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mother. She stood still as stone, eyes fixed on the sea. Behind their heads, a hint of milky light warned of an imminent sunrise.
    The thuds of the mortars were still a little way distant. They were east and north, up towards Clock Tower Square and the town centre – its hospitals, the Al-Hambra cinema with its red seats, the Mahmoudiya Mosque and the churches of St Peter and St George. But between the crashes, Salim heard other sounds closer to home: shouts and sirens, the excited barking of dogs and the squeal of tyres.
    Suddenly someone was banging on the gate; the whole Al-Ishmaeli family jumped. In her shock, his mother even did the unthinkable – grabbed Abu Hassan’s arm and clung to it. She hissed ‘Get inside’ to Hassan and Salim. Neither could move, rooted to the spot like cats watching a hound.
    â€˜Abu Hassan!’ An urgent voice, a man’s voice, spoke through the metal grill. ‘Open up, for God’s sake.’
    Salim recognized the voice at once; his mother did too. ‘It’s Isak Yashuv,’ she told Abu Hassan. ‘Quick, let him in.’
    Gates were rarely locked in Jaffa, even in those days of fear. But that night Abu Hassan had decided to close the rusty bolt for the first time in years; it creaked and juddered as he fumbled to pull it open. His family stayed behind, huddled into an anxious knot.
    Isak Yashuv’s black eyes were wide with haste; his beaten old Austin was behind him, its engine running. Lili stood in the embrace of its open door, her light brown hair covered by a yellow cloth patterned with flowers. In the back seat, Elia sat bundled up beside piles of bags and clothes. His eyes caught Salim’s, and he looked away again in confusion.
    Isak was talking quickly to his parents. ‘This is the Irgun, Abu Hassan. They’re going to take Jaffa today or tomorrow. I’m worried they’ll come through our neighbourhood, so I’m taking the family out.’ Isak lived in Manshiyya, on the flimsy border between Jaffa and Tel Aviv. ‘You should lock the door and don’t let any fighters use your house. Stay out of the fighting and the Irgun will stay away from you.’
    â€˜So where are you going?’ asked his mother, coming up to stand by her husband.
    Isak gave her a strangely apologetic look. ‘To Tel Aviv,’ he said. ‘Whatever dream we have been living is over now. Either the Irgun will get us in their attack or the Arabs will, in revenge.’
    Abu Hassan turned his head from side to side, as if the answer might materialize suddenly out of the orange trees. While he hesitated, Salim’s mother said coldly, ‘We will not run. This is our house. There are soldiers here too, let them protect us.’
    Isak raised his hands. ‘Don’t put your faith in soldiers, Umm Hassan. Thousands are already making for the port and onto ships. Arab fighters are among them. I thought Jaffa must be empty and you would be alone here. But if no one stays, who will be left to claim Jaffa after this madness is over?’ He shook his head, unable to say more. Salim was astonished to see wetness on his cheek.
    Lili came up now, touching Isak lightly on the arm. In her weak Arabic she said, ‘Don’t frighten them so, Isak.’ Turning to Salim’s mother, she said, ‘Stay, if you want to keep your home. Go into the cellar and stay. I know what you think, but these people are not monsters. They just want…’ She made a gesture with her hands, before falling silent and dropping her eyes. Salim stared at her. What was she saying? What did these Jews want? There was nothing for them here. Everything here belonged to him.
    Then Lili was tugging on Isak’s sleeve and speaking to him quickly in Hebrew. He turned his head back towards the car and Elia.
    â€˜We have to go now,’ he said. ‘God bless you and your family, Abu Hassan. I hope…’ but whatever he hoped was lost in