The People of Forever Are Not Afraid by Shani Boianjiu Read Free Book Online Page A

the range, under Boris’s fire. They are dark and small and elastic, moving faster and faster on the ground like lizards, collecting empty bullet shells in their plastic bags—fast, lit, their movements as exact as acrobats.
    “What is that?” Boris asks, still lying on the ground.
    “Boys,” I say. “They are stealing our bullet shells. I mean,
actually
stealing bullet shells.” Bullet shells are not even real metal. Even in Israel, they could probably only sell them for five shekels a kilo. I can’t even imagine. It’s brilliant. It is hysterical.
    I know I should not smile, but I do, and with the smile I blink, and when I open my eyes again the boys are gone.
    “Palestinian boys?” Boris asks. “How could we just let them go?”
    “They are just boys,” I say. “They steal things from our base all the time.”
    Boris gets up from the cement, and for a second we are standing very close. I smell the copper of his blood and his unwashed scalp.
    “Tomorrow I’ll teach you more things,” I say. “Secrets, tricks.”
    Boris straightens his back and nods, like a gentleman, holding himself as tall as he can, the muscles of his neck shaking, loose.

    A T NIGHT , back in the caravan, before another eight-hour shift, I call Moshe.
    “We are broken up,” I say.
    “Now, I know it isn’t me this time,” he says.
    “No,” I say. “It
is
you. Aren’t you listening?”
    “Good,” he says. “If it’s me, then that’s good. I never worry about me. I worry about you.”
    He is the only boy I ever kissed. Moshe. I have been kissing him since he was a very young boy, and I was even younger.

    B ORIS AND I move ahead to shooting from sand and rocks, an unsteady surface. Before we start, I tell him to give me his hand. Mine is more coarse. Though I am his height, my hand looks in his a lifetime smaller. I take his right index finger and explain.
    “The lowest third of your finger is called the ‘Indifferent.’ It is not perceptive enough to accurately push the trigger. The top part of your finger is called the ‘Sensitive.’ It is too vulnerable to remain steady when you press the trigger.” My breath releases fumes into the cold air. My nose drips a tiny drop into our hands, and when I look up Boris’s white smile hits my eyes.
    I look down again. “And this part,” I say and pinch the middle part of his finger, “this part is called the ‘Hammer,’ and this is the part you should press the trigger with. This part is perfect.”
    “I never knew there was a part of me that’s perfect,” Boris says. His eyes are beaming at my words, just like Dan’s did once when I was very young, when we both stood by a benchin Jerusalem Street. His hand moves in mine, and I cannot tell if it is the cold or intention. I hesitate.
    “Well,” I say. “Now you know.”
    We stand silent for a minute, until at once we both pull away. The hills of Hebron loom above us like monsters and the sky feels larger, further away when I look up at it, as if we are at the very bottom of an ocean.
    “Hey Boris,” I say. “Have you heard what they are doing behind the new mall in Jerusalem?”
    “What are they doing?”
    “Your mom,” and with that I kick his leg, making him fall to the ground, hearing him laugh before he even hits it. A glorious laughter, deep and uncontrollable.
    He shoots and hits two out of five. I run back from marking his target, and without a word I take the magazine out of his weapon and make sure it is unloaded.
    “Get up,” I shout. “Take your earplugs out.”
    I am sure the two bullets he hit are his first two. After that, he kept on moving out of position.
    I point the gun in the sky and bring it close to Boris’s ear. There are small yellow dots of dirt in his inner ear, and this makes me love him. Love him more.
    I press the trigger, and then I don’t let it go. One second, two seconds, three.
    Clank.
    “After each bullet you shoot, I want you to count to three. I want you to be able to