation “Onward Determination,” or perhaps it was Operation “Here’s to You”—one of the two. I yelled at Uri Levy that “this is a closed military zone,” and we had our hands full as it was, chasing foreign television networks and we didn’t really have time to waste on Israeli TV crews. He was startled, and said they had already received orders to clear out and were on their way when we stopped them. Later, when he calmed down, he smiled and complimented us on our “stormy disembarkation.” I very much hoped it would be broadcast on the news, because I found it very impressive indeed.