When they drew the border between Israel and Jordan in 1948, they forgot to ask Mr. Cohen. Waking up one morning, quite early, wondering what turmoil the sunlight might bring, Mr. Cohen is hit by the sudden urge to urinate. He runs downstairs only in his underwear.
This is when Mr. Cohen realizes that his garden is cut in half and his outhouse is in Jordan.
I can only speculate on the thoughts that went through that graying head capped with a black yarmulke. Perhaps they were: borders, in-house, war, “I gotta go!”… Do the Jordanians have my neighbor’s outhouse too? Would they shoot me if I asked about my toilet? Will the UN provide me with a new one?
Mr. Cohen ponders, close to wetting himself. He is standing amongst his peppers and cucumber shoots. The sun is shining and Jerusalem is supposed to be shining with it. He can not hold it in much longer.