Sunday 18th July 1943

William and I, returning from our usual week-end stroll and picnic in the olive trees, came past a vineyard. The Arab small-holder and his son were gathering the ripe grapes. A very simple transaction was concluded, with no argument. We paused beside the boy, I opened my haversack and took out a hunk of bread – about 1/8 of a loaf. “Inti lazim?” He nodded. “Nahm.” I gave him the bread. He put his hand in his cloth bundle and gave us a large bunch of grapes each. “Kaffa Keerac.” “W'keerac”

We strolled on. “Misalama” he said. “Allah ishalmakh,” I replied.

The eight-for-the-boat idea is dissolving. Store went last week, Silverman goes tomorrow and Hurren and Murphy the day after. We had expected we should all keep together but it seems this will not be so.

End of High Noon 1943