📸 Photo

Israeli.’ We shook hands, and Pete invited us up to his den.

The prison was a strange building, two-storied and very old. Haphazard additions had been tacked onto it, made from wood, corrugated tin, cloth, or any material that had come to hand. We climbed a ladder at the end of the corridor up to Pete’s room. The room itself was of no definable geometric shape. It was built of wooden beams and tin panels, asbestos, and plywood. The ceiling was low and slanted, made mostly of taut nylon sheets.

‘Home sweet home,’ Pete said cheerfully.

The bed was on the side of the cell where the ceiling was lowest. Kevin and I sat there, hunched over slightly. Pete sat on a mat on the opposite side of the room, about four feet from us. In the corner by the door was an electric hot plate.

‘Oh, this is for you,’ I said, and handed Pete the heavy sack.

‘Chicken!’ he exclaimed. ‘My favourite. Thanks, pals.’

The room was stuffy, windowless, but the ceiling of nylon let the light filter in. Pete whipped out a wrinkled notebook and pen and asked if we would mind writing down our names and addresses.

‘Someday, when I get out of this joint, I’ll put a pack on my back and visit all the terrific people who visited me here.’

Kevin opened the notebook. ‘You’ve got half the