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for each of my other sons – more important than raising big families. Don’t be sad about it. It’s a mitzvah , a blessing for us.’
    Her cousin Tony had a different perspective.
    â€˜Dad says that Max is crazy,’ he said, through a mouthful of rum and raisin ice-cream, during a visit up from London. ‘Mad as a fruitbat, living in the desert, growing melons and shooting at the natives. St Max of Zion, we call him. As for my Dad, maybe old Grandma has to tell herself that he’s some Jewish Robin Hood, stealing from the rich to give to the schmucks .’ He grinned and ruffled Judith’s yellow hair. ‘Frankly I think your Pop is the only normal one in the family. So cheer up, bubbellah . You’ll probably be normal as normal too.’
    War children shouldn’t grow up to be normal, Judith remembered thinking. They’re supposed to be heroes. Mensches . That was how the story ended for Dora, the Sunderland version of the great Foundation of Israel and Judit Gold. St Max came back from the fighting after the Yishuv was safe, when the five foreign Arab armies had been routed and half the local Arabs had vanished with them. ‘He told me that at the minute, the very minute she was born, Ben-Gurion was raising the flag.’ Max had presented Dora with a dirty blue patch of fabric embroidered with a six-pointed star, as a birth gift. ‘He wore it when he signed up, and it went with him from Jaffa to Yerushalayem,’ she’d say. ‘Something to remind Judit of all the sacrifices our generation made.’ But Judith had only seen Max’s star once in her lifetime. She’d spied it, a ragged square hidden away in Dora’s make-up case like an old schmatter . ‘Your brother might be dining with the righteous,’ she heard her mother say to Jack in an unguarded moment, ‘but he’s not exactly money in the bank.’
    Judith had touched it lightly, as if it might hurt. It was torn around the edges and it smelt strange, a hot, red smell like dust. It was nothing like the sky-blue flag she’d seen on television; this blue was wounded, grey as the Wear at high tide, and the stains on it were dark as blood.

    Salim awoke to the sound of an explosion.
    It was a deep, piercing boom that dragged him up from the depths of sleep like a loud knock on the door. He sat up, confused; his room was dark and he could still smell his mother’s perfume.
    Outside the inky sky was fading into dawn. Hassan’s bed was unmade and empty. In the silence he could hear his own breath.
    Then it came again, a giant crash that rocked the walls and sent dust spiralling from the ceiling.
    He leapt up in terror. What’s happening? Where is everyone? Have they left me? He clutched the blanket to himself, as the tears started to come.
    The open bedroom door suddenly looked threatening, a black hole leading out into the unknown. Then another explosion hit. This time instinct drove him to his feet.
    As he raced down the stairs he felt a third boom nearly knock him off his feet. The front door was open and a grey light streamed into the house.
    Then he saw them – his mother, father and Hassan standing outside in the orange garden. They were still in their nightclothes, and Hassan was barefoot. Rafan cried in his mother’s arms, his face red as a bruise over her shoulder.
    Above them the pre-dawn sky was split with white shocks, like lightning strikes. Each blast sent bright needles of light through the leaves of the orange trees. Thick flags of smoke drifted out to sea.
    â€˜What’s happening?’ he pleaded, ashes in his mouth. Even Hassan looked terrified, clutching his father’s hand like a baby.
    â€˜Mortars,’ Abu Hassan replied, without looking down. A high whistling followed his words, before an explosion made the ground tremble. ‘They want to drive us out with bombs and then kill what’s left.’
    Salim looked at his