{"product_id":"to-the-end-of-the-land-isbn-9780307476401","title":"To the End of the Land","description":"\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003eNATIONAL BESTSELLER • A stunning novel that tells the powerful story of Ora, an Israli mother, and her extraordinary love for her son, Ofer, in a haunting meditation on war and family.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“One of the few novels that feel as though they have made a difference to the world.” —\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJust before his release from service in the Israeli army, Ora’s son Ofer is sent back to the front for a major offensive. In a fit of preemptive grief and magical thinking, so that no bad news can reach her, Ora sets out on an epic hike in the Galilee. She is joined by an unlikely companion—Avram, a former friend and lover with a troubled past—and as they sleep out in the hills, Ora begins to conjure her son. Ofer’s story, as told by Ora, becomes a surprising balm both for her and for Avram.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003eNational Book Critics Circle Award Finalist\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA \u003ci\u003eNEW YORK TIMES\u003c\/i\u003e NOTABLE BOOK\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eONE OF THE BEST BOOKS OF THE YEAR: \u003ci\u003eThe New Yorker, The Washington Post,\u003c\/i\u003e \u003ci\u003eThe Christian Science Monitor, The Economist, The New Republic,\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThe Pittsburgh Post Gazette\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A masterpiece. . . . One of the few novels that feel as though they have made a difference to the world.”\u003cbr\u003e—Colm Tóibín, \u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A boundary-pushing novel. . . . Like all great literature, it is an act of generosity, opening itself to every human possibility. . . . Grossman invites us to look beneath the shrill headlines, beyond the roadblocks, within the clenched fist—to see Israel’s predicament not as ‘the situation’ but as many situations, one for every person.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Washington Post\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Enthralling. . . . Unsparing yet compassionate . . . Grossman’s electrifying narrative seems excruciatingly timely. . . . Unforgettable. . . . The unstudied beauty and psychological complexity of Grossman’s language, his deft and lively dialogue, are utterly compelling. . . . Rendered in Jessica Cohen’s exquisite translation, Grossman’s symphonic novel straddles despair and hope, a journey into inner and outer landscapes, delivering stunning rewards.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Miami Herald\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Magnificent. . . . A powerful meditation. . . . Foremost among Grossman’s achievements is the creation of Ora, a modern-day Scheherazade and icon of the mourning mother.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Seattle Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Grossman’s greatest fictional creation [is] Ora: tender, passionate, angry, funny, self-doubting, intuitive, above all a woman of ‘abundance.’ . . . [Her story] encompasses both the complex fullness of one life and the broader history of Israel’s modern conflicts. . . . This most Israeli of Grossman’s novels is also his most universal.”\u003cbr\u003e—George Packer, \u003ci\u003eThe New Yorker\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“A tour de force. . . . Unforgettable. . . . [Grossman’s] best.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Star-Ledger\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Penetrating. . . . Grossman has produced a sprawling novel that stretches over nearly 35 years of Israeli history. Along with war and peace, life and death, Grossman reckons with the emotional and sexual geometry of Israelis, particularly the secular liberals now in middle age, much like their author.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eNewsday\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“This is a story of love and friendship, family and society, parents and children, life and death. And war and peace. . . . Whether lushly descriptive, emotive or narrative, Grossman’s writing is both controlled and passionate. . . . Ora’s voice is authentic and true, honed to perfection.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eChicago Jewish Star\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Profound. . . . A reminder of what Israel—what any country—is capable of doing to its sons.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Boston Globe\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“There are some writers in whose words one recognizes the texture of life. David Grossman is such a writer. He is a master of the emotionally accurate and significant. His characters don’t so much lie on the page as rise before the reader’s eyes, in three dimensions, their skin covered in prose that both stabs with insight and shines with compassion.”\u003cbr\u003e—Yann Martel, author of \u003ci\u003eLife of Pi\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Moving. . . . A convincing portrait of maternal grit and ingenuity in a time and place of relentless challenge. . . . In this powerful book, there are surprising answers of a kind, but the ongoing strife goes on.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Washington Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Very rarely you open a book and when you close it again nothing can ever be the same. Walls have been pulled down, barriers broken, a dimension of feeling has opened in you that was not there before. David Grossman has the ability to look inside a person and discover the unique essence of her humanity; his novels are about what it means to defend this essence against a world designed to extinguish it. \u003ci\u003eTo the End of the Land\u003c\/i\u003e is his most powerful, unflinching story of this defense.”\u003cbr\u003e—Nicole Krauss, author of \u003ci\u003eThe History of Love\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A courageous and powerful antiwar novel.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eKansas City Star\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Grossman’s most ambitious work to date. . . . His imagination is secular, worldly, self-questioning and ironic. The Israel he imagines, beautifully and sorrowfully, is not going to be saved by any divine intervention.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Economist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Bold and uncompromising, this great emotional rush of a story sings and cries, exults and mourns.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe\u003c\/i\u003e \u003ci\u003eForward\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“An extraordinary epic of love, war, and sorrow. . . . Stunning—brilliantly written and beautifully constructed.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Times \u003c\/i\u003e(London)\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“A deeply serious, utterly honest work about the state of Israel.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eFinancial Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Flaubert created his Emma, Tolstoy made his Anna, and now we have Grossman’s Ora—as fully alive, as fully embodied, as any character in recent fiction. I devoured this long novel in a feverish trance.”\u003cbr\u003e—Paul Auster, author of \u003ci\u003eInvisible\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDavid Grossman was born in Jerusalem. He is the author of numerous works of fiction, nonfiction, and children's literature. His work has appeared in \u003ci\u003eThe New Yorker\u003c\/i\u003e and has been translated into more than forty languages. He is the recipient of many prizes, including the French Chevalier de l'Ordre des Arts et des Lettres, the Buxtehuder Bulle in Germany, Rome's Premio per la Pace e l'Azione Umanitaria, the Premio Ischia—international award for journalism, Israel's Emet Prize, and the Albatross Prize given by the Günter Grass Foundation.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cb\u003ePrologue, 1967\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHEY, GIRL\u003cb\u003e, \u003c\/b\u003equiet!\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eWho is that?\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eBe quiet! You woke everyone up!\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eBut I was holding her\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eWho?\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eOn the rock, we were sitting together\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eWhat rock are you talking about? Let us sleep\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eThen she just fell\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eAll this shouting and singing\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eBut I was asleep\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eAnd you were shouting!\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eShe just let go of my hand and fell\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eStop it, go to sleep\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eTurn on a light\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eAre you crazy? They’ll kill us if we do that\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eWait\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eWhat?\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eI was singing?\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eSinging, shouting, everything. Now be quiet\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eWhat was I singing?\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eWhat were you singing?!\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eIn my sleep, what was I singing?\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eI’m supposed to know what you were singing? A bunch of shouts.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eThat’s what you were singing. What was I singing, she wants to know . . .\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eYou don’t remember the song?\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eLook, are you nuts? I’m barely alive\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eBut who are you?\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eRoom Three\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eYou’re in isolation, too?\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eGotta get back\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eDon’t go . . . Did you leave? Wait, hello . . . Gone . . . But what was I singing?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eAND \u003c\/b\u003ethe next night he woke her up again, angry at her again for singing at the top of her lungs and waking up the whole hospital, and she begged him to try to remember if it was the same song from the night before. She was desperate to know, because of her dream, which kept getting dreamed almost every night during those years. An utterly white dream. Everything in it was white, the streets and the houses and the trees and the cats and dogs and the rock at the edge of the cliff. And Ada, her redheaded friend, was also entirely white, without a drop of blood in her face or body. Without a drop of color in her hair. But he couldn’t remember which song it was this time, either. His whole body was shuddering, and she shuddered back at him from her bed. We’re like a pair of castanets, he said, and to her surprise, she burst out with bright laughter that tickled him inside. He had used up all his strength on the journey from his room to hers, thirty-five steps, resting after each one, holding on to walls, doorframes, empty food carts. Now he flopped onto the sticky linoleum floor in her doorway. For several minutes they both breathed heavily. He wanted to make her laugh again but he could no longer speak, and then he must have fallen asleep, until her voice woke him.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eTell me something\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eWhat? Who is it?\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eIt’s me\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eYou . . .\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eTell me, am I alone in this room?\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eHow should I know?\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eAre you, like, shivering?\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eYeah, shivering\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eHow high is yours?\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eIt was forty this evening\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eMine was forty point three. When do you die?\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eAt forty-two\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eThat’s close\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eNo, no, you still have time\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eDon’t go, I’m scared\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eDo you hear?\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eWhat?\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eHow quiet it is suddenly?\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eWere there booms before?\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eCannons\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eI keep sleeping, and all of a sudden it’s nighttime again\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e’Cause there’s a blackout\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eI think they’re winning\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eWho?\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eThe Arabs\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eNo way\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eThey’ve occupied Tel Aviv\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eWhat are you . . . who told you that?\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eI don’t know. Maybe I heard it\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eYou dreamed it\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eNo, they said it here, someone, before, I heard voices\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eIt’s from the fever. Nightmares. I have them, too\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eMy dream . . . I was with my friend\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eMaybe you know\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eWhat?\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eWhich direction I came from\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eI don’t know anything here\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eHow long for you?\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eDon’t know\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eMe, four days. Maybe a week\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eWait, where’s the nurse?\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eAt night she’s in Internal A. She’s an Arab\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eHow do you know?\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eYou can hear it when she talks\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eYou’re shaking\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eMy mouth, my whole face\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eBut . . . where is everybody?\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eThey’re not taking us to the bomb shelter\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eWhy?\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eSo we don’t infect them\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eWait, so it’s just us—\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eAnd the nurse\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eI thought\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eWhat?\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eIf you could sing it for me\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eThat again?\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eJust hum\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eI’m leaving\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eIf it was the other way around, I would sing to you\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eGotta get back\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eWhere?\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eWhere, where, to lie with my forefathers, to bring me down with sorrow to the grave, that’s where\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eWhat? What was that? Wait, do I know you? Hey, come back\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eAND \u003c\/b\u003ethe next night, too, before midnight, he came to stand in her doorway and scolded her again and complained that she was singing in her sleep, waking him and the whole world, and she smiled to herself and asked if his room was really that far, and that was when he realized, from her voice, that she wasn’t where she had been the night before and the night before that.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eBecause now I’m \u003ci\u003esitting, \u003c\/i\u003eshe explained. He asked cautiously, But why are you sitting? Because I couldn’t sleep, she said. And I wasn’t singing. I was sitting here quietly waiting for you.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eThey both thought it was getting even darker. A new wave of heat, which may have had nothing to do with her illness, climbed up from Ora’s toes and sparked red spots on her neck and face. It’s a good thing it’s dark, she thought, and held her loose pajama collar up to her neck. Finally, from the doorway, he cleared his throat softly and said, Well, I have to get back. But why? she asked. He said he urgently had to tar and feather himself. She didn’t get it, but then she got it and laughed deeply. Come on, dummy, enough with your act, I put a chair out for you next to me.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eHe felt along the doorway, metal cabinets, and beds, until he stopped way off, leaned his arms on an empty bed, and panted loudly. I’m here, he groaned. Come closer to me, she said. Wait, let me catch my breath. The darkness filled her with courage and she said in a loud voice, in her voice of health, of beaches and paddleball and swimming out to the rafts on Quiet Beach, What are you afraid of? I don’t bite. He mumbled, Okay, okay, I get it, I’m barely alive. His grumbling tone and the heavy way he dragged his feet touched her. We’re kind of like an elderly couple, she thought.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eOuch!\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eWhat happened?\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eOne of these beds just decided to . . . Fuck! So, have you heard of the Law of Malicious—\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eWhat did you say?\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eThe Law of Malicious Furniture—heard of it?\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eAre you coming or not?\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eThe trembling wouldn’t stop, and sometimes it turned into long shivers, and when they talked their speech was choppy, and they often had to wait for a pause in the trembling, a brief calming of the face and mouth muscles, and then they would quickly spit out the words in high, tense voices, and the stammering crushed the sentences in their mouths. How-old-are-you? Six-teen-and-you? And-a-quar-ter. I-have-jaun-dice, how-a-bout-you? Me? he said. I-think-it’s-an-in-fec-tion-of-the-o-va-ries.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eSilence. He shuddered and breathed heavily. By-the-way-that-was-a-joke, he said. Not funny, she said. He groaned: I tried to make her laugh, but her sense of humor is too— She perked up and asked who he was talking to. He replied, To my joke writer, I guess I’ll have to fire him. If you don’t come over here and sit down right now, I’ll start singing, she threatened. He shivered and laughed. His laughter was as screechy as a donkey’s bray, a self-sustaining laughter, and she secretly gulped it down like medicine, like a prize.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eHe laughed so hard at her stupid little joke that she barely resisted telling him that lately she wasn’t good at making people roll around with laughter the way she used to. “When it comes to humor, she’s not much of a jester,” they sang about her at the Purim party this year. And it wasn’t just a minor shortcoming. For her it was crippling, a new defect that could grow bigger and more complicated. And she sensed that it was somehow related to some other qualities that were vanishing in recent years. Intuition, for example. How could a trait like that disappear so abruptly? Or the knack for saying the right thing at the right time. She had had it once, and now it was gone. Or even just wittiness. She used to be really sharp. The sparks just flew out of her. (Although, she consoled herself, it was a Purim song, and maybe they just couldn’t come up with a better rhyme for “Esther.”) Or her sense of love, she thought. Maybe that was part of her deterioration—her losing the capacity to really love someone, to burn with love, like the girls talked about, like in the movies. She felt a pang for Asher Feinblatt, her friend who went to the military boarding school, who was now a soldier, who had told her on the steps between Pevsner Street and Yosef Street that she was his soul mate, but who hadn’t touched her that time, either. Never once in two years had he put a hand or a finger on her, and maybe that never-touched-her also had something to do with it, and deep in her heart she felt that everything was somehow connected, and that things would grow clearer all the time, and she would keep discovering more little pieces of whatever awaited her.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eFor a moment she could see herself at fifty, tall and thin and withered, a scentless flower taking long, quick steps, her head bowed, a wide-brimmed straw hat hiding her face. The boy with the donkey laugh kept feeling his way toward her, getting closer and then farther away—it was as if he were doing it on purpose, she realized, like this was a kind of game for him—and he giggled and made fun of his own clumsiness and floated around the room in circles, and every so often he asked her to say something so he’d know which direction she was in: Like a lighthouse, he explained, but with sound. Smart-ass, she thought. He finally reached her bed and felt around and found the chair she had put out, and collapsed on it and breathed heavily like an old man. She could smell the sweat of his illness, and she pulled off one of her blankets and gave it to him and he wrapped it around himself and said nothing. They were both exhausted, and each of them shivered and moaned.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eStill, she said later from under her blanket, your voice sounds familiar. Where are you from? Jerusalem, he said. I’m from Haifa, she said, accentuating slightly. They brought me here in an ambulance from Rambam Hospital, because of the complications. I have those too, he laughed, my whole life is complications. They sat quietly. He scratched his stomach and chest and grumbled, and she grumbled, too. That’s the worse thing about it, isn’t it? she said. She also scratched herself, with all ten fingernails. Sometimes I’m dying to peel all my skin off, just to make it stop. Every time she started talking, he could hear the soft sticky sound of her lips parting, and the tips of his fingers and toes throbbed.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eOra said, The ambulance driver said that at a time like this they need the ambulances for more important things.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eHave you noticed that everyone here is angry at us? As if we purposely. . .\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eBecause we’re the last ones left from the plague.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eThey sent home anyone who was feeling even a little bit better. Especially soldiers. Wham-bam, they kicked them right back to the army so they could make it in time for the war.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eSo there’s really going to be a war?\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eAre you kidding? There’s been a war for at least two days.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eWhen did it start? she asked in a whisper.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eDay before yesterday, I think. And I told you that already, yesterday or the day before, I can’t remember, the days get mixed up.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eThat’s right, you did say . . . Ora was dumbstruck. Clots of strange and terrifying dreams drifted through her.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eHow could you not hear? he murmured. There are sirens and artillery all the time, and I heard helicopters landing. There are probably a million casualties by now.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eBut what’s going on?\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eI don’t know, and there’s no one to talk to here. They have no patience for us.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eThen who’s taking care of us?\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eRight now there’s just that thin little Arab woman, the one who cries. Have you heard her?\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eThat’s a person crying? Ora was stunned. I thought it was an animal wailing. Are you sure?\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eIt’s a person, for sure.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eBut how come I haven’t seen her?\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eShe kind of comes and goes. She does the tests and leaves your medicine and food on a tray. It’s just her now, day and night. He sucked in his cheeks and said thoughtfully, It’s funny that the only person they left us with is an Arab, isn’t it? They probably don’t let Arabs treat the wounded.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eBut why does she cry? What happened to her?\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eHow should I know?\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eOra sat up straight and her body hardened, and she said coldly, quietly, They’ve occupied Tel Aviv, I’m telling you. Nasser and Hussein are already sipping coffee at a café on Dizengoff Street.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eWhere did you come up with that? He sounded frightened.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eI heard it last night, or today, I’m almost positive, maybe it was on her radio, I heard it, they’ve occupied Beersheba and Ashkelon and Tel Aviv.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eNo, no, that can’t be. Maybe it’s the fever, it’s because of your fever, ’cause there’s no way! You’re crazy, there’s no way they’ll win.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eThere is, there is, she mumbled to herself, and thought, What do you even know about what could or couldn’t happen.A novel","brand":"Vintage","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46302458773733,"sku":"NP9780307476401","price":19.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780307476401.jpg?v=1767742725","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/to-the-end-of-the-land-isbn-9780307476401","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}