Cedars of Lebanon:
How I Chose to Come Here
Two women directed me to a hostel owned by a man called Machover on the other side of the large courtyard. I crossed over and entered the inn. There I was received by the innkeeper himself, a middle-aged man with a distracted expression and a thick beard.
“Can I put up here until after Passover?” I asked him.
Instead of replying, he asked me in a low and mysterious voice, “Running away from the priziv [military service]?”
About the Author