Elsewhere, Perhaps

1. A CHARMING, WELL-ORGANIZED VILLAGE

You see before you the kibbutz of Metsudat Ram:

Its buildings are laid out in strict symmetry at one end of the green valley. The tangled foliage of the trees does not break up the settlement's severe lines, but merely softens them, and adds a dimension of weightiness.

The buildings are whitewashed, and most of them are topped with bright red roofs. This color scheme contrasts sharply with that of the mountain range, which completely blocks the view to the east, and at the foot of which the kibbutz lies spread. The mountains are bare and rocky, cut by zigzagging ravines. With the sun's progress their own shadows spill gradually down these folds, as if the mountains are trying to relieve their desolation with this melancholy shadow play.

Along the lower terraces on the slope stretches the border between our land and that of her enemies.

This border, prominently marked on the maps with a thick green line, is not visible to the observer, since it does not correspond to the natural boundary between the lush green valley and the bleak, bare mountains. The soil of Israel overflows the limits of the valley and spreads up the lower slopes toward the barren heights. So the eye and the mind — or, more precisely, geology and politics — come to be at odds with one another. The kibbutz itself stands some two miles from the international frontier. We cannot define the distance more precisely without entering into the bloodstained controversy over the exact location of this line.

The landscape, then, is rich in contrasts, contrasts between appearances and reality and also inner contrasts within the appearances. These can be described only by the term "contradiction." There is a kind of enmity between the valley, with its neat, geometrical patchwork of fields and the savage bleakness of the mountains. Even the symmetrical architecture of Kibbutz Metsudat Ram is no more than a negation of the grim natural chaos that looks down on it from above.

The contrast inherent in the landscape naturally plays a prominent part in the works of Metsudat Ram's own poet. Sometimes it takes the form of a genuine symbol, as we shall see if we look at the poems of Reuven Harish. For the time being, let us borrow the poet's favorite contrast and apply it to matters that Reuven Harish does not write about.

Consider, for example, the striking contrast between our village and the typical village, which arouses nostalgic feelings in the hearts of city dwellers. If you are accustomed to the sight of ancient villages, their roofs soaring on high in convoluted northern shapes; if in your mind you associate the word "village" with horse-drawn carts piled high with hay and with pitchforks stuck in their sides; if you yearn for crowded cottages huddling round the rain-swept spire of an old church; if you look for cheerful peasants with brightly colored clothes and broad-brimmed hats, picturesque dovecots, chickens busily scratching in a dung heap, packs of lean, vicious dogs; if you expect a village to have a forest round about and winding dirt paths and fenced fields and canals reflecting low clouds and muffled wayfarers heading for the shelter of an inn — if this is your mental picture of a village, then our village is bound to startle you, and it is this which has compelled us to introduce the term "contradiction." Our village is built in a spirit of optimism.

The dwellings are absolutely identical, as is demanded by the ideological outlook of the kibbutz, an outlook that has no parallel in any village in the world. The well-known lines of Reuven Harish convey the essence of the idea:

In the face of a foul world bent on doom,

And the lascivious dance of death,

In the face of sordid frenzy,

In the face of drunken madness,

We will kindle a flame with our blood.

The houses, as we have said, are brightly painted. They are laid out at regular intervals. Their windows all face northwest, since the architects tried to adapt the building to the climate. Here there is no agglomeration of buildings clustering or ramifying haphazardly down the ages, nor blocks of dwellings enclosing secret courtyards, for the kibbutz does not have family homes. There is no question of separate quarters for different crafts; the poor are not relegated to the outskirts nor is the center reserved for the wealthy. The straight lines, the clean shapes, the neatly ruled concrete paths and rectangular lawns are the product of a vigorous view of the world. That was what we meant when we stated that our village was built in a spirit of optimism.

Anyone who draws the shallow inference that our village is stark and lacking in charm and beauty merely reveals his own prejudice. The object of the kibbutz is not to satisfy the sentimental expectations of town dwellers. Our village is not lacking in charm and beauty, but its beauty is vigorous and virile and its charm conveys a message. Yes, it does.

The road that joins our kibbutz to the main road is narrow and in bad repair, but it is straight as an arrow in flight. To reach us you must turn off the main road at a point indicated by a green and white signpost, skirt the potholes in the road, and climb a pleasant small hill not far from the kibbutz gates. (This is a green and cultivated hill, which is not to be seen as a finger of the mountains thrust violently into the heart of the valley and lopped off, since it has nothing in common with the menacing mountain heights.) Let us pause for a moment and engrave the striking colored picture-post card scene on our memories. From the top of the hill we can look down on the kibbutz. Even if the view does not inflame the heart, still it pleases the eye. The open iron gates, a sloping fence, and, nearby, a tractor shed. Agricultural implements scattered about in cheerful disorder. Buildings crowded with livestock — chickens, cattle, and sheep — constructed on the latest plan. Paved paths branch out in various directions, and avenues of bush cypresses trace the skeleton of the over-all shape. Farther on stands the dining hall, surrounded by well-kept flower beds. It is an outstanding modern building, whose size is relieved by its light lines. As you will discover, its interior does not belie its façade. It radiates a delicate, unpretentious elegance.

Beyond the dining hall, the settlement is divided into two separate blocks, the veterans' quarters on one side and the young people's on the other. The houses wallow in cool greenery, overshadowed by trees and surrounded by lush lawns pricked out with brightly colored flower beds. The soft sound of rustling pine needles is ever present. The tall granary to the south and the tall recreation hall to the north break the uniform lowness and add a dimension of height to the settlement. Perhaps they can compensate to some extent for the missing church spire that, whether you admit it or not, is an integral feature of your picture of the typical village.

To the east, at the farthest corner from your vantage point, is a collection of huts. This serves as a temporary home for training courses, work camps, and army units, anyone who comes to share our burden for a limited span of time. The huts bestow a pioneering character on the whole picture, the air of a border settlement ready to turn a resolute face to impending disasters. So does the sloping fence that surrounds the kibbutz on all sides. Let us pause here for a moment to evoke your admiration.

Now let us look toward the fields of crops all round the kibbutz. A heart-warming sight. Fields of bright green fodder, dark orchards, cornfields echoing the sunshine with a blaze of gold, banana plantations with a tropical air of overpowering vitality, vineyards spreading right up to the rocky heights, the vines not sprawling untidily but neatly arranged on trellises. The vineyard, delightfully, makes a slight inroad into the mountain terrain, which is indicated by the gentle curve of the ends of the rows. We shall refrain from reciting yet another of the poems of Reuven Harish, but we cannot conceal our modest pride at the marked contrast between the cultivated plain and the grim heights, between the blooming valley and the menacing mountain range, between the confident optimism below and the unruly glowering presence above.

Take your last photographs, please. Time is short. Now let us get back in the car and complete the final stretch of the journey.

2. A REMARKABLE MAN

Logically, Reuven Harish should have bitterly hated the tourists. The man who wrecked his life was a tourist. It had happened a few years previously. Noga was twelve and Gai was about three when Eva left her husband and children and married a tourist, a relative, her cousin Isaac Hamburger, who had been spending three weeks with us that summer. It was a sordid affair. Ugly instincts came to the surface to torment and destroy. Now Eva lives with her new husband in Munich. They run a night club there, in partnership with another fine Jew, a sharp, shrewd bachelor by the name of Zechariah Berger, Zechariah Siegfried Berger. We must claim the reader's indulgence if we find difficulty in describing the event and its heroes without giving vent to our own moral indignation.

Logically, Reuven Harish should have hated the tourists. Hated them bitterly. Their very existence reminds him of his disaster. To our amazement, Reuven has seen fit to take on himself the regular task of showing the tourists round our kibbutz. Two or three times a week he gives up some of his free time for this purpose. We have become used to the sight of his tall, lean form leading a motley procession of tourists around the farm. He expounds the rudiments of collectivist ideology to them in his friendly, intimate voice. He is not tempted into facile reasoning, nor does he shy away from theoretical principles. He never tries to satisfy the exotic expectations of his heroes. His resolute straightforwardness cannot tolerate compromise or circumlocution. In his youth he was fired with blazing enthusiasm, which in later years evolved into a different kind of enthusiasm, a sober enthusiasm without arrogance but with a strict self-discipline of unrivaled purity. He is a man who has known pain and is bent on reforming the world, but who knows that the twists of life cannot be reduced to simple formulas.

It is a fine thing for a man who has known suffering to aspire to reform society and to strive to remove suffering from the world. There are some sufferers who hate the world. They spend their lives cursing it destructively. We, in accordance with our philosophy of life, are against hatred and against curses. Only some kind of mental perversity can make a man choose darkness in preference to light. And it is as clear as daylight that mental perversity is the opposite of right-mindedness, just as day is the opposite of night.

At first we were surprised by Reuven Harish's dedication to the task of receiving the tourists. There was something strange and illogical about it. Gossiping tongues tried to explain the instincts at work here. It was said, for example, that people sometimes want to remind themselves of pain, to turn the knife in the wound. It was said that there are different ways of hiding a feeling of guilt. There was even an outrageous suggestion, which we reject absolutely, that he wanted to seduce a young girl tourist to wipe out his humiliation with a fitting revenge. And there were other explanations, too.

Whoever objects to such gossip betrays his own lack of understanding of our collective life. Gossip plays an important and respected role here and contributes in its way to reforming our society. In support of this claim, let us recall a statement we have heard made by Reuven Harish himself: the secret lies in self-purification. The secret lies in judging one another day and night, pitilessly and dispassionately. Everyone here judges, everyone is judged, and no weakness can succeed for long in escaping judgment. There are no secret corners. You are being judged every minute of your life. That is why each and every one of us is forced to wage war against his nature. To purify himself. We polish each other as a river polishes its pebbles. Our nature notwithstanding. What is nature, but blind, selfish instinct, deprived of free choice? And free choice, according to Reuven Harish, is what distinguishes men from animals.

Reuven speaks of judging. Gossip is simply the other name for judging. By means of gossip we overcome our natural instincts and gradually become better men. Gossip plays a powerful part in our lives, because our lives are exposed like a sun-drenched courtyard. There is a widow in the kibbutz, Fruma Rominov by name, who is steeped in gossip. Her judgments are severe, but not cold-blooded. Those of us who fear her caustic tongue must overcome their weaknesses. And we, too, judge the widow. We accuse her of excessive bitterness and we cast doubts on her commitment to the ideals of the kibbutz. So Fruma Rominov in turn is compelled to overcome her nature and to refrain from excessively malicious remarks. Here, then, is a concrete illustration of the image of the pebbles in the river. Gossip is normally thought of as an undesirable activity, but with us even gossip is made to play a part in the reform of the world.

After Eva's marriage to her cousin Isaac Hamburger, she settled in Munich with her new husband and assisted him in his entertainment business. The news that reached us by roundabout ways announced the appearance in her of unsuspected talents. Our reliable source of information, which will be revealed shortly, added that her sensitive taste brought an unusual character to Berger's and Hamburger's cabaret. Customers flooded to it for a rare entertainment which captured the imagination. Decency constrains us not to describe it in detail.

Eva had always been energetic and practical, and she also had a brilliant imagination that was forever seeking an outlet in some form of artistic expression. Such qualities as these in a faithful wife are a stimulant for the intelligent husband. And Eva Hamburger had been blessed, even as an adolescent, with a graceful, deerlike beauty.

Long ago, Eva used to copy out Reuven's early poems in her slanting handwriting. In a special album she used to collect the cuttings from the kibbutz-movement papers in which they appeared. The album itself she decorated with delicate pencil drawings. A warm grace infused everything she did. Despite her unfaithfulness, we cannot forget the devotion and good taste with which she used to lead the meetings of the classical music circle of our kibbutz. Until a demon entered into her.

Reuven Harish bore the blow with remarkable self-control. We had never suspected that there lurked in him the determined resignation which he displayed in the moment of crisis. He did not neglect for an instant his work as a teacher in our primary school. His pent-up despair was free from any hint of animosity. His grief endowed him with a certain radiant sensitivity. Here in the kibbutz he was ringed with a halo of general sympathy.

Toward his motherless children he displayed a discreetly moderated devotion. See him walking in the evening along the kibbutz paths, wearing a blue shirt and a pair of threadbare khaki trousers, with Noga on one side of him and Gai on the other, stooping to catch every one of his children's words, even their most idle chatter. The girl's eyes are like her father's, large and bright green, while the boy's are like his mother's, dark and warm. Both children are endowed with a rich inner life. Reuven is careful to remain close to them, without trampling on their inner thoughts and feelings. He exercises a father's authority and a mother's attentive love. Moved by his love for his children, Reuven began writing children's poems. These were not the verses of a childish adult but those of a grown-up child. There is no heavy mockery in them, but subtle humor and a pleasant musical quality. The publishing house of the kibbutz movement had the splendid idea of producing a collection of his children's poems in a beautiful edition. The book was illustrated with drawings made by Eva, long ago, before the flood. These drawings were not originally intended to accompany children's poems, and they did not correspond to the text. But there was a kind of harmony between the drawings and the verses. This is a puzzle to which there is no simple solution. The congruence might be explained, of course, by saying that Eva and Reuven were still, fundamentally, et cetera, et cetera. There may be another explanation. Or there may be no explanation at all.

However that may be, Reuven's poems are not comical amusements for children. His children's verses, like all his poetry, present a poetic commentary on the world in simple language and appealing imagery.

Now we shall reveal a little secret. Indirect contacts have strangely been maintained between Reuven Harish and his divorced wife, between Eva Hamburger and her abandoned children. Isaac Hamburger's business partner is in correspondence with one of the members of our kibbutz, the truck driver Ezra Berger. Occasionally, Eva Hamburger adds a few lines in her sloping handwriting in the margins of his letters, such as:

It is four o'clock in the morning, and we have just got in from a very long journey through forests. The scenery here is very different from yours. The smells are different, too. Is it terribly hot there? Here it is cool and slightly damp, because of the northeast wind that blows at dawn. Could you send me, say, a napkin embroidered by my daughter? Please. Eva.

The gossip maintains that behind these snatched lines there lurks a warm affection. Our opinion is that they can be read in different ways, ranging from warm affection to cool indifference. There are those who firmly maintain that one or these aays Eva will return to the bosom of her family and her kibbutz, and that the signs are already apparent. Fruma Rominov, on the other hand, has been heard to remark that it would be better if Eva never came back. We used to think that Fruma said this out of malice. Now, on second thought, we are not so sure.

Reuven Harish, as we have said, has redoubled his love for his children. He is a father and also a mother to them. Sometimes, if you go into his room, you find him busy with wood and nails making a toy tractor for Gai or drawing pretty patterns on pieces of material for Noga to embroider.

He has also redoubled his ideological zeal. His serious poems, those that are not intended for children, emphasize the contrast between the mountains and the settled land. It is true that they are unpretentious, but they do display a faith in man's power to rule his destiny, and they are not mere versified slogans. If we approach them without preconceptions, we can find in them sadness, hope, and love of mankind. Anyone who scoffs at them betrays his own inadequacy.

The turbid torrent rushes into gloom:

Can man, so stunted, pitiful and weak,

Reach up to snatch a firebrand from the sun

And smile to see his fingers black and scorched?

Has he the strength to build a mighty dam

To stem the torrent and to tame the flood,

To leave behind him grim subservience

And paint his life a peaceful shade of green?

Reuven Harish throws himself wholeheartedly into his teaching, which endears him to his pupils. Even his dedication to the task of receiving the tourists is, when all is said and done — and leaving aside the malicious insinuations of the gossips — a sure sign of his devotion to the ideal.

The restrained poetry of his language, his intimate way of talking, the gentle pathos without a hint of insincerity, all these things endear Reuven Harish to us. A man of learning and at the same time a peasant, a man whose life has been enriched by suffering, Reuven Harish is one of our most remarkable men. And yet he has a certain simplicity. Not the simplicity of fools, but a clearly defined simplicity that is virtually a conscious principle. Let idle men of little faith mock him; we will mock them in return. Let them mock him to their petty, futile hearts' content. Mockery of him condemns itself and betrays the tediousness of the mocker, who will end up alone, bogged down in his own captiousness. Even death, about which for some reason Reuven has been thinking deeply today, ever since he saw the tourists off, even death will be more bitter for them than for him. They will face death empty and bare, whereas he will have left his slight mark on the world.

If only it was not for the loneliness.

The loneliness is agonizing. Every evening, after coming back from Bronka Berger's room, Reuven stands alone in. the middle of his own room, tall and thin as a youth, and stares in front of him with a surprised, insulted look on his face. His room is empty and silent. A bed, a wardrobe, a green table, a pile of exercise books, a yellow lamp, Gai's box of toys, some pale-blue pictures left behind by Eva, congealed bleakness. Slowly he undresses. Makes some tea. Eats a few biscuits. They taste dry. If his tiredness does not get the better of him, he peels some fruit and chews it without noticing its taste. He washes his face and dries himself on a rough towel, which he has forgotten to send to the laundry again. Gets into bed. Hollow silence. A wall light which is not fixed properly and will fall down on his head some night from force of gravity. The newspaper. The back page. A supplement devoted to problems of communication. Dear fellow citizens. The sounds of the night steal into the room. What day is it tomorrow? He turns the light out. A mosquito. He turns the light on. Mosquito vanishes. Turns the light off. Tuesday tomorrow. Mosquito. Finally, damp, uneasy sleep. He is tormented by nightmares. Even a pure man of sound principles cannot control his dreams.

We have dwelt so far on Reuven Harish's virtues. It is only right that we should also say something about his faults. Not to do so would be to neglect the right to judge, indeed, the obligation to judge, which, as we have said, is the secret of this place. But propriety and our sympathy for Reuven Harish combine to make us limit ourselves to mentioning one specific matter as briefly as possible, and indirectly.

A man in the prime of his life cannot go for long without a woman. Reuven Harish, who is exceptional in many other ways, is no exception to this rule.

A platonic friendship had existed for some time between Reuven Harish and a colleague in the kibbutz school, Bronka Berger. Bronka, too, is one of the veterans of the kibbutz and was born in a town called Kovel on the Russian-Polish border. She is about forty-five, and so a few years younger than Reuven. If we were not aware of her good qualities we would say that she is plain. To her credit it must be said that she is a sensitive woman with strong intellectual leanings. What a pity that the friendship of the two teachers should not have remained pure. Some ten months after the flood — that is to say, after the upheaval of Eva's departure — gossip informed us that Bronka Berger had found her way into Reuven Harish's bed. We must stress our disapproval of this immoral affair, because Bronka Berger has a husband, Ezra Berger, the kibbutz truck driver. Ezra Berger is the brother of the celebrated Dr. Nehemiah Berger of Jerusalem. Furthermore, the object of Reuven Harish's affections is also the mother of two sons, the elder married and about to become a father, and the younger son is the same age as Noga Harish. So much for the negative side of Reuven's record.

***

We seem to have mentioned the names of the three Berger brothers already in passing. This was not how we ought to have introduced them. Since it has come about accidentally, let us take the introductions as made. Siegfried Zechariah Berger, the youngest of the three brothers, is the partner of the Hamburgers in the cabaret in Munich. Ezra Berger, a man of fifty or so, is the father of Tomer and Oren Geva, the deceived husband of an unfaithful wife. Dr. Nehemiah Berger, the eldest and most distinguished, is a scholar of modest reputation and lives in Jerusalem. If our memory does not deceive us, he researches into the history of Jewish socialism. He has already published a number of articles on the subject, and one day he will collect his scattered studies into a book that will contain all the sources of Jewish socialism from the time of those great reformers, the prophets, up to the establishment of the kibbutzim in the revived Israel.

The three brothers have thus followed diverging paths. They have moved away from each other and from their origins. All three, however, have experienced hardships and sufferings. Those who believe in an ultimate justice hold that even suffering is a sign of divine Providence, since without suffering there is no happiness and without hardships there is no redemption or joy. We, on the other hand, who yearn for a reformed world, do not believe in this kind of justice. Our aim is to eradicate suffering from the world and to fill it instead with love and brotherhood.

3. STELLA MARIS

Reuven Harish does not chase after barren fireworks. Only action can bring warmth to a heart touched by icy fingers.

He wakes at six o'clock in the morning, gets washed and dressed, picks up his brief case, and walks over to the dining hall. Many of our members begin the day with a sour and sleepy look. Reuven starts his day with a smile. As he slices a tomato or chops a radish for his breakfast, he makes light conversation. His tone is cheerful. See him telling Nina Goldring about the organization of a regional orchestra, discussing the price of grapes with Yitzhak Friedrich, the treasurer, or arranging with Fruma Rominov the earliest possible evening for the next meeting of the education committee. On Monday Mendel Morag will be away; he is going to Haifa to take delivery of a consignment of timber for the carpentry shop. He is sure to stay the night there with his sister. What about Thursday? Mundek Zohar won't object. Thursday, then. How is Tsitron, by the way? I know they're going to visit him in hospital at lunchtime, and I very much wanted to go, but there was a phone call last night telling us to expect a party of Scandinavian tourists then. Hey, Grisha, the barber's coming today or tomorrow. Or have you decided to let your hair grow long, like a beatnik? I can't stand soft tomatoes. Grisha, would you have a look on the table behind you — is there a good firm one there?

At half past seven he goes to the school and waits for the bell to ring. Today I'm going to give you your exercise books back. Some of your essays were a pleasure to read. Some of you, on the other hand, still don't know where to put a comma. That is intolerable in the full sense of the word.

Now let's try to find the central idea in Shimoni's Memorial. What is the poet trying to say? Self-sacrifice, yes. But what is self-sacrifice? That's the question.

At twelve o'clock school is over. A hasty lunch. The tourists are due at half past one. My name is Reuven. Reuven Harish. Welcome to Kibbutz Metsudat Ram. Well now, we can talk quite freely.

At a quarter past two the tourists leave. There would have been nothing exceptional about this group if it had not been for the strange remark of the old Dutch colonel. When that goy had the nerve to say — stressing his great military experience — that the mountain was about to fall on top of us and crush us, I couldn't think of an answer. A phrase that would stick in his mind, for him to hand on to his children and grandchildren. What ridiculous arrogance. "As an expert." I know what I should have said: The mountain will not fall on top of us, because your expertise is only valid elsewhere. Here we observe a different law of gravity. As for death, of course it is true that we all die eventually, but some people are dead even while they are alive. A slight difference, but a decisive one.

What a pity that Reuven Harish is not good at giving instant ripostes, that he needs time to think of a clever answer. To his credit it must be admitted that he is industrious. Having seen the tourists off, he goes home to his empty room, gets undressed, has a refreshing shower, puts on clean clothes and settles down to his marking. There is nothing casual about his work. The red pencil deals ruthlessly with the children's scripts, pouncing on spelling mistakes, filling the margins with comments, firmly but carefully expressed, to avoid discouraging their young minds. Reuven does not consider himself above arguing seriously with his pupils' views. Just because they are only ten or eleven years old, it is wrong to crush them with dogmatic, authoritarian statements. Mistakes, Reuven is in the habit of saying, are not a monopoly of grown-ups. His pencil never draws a red line without specific grounds. That is why his work is not mechanical.

His mind is alert, as always. His sharp green eyes are equally alert. Here is an absorbing subject, for instance: the difference between the work of the children of the members born in Germany and that of the little Russians. It could provide the material for a subtle study. The former express themselves in carefully balanced phrases. Their writing is neat and tidy. The latter let their imaginations run riot. The former frequently suffer from dryness. The latter — from absolute chaos.

Of course these are gross generalizations. We must not rush to deduce from them such dubious notions as a "Russian soul," an expression of which Herzl Goldring, who is responsible for the upkeep of our plants and gardens, is fond. No. After all, both groups were born here. Little children are not presented to one to work on like potter's clay. A true artist perceives the form hidden in the block of stone; he does not force his material, but releases the hidden form. Education is not alchemy. It is a subtle form of chemistry. Not creation from nothing, but creation from something. If you don't take heredity into account, you are beating your head against a brick wall. But it is even worse to make heredity the be-all and end-all. That line is bound to end in nihilism. That Dutch officer wanted to know if I don't long for adventure. What greater adventure could there be than education? Even just a father, a man with children. But he said he didn't have any children. That is why he spoke like that about death. A barren tree!

These thoughts supply the rough draft of what he will say to Bronka tonight.

Between two-thirty and three o'clock Ezra Berger prepares his truck for a long journey. Twice a day, at six in the morning and three in the afternoon, he leaves for Tel Aviv with a ten-ton load of boxes of grapes. We are now at the beginning of the harvesting of the early grapes. Since the beginning of the grape harvest, Ezra has taken on a double job, which occupies him from six in the morning to nearly midnight.

Everywhere else, if a man works a double shift, it is because he is short of money. With us, of course, it is different. Why has Ezra Berger decided to take on the work of two drivers? The question has no answer in material terms. If we believe the gossip — our collaborator in this story — Ezra's excessive industry is due to the relations between his wife and the poet and teacher Reuven Harish. This explanation, which we heard from Fruma Rominov, is undoubtedly sound; only its formulation is, naturally, a little oversimplified.

Anyway, Ezra Berger's powerful body can easily cope with the extra effort. It is a thick-set body, hirsute, and somewhat pot-bellied, with thick, heavy limbs. His muscular shoulders support without the intervention of a neck a dark head with thinning hair. A coarse-featured, solid face, half hidden by a gray cap, the other half staring out at the world with a blank expression. His appearance neither attracts nor repels. What is remarkable is the thick gold ring he wears on the little finger of his left hand. This kind of ornament is commonly worn by truck drivers, but it does not become, in our opinion, a driver who is a member of a kibbutz.

Ezra Berger does not belong to the intellectual circle in our kibbutz. His place is among modest, straightforward men of action. Do not jump to the hasty conclusion that the kibbutz is neatly divided into two categories. No. Ezra Berger himself would refute such a rash idea. He is not young any more (his younger son is already taller than he is), but he still clings to the world of ideas. True, he is not a great reader, nor is he well up in the classical writings of the kibbutz movement. Nevertheless, he is fond of the Bible, and on Saturday, his free day, he reads the Bible. And he reads all the articles of his brother, the scholar. We must not be quick to judge him if he is not one of our regular debaters. His views, which were formed in his early youth, are clear, well defined, and easygoing. This, too, is part of his integrity, which is secretly envied by several of those who outwardly mock it.

There is a peculiar charm in Ezra's remarks. They are spiced with sayings and proverbs. That is why you never know whether he is talking seriously or only pretending to be serious. He is a withdrawn man. His affected gravity is a barrier between him and us. He surprises us by joking without smiling or smiling when it is not right to smile.

A man like Ezra Berger does not collapse because of a woman's unfaithfulness. True, he suffers. But his suffering is restrained. Fruma says he is restrained because he is coarse. We maintain that there is something noble about his restraint, if you can call moderation and self-control noble.

***

First of all, he ties a thick rope to the base of the side of the truck and expertly winds it round a bracket. Taking three steps backward, he raises his arm and hurls the coiled rope over the top of the cab. Then he walks round to the other side of the truck, where the end of the rope is waiting for him. He takes hold of it and pulls with all his weight until the wooden sides groan submission. When it is quite taut, he winds it round the iron hook again and repeats the process three times, until the sides of the lorry are well tied with three loops of rope. Finally, Ezra spits into his big hands, rubs them together, spits again on the ground in a vaguely angry way, and places a cigarette between his lips. He lights it with a gold-plated lighter, a present from his brother (his brother Zechariah Siegfried, in Munich, not his brother Nehemiah, who lives in Jerusalem). After taking a few phlegmatic puffs, he plants his foot on the running board and uses his knee as a desk while filling in the docket.

What next? To the kitchen to collect coffee and sandwiches. Ezra will be on the road until after midnight. We have a saying: Ezra without coffee is like a Leyland without fuel. It may be a trite saying, but it expresses an undeniable truth. Nina Goldring, the kitchen supervisor, pours the boiling coffee into the yellow thermos flask just as Ezra, in his thick rubber soles, comes creeping up behind her. He puts his hand on her shoulder and says in his deep voice:

"Your coffee is like a soothing balm, Nina."

Nina Goldring is frightened by the rough touch and the rough voice. A burning black drop falls onto her arm. She lets out a loud, startled cry.

"I frightened you," Ezra says, stating, not asking.

"You… you took me by surprise, Ezra. But that wasn't what I wanted to tell you. I wanted to say something important. You made me forget what it was. Oh, yes, now I remember. You've been looking very bad these last few days. I've meant to tell you several times. With such bloodshot eyes you drive at night. For drivers, lack of sleep is very dangerous, especially for a man like you, who…"

"A man like me, Nina, does not fall asleep at the wheel. Never. With the help of Him who gives strength to the weary, as they say. I think about selected subjects or drink some of your coffee, or else I sleep and my engine gallops home like a horse who can smell his stable. I can do the last stretch of the journey with my eyes shut."

"You just remember what I'm telling you, Ezra. I say it's dangerous and…"

"What does it say in the Bible?…God favors fools. According to that, I should come out of any trouble all right. If I'm a fool, nothing can happen to me. And if anything does happen to me, that'll prove that I wasn't a fool. They can carve my name next to Ramigolski's — he and I were friends, you know — and Harismann can write an elegy about us, dear departed friends, et cetera. What's the time? My watch is always slow — is it three yet?"

"Yes, it's five past," said Nina Goldring. "Here, smell this coffee. Strong, eh? Don't you rely too much on those sayings. Charms and promises don't do any good. Take care."

"You're a good woman, Nina. It's very kind of you to spare a thought for others, as they say, but there's no need to worry about me."

"Yes there is. A man can't live without someone to worry about him."

Good-hearted Nina regrets her words almost before they are out of her mouth. They may not have been very tactful. Goodness knows what conclusions he might have drawn.

Ezra Berger puts the thermos, the sandwiches, and the triangles of cheese down on the empty seat beside him and puts his head out of the cab window to maneuver his machine backward out of the loading bay and onto the road. She's a good woman, Nina Goldring. Only rather short and plump, like a goose. A feast fit for a king for Herzl Goldring. There is a kind of order in the world, as the philosophers say, a kind of logic: intelligence doesn't go with kindness, and kindness and good works do not walk together. Otherwise, one person would be perfect in every way, and another would be a swine's snout, as they say. That's why it is ordained that a beautiful woman should be vulgar. Now, that one is going to be a beautiful woman some day. But there's another side to the coin. She's the poet's daughter. "Yes, young lady, what can I do for you?"

Noga Harish is a girl of sixteen, tall and slender^ like a boy. Long, thin legs, narrow hips, and slim thighs half-covered by a large man's shirt. Her thick, fine hair streams down over her shoulders and halfway down her back. Her build is sharp and angular, which gives the faintly showing signs of womanhood an untamed air. Her face is tiny, lost in the cascades of hair. Noga's hair is dull black. It frames her cheeks and forehead like the ring of soft shadow round a candle flame. Her eyebrows are fine, as in old pictures of the Madonna. Only the eyes are so large that they break the essential harmony, and in them there lurks a flash of green. The eyes of Reuven Harish set in Eva's beautiful face. Ezra Berger looks down on her from his cab window, and nods his head as if he has just been made aware of some secret truth. A moment later he shifts his gaze to the windshield and lets out an abrupt "Well?"

"Tel Aviv, Ezra?"

"Tel Aviv," he answers, still not looking at her.

"Will you be back late?"

"Why?"

"Will you have time to do me a favor?"

Ezra plants his elbows on the steering wheel and rests his chin on his shoulder. He throws her a tired, slightly amused look, empty of sympathy. A warm, flattering smile widens Noga's fine lips. She is not certain that Ezra has quite understood her question. She leaps up onto the running board, presses her body to the scorching metal door, and smiles her coaxing smile into the man's face.

"Will you do me a favor?"

"Fortune favors the fair. What do you want?"

"Will you be a dear and buy me some embroidery thread in Tel Aviv? One reel of turquoise."

"What's turquoise?"

This was not what Ezra had meant to say, but for once he let the words out without thinking. He looked away from her again, like a foolish schoolchild.

"It's a color. Turquoise is a pretty color halfway between blue and green. I'll explain to you where to get it. They're open till eight o'clock. Take this bit of thread with you as a sample. That's turquoise."

Noga's feet are not still. They perform an inner dance on the running board, without changing positions. Ezra can sense her body clinging to the outside of the cab door. How often I've seen this girl before. But now what. Noga interprets his silence as a sign of refusal. She tries to win him round by pleading:

"Ezra, be a dear."

Her voice trails off into a whisper. Since Ezra Berger is the father of two sons, both older than this little thing, he allows himself to rest his rough hand on her head and stroke her hair. Normally he doesn't like girls who act like little women. This time he feels a certain affection. He removes his hand from her head, takes her tiny chin between his thumb and forefinger, and announces with good-humored solemnity:

"All right, young lady. Your wish is my command. Turquoise it is." The girl, in return, places two dark fingers on his hairy, sweaty hand and states:

"You're sweet."

Taking into consideration the difference in their ages and the girlish tone, we can forgive her this remark. But for once we cannot plumb the depths of Ezra's thoughts: Was there any reason for his sudden release of the clutch pedal, so that only Noga's extreme agility enabled her to leap off the moving truck in time? Is there any explanation for his unusual haste? He is already disappearing in a cloud of dust. Have a safe journey. Don't forget my turquoise thread. Of course he won't forget. He's sitting huddled in his cab, pressing hard on the steering wheel, thinking about women. First of all, about the girl. Then about Eva. About Bronka. Finally, his thoughts come back to Noga. Such a tiny little chin. Your father would go out of his mind, little Turquoise, if.

The kibbutz is fainting in the sunshine. The concrete path is so searing hot that scorched bare feet hop from the pathway to the grass verge. A gentle hop. An inner dance. Little beads of perspiration sprout on the suntanned brow. Soundlessly, wordlessly Noga chants to herself a gentle tune that clouds her eyes:

Pomegranate scents waft to and fro,

From the Dead Sea to Jericho.

In the shade of the gnarled carob tree she lingers, resting a thoughtful hand on the bark of its trunk, shielding her eyes with the other, and gazing up toward the mountains, where light mists drifting relieve the menacing mass. The damp heat attacks the vapor. There the rocks overflow, silently, motionless. Only in the winding gulleys sheets of shade remain, as if the mountains are amusing themselves with some strange game.

On the edge of the lawn a chirruping sprinkler whirls. For fun Noga runs between the jets of water. Perhaps because of her slight build, perhaps because of her tight little mouth, or her dark hair, there is something saddening about the girl, even when she is having fun. She is all alone now on the empty lawn, in the white brightness. Backward and forward she leaps on her long legs, challenging the jets of water. Without any aim, without a smile, she plays with a vague concentration. Blurred sounds waft on the air. If you take the trouble to sort them out, you may identify the growl of a distant tractor, the mooing of a cow, women arguing, and the sound of falling water. But the sounds flow together into a single vague unison. And the girl, so far as the eye can judge, is now totally absorbed in herself.

I didn't want him to joke with me. I wanted him to notice me. Can he really have had no idea what turquoise is? Turquoise is a color halfway between blue and green. A very special color, even if it is a bit loud. He always talks in proverbs instead of words. I say, "Will you do me a favor?" and he says, "Fortune favors the fair." I'm not sure he meant anything by it. He just throws these sayings out so as not to have to answer questions properly. I thought that it was only to me he spoke in proverbs, but he does it with everybody. "Your wish is my command." He wasn't quite serious when he said that. He wasn't quite serious when he stroked my hair, either. He stroked my hair as if he was doing it unintentionally, but he did it intentionally. Women can sense these things. But there is something about him I like. He always seems to be saying one thing out loud and something quite different deep down inside him. Anyway, when I asked him to get me the thread, it wasn't just an excuse for stopping him for a chat. I really do need it urgently. Still, I thought he might talk a bit. He's not tall and he's not all that good-looking. Daddy's Bronka's man, but he's very strong. You can tell. Stronger than Daddy. There's one thing I'm thinking of about him. It's a good thing Herzl Goldring can't see me running around on his wet grass. He doesn't shout, he just waves at you to get off, but what a look of hate he gives you. It's four o'clock. Time to go to Daddy's room. Sometimes I want to be very ill so that Daddy will have to look after me day and night, or sometimes I imagine that he's ill and I have to look after him day and night, and then I cry so much that everyone knows that I love him much more. If you're very sad, your heart can break. But you only get broken hearts in books. There's no such thing, really. Isn't it hot.

Noga goes into her father's room, agile, barefoot, on tiptoe. From the entrance hall she peeps secretly into the room. Reuven Harish does not look at her. Reuven Harish looks at his watch, removes the exercise books from the table, puts them in his brief case, and shakes his head from side to side, as if arguing with himself. The bird face appears to the girl in pointed profile. He hasn't noticed her yet. With the lightness and agility of a startled animal she runs up behind him, leaps on his back, and kisses the nape of his neck. He jumps with surprise, turns round, and seizes his assailant's shoulders with his pale hands.

"Little cat," he stammers, "when will you stop creeping into the house like a thief? It's a bad habit, Noga, I'm not joking now."

"You were frightened," the girl says warmly, stating, not asking.

"I wasn't frightened, I was just…"

"Just a bit frightened. What were you doing? Writing a poem? Did I frighten your Muse away? Don't worry, Daddy, she'll come back."

"Who, E—?"

"The Muse — whoop, I've caught her by her hair." (A quick, fascinating movement of the hand: arching through the air, closing on an imaginary prey.) "Do Muses have hair, Daddy?"

"Dear Stella," Reuven Harish says, and kisses his daughter on the forehead, close to the roots of her hair. "Darling little Stella." Noga breaks free from her father's clasp and moves her hips in her usual inner dance.

"Have I told you about the performance? No? My class is putting on a show for Shavuoth. Sixteen days to go. A dance sequence combined with readings. I'm dancing the vine. You know, one of the seven kinds of fruit. Symbolic movements. And…"

"Stella," her father says again, and reaches out to stroke her hair. The girl senses the gesture and slips away with a movement of the shoulders. She's already filling the kettle.

Stella. It was a name that Eva had often used. It was no ordinary nickname. Eva's mother had been called Stella. When Noga was born, Eva wanted to call her Stella after her poor dear mother. Reuven argued that he hadn't come all the way to Palestine to give his children non-Jewish names. The name "Kochava" was suggested, as the Hebrew version of Grandma Stella's name. Eva pleaded for the sake of euphony that the name "Kochava Harish" was too harsh and guttural. Eva's opposition was decisive, as happened with everything that aroused the gentle objection of that delicate, black-eyed woman with her thin, tightly pursed lips. Reuven agreed to the name "Noga," which was a kind of compromise between Eva's musical sensitivity and his own straightforward principles. Noga is the name of a star, and so "Noga" hints at the name of poor dear Grandma Stella.

Grandma Stella died in a respectable suburb of Cologne a few months after the death of her husband, the banker Richard Hamburger (Eva's father and Isaac's uncle), and two years after her only daughter had joined the pioneers and gone off without her blessing to Palestine, where she had married without her blessing a simple man, born in Germany admittedly, but the son of a simple slaughterer from a remote Podolian hamlet.

As luck would have it, Grandma Stella died at the end of the good old days and did not survive to perish in a concentration camp. An official order arrived canceling her widow's pension from the Petty Trade Bank of Cologne, and Grandma Stella died of shame. In a roundabout way, Noga Harish preserves her memory. It would be overpious to claim that the girl resembles her Grandma Stella. Richard Hamburger's granddaughter walks about barefoot most of the day like a simple peasant girl. On the other hand, Noga may have inherited Eva's outwardly gentle obstinacy, which Eva in turn inherited from Stella Hamburger.

At happy moments Eva used to call her daughter affectionately "Stella," and sometimes she called her "Stella Maris." There is no explanation for the addition. If we are to believe Fruma Rominov, it reflects a predilection of Eva's for charcoal-drawn seascapes: a solitary white-sailed boat on a misty horizon, waves lightly rippling, a canal lapping against greenery, all in a somewhat old-fashioned, slightly sickly taste. Some of these drawings were included in the volume of Reuven Harish's children's poems, even though they do not correspond to the subjects. But we seem to have wandered rather; we only wanted to explain the name "Stella Maris."

The kettle is boiling. Noga makes some coffee for her father, tea for herself, and cocoa for her little brother Gai. We won't say that she acts absent-mindedly, but her eyes don't seem to follow her hands as she works. Her big eyes seem constricted as if they are looking not outward but inward, into her own mind. I think he was trying specially hard not to look at me. Why do I find the thought so enjoyable?

Reuven sits at the coffee table, his hands spread out in front of him. He is looking at his daughter. He is not happy. She's a little girl and she's not a little girl. So far she hasn't said a word about Bronka. Really, it's up to me to start a serious conversation. Suppose she anticipates me and comes along one day and asks, asks me a question, what will I tell her? What will I say if she asks today, for instance? Now. This minute. What will I?

Gai Harish opens the door and forgets to say hello. Reuven rebukes him.

"All right. Hello. But I don't want any cocoa."

He drops straight down on the rug, as usual, and without a pause or a preamble proceeds to say something very disturbing. This is the gist of it:

"This afternoon, after the geography lesson, Bronka explained to us about the Arabs. What ideas she has! Just like a little girl. She thinks they shoot at Jews without meaning to, or something like that. She says they don't hate us at all, they're just poor people and their Secretary in Damascus tells them to fight, and we mustn't hate them, because they're workers and farmers like us. So who should we hate, eh? And she says they'll make peace with us soon. Phooey! What I say is, it's not very educational to tell children in Class III things that aren't true. The fact is, we fire at them, not at the ones in Damascus. And then they curl up and keep quiet. We won't have any peace till there aren't any Syrians left — isn't that right, Daddy?"

"Look how filthy your face is," Noga says. "Get to the washbasin at once. I'll wash it for you."

"Be quiet. Can't you see I'm busy talking to Father?"

"Well, just you talk to me and listen to what I'm telling you," Noga demands sharply.

"Noga, when grown-ups are talking, women shouldn't interfere."

Gai Harish is good-looking, but in a different way from his sister. Little Turquoise is dark, while Gai is fair-haired, with a matching complexion. A mop of blond hair falls carelessly over his high forehead. A broad army belt binds his clothes to his lean body. His features are strong and angular like his father's, but a dark warmth animates his eyes. What a fine picture father and son make sitting together at the desk. While Noga puts the food away and washes the dishes, sighing deliberately like a busy housewife whose work is never done, the men stick stamps in the album. The album is arranged in subjects, sport, flowers, space, animals and, to our sorrow, war. Reuven uses the hobby as a means to teach his son a sense of order and discipline. Meanwhile, Noga has finished her chores and picked up a little recorder. The tunes she plays are long and graceful, like her fingers quivering over the holes. She is curled up in the old armchair, her knees drawn up to her chin, her back curved, her eyelashes lowered, her mind full of images. Going out early in the morning before sunrise, wandering barefoot by the fish ponds and watching. Slipping into the old stables, where there have been no horses for years, but where rough walls still harbor an odor of moldering hay. Shouting inside the stables. Listening to the echo. Going out. Singing in the breeze. Lying awake at night in a winter storm, while the rain cries and the thunder laughs at it. Going on a journey by boat. Being a woman somewhere faraway.

Once, in the autumn, at this time of day, I came in here to have a shower in Father's shower. I took off my smelly working clothes (I'd been milking in the dairy). I turned the tap, but no water came out. I had to go to the common showers. But I didn't want to get back into my filthy clothes. In the closet in the shower room I found a kind of fine blue dressing gown, with buttons up the back. It was Mother's. It must have got left behind. I put it on and picked up a towel and soap and my hairpins, and went across to the showers. I had my shower. I was on my way home. Suddenly, Ezra Berger came toward me on the path. That time, too, he turned his head away and didn't look. But before he turned away, he stared at me. Not at my face. If only Rami was different, I'd have told him. I wouldn't tell Rami anything like that. He'd get the wrong idea about me. And he'd go off and tell that old witch Fruma. Once he told me that his mother said I was like my mother because an apple doesn't fall far from the tree. I felt like going and slapping Fruma's face. But then I thought a bit and I realized that if I got angry it would show I felt insulted, and in fact it wasn't an insult at all.

Later on, when a slight west wind ruffles the treetops and brings relief from the parching heat, the Harish family go out into the garden, onto the lawn. Reuven Harish devotes this time to the perusal of the newspaper. Gai conscientiously waters the roses. Noga, with her back to her father, embroiders daintily and beautifully. Suppose she turns her head suddenly and asks a question, what can Reuven say. Her long legs are folded underneath her. Her hair falls across her left shoulder and cascades over her breast. Her lovely fingers move quickly across the cloth. A picture of dainty gentleness. Let us store it up in our hearts. If things turn out well, it will prove that love is stronger than hatred. If badly, we can conjure up the soothing image as a source of comfort and to take the poison out of the sting. Things can happen. It's a disturbing mixture, Noga's girlish looks and her womanly manner. An evil eye, a glazed, ravenous eye, is going to fasten on our enchanted little deer. There is a terrifying story about a little girl carrying a basket through a huge forest. Even Gai is old enough now to make light of this German children's tale. Reuven Harish, on the other hand, will tell you that if you read the Grimm brothers' fairy tales with your eyes open, you will see how the Germans became a nation of bloodthirsty wolves. And he is right. But our eyes are on little Turquoise, on Stella Maris, and we fear for her.

4. BRONKA HEARS SHOOTING

Our valley, where the Jordan sings and splashes,

Is filled with sounds of labor and of hope,

Ablaze with brilliant fires of power and vision,

A green flame lapping up a rocky slope.

These lines from a famous poem by Reuven Harish are familiar to every child. They have been set to music and are frequently sung. At kibbutz-movement congresses and assemblies of pioneering youth we have often seen a line or two of the poem adopted as a slogan, in letters formed of plaited cypress boughs, sometimes even in letters of fire: Brilliant fires of power and vision, or A green flame lapping up a rocky slope. This is no mere rhetorical figure but a heartening reality. If the words meet with a cynical smile, they will fire the shafts of mockery straight back at the scoffer. A brilliant vision spreads before us now, now when the harsh white glare is subsiding, when the first signs of night arouse sweet dreams in our hearts. At noon the sun beats down cruelly on the well-kept valley. Now, at evening, the view can be seen in a more favorable light.

Kibbutz Metsudat Ram nestles in a long, narrow valley, near the bed of the River Jordan. The valley is a tiny stretch of the greatest rift on the surface of the earth. It starts in the north of Syria, and runs down through desert gorges and across broad plains, divides the Lebanon mountains from the Anti-Lebanon, until it becomes the valley of Ayyun on the border of Lebanon and Syria, near the little town of Banias. Here these gentle streams come together to give birth to the lovely River Jordan, which cascades softly into the northeastern corner of the land of Israel, a region of unparalleled beauty, dotted with white buildings of kibbutzim, villages, and little towns. The Jordan then flows on southward, with the hills of Galilee rising gently from its west bank and the bleak ranges of Hauran, Golan, and Bashan to the east. The water collects gracefully in the Sea of Galilee, Lake Tiberias or Kinneret, a sapphire in the setting of the land. It was in this region that we settled and founded our kibbutz home.

From Lake Tiberias the Jordan flows on to lap against the base of the dark Mountains of Moab, to fall finally, exhausted, into the arms of the Dead Sea, from which it never escapes, except in the form of a scalding vapor. But the gigantic rift stretches on southward, riverless now, along the valley of the Arava, from which rise the mountains of Edom, slain in a blood-red magic that at sunset takes on a purple hue. By the new town of Elat on the shores of the Red Sea the primeval fissure adopts the form of a lonely tongue of sea, bounded on both sides by the desert, with no strip of verdure to intervene between the water and its thirsty foe. This gulf is a slanting arm of the Red Sea, itself the extension of the monstrous rift, as its long thin shape testifies. Beyond the Red Sea the fault flows on through the tropical forests of East Africa, and farther still, beyond the equator. As if some dark power had tried to cleave the earth asunder with a mighty ax blow, but changed its mind before the deed was completed. A convulsed power seized by deep gloom in mid-action left this scar with its wild beauty.

In the course of its travels the gigantic rift encounters a variety of climates and landscapes, but for the greater part of its length it is bounded by mountainous deserts, which is why it is all hot and humid. We live at one of its deepest and warmest points. Its geological structure almost entitles our valley to call itself a canyon. For a thousand years the place was a total wilderness, until our first settlers set up their tents and made the desert bloom by the latest agricultural methods. True, a few Arab fellahin dwelt or wandered here before our arrival, but they were poor and primitive, in their dark robes, and easy prey for the hazards of the climate and natural disasters, floods, drought, and malaria. No trace remains of them except some scattered ruins, whose remains are gradually fading away and merging, winter by winter, with the dust from which they came. Their inhabitants have fled to the mountains, from where they hurl their baseless, senseless hatred down at us. We did nothing to them. We came with plowshares, and they greeted us with swords. But their swords rebounded against them.

In the span of a single generation we brought about a forceful and spectacular revolution, but we paid dearly for our land in blood, as is testified by the memorial to Aaron Ramigolski, our first victim, who left his family and his home in Kovel, on the Polish-Russian border, to be killed here by plotting enemies. There is an allusion to his name in that of our kibbutz. But the secret of success is not to be sought in the heroism of our founders. Far from it. The secret is, in the phrase of our comrade Reuven Harish, purification. That is why we invite you now to stand with us at the entrance to the pleasant dining hall and examine the faces of the men and women assembling there.

They have washed away the traces of dust and sweat in a cold shower, and now they are gathering in little groups, dressed in simple, clean clothes, for the communal evening meal. Most of the old men are not good-looking. Their sunburned faces are battered and furrowed, but their general appearance is one of strength and physical well-being. They are tanned, their features are open and forceful. Some are bulky, like Ezra Berger, others, like Reuven Harish, are tall and lean. Some, like Mendel Morag, the carpenter, and Israel Tsitron, the banana man, have a distinguished head of gray hair. Others, like Mundek Zohar, head of the regional council, or Podolski, the mechanic, who also draws up the work rota, are more or less bald. All of them, however, radiate a feeling of security and contentment. You will hardly find among them the typical peasant face, with that dense, closed look which comes from grinding toil. On the contrary. In their faces, and in their gait, as well, you see the signs of a lively intellect. They are lively men. As they come close, we can hear their confident voices raised in friendly argument, reinforced by animated gestures.

Let us turn now to their companions, the older women: Esther Isarov, who is still commonly called by her maiden name, Esther Klieger, despite her seven children; Hasia Ramigolski, wife of the kibbutz secretary Zvi Ramigolski (the brother of the late Aaron Ramigolski); Bronka Berger, Gerda Zohar, Nina Goldring, the cook, and the rest of them. Their appearance is saddening, if only for an instant. For ideological reasons the kibbutz does not allow its women members to preserve their looks by means of cosmetics, and this policy has left its mark on the older women. You will detect no sign of dyed hair, rouge, mascara, or lipstick. But in the absence of artificial aids to beauty, their faces have a simple, natural appearance. At first sight, though, these women have a rather coarse look. All things considered, they look very much like the men, with their wrinkled faces filled with controlled strength, the stern network of furrows round their mouths, their dark, undelicate skin, their gray or white or even thinning hair. Some of them are bulky, others thin and angular. Their gait, however, like that of the older men, expresses a strong inner sense of security and confidence. Do not make the mistake of thinking that some of them have a cruel look, like that rather bored woman over there. The expression which you interpret as one of cruelty is really one of asceticism. The one you pointed out is a widow called Fruma Rominov, who is in charge of the infant school. Her son, Yoash Rimon, was a young officer who was killed in the Suez campaign, and his name is inscribed on Ramigolski's memorial. In future, stranger, you will be advised to refrain from hasty judgments that mistake suffering and asceticism for cruelty. Fruma's surviving son, Rami Rimon, is due to be called up for his military service in a few weeks' time. Let us pray that he will return safe and sound, because apart from him his poor mother has nothing left to live for.

And now the younger people are coming. Look at them. Aren't they a credit to us? Look how tall they are, the girls as well as the boys. They are all good-looking. Any exceptions there may be simply prove the rule. They are endowed with all the positive qualities we noticed in their parents, without the hardness. Their walk is agile, their movements are graceful and lithe. They have been brought up from early childhood to physical labor, saturated with sunshine and fresh air, toughened by long, arduous expeditions, exercised with sport and games. All of them are sun-tanned, most of them are fair-haired. Their hands are strong and well formed. The hubbub of voices radiates cheerfulness. Though some of them may suffer from an excess of poetic aspirations, they know how to keep them well under control. Let us follow them into the dining hall, not to let them out of our sight. In any case, we are beginning to attract attention by standing here all this time by the swing door, scrutinizing everyone who comes past on his way to supper. If we linger here any longer, our intentions will supply welcome grist for the mill of gossip.

The dining hall is brightly lighted. The air is warm and damp, and full of din and bustle: the clatter of cutlery, the murmur of conversation, the squeaking of food carts, the rattle of pots and pans from the sinks on the other side of the open partition. The tables are covered with brightly colored formica. The walls are adorned with landscapes, with symbolic representations of labor and with portraits of the founders of the kibbutz movement. On each table there is a tray of crisp brown bread, a dish piled high with fruit, colorful receptacles for salt, pepper, oil, lemon juice, and mustard, bowls of butter and cheese and home-made apple preserves, and a gleaming stainless-steel teapot. In the middle, a big bowl for rubbish and leftovers, and next to it a jam jar full of water with a pretty arrangement of flowers and greenery.

At our table there are six people. That's the rule. No new table is to be used until all the seats have been taken at the previous ones. That way it's more orderly.

Herbert Segal, a short, compactly built man wearing rather old-fashioned steel-rimmed glasses, belongs to the German party. (There are two groups in the kibbutz, those from Germany and those from the area around the Russian-Polish border, which used to be Poland but is now in Russia.) Segal is in charge of education in the kibbutz. This work, however, occupies only his spare time. His profession, which he has followed for twenty-seven years now, is dairy farming. He is a man of exceptional talents and a broad outlook who spends his evenings reading Marx and Hegel, Proudhon, Duhring, Lassalle, Saint-Simon, and Rosa Luxemburg. This kind of farmer you will find only in a kibbutz. In his youth Herbert Segal published large numbers of articles before he stopped writing. If he had embarked on a career of communal service, he would have shone among the bright lights of the kibbutz movement. He did not do so, partly because his outlook is slightly to the left of that of the movement, partly because he is a man of firm principles who spurns fame. Instead, he has given himself now, since Eva Harish's departure, to the running of the classical music circle. He himself plays the violin, in an amateur way. If only fate had supplied him with the right wife instead of leaving him a bachelor, we would say that he had managed to strike a perfect balance in his life. This balance is apparent in his measured way of eating, with formal table manners that years of manual labor have not overcome. His shy, fleeting smile has charmed us completely. If ever we have to face moments of pain or embarrassment, we can rely on Herbert Segal to come to our help, out of a spirit of true, quiet, uncalculating friendship. His sensible, sensitive tact is universally recognized and appreciated in the kibbutz.

While he eats, Herbert carries on a discussion with his neighbor, Grisha Isarov, a large man who is in charge of our fish ponds. Grisha has seven children, of both sexes, who are ranged according to age in the various children's houses. In the Second World War Grisha joined the Jewish Brigade and performed a number of remarkable feats in the Western Desert and in Italy, which he is fond of describing.

Grisha's table manners are appalling, and, what is more, his discussion with Herbert Segal has turned to subtle problems in crop rotation, which are really beyond his comprehension. Let us turn our attention, therefore, to the young people at our table, to Tomer Geva and his attractive companion Einav.

Tomer Geva is the elder son of Ezra and Bronka Berger. We are not taken in by the change of surname, because Bronka's bushy eyebrows, which meet in the middle, adorn her son's face, too. Tomer's features are not particularly regular. He has a large nose, thick lips, and broad, strong jaws, and black hairs protrude from his ears and nostrils. We are making his acquaintance over supper. If we could watch him at work, half-naked in a hayfield, glistening with sweat in the sunshine; if we could see him dancing, whirling furiously, defying gravity, his dark eyes under those bushy brows ablaze with vitality; if we could observe him on the basketball court, feinting and weaving light-foot-edly among his opponents, shooting with deadly accuracy — then we would understand what the girls see in him. A few months ago Tomer surprised us by deciding to marry one of his admirers. Einav is a quiet, pretty girl whose beauty is slightly marred by a limp. Einav's figure is not quite as it was: a slight bulge has already begun to distort the neat lines of her figure, and accentuate her limp.

Tomer is wearing his evening clothes, but they are not clean. His blue shirt is stained with mud and motor oil. Presumably, he has just been out to the fields to turn the irrigation taps on or off, perhaps to clear a blocked sprinkler. He lacks refinement, but his manner is friendly and captivating. Watch him cutting a slice of bread for Einav, leaning across the table to pass her a morsel of pickled herring or cheese, smiling at her stealthily from time to time. Einav responds in kind, and eagerly prepares him a rich, finely sliced salad.

Now let's wash down our meal with a hot or cold drink, whichever we choose, and nod farewell to the others at the table. We pause for a moment at the bulletin board, which is covered with announcements and lists of duties, glance at the headlines in the newspaper over the shoulder of Isaac Friedrich, the treasurer, and leave the dining hall. We can relax on a green bench on the edge of the lawn and contemplate the setting sun.

The twilight softens the scene and flatters the objects scattered around the kibbutz. Delicate shadows shift between the buildings, giving a heavy look to the trees and softening the sharp angles of the functional layout of the place. The lawns look less regular now than they are. Even the concrete paths, thanks to the subtle interplay of shadows, have lost their usual aggressive straightness. Round about stretch meadows and gardens, relishing the fresh breeze and responding to it with a sigh and the suggestion of a seductive tremor.

If we look up toward the mountains to the east, we will find them still bathed in sunlight. The dazzling light, driven away from where we are, has taken possession of the hilltops and entrenched itself there. As a result, they seem farther away than they really are, as if storming new heights. The sky has lost its daytime color, a yellow gray, and turned a startlingly clear shade of blue.

The air is laden with faint sounds. A silence settles on our village, as if a stately caravan were noiselessly crossing the village, a caravan that we cannot rightly name but whose presence we can sense in our throats, full of sorrow and hope and unspecified yearnings.

What a pity the twilight disappears so quickly in these parts. Our sun sets abruptly. The hills to the east are already growing dark. They are vanishing, deserting us, disappearing behind a dark screen. Their summits still hold a dimly capering yellow-purple light, but that, too, grows fainter every moment.

Now huge blocks of shadow come falling down the hillside. They fall in total silence, observing some strange law of gravity. The mountains are trying to bury us alive in an avalanche of shadows. The last rays catch some metallic objects for an instant, a flashing sign of the menacing presence of enemy positions on the mountainside. Little yellow and green lights appear in the enemy camps. A hostile, menacing, terrifying presence. That is why at this moment powerful white lamps go on all round the perimeter of our village. That is why the searchlight on top of the tall water-tower starts lashing the surrounding fields, groping undecidedly, challenging the hillside with a hungry beam of quivering brightness. Another searchlight comes on opposite, and slithers all over us, pawing us with its vicious bright fingers. The suspicious, unfriendly dialogue continues without a word being exchanged.

Eventually, you know, everyone dies, good and bad alike. Those who work for what is right and the wicked ones who destroy everything, and those who are simply degenerate, too. Everyone. They collapse, stop breathing, die, decompose, stink terribly after three or four days. Don't be angry with me for speaking tritely. I'm a soldier. Sometimes I say vulgar things, and then I'm cross with myself afterward. Yes.

It was the Dutch colonel who said this to Reuven during the tour, and he was speaking the truth. There's no denying it. Facts of life. But facts of life can be unfair, and unpleasant. And men must hate unfairness and unpleasantness, and wage war on them always.

Reuven Harish goes with his son Gai to the children's house. Before lights out he amuses the child by reciting some of his poems. Then father and son chat for a while about stamps and tourists, arms and agricultural implements, championships and roses. A kiss, a strong hand gently stroking a mop of blond hair, good night, good night.

Noga has a busy evening. At eight o'clock, a rehearsal for the dance sequence combined with readings, to celebrate the feast of Shavuoth. Noga is dancing as a vine, one of the seven kinds of fruit. At nine o'clock, a meeting of the editorial committee of the youth magazine. Noga is responsible for the "free expression" section.

Later on, the young people gather noisily in their own part of the kibbutz. Some collect round the radio to listen to the latest hits. Others sprawl on the grass and sing songs, making up their own bawdy lyrics. Finally, later still, between ten and eleven, Noga has an adventure of her own to look forward to. Gossips, be on your guard.

Noga's father takes a short cut across the lawn. Herzl Goldring, the gardener, catches sight of him from his veranda and says to his wife Nina under his breath:

"No wonder the children. Look at their teacher walking on the grass. No education, I tell you. Education isn't just a question of clever talk. It's a way of life. Here, Nina, they're savages."

"You're exaggerating," his wife answers sadly.

"I'm not exaggerating," Herzl whispers furiously.

Reuven pauses for a moment in the shadow of the carob tree, tucks his shirt into his trousers, and with a couple of youthful bounds he leaps onto the veranda of Ezra Berger's house. Ezra, meanwhile, is steering his heavily laden truck along dark, winding roads. He won't be back before midnight at the earliest. Bronka is alone in the room. Reuven greets her and smiles briefly. His voice is deep and controlled, as usual. Bronka smiles back, but says nothing. She looks up at him, dark-skinned and tired. She is sitting in an armchair, wearing a sleeveless gray dressing gown. Her legs are drawn up underneath her, emphasizing the clumsy heaviness of her thighs. The room is simply furnished, like all our rooms: one bed on wheels placed under another, higher bed to save space, A light gray bedspread with dark gray stripes. At the head of the bed, a chest of drawers, on top of which is an old radio set. A brown table covered in blue formica. A philodendron in a pot, climbing up a bamboo frame almost as far as the ceiling. A greenish carpet, ancient and threadbare. An empty armchair, Bronka's armchair, and three stools upholstered in a fabric matching the armchairs. A picture by van Gogh: a mysterious great cypress tree, a stormy sky, and two tiny figures walking along a path. A shelf with a few books, a dictionary, picture albums, some textbooks, and journals containing articles by Nehemiah Berger. Another shelf with little pot plants and cheap ornaments. Coffee cups decorated in gold laid out on the table. A dish of cookies baked by Bronka.

Reuven stretches out on the bed, where an open book lies upside down: The Intellectual Development of Young Children.

"Tired?"

"Yes."

"I saw you with the tourists this afternoon, by the clothes store. Why do you have to do it? Mundek or Tsvi Ramigolski could show them round. You could lie down and rest instead of running around in the heat of the afternoon."

"We've discussed all that before, Bronka. Let's drop the subject. Ezra?"

"As usual. Midnight, one o'clock."

"Coffee?"

"Right away. The kettle's been boiling for five minutes already. I was too lazy to get up."

"Lazybones."

"Like all grandmas."

"Why do you have to keep saying that all the time, Bronka?"

"I'm sure Einav's going to have a daughter."

"You mean you hope she will."

"I mean I can sense it. I don't make light of that kind of intuition."

"Does Ezra want a granddaughter, too?"

"Ezra. Ezra wants to be left alone. He's always tired."

"Has he said anything recently?"

"No. He hasn't said anything. Him? Never!"

"He's a strange man."

"Strange? I could think of a different adjective. Never mind. Drink your coffee now, before it gets cold. Sugar's in. You have to get to know Ezra, but it takes time. Have a cookie."

Coffee. Cookies. A few grapes to wash them down. Too sweet. She puts too much sugar in, as if you were a child. Spasmodic conversation, forced smiles. Fingers fidgeting involuntarily round the cookie dish. Listen to the news. Will there, won't there be any shooting tonight? I think they're hatching something. I don't think anything's going to happen for the time being, for two reasons. In the first place…

"What are you knitting? A sweater? For Oren?"

"Bootees for the baby."

"Einav ought to do something about that leg of hers. I've heard of some new exercises they've devised…."

"You know, Tomer's changed a lot since he's been married."

"About Noga. I know what I was going to tell you. It's as if she was struggling with some resentment. She's a little girl, and yet she isn't a little girl. She's so secretive. She never used to be so quiet with me. And she doesn't seem to take an interest in anything these days."

"It's an awkward age. Oren's the same. Oren refuses to be called Berger. He calls himself Geva. They say it was he who organized the disturbances on Seder night. Every day I hear fresh complaints about him."

"And Ezra?"

"He won't get awkward. Keeps out of it. Anyway, he never talks much."

"What's the music tomorrow night? Mozart?"

"Bach."

"Segal adores Bach. I don't enjoy his music. Too serious. I know it's an unpopular view, but it's true. Mozart's another matter. But Bach, really…"

"By the way, there was a letter from Germany today. From Zechariah."

"What does he say?"

"Nothing special. The usual sort of thing. Siegfried Berger and Isaac Hamburger are opening a branch in Frankfurt, and they're thinking about Berlin. They're expanding."

"Curse them both."

"You hate them, don't you?"

"I hate debased Jews. They debase themselves and all of us. Will you show me the letter?"

"Not now, Reuven. Why now? Later. Afterward."

"Is there?"

"Yes. As usual. A few lines. She doesn't say anything. Incidentally, there was a letter from Nehemiah today, too."

"From Jerusalem? Today?"

"Yes. Quite a coincidence. Letters from both brothers the same day."

"What's he got to say for himself?"

"I'll show you his letter afterward, too. He may be coming to stay for a week or two."

"Will we…"

"Don't worry, man, he won't interfere. I don't think he's going to come, though. Every year he threatens to come for a long stay, and in the end either he doesn't come or else, if he does come, he leaves after a couple of days. That's the way he is."

"What's he up to these days?"

"The same as usual. Researching. I don't know what in exactly."

"Researching?"

"Yes. Do you want some more coffee?"

"Later, later. Turn the radio off. Is it Stravinsky? I don't like it. It's too violent."

***

Bronka thinks about her body. With a feeling of disgust. She puts her knitting down and lets her hands fall to her thighs. She can almost feel, through the material, the swollen veins, the ugly black hair on her legs, the red rash. They say beautiful women find old age hardest to bear. I was never beautiful. I was always broad. I never had a figure like Einav's. But years ago I didn't think about my body like this; now I think about it, and I don't like it. It's like someone else's body. A stranger's. At night, when I can't sleep, and Ezra hasn't got back yet, I sometimes have the feeling that a strange, ugly woman is sleeping in my bed. I can smell her body. She sweats. She has a nasty, smelly discharge. She's not well. She smells unhealthy. She has something wrong inside her. There's a revolting dampness. There are some things I can't talk to Ezra about. Even in the early years. How strange that he was embarrassed with me. He didn't like looking at me, and he didn't like me to look at him when we were together. He wasn't generous with those eyes of his. As if he was doing his duty but without enthusiasm. No, that's not right. He was very enthusiastic, but he wasn't concentrating. His heart wasn't in it. Reuven is very gentle. He's careful, even in physical matters. As if he's handling something fragile. A woman needs strength, too. And violence. Neither of them is violent. Not completely. Right to the end. There's always something that holds back, that doesn't take part. And that's terribly humiliating for a woman. Father had an enormous body. Even without touching him, you could sense that he was very strong and warm. When he was about to kiss you good-night, you could feel his weight. Even when he was old: maybe because his long beard didn't go white even when he was sixty, when the Germans. He hardly ever beat me, and yet I always used to feel that he was on the point of beating me, flaying me alive.

"Reuven."

"Yes. What?"

"My father. I was just thinking about him. He was a bookbinder. He was always the treasurer of our branch of the movement. He wanted me to come here, but he also wanted me to be a pianist. For years and years a man calls the daughter of his old age 'Katzele/ little kitten, and then all of a sudden she's an old woman, a mother, a grandmother. She gets fat and she doesn't like her body; she doesn't recognize her own body; she dreams at night about Katzele, and her body is getting wrinkled and dried up and decayed. It's terrible."

"Bronka, why always harp on that theme, why…"

The coffee I make is always tasteless; I've never learned how to make good coffee. He never says anything. He's so gentle. But I don't love him very much, either, because there are things I can't say to him and won't ever be able to say to anyone and they're just the things that are so important and in a few years' time I'll be dead and buried. Bialik says, "They say love exists, but what is love?" They're grand words, but the question has to be asked. Love is when you can say everything. When there's no holding back. When you don't have a red rash. On the other hand, how can one be such a romantic fool at forty-four? Forty-five, actually.

"The coffee was tasteless, Reuven. Don't be embarrassed to tell me the truth. You must always be frank with me. That's why you don't want another cup, isn't it?"

"What are you talking about, Bronka? It was marvelous coffee. Really. Truly."

"Have some more grapes. They're slightly tart, just the way I like them. I can't stand soft ripe fruit, or vegetables, either, for that matter. A soggy banana makes me want to throw up. What are you teaching your class?"

"Shimoni. The Idylls. I marked their essays today. There were some excellent ones. You know, it's struck me how different the German children are from the Russians. The only explanation I…"

He is tormented by nightmares. Even a pure man of sound principles cannot control his dreams. Bronka Berger and Reuven Harish are both grown-up people. A pure friendship has existed between them for many years, a friendship with a firm intellectual foundation. Even though Reuven Harish is of German origin while Bronka comes from Kovel, the two of them are united by a common outlook; they share the same attitudes to education, the same love of nature and mankind. A friendship of this kind cannot suddenly be transformed into violent, sensual love. Even if they do not surrender completely to one another, well, younger couples, too, united by a bond beyond reproach, do not always give themselves totally to each other without holding anything back. The love of Reuven and Bronka is subdued and sparing, and the physical element is not uppermost.

In the old days Eva had a place in the friendship between Reuven and Bronka. In her usual way, with her lively little smile, she used to make a small (but pointed and perceptive) contribution to their conversations. She enriched their conversations with an air of gentle intimacy.

After Eva had left, because she had left, Bronka, naturally enough, felt herself to be responsible for Reuven's well-being. In the early days she spent long hours with Reuven in his room, to prevent him from feeling lonely. She took over such vexing little tasks as ironing his shirts, darning his socks, and making fair copies of his poems.

Ezra did not encourage her in these acts of kindness, but neither did he discourage her. Ezra Berger withdrew silently into himself. If anyone approached him to gloat and drop hints, he responded with ambiguous sayings and scriptural verses. Rumor informed him, too, of the change that had come about in the couple's relationship. Ezra Berger did not make a scene, like a hot-headed youth. He redoubled his devotion to his work and took on the work of two drivers. His simple-minded lack of imagination prevented his jealousy from getting the better of him, we believe. Not that he subjugated his feelings. But a man is made of flesh and blood, and flesh and blood is not myrrh and frankincense but, as the ancient sages have it, "a drop of stinking fluid."

Ten months or so after Eva's departure Bronka responded to Reuven's starved need. Reuven did not run after Bronka, nor did he try to seduce her. That would be hard to imagine. Bronka herself recognized his need and indicated her willingness of her own accord. It was not desire that drove them into each other's arms (whatever prurient skeptics may say) but pure fellow feeling. We do not say this to justify them. There is no justification for adultery. We say it simply to appeal to your compassion.

Reuven gets up from the divan and perches on the arm of Bronka's chair. He places his hand on hers and tells her about the colonel's curious remarks.

"Suddenly, when the rest of the tourists were already back in their bus, he made a sign to me to come closer. As if he wanted to tell me a secret. He was a middle-aged man, but solidly built, almost athletic-looking. He had a mustache and a cigar, and he was carrying a splendid stick. He looked the picture of an honest citizen enjoying a well-earned retirement, if you know what I mean. I went over to him. He fixed me with an odd look and asked me if I had any children. Then he advised me to get out of here, or at least to send my children away. Why? Because from the military point of view we haven't a hope of surviving here. So he announced. 'The mountain will fall on top of you.' He didn't omit to point out his professional standing, his rank, his military experience. The mountain will fall on us, according to the rule of logistics. Nothing more and nothing less. I told him that we observe different laws of gravity. Perhaps he understood. He said good-bye with exaggerated politeness. I'm not telling you all this to boast, obviously, but to show you the delightful sort of things that happen to me in the course of my favorite pastime."

"All right," Bronka said, "you answered him very well. But what I say is that you take too much on yourself. You're not well. You're not all that strong, and… if you were only to rest for an hour every afternoon…"

Reuven Harish smiled but didn't answer. Only his fingers gently stroked Bronka's wrinkled hand. For a few moments they sat in silence. Bronka rested her head on his shoulder. He kissed her. From a great distance there came the sound of a single shot. The echo resounded all around, then merged with the chirping of the crickets, with the murmur of the wind in the trees, with the ever-changing noises of the night that never really change.

Let us avert our eyes from their love-making. There is nothing spectacular about it. It takes place without words, without sounds, without frenzy. A gentle caress, a brief overture, a strained silence. A groan. A relaxed silence.

The night is neither relaxed nor silent. Not our night. The distant motor of the small cold-storage room throbs like a heartbeat in the darkness. It blends with the vague despondent muttering from the hen houses. From time to time there comes a heavy lowing of cattle like a stifled groan. The crickets chirrup without a pause, some with a soft persistent dullness, others with a startling shrillness, starting up and suddenly dying away. From the enemy positions to the east comes the hoarse judder of an engine, and cries, perhaps of men, perhaps of night birds. A jackal's eerie howl rends the air and raises a wild melee of sounds all around, as of a dark ocean swelling up ready to dash its great breakers against our frail houses. Sorrows, delights, and derision merge in a long-drawn-out wail, a sad, sad dirge. Hesitantly, Reuven touches Bronka's face and finds it drenched with tears. He gropes for the light switch. She stops him. You frightened me. It's nothing; you wouldn't understand. How can I understand if you don't tell me. You can't understand if I don't tell you, that's the awful thing. What's awful, Bronka, what have I done to you, why are you. You haven't, only I hope I have a granddaughter, yes, a granddaughter, that's what I want. I would have gone to Father's grave to pray for a girl, only there isn't any grave to go to. You're odd, Bronka, how can anything I do make any difference to that. Perhaps it's not too late, give me a daughter. I'll marry you if you'll give me a daughter, please, please, I can still, I only…

The searchlight beam bursts into the room. It traces distorted shapes on the walls in a spell bound game. Suddenly it moves on elsewhere. The woman wipes her face silently. The man gives an embarrassed cough. He wants to put things back on an even course, but he doesn't know what to do. Finally Bronka puts on her wrinkled dressing gown and turns the light on. Without looking at Reuven, she hands him the letters, first the one from Nehemiah Berger.

He asks if it would be convenient for him to come and stay with his family for a few days. His work has come to a dead end. He has put it aside and is getting on with some translating, to earn his bread and butter. He translates to live and he lives to translate, the old vicious circle. But a change of scene would do him good. So he would like to come with a few books and his jumbled papers. If it's an awkward time, they mustn't hesitate to put him off. Finally, dear brother, when does Einav intend to make you and Bronka grandparents?

The very same question opens the letter from Zechariah, the younger brother. He scans the world press anxiously for news of the serious border conflicts in the region of Metsudat Ram. It looks as if the Jewish destiny hounds the Jews everywhere. He hopes everyone is well. As for his own news, Hamburger and he are starting up a branch in Frankfurt and even putting out feelers in Berlin. Berlin is not, happily for us, what it was in the days of its glory. The fat-faced, thick-headed Berliners are terrified of the Communist blockade. By and large, there's nothing to complain about. The prosperity here in Germany is really astounding. The Jewish worm has turned, and the Krauts are bursting with rage. There are a thousand and one ways of humiliating them. We bought the building in Frankfurt, for instance, from an ex-Nazi official who's been sentenced to a few years in prison. He had to sell quickly, at half price. I made such fun of him and his wife during the sale that their eyes nearly popped out of their greasy faces. There's no difficulty these days in humiliating them, and, as you know, that's a pastime I find enthralling. Isaac, though, doesn't see things in quite the same light. He's content to get rich quickly and isn't concerned to avenge the humiliations. Eva is drawing a lot, as usual. Isaac, of course, has built her a beautiful studio in the attic with a view of the lakes she adores.

They don't have any plans for visiting Israel in the near future. But I am considering making a brief business trip to sign up some Israeli artists for a little German contract. Israeli artists will be a great success in Germany, for rather complicated reasons.

Reuven glances briefly at the contents of the letter, then peers intently at the two or three lines added in the margin in tiny slanting Hebrew letters. He would like to put his nose to the page and sniff it, but he refrains for fear of hurting Bronka.

Dear Bronka and Ezra, Tomer, Oren, and Einav. I think of you often. I am well and have nothing to complain about. Of course I miss my children terribly. My little Stella Maris must be quite grown up by now. I wonder if dear Reuven would send me a photo of her. Could you possibly ask him? Yours, Eva.

This letter is intended for Reuven, though not addressed to him. Pensively, he folds it up. She doesn't mention Gai at all. He puts it back in the envelope. Then he carefully removes the stamps for his son. He puts them in his shirt pocket. He stands for a while, doing nothing, saying nothing. Finally he remarks:

"Of course I'll send her a photo. What a question!"

Bronka says:

"She'll come back."

"No, she won't," Reuven answers. "I know she won't ever come back."

Bronka looks at him sideways, without saying anything. Reuven looks down at his fingertips. He mutters something to himself. Bronka sighs aloud, once and then a second time. Reuven looks up and smiles at her sadly. Bronka hands him his shirt, which is draped over the arm of the chair. Reuven puts it on absently and smiles like a fondled child. He does the buttons up wrongly. Undoes them and starts again.

A shot in the distance. At once three more shots ring out, much closer at hand.

"I hope we can get through the night without having to take the children down to the shelter," Bronka says.

"Yes. Let's hope so," Reuven replies, still absently. "He'll be back soon," he adds.

"I'd better tidy up the room. I don't want to stab him in the eyes. He gets home so tired he looks like a sleepwalker."

Reuven kisses her and goes out into the night with glistening eyes. A dull pain stabs him momentarily in the chest. It may be physical, it may not. In the fields nocturnal creatures howl, as usual.

5. TO BE A WOMAN

Rami Rimon was born and brought up in our kibbutz. He is well equipped, therefore, to distinguish between positive things and negative ones. The death of his father and then of his older brother, and his mother's excessive bitterness might have had a disturbing effect on his personality. But Rami Rimon is not an effeminate youth, even though his mother declares that he is a sensitive boy who loves plants and animals. Rami Rimon is not much of a talker. Words are sticky. To do or not to do, that is the only question which becomes a man. Girls are the problem. Despite yourself, you find yourself in deep water, and you end up hating yourself. Women are not men, and they don't let men be men. That's their nature. On the other hand, you can't avoid them without incurring the contempt of others, and even of yourself. This dilemma Rami Rimon finds hard to overcome, but he cannot get out of it because he is Noga Harish's friend, and because a boy of eighteen has to have a regular girl friend.

Rami stands all alone on the edge of the clump of trees by the swimming pool. He is waiting in the dark for Noga. You can never rely on her to be punctual. Two days ago we arranged to meet at ten, and she arrived at eleven. Yesterday we arranged to meet at half past ten, and she came early, at ten, and we had an argument. Why did I make her wait alone in the dark when I knew perfectly well she was afraid of the dark. How could I know, how could I guess that she would be early. Answer: when you are in love you should feel inside you when someone is waiting for you. I asked her whether, apart from telepathy, she also believed in ghosts and gremlins. Answer: she certainly does. How can we possibly get on with each other.

Noga has had a busy evening. She has taken part in a long rehearsal for the Shevuoth show (how powerfully she dances, with her boyish body), attended a meeting of the editorial committee of the youth magazine, hastily prepared her schoolwork, made her bed up, smiled secretively at Dafna Isarov, her plump roommate, and made her way to the clump of pine trees by the pool. Rami was there waiting for her, with his shirt provocatively unbuttoned and a cigarette sticking casually to his lower lip. Noga saw him before he could catch sight of her. She has the sharp night sight of a bird of prey. She crept up softly behind him, her sandals making no sound, her green check robe, too large for her, distorting her outline. She covered his eyes with her icy hands. He started violently. Noga was almost sent flying.

She laughed as softly as she could. Rami seized her and tried to kiss her on the lips. She slipped out of his grasp, tweaked his ear lightly, and fled among the trees.

"Throw away your cigarette," she called from her hiding place. "I hate you when you smoke."

"I'm glad you hate me. Come out of there."

"Horse!"

Rami grinds his teeth in fury, stung to the quick by the insult. The widow Rominov's surviving son has a long face, heavy jaws, and an unusual number of creases round his mouth for his age.

He wanders around for a while till he discovers where Noga is hiding. He fills his lungs with smoke and blows a pungent jet in her face. Noga delivers a sharp slap on his neck. He tries to catch hold of her, but she is more agile than he is. He runs after her, angry and humiliated.

"Just you wait till I catch up with you." He tries to pretend that his anger is good-humored and amused.

"Go to the army, Rami. Then you can frighten our enemies."

She lets him catch her, and adds in a sad way that has nothing to do with the game:

"You'll go into the army, you'll find someone prettier, you won't want me. But I don't need you. I don't need you at all."

Deep in the shadow of the trees they embrace. His lips leave a warm moist trail on her cheek.

"You. Of course I'll want you. I'll want you when I'm in the army. I'll want you even more."

"Why?"

"Because you're pretty."

"Tell me another reason. That's only a little reason."

"Because you excite me."

"Lecher."

"Because… because you're so."

"So what? What am I? Tell me. Can you?"

"So graceful. Like a gazelle. Just like a gazelle."

"Is that all? Can't you think of anything else to say?"

"There is another reason."

"What?"

"You haven't given it to me yet. Give it to me."

"Horse!"

The rustle of the pines draws them deeper into the darkness of the trees. They stretch out on a bed of dead pine needles, thinking, not touching.

"Your father."

"What about my father?"

"He's a strange man. My mother says he's not as great as he tries to appear. He has more weaknesses than he let's on."

"Tell your mother she's a bitch."

"You're angry. That proves I was right."

"Rami, when you're in the army, don't always rush into trouble. We've had enough heroes. If anything happened to you, it would kill your mother. Me, too, a bit."

"You mean what happened to Yoash?"

"Maybe that's what I mean, but you're a horse. You don't have to say everything you mean."

"Yes, you do. You and I must tell each other everything. Everything."

"No, we mustn't."

"Yes, we must."

Silence. Still they don't touch. The boy is stretched to breaking point. He has kissed and fondled and groped; now he curses his humiliating fears and plans to take her by force. Oh, sensitive little boy, who loves animals and plants, he eggs himself on scornfully. Noga suddenly tickles the inside of his ear with a pine needle. Gives a deep, warm laugh. Rami puts his hand on her hip, which responds with a gentle movement, a kind of inner dance. Now he tries to cling. His movements are exaggerated, his grip clumsy and painful. Noga does not resist his embrace. Only her laugh billows up convulsively, and she says strangely:

"Little boy, get off. Leave me alone."

"What's so funny? Don't laugh, I tell you. Don't laugh."

"It's not funny. But you are."

"What?"

"Funny."

"You're not a woman, Noga. You don't even know how to be one."

"But I don't want to. I hate it. I don't want to."

"To what?"

"To be a woman."

The first shot, which we have already heard somewhere else, forces the couple apart even before Rami has managed to get over Noga's laughter. Hell, the buttons are too big for the holes. He leaves her alone and says knowledgeably:

"It's starting."

But nothing starts. The shot dies away and is lost in the sounds of the night. Rami's knowledgeability is in vain. If he were clever, Rami would not try to attack indirectly. But Rami is not clever. This is not meant disparagingly. He is hard-working, honest, unpretentious, and, when circumstances demand it, self-sacrificing, all noble virtues, which spring ultimately from his straightforwardness. It is his disarming straightforwardness that moves him now to consult his friend about a problem which has been weighing heavily on him.

"You know, Noga, I think I've managed to win my mother round slightly."

"About volunteering? Really?"

"Yes, about being a paratrooper. The trouble is, if she won't sign I can't go into the paratroopers. I'm entirely at her mercy. Because of Yoash's death I'm officially considered as an only son, and they won't take only sons without a signed form from the parents."

"And you've managed to get round her?"

"Yes. We had a row. I had it out with her. That I'm not her little baby and that what happened to Yoash wasn't my fault and that what was good enough for Yoash is good enough for me and that not everyone in the paratroopers gets killed and that I'm not prepared to live my whole life in the shadow of what happened to Yoash because my life is my life. Everybody's always making unfair comparisons."

"Well? What did she say?"

"She didn't answer my arguments. She couldn't. She just called me a fool."

"And what did you say?"

"I called her a bitch."

"And what did she say?"

"She didn't say a word. That's why I think I've managed to win her round."

"I hope not. I hope she sticks to her guns, and doesn't sign."

If Rami were not so naive, he would not be so shocked now. What appalling treachery! What a sticky situation. You can't trust any of them. His anger made him say something cruel.

"You can't be relied on. You're just like your mother."

"Filthy old horse!"

At this a furious quarrel broke out in the quiet wood. Rami hurled all his vexations straight at her, and Noga, either from perversity or from the malicious pressure of her subconscious feelings, answered him sharply, with a honeyed voice and a smile of ice.

What a pity that they are deaf to the rich sounds of the night. Amid the gentle music of the night they pace nervously, round the swimming pool and back toward the houses. With a thousand beautiful sounds the night tries to charm them, but they barricade themselves behind their rancor. In the light of the lamp on the fence Rami stands, his large hands on his hips, a fresh cigarette in his mouth, trying to puff smoke in his girl friend's face. His rage exaggerates his horselike expression. Noga's little face is lowered. The hair falling over her cheeks hides the tears welling in the corners of her eyes.

Nearby, behind a privet hedge, Israel Tsitron, the night watchman, cranes his neck in an effort not to miss a word. He discreetly refrains from revealing his presence. On the other hand, if it were not for him, the two of them would be beyond the reach of gossip. And if it were not for the gossip, Fruma would never find out about her little ally, who is anxious about Rami and tries to prevent him volunteering for a dangerous task, and Fruma's sad heart would not experience that flush of warmth. As we said before, there is a praiseworthy side to gossip. It must not be condemned out of hand.

Sadness? Yes. Naturally. Our gaze follows Stella now as she steals, stooping slightly, back to her room in the children's house. The house is shrouded in sleep. She tiptoes into her room, without turning the light on. Slips between the sheets.

How old is Noga Harish? About sixteen. She will be crying now. Whispering the name of her mother far away. A square of cold moonlight on the wall. Outside the window, dark cypresses sighing in the breeze. What was it like, years ago, when I was little? How she used to hold me and terrify me. How she used to hold me cry say things to me in another language frightened I used to cry with her no one could see Mummy stop it I'm frightened of you Stella Maris if only you'd never been born Mummy I'll go wherever you are I'm yours I'm like you if only you could die if only we both could. It's black why is it so black.

6. ANOTHER SADNESS

Ezra Berger's arms rest on the steering wheel. His eyes gape at the road caught in the headlight beam. The road tricks the headlights with imaginary protrusions. Ezra's thick neck is sunk deep between his hairy shoulders. He doesn't feel tired. Not tired. But a kind of numbness weighs heavily on him and confuses his thoughts. His thoughts wander. Bronka's not alone now. In my room. In my bed. Grandma. Big hips. Thinking about her body. Hair. What a belly. "Belly like a mound of wheat" — huh! Old dumpling. Turquoise is so slim. Little devil. What a nerve, to say, all of a sudden, "You're sweet." If she weren't the poet's daughter, I'd hope that Oren would get her. He could, too. The same way Tomer won Einav. Conquered her. The Bible says "knew her." "And Adam knew Eve his wife and she conceived and bore a son." Knew. Clever word. Don't think the commentators understand it properly. Don't believe knowing a woman just means fucking her. Must be some difference. Maybe knowing is only when they get pregnant. If there's no difference, it's all just a drop of stinking fluid. Just like what Tomer did to Einav: first he courted her then he slept with her then she got pregnant and then he married her out of a sense of responsibility. Whores, the lot of them. Bronka. Eva. Einav. Turquoise?

Ezra touches the packet of embroidery thread lying on the shabby passenger seat beside him. Now I've learned something new: turquoise is a color halfway between blue and green. A bright color. A cool color. There are warm colors and cold colors. I used to know. Poetic subtleties. I'm going to tell you a little story, Turquoise, a little story but a true story. From real life. Once upon a time there was a princess….No. I was only joking. Once upon a time Ramigolski and I were working over the hill. Aaron Ramigolski, the one who was killed, not our secretary Tsvi Ramigolski. Ramigolski talked to me about the poet's girl. The one he brought from Germany. Yes, your mother, little Turquoise. It was in the 1930's. The poet was still called Harismann, in those days, not Harish. A beau-ty, Ramigolski said. He drew the word out long and smacked his thick lips. I knew Ramigolski well. His father used to pray with my father. We were born across the road from each other, in Kovel. He was a coward. He was very strong, he was a cheerful lad, but he was a coward. He had his eye on the poet's girl. She was so graceful. Like a gazelle, like you, Turquoise. A daughter always takes after her mother, so they say. But Ramigolski didn't dare. He was afraid. Afraid of whom? Afraid of me. Afraid of Mundek Zohar. Afraid of what Fruma would say to Bronka and Bronka would say to Esther. "I find woman more bitter than death," the Preacher said, and he knew what he was talking about. That's why Ramigolski didn't dare. But he wanted your mother. And he might have been able to take her from Harismann, if he'd dared. She was graceful. Refined. Delicate. But she was a whore. What's she doing now in Germany with that Hamburger of hers? Running a night club. A brothel, more like. A plague on all women. You hear that, little Turquoise? Make a note: "A plague on all women" — Ezra Berger's motto. I've told you a true story, from real life, to teach you something about real life. Take another example. What did I say to Tomer? You've got someone in trouble? Yes? Einav? All right. Now have a good think. True, you could marry her. But you don't have to. There are other ways. What did Tomer do? He married her, limp and all. "A wise son makes his father rejoice but a foolish son brings grief to his mother," King Solomon says, and he makes a very fine distinction. It was Bronka who brought Tomer up to have a conscience. Now Bronka is going to be a grandma, and Ezra Berger is going to be a grandpa. And your father's going to have a grandma for a mistress. Huh! Congratulations. Where does it get us all? Look at Bronka. She's an educated girl. Clever. "If you've drunk the water, don't spit in the well," as they say. And me — I may be a pretty simple sort of chap, but I'm clever, too. Only I don't talk much. And talking is half the trouble. "Speech is silver, silence is golden." Thirty years ago, Ramigolski and I were working in the fields. Listen carefully now, Turquoise. The Arabs started shooting at us. We were unarmed. I jumped in among the maize quickly. Ran away. Hid. "Delivered my soul from destruction," as some poet says grandly somewhere. And Ramigolski? Ramigolski stood where he was and started talking to them. "Teaching the bear to be honest and fair." He got what was coming to him. He screamed. I crawled back and dragged him to the kibbutz. Yes, me. And I'm no biblical hero. He didn't utter a single edifying remark. On the contrary. He cursed us all and he cursed Palestine and he even cursed the Zionist movement. Right to the end. It's the truth, Turquoise. Isn't that what they taught you in your class? No? Bronka? The poet? No. You don't speak ill of the dead. Of course, you can say what you like about a man while he's alive. But the dead are sacrosanct. What's the conclusion? What the sages say: "Remember what you came from and what you are going to. What did you come from? A drop of stinking fluid. What are you going to? A pit full of worms." But I'm not Nehemiah Berger; I don't work with premises and conclusions. And I'm not Zechariah Berger, either; I don't make war on the whole human race because the Jewish worm has been trampled underfoot. I'm just an ordinary mortal, thank the good Lord. Do you understand what I've been saying, Turquoise? And if you dare say to me once more "You're sweet," I'll give you a clip round the earhole. What do you think I am — a little boy?

Tiberias. He stops to drink a cup of coffee with the fishermen. Marry a fisherman, Turquoise. Fishermen are real men. They don't write poems, they don't spout proverbs, but once they get hold of a woman they keep her for life. "Till death do us part." How many times must I tell you not to look at me like that with those green eyes of your father's. It's just as well you're not here to hear what I'm thinking. And I've not finished yet. There's more to come. No, they're not green, your eyes. They're blue-green. Turquoise. Greetings, O Abushdid. Do you have a cup of coffee for Ezra Berger? Great. I nearly fell asleep at the wheel. But I have a system. I think of girls, and it keeps me wide awake. We have a saying: "A woman is either precious and rare, or a grizzly bear." It's all a matter of luck.

The fishermen are fond of Ezra Berger. Every night he makes a stop in Tiberias to sip coffee with them and exchange gems of wisdom and dirty stories. Even here he does not talk much. But his sensible outlook, his slow way of talking, his heavy hands curled round the grimy little cup, his impressive broad shoulders, all these combine to secure him a position of respect here. This is not to imply that we do not respect Ezra Berger in the kibbutz. We respect him as a man of action, and for his rough good humor, which always, however, retains a serious element and never degenerates into cheap buffoonery. We are almost tempted to detect a noble quality in his roughness — as indeed there is, if, once again, you can call moderation and self-control noble.

Around midnight Ezra leaves to cover the last stretch of his journey from Tiberias to his home. He still doesn't feel tired. Not tired — but a kind of numbness confuses his thoughts. Ezra covers this last stretch at great speed. The road runs close to the border. Needless to say, at this time of night the road is completely deserted. The headlights pick out fields, signposts, solitary shrubs, little nocturnal animals dashing across the road.

Near the turning to the kibbutz, at the foot of the little hill from the top of which our tourists usually get their first general impression of the place, Ezra hears the sound of a distant shot. He pricks up his ears. He tries to fix the direction of the shot. A green flare rising suddenly in the eastern sky helps him. He drives quickly through the gate. Parks his truck next to the tractor shed, which is lit inside by a yellow lamp. Spits in his hands. Stretches his cramped limbs.

Israel Tsitron, the night watchman, darts up and chats for a moment or two about this and that: a premature birth in the dairy herd, a loud quarrel he happened to overhear between Fruma's Rami and his girl friend, a few shots from the northeast. There's trouble brewing. No, there won't be anything. Good night, Israel. 'Night, Berger.

Outside his room Ezra pauses and quietly removes his shoes. He tiptoes into his room. His eyes strain to pierce the darkness. He sniffs the air quickly, apprehensively, trying to absorb the alien smell into himself. His chest rises, falls, rises. His mouth is slightly open. His heavy head is inclined, listening intently. His arms hang down by his body. His hands are large.

Bronka is wrapped up in a blanket. She doesn't move. Ezra Berger is tired. His mind is wandering. Even so, he can sense for certain that his wife is not asleep. Bronka knows that he knows, and he knows that she knows. Everything is known. Stiffly he gets undressed. His bed is made up. There is a cup of tea waiting for him, covered with a saucer to keep it warm. Everything is as he likes it. Everything is as usual. He stands in his sweat-soaked underwear, staring at the shadows of the shutters cast by the searchlight on the flickering wall. Suddenly he leans over, places a large, dirty hand on Bronka's blanket, and says:

"Grandma."

She doesn't move. He straightens up stiffly. Fingers the hair on his shoulders and his chest. Crawls in his underwear between the white sheets. Turns his face to the wall. He tries to return to his musings and even murmurs softly: Well then, Turquoise, the fishermen.

Sleep comes on the man suddenly. Like an ax blow. Like a woman.

7. A PAINFUL SORROW

The thirties — unforgettable years, years we shall boast of for ever! Metsudat Ram: a tiny terrified encampment, lost in an empty expanse, braving the menacing mountains. A wooden tower, a double barbed-wire fence, dogs barking at the moon. Gray tents and dirt tracks, with billows of dust, four parched huts, scorched tin roofs, brackish, reddish water, smelling rusty in the common showers. A tumble-down shack with a few rickety tables. Frail saplings drooping in the heat. Tormented nights, filled with wild sounds, bathed in harsh moonlight, swarming with horrible movements. Strange noises from the Arab village nearby, the smell of smoke, damp vapors, our cheerful shouting in the middle of the night, wild dancing, party songs full of joy, full of sorrow, full of longing, a mixture of unbridled ecstasy and desperate orphaned sobbing.

Eva.

The time: two years after she first arrived in Reuven's tent. Almost two years after the death of Aaron Ramigolski, our first victim. That autumn we bought a small truck. The first. And at the end of the festival of Hanukka we made our first expedition to Haifa, to see a production of the Habima theater company. Not all of us, of course, but fifteen of our members, selected by ballot. Fifteen was the total number the primitive vehicle would carry. Eva and Reuven went, and Fruma and Alter Rominov, and Herbert Segal, and Mundek Zohar, our first driver, took the wheel. There were guns hidden under the driver's seat, even though there hadn't been any trouble lately.

It was a clear winter's day. The roads were washed and watered. Patches of bright green flanked the road in places. The sky was a rich, deep blue. And there was the excitement of the new truck. They sang songs and joked. They even made fun of serious things.

After the performance, back in the ice-cold lorry, Alter Rominov opened a discussion.

"Here we are building a new world, living a completely new life, and Habima still keeps harping on these ghetto themes."

The road was dark. The sky overcast. Not a star to be seen.

In the discussion that ensued, Herbert Segal took a similar stand to Alter Rominov, only, of course, he expressed himself in different words. (It was Herbert's remarks on that occasion which gave rise to his article on culture, still remembered among our veterans for the repercussions it raised.) Reuven disagreed with Herbert. There is a necessary connection between our new life and the old life in the ghetto.

Eva, not usually one of our ardent debaters, took part for once in the discussion. She raised her head from Reuven's shoulder and uttered a single sentence, which could only with difficulty be connected with the subject under discussion.

"It's the simple, great themes which ought to be portrayed, like passion and death," she said, and laid her head once more on Reuven's shoulder.

At this point the conversation was in danger of becoming heated, since no one, not even Reuven, was likely to let these words of Eva's pass unchallenged. Feelings ran deep in many hearts in those days, and Eva's warm, languid voice naturally excited deep feelings. But, just in time, a hoarse shout came from the driver's seat:

"Don't talk, friends, sing!"

Two or three voices responded with a burst of song, which smothered the conversation and soothed the passions. We were young in those days, and we put our hearts into our singing. So we sang, and Eva sang with us.

As we approached the valley the darkness became deeper, the roar of the engine more intense. The wind howled in the flapping canvas. Songs of joy gave way to songs of sad longing. Suddenly we ran into a torrential downpour. Jets of icy water came in through the opening at the back, and the passengers huddled deeper inside. Eva laid a pale hand on Reuven's knee.

"You'd think we were somewhere else," she whispered.

"A ghastly journey through a night of horrors," Herbert Segal said, to himself rather than to the others. And Alter Rominov, as usual, made a weak joke:

"Noah's ark. And we're the animals."

Alter's voice did not sound jocular, though.

Eva whispered to Reuven.

"Do you remember? Do you remember?"

And Reuven, the gesture is etched permanently in his memory, shrugged his shoulders.

The brakes screeched desperately as the road fell steeply down into the valley. The yellow headlights peered vainly through the rain and the fog.

Eva whispered.

"On a night like this I'd like to die."

Reuven shrugged his shoulders again. He was twenty-four, a pure-hearted, bright-eyed youth. What did his bright eyes see, what could they see when they looked at Eva? A girl with a romantic imagination. Fond of sickly stories of love-smitten heroes dying young of consumption. Of Gothic horror stories of forests and wizards and chaste maidens offering themselves to the fierce tempest. He was a pure-eyed youth. How could he imagine.

"It's cold and wet," Alter Rominov said. "We might get home on a gondola, we certainly won't get there in this truck." He was the only one to laugh at his joke.

Podolski said:

"It's all right. We finished sowing a fortnight ago. So what's the matter. It's good."

And Herbert Segal, under his breath:

"The tents will be carried away."

Fruma opened her mouth for the first time:

"When I was a little girl, I thought rain was the nicest thing in the world. And it's true when you've got a nice warm house. But in a tent…"

Reuven put his scarf round Eva's shoulders. She might catch cold, he said, while he was less delicate and was not afraid of the damp. Eva, strangely, appeared sad and offended.

"You want me to die, deep down in your heart. You want me to die of pneumonia in this intolerable country."

Reuven was shocked, and emphatically rejected her charge. Eva gave a soft, bitter laugh.

"Death can be so beautiful. Death can be happy." (Everything she said she whispered softly to her partner.) "Once I dreamed I was dead. The air was full of black birds. It was twilight. What a beautiful scene it was. Bells were ringing nearby, and further off, and far, far away, to the end of the world, and the black birds whirled around. What happiness. How beautiful."

Reuven stroked her hair. He whispered that she was a silly little girl. He will never forget that conversation. He remembers the words he chose then. Eva, placated, agreed with him, and said almost joyfully:

"I'm Little Red Ridinghood, I'm Little Red Ridinghood. But you're not the wolf, you're my lamb, my little pet lamb."

Reuven said nothing. The engine howled like a wounded animal. The wind whistled delightedly, maliciously. There was a sadness. Reuven Harish remembers that sadness. Now, years later, that journey seems to Reuven like a fading dream. But through the mist he can see something clear as a crystal, something nameless but crystal clear. Reuven contemplates it and feels weighed down with despair. What was it, dear God, what was it? Far, far away it shines, crystal clear, blended with the sound of bells and a painful sorrow.

8. ELSEWHERE, PERHAPS

Ezra Berger wears a thick gold ring on his finger, like many truck drivers, but unlike truck drivers who belong to a kibbutz. Ezra silences the engine of the truck, shakes his large hands, gets down from the cab, and goes to look for a thick rope. The rope he uses to secure his load is missing. Stolen, for sure, by the gang of young delinquents now cruising suspiciously silently round the kibbutz yard, plotting mischief.

Ezra wanders round the motor shed, looking out for a length of rope. Ten to three. Should have got moving by now. Still, yesterday I left at three. But yesterday I was delayed. First by Nina Goldring and then by Turquoise. She still hasn't come to pick up her turquoise. But then, when could she have come? I got back in the middle of the night, left at six this morning, and got in again at one o'clock. She's sure to come up any moment now. If she starts saying "thank you, thank you" in that ingratiating way of hers, I won't be able to stand it. There's something ingratiating about her. A woman shall compass the man, as the Prophet says. On the other hand, I can't move till I find a piece of rope.

A revolting smell of engine oil hangs in the air. The afternoon air is hot and heavy. A hazy sun beats down furiously on the tin roofs of the sheds. On the edge of the banana plantation opposite a tiny figure is busily unloading sacks from a battered cart. Ezra recognizes Israel Tsitron by his red shirt. Who else, in the blazing heat of the afternoon, would be crazy enough to work in a red shirt? Of course, there isn't a rope here, confound them. I can't imagine why I thought for a moment that there might be one. If I catch one of them I'll wring his neck, so help me. The question is what to do now. Ah, Noga. I thought you'd come. And here you are. You wouldn't like to go and get some cold water from the refrigerator for a weary soul, would you? In this mug. Of course I brought the thread, what a question. What did you expect? It's inside, on the seat. Yes, the right-hand side.

"Of course I'll fetch you some water. Why not? Tell me, though, why haven't you left yet? You… you weren't waiting for me, were you? I thought I'd be too late. That you'd have gone by now."

No, Ezra Berger said, he hadn't been waiting for her. They'd stolen his rope, and that was why he hadn't left yet. While he was in the kitchen collecting his coffee and sandwiches from Nina Goldring, the little so-and-sos had come and pinched it. So now he was looking for another rope. Noga suggests with a shy smile that he may not have to look very far afield for the stolen rope. Ezra asks if she means his younger son, Oren. Noga replies that that may be what she means, but that she doesn't necessarily say everything she means. Ezra says he will punish the culprits, his own beloved younger son included. But Noga knows that he won't do a thing. Even when he is angry, it's impossible to tell when he is serious and when he is only pretending to be serious. Anyway, he really did bring the thread. The very same day. That's a fact. Now I'll go and fetch him a mug of cold water. What's so strange about his asking me to fetch him a mug of cold water. There's nothing strange in his asking me to fetch him a mug of cold water. It's hot. That's all.

It's hot. Ezra Berger squats in the shade of the truck, takes off his battered cap, and mops his face and neck. Sticky sweat pours at once from every pore. He hasn't shaved, and his face seems twice as gnarled as usual. He stares into his old cap and peers at the plastic label with the name and address of the makers on it. Can it really be that this is the very first time he has noticed the label? Noga returns, holding the full mug out in front of her with both hands. That's not the way to carry a mug of water. That's how you carry something precious, a baby or a fragile piece of china or a dish of sweetmeats. Ezra distends his mouth and pours the water in without putting the mug to his lips. The trick does not come off. The water splashes onto his chin, trickles down his neck and past the open shirt to vanish in the thick, graying hair on his chest. Noga sees the water spill. She smiles, but to herself, not at the man. Her expression is very attentive. Her eyes glisten greenly.

Ezra pulls a face. The water was cold enough, but it had a sour taste. He opens the cab door, picks up a yellow thermos flask, pulls out the stopper, and swallows a mouthful of coffee. The coffee is intended for the nighttime, but there's nothing to stop him having a mouthful now to take away the sour taste of the water. The taste doesn't go, and Ezra takes a second gulp and a third.

Ezra says:

"The water tastes sour."

Noga says:

"That's not my fault."

Ezra says:

"True, but we still haven't solved the problem of the rope. I can't leave without tying something round the load. It'll all collapse."

Noga says:

"I think there's a length of rope in the old stable opposite the cattle pen. It may have rotted too much, but it might just do. Shall we go and see?"

"Let's go."

"Tell me something, Ezra. Don't you get bored on these long trips?"

"If I get bored, I think thoughts. Let us follow our thoughts, as Jeremiah says. But then a prophet is without honor in his own country."

"Do you think about the Bible all the time?"

"Not all the time. Only sometimes."

"Give me an example. A sample."

"Well, take our mother Rachel, for example, and her sister Leah. Leah had a lot of sons, but Rachel had only two. All the sons became tribes of Israel. All the tribes of Israel are equal before God. But it seems as if Rachel's sons are more equal than Leah's, because Rachel we call 'our mother Rachel,' but Leah we just call 'Leah.' Without the 'our mother.' No wonder she was 'tender-eyed.' 'Leah' in Hebrew can also mean 'tired.' Is this stable locked?"

"No, it's open."

"Is this the rope?"

"Yes, that's it."

"Splendid. You certainly know the ropes round here. Wait a moment. Don't go just yet."

"The ring on your finger is glowing in the dark. It's very dark in here, Ezra. Let's go outside."

But Ezra Berger stays where he is, slowly coiling the rope round his forearm and staring straight ahead of him with an intense, surprised look, like a man who has forgotten some vital password, or whose body has betrayed him and suddenly stabbed him with a piercing pain.

It is cold and dark in the confined space of the old stable. Look, there are mice in here. A sinister scratching sound behind the piles of debris. The pungent smell of peacefully rotting saddles quickens the breath.

"Well, then," says Ezra.

"Let's go now," says Noga.

Ezra walks back to his truck. The girl accompanies him, with no apparent purpose. Podolski pokes his head out of the motor shed surprisedly and asks why he hasn't left yet. Ezra absent-mindedly answers that he hasn't left yet because the kids have stolen his rope and he is looking for another one. Podolski is even more surprised at this, because he can see a rope coiled round Ezra's arm. Most surprising of all is the presence of Reuven Harish's daughter.

"Want a lift as far as the gate, Turquoise?"

"Yes."

"Get in."

"Ready."

"Here we are, young lady. You'd better get out now."

"Why here, Ezra? Why not somewhere else?"

"You'd better get out."

"Why not somewhere else?"

"Out with you."

"Have a good journey," the girl says as she gets down.

"Same to you," replies the man absent-mindedly. But Noga Harish is not going anywhere. She stands by the gate, all alone, tapping the dust with her bare foot, looking not at the truck but at the bunch of grapes that has suddenly appeared in her hand.

9. PLANTS AND ANIMALS

Our next episode is about rain. Rain on the first of May. Rain out of season, and the more welcome for that.

The characters, in addition to the narrator: Ido Zohar, a sensitive boy of fourteen. Mundek Zohar, his father, head of the regional council. Gerda, his mother, a member of the German faction in our kibbutz. She suffers from varicose veins and wears a thick elastic bandage on her leg. Izia Gurevitch-Gilead, a member of the central kibbutz committee, a devoted member of the movement. And a woman of forty named Hasia Ramigolski, with a dumpy figure and four sons.

It was the first of May when the rain fell.

As usual on May Day, we had put up the flags of Israel and the party round the big lawn, erected a small platform and laid out a lot of wooden benches facing it. The benches were thronged with our members and young people. The platform was decorated with red and white bunting, with a slogan in the middle, "Workers of the World Unite," written in red on green and framed with cypress boughs. There was a table of cold drinks on the edge of the lawn. Izia Gurevitch-Gilead had been sent from the central committee to deliver the party message. He stood up on the platform and spoke briefly. A light breeze ruffled his graying hair and also made the flags dance.

There were dark clouds in the west. As twilight approached, the clouds took on colors of startling brightness. The sun has a habit of setting the clouds on fire before retiring for the night.

Anyone with a feeling for the weather could tell in advance that rain was imminent. The previous week we had suffered from a heat wave. But the beginning of the week had brought a change. A discerning eye could see the signs. A nervous tension filled the air, and ominous signs began to appear on the western horizon. On Monday evening the setting sun was soaked up by a bank of cloud. The sunset was purple. Even the temperature dropped somewhat. On Tuesday morning the color of the sky changed, if only slightly. The pale, whitish blue gave way to a deep rich blue, as if the sea had risen to hang upside down in the air over our tiny roof tops and far beyond to the peaks of the distant mountains.

On Wednesday the air became heavier, and the dusty cypresses seemed even more tense than usual. And on Wednesday night, an hour before midnight, the wind arrived. As yet, a soft, tentative breeze, whispering secretively to the trees shading the paths of the kibbutz.

Some said:

"It'll rain by the end of the week."

Others said:

"It's the wrong time of year for rain. It hardly ever rains so late in the season."

But some said:

"It may be the last rain of spring."

At daybreak on Thursday the sea turned stormy. Ripples and waves appeared faraway to the northwest. All day long ragged clouds scudded eastward.

On Thursday night lightning flashed in the north, without a sound of thunder. There was activity in the sheds and barns and storehouses: even the more practical men had begun to smell rain and got busy moving sacks, machines, and agricultural tackle under shelter.

Finally, on Friday, which was May Day, the wind pretended to make peace with us. Insidiously, that morning, it played the part of an ordinary spring breeze.

The celebrations were opened at five o'clock in the afternoon by Mundek Zohar, who spoke of Labor Day as a symbol of the fellowship of workers all over the world. He himself was standing in, he said, for our comrade Reuven Harish, who had been taken ill with a slight cold, and he was sure we all wished him a speedy and complete recovery.

Next, a diminutive girl in a blue skirt and white blouse read out from the newspaper the message from the Secretary-General of the labor movement. The assembled company sang the party anthem and one or two more favorite songs of the movement. Then Mundek stood up again and announced that Izia Gurevitch-Gilead, a veteran worker for the party and the movement, whose devotion to the cause in the early days we all still remembered with pride and gratitude, would now convey to the gathering a message from the movement.

Izia Gurevitch-Gilead began by saying that we were going through a difficult time. He explained briefly why we were going through a difficult time. He went on to talk about the relevance of Labor Day at this moment in time. There was a noisy disturbance, as a tractor made its way round the edge of the gathering, taking a cartload of sacks from one place to another.

The disturbance was short-lived. The tractor passed on, and we sat back once again to drink in the speaker's words.

"Great changes have taken place in the world," Izia Gure-vitch-Gilead said, "since the Internationale was composed. Nevertheless…"

The twilight deepened. A dark veil intervened between the sun and the earth. Hasia Ramigolski said:

"It's turned cold all of a sudden."

Young Ido Zohar, who was sitting next to her, thought aloud:

"It'll start raining before he's stopped speaking."

Hasia said:

"Don't exaggerate."

And Izia Gurevitch-Gilead:

"It is very easy to have faith in times of faith. True faith, comrades, emerges in times of doubt, like today. Everyone imagines now that organized society has solved all its problems and that any outstanding problems can be overcome in a moment. They don't seem to realize that the greatest problems of all, the problems of survival, remain to be grappled with. What we need is faith."

***

Ido steals a glance at the woman sitting next to him. Hasia's body is plump, her legs stout and covered with fine down. Her gray skirt has slipped up. Slowly, stealthily the boy moves his thigh closer to Hasia's. His imagination runs riot. Stricken with alarm and remorse, he withdraws his leg, striving to avoid the slightest contact with his neighbor. But his fingers are shaking. He looks away, fixing his gaze on one of the flags flapping in the breeze. It won't calm down.

There is no doubt now that it is dark. Izia Gurevitch-Gilead is almost invisible. Only his outline shows on the platform. A brisk gust of wind makes the skin stiffen. Tears of shame well up in Ido's eyes. He breaks his mental vow and squints again at the uncovered knees. They are white, he sees, and gently curved like the rows of vines when they reach the lower slopes.

Izia Gurevitch-Gilead lowers his voice and stresses one word after another:

"The prophets of Israel were the first men to give the world the concept of social justice."

He is hemmed in now by electric lights. His silvery hair shines like an ancient warrior's helmet. A night bird suddenly screeches nearby, and the orator starts, because it sounds just like a woman screaming.

Hasia leans toward Ido and says anxiously:

"Aren't you cold?"

And answers her own question:

"Of course you're cold in a thin shirt like that. Would you like to put my sweater on? I'm wearing a flannel shirt underneath. I won't be cold. Well? Don't be shy."

And Ido:

"You… you don't need to give me anything."

He chews his lower lip, and adds:

"Actually, I…"

"Yes, you'd like the sweater after all? Take it, take it; you're shivering with cold."

"No, no, thank you, I don't need it."

"But you just said…"

"Me? I didn't say anything. It's the other way round. I thought you said something. I didn't."

And the speaker:

"The concept of social justice does not recognize national boundaries. On the contrary. Its aim is to eradicate false frontiers and to set up true frontiers…."

At this point the clouds burst. The rain did not start gradually; it came like a sudden blow. The thunder pounded us like a fist in a woolen glove. The first drops, unnaturally warm and thick, splashed on the dusty ground. The dust at first proudly resisted the inevitable and swallowed the water. But as the ferocious torrents continued to pour down, the dust surrendered and fled in confusion and panic into the depths of the drains. The trees were caught in a damp vapor, which closed round the lamps and played strange games with their light. A metal gutter chanted a melancholy tune.

The crowd, naturally enough, fled in disorder for shelter. In the confusion, without any prior intention, two bodies touched. With burning cheeks the boy ran after the woman, calling out:

"I'm sorry, Hasia, it was an accident."

The woman, who had felt nothing and was surprised at the cry, shouted as she ran:

"Sorry about what? What's happened?"

The rain was so sudden that, despite the rush, everyone was drenched.

On the platform, too, there was a flurry of movement. Izia Gurevitch-Gilead picked up his notes and tucked them away in his pocket.

"At this point I must stop, as it is raining," he said, but by now he had no audience.

Mundek Zohar, bent double by the downpour, added:

"Force majeure."

Then he linked arms with the speaker to help him down off the platform, since he was not as young as he used to be.

***

When they were assembled, dripping wet, in Mundek's small room, Gerda Zohar said:

"Just imagine. Who would have thought it. Ido, take your shoes off. You'll spread mud everywhere."

Mundek Zohar remarked that he had never known it to rain on May Day in all the twenty-nine years he had lived in Israel.

"This morning there wasn't a cloud in sight," said Izia. "The rain came on very suddenly. In fact, though, it's not all that amazing. I can remember rain as late as Shavuoth."

"Don't tempt fate," said Gerda.

Ido did not say a word but made his way to the sofa, where he stretched out, resting his head on his hand.

Gerda said:

"I've put the kettle on for tea."

"My wife may be from Germany," Mundek said, "but I've taught her to make real Russian tea."

"Don't put yourselves out on my account," said Izia.

Gerda opened the built-in cupboard and took out three neatly ironed shirts, three pairs of khaki trousers, and two vests.

"You'd all better change," she said. "You're soaking wet."

Izia, uneasy, refused out of politeness. Gerda asked if he preferred to catch his death of cold. Izia replied that he didn't want to put her to any trouble. Gerda insisted that it was no trouble. Izia yielded and changed. Mundek enthused sentimentally about the tattered rags they used to wear in the good old pioneering days. There followed an exchange of memories

Izia said:

"Your pride and joy is remarkably silent."

"Sometimes he is, and sometimes he isn't," Gerda replied, and smiled at her son. Ido, however, did not return the smile. He may even have grumbled under his breath.

Mundek dropped the subject of the good old days and asked Izia for news of the wide world. Izia said that every last drop of strength would have to be mobilized for the political campaign that was imminent.

Ido was thinking ugly thoughts. He was curled up on the sofa, with his knees drawn up to his chin. A procession of images passed through his closed eyes.

Gerda served tea. She pointed to the thick white bandage that was wound round her leg from knee to ankle and explained that she was suffering from varicose veins. It's old age, she added. Izia ventured to remark that none of them was getting any younger. Even he had been suffering from certain pains. He didn't like to talk about them. What good could talking do, anyhow? The kettle boiled again. They drank their tea. Outside there was nothing to be heard except the falling rain, which had become no lighter and no heavier, but kept up its steady, ruthless pounding. Gerda closed all the windows. The drops played a monotonous tune on the glass panes. Mundek advised Izia to stay the night: it was madness to risk our rough road in such wet weather, not to mention at night. From the security point of view, too, it wouldn't be wise to leave now. Izia refused, out of politeness. Finally he yielded and agreed, and thanked his host and hostess for their kindness. Gerda said there was nothing to thank them for. On the contrary. Mundek would be only too pleased to have an opportunity to reminisce about the good old days. They had another cup of tea (all except Ido, whose father called him an "angry young man"). They decided not to have supper. It was too wet to walk across to the dining hall, and anyway Gerda had a larder full of cakes, sweets, fruit, and — of course — unlimited supplies of Russian tea.

They talked about the prices of agricultural produce. They all agreed that many ordinary kibbutzniks did not realize the importance of political power.

Mundek asked his son in passing why he didn't get a book to read. Ido said he was listening to the conversation. But he was not telling the truth. Ido was not following the conversation. He was thinking about a girl, a girl two years older than himself. Noga Harish. Noga is like me only different. She's much, much more. More what. Feminine. No. Wild. No. There's a nice word. Heady.

About Noga, yes. I like her smell. Hasia has it, too, but too strong. Exaggerated.

Isn't it good in the rain. The rain washes the earth, and the earth drinks the rain. There's a nice word, "sodden." The earth is sodden. Noga hasn't got varicose veins. When she bites her lower lip, she looks like a wolf. The wolf is a frightening animal because he is thought of as a cruel beast of prey. When it rains, the wolf runs and hides in his cave. The wolf's cave is closed and secret and warm and dark. The air then is full of strong smells. The wolf curls up and goes to sleep and isn't afraid of anything, because the wolf is a frightening animal not a frightened animal. Wolves live in lairs in the forest. The word "lair" is one of the nicest things about wolves. Under the rocks high up in the thick dense forests, those forests with the beautiful, bittersweet name "virgin forests," where no man's foot has ever trodden. Only wolves' feet and foxes' and other silent animals'. Not feet, paws. The wolf has thick gray or brown fur. Now, when it's cold and rainy, the wolves huddle together to keep warm. And the wind howls in the woods. Pine tree howls to pine tree in the wind in the dark in the wet. Noga's mother Eva is like the she-wolves. Among the pine trees. The water pours down in torrents, streams even into the lair, and what will the she-wolf do then? Where will she go?

Then the thunder. Roaring thunder. Everything trembled. I trembled. Noga trembled there. Hasia. Eva. Everything. Then something very soft. Something lean and supple. Like fur. Like a she-wolf. Like a lair in the rain flooded with quick strong little spurts, streaming through every crack. All in pitch blackness. Soft and light and floating.

When Gerda Zohar served the third round of tea, Ido, too, accepted a glass. He even volunteered to go next door to borrow a blanket for the guest. Izia Gurevitch-Gilead inquired what he was studying at school. Ido explained fully and clearly. Izia jokingly said that up to five minutes before he had thought the boy was dumb. Of course, he had only thought it as a joke. Gerda said that boys of his age were liable to sudden changes of mood without any apparent reason. Izia said that a boy who was taught by Reuven Harish was bound to be sensitive. Mundek challenged the generalization but agreed in the present instance. Gerda served savory biscuits. The guest said that it sounded like the flood outside. Mundek said that by the sound of it the rain intended to go on for ever. Gerda said that ever since she was a small child the sound of rain on the windowpanes had made her feel sad. Mundek said that the summer crops would benefit but that the orchards would suffer. At half past ten they went to bed, not before sipping a fourth round of real Russian tea.

The next day, Saturday, the second of May, the sun shone brightly in a clear blue sky. Even the mountains seemed less forbidding. The Zohars took their guest for a walk round about the kibbutz, because a wonderful spring day like this is only ever seen after rain, and also because it is good for us to foster a spiritual link with animals and plants.

10. BLESSED ROUTINE

A few days ago, in the early afternoon, we stood at the top of a pretty little hill and looked at the distant view of Kibbutz Metsudat Ram. We were impressed by its strictly symmetrical plan; we observed the contrast between the smiling valley and the glowering mountain range; we made a rapid tour of the kibbutz grounds and heard a brief description from Reuven Harish of the principles of life adopted by him and his fellow members.

A few days have passed. May Day has gone by, with its unexpected rainstorm, and the festival of Shavuoth is approaching. We have recorded various events, here and there, but the events are non-events. Unwillingly, we must admit that nothing has happened. We have met some of the members of the kibbutz, we have looked at a pretty girl, and we have been informed by gossip of a curious lovers' tiff. Here and there the names of the Berger brothers have cropped up, Nehemiah Berger of Jerusalem and Zechariah-Siegfried in Germany. We have made the acquaintance of the fundamental tenets of kibbutz ideology and have not refrained from hinting at a few deviations from them; we are writing about human beings, after all. Even Ido Zohar's unhappiness is not beyond our comprehension. As the kibbutz truck driver puts it, people are flesh and blood, not myrrh and frankincense.

The festival of Shavuoth is not far off now, and getting closer day by day. The dancers meet every evening for a long and thorough rehearsal and practice seriously for their performance at the festival. Noga Harish is the star attraction of the dance of the seven kinds of fruit. She is a slender, enchanting vine. Her hands tremble gracefully to represent the little vine shoots. Her fingers are twining tendrils. Her body is a bunch of ripening grapes. The reader must excuse us: we, too, after all, are flesh and blood, not myrrh and frankincense.

After rehearsals, Noga slips away to her secret assignation in the wood by the swimming pool. Dafna Isarov, her plump roommate, observes her jealously. Noga thinks that Dafna is asleep when she gets back, but Dafna, lying with the sheet pulled up over her head, is tense and alert in every pore.

Rami Rimon has still not managed to win her over. The girl shrinks from becoming a woman. Rami wonders what he has done wrong and can find no answer. He supposes that he must press harder than he has pressed so far. It is well known that women admire strength. "The more you beat them, the better they be," the proverb says. He curses his weakness. He certainly won't get anywhere by talking Talking is tricky. She can outtalk him any day. Even his mother can outtalk him. He has still not managed to convince her to give her written consent to his service with the paratroopers. Tricky subject. I'm not a baby, and what happened to Yoash wasn't my fault. Why does my whole life have to be determined by what happened to him? My life is my life. Mother and Noga are in some sort of league against me. I'm sure they get together behind my back and talk, perhaps even laugh. Still, he laughs longest who laughs last. That's what the proverb says.

Fruma Rominov and Noga Harish do not get together behind Rami's back, but there is no denying that there is something between them. We would never have thought Fruma capable of displaying such affection. The widow has a soft spot for Noga Harish. Once they happened to sit at the same table in the dining hall, and Fruma smiled at Noga and even said to her:

"You can eat as many potatoes as you like. You've got nothing to be afraid of. In fact, you could do with putting on a bit of weight. You'd be even better looking than you are."

And one day Fruma went to Noga's and Dafna's room while they were out and left a dish of homemade cookies on Noga's bed. She hasn't got a mother, after all, so there's no one to give her an occasional treat.

Fruma's cookies are justly celebrated. Not a hint of her bitterness can be tasted in them. It was Dafna Isarov who ate most of them, but it's the thought that counts. There's no doubt at all about Fruma Rominov's thoughts. Israel Tsitron told Hasia Ramigolski about a quarrel he overheard one night when he was on duty, and Hasia did not refrain from passing the good news on to Fruma.

Every Wednesday evening the music circle meets in Herbert Segal's room. A subdued atmosphere of culture dominates these meetings. Segal's room is lined with crowded bookshelves: philosophical works and economics books in German and Hebrew, and even in French, albums of reproductions of works of art, various periodicals, and, of course, treatises on animal husbandry and dairy farming. There is also an upholstered rocking chair and an automatic record player. The latter is the property of the cultural committee of the kibbutz, but its home has been in Segal's room ever since the stormy departure of his predecessor as convenor of the group.

The room is full of smoke. Members are seated on the chairs, on the solitary bed, on the Oriental poufs, and on the plaited straw mat.

Segal opens the evening with a few well-chosen words: the composer's historical background, the themes, the structure of the work, the interpretation in the present performance.

Briskly, the record is deposited on the disk of gray felt, the needle lands gracefully at the beginning of the groove, the first solemn notes ring out. A feeling of fellowship descends on the gathering. Some of the women have their embroidery in their laps, but their work does not distract them from the music; on the contrary, it helps them to relax and succumb to the gentle ripples of sound. Some of the men beat time with their feet. Their concentration prevents them from noticing Herbert Segal's disapproving looks: rhythm is the fundamental element in creation. By beating time they show that their experience of the music is more basic. There are different layers in music, one inside the other. Some people can reach only the outermost layer. Curiously enough, it is these whose faces quickly take on a rapt, ecstatic expression. Herbert himself sits with his head drawn into his narrow shoulders, his back rounded, his mouth open, his hands to his temples, completely surrendering to the music. He is somewhere else.

The older members, who were born in Germany or in Russia, can see the far-off streets of their childhood, lashed by dark rain, perhaps, or shrouded in gloomy fog. Even the younger people, who were born here, feel a sad longing for far-off places, unknown, unnamed places that are far, far away and full of sadness. Silent sorrow settles on every face. They are human beings, tillers of the soil. They are weary. Their eyes are closed. Sorrow clasps their hearts. And our own love, which we have condemned to cold oblivion.

In the interval between two works Nina Goldring and Bronka Berger serve tea. Herbert Segal, as a bachelor, is not expected to act as host. In any case, he is busy at the moment, blowing a speck of dust off a gleaming record.

Three or four times a week Reuven Harish has to present himself in the square in front of the dining hall to receive tours. He greets them in his usual friendly voice. Explains briefly the fundamental principles of the kibbutz ideology. Points out the symbolic contrast between the valley and the mountains.

These last days Reuven has been suffering from dull pains in his chest. They come only once or twice a day, and they may or may not be due to some physical cause. Certainly overwork and tension play their part. He has been unable for some time to put a single idea into verse. He walks as if he were carrying a heavy load. This is apparently why a slight change has come about in his relations with Bronka. One evening he told her he felt tired and sick and left her earlier than usual. Bronka did not try to stop him. It is possible that the weight which has been pressing on him is the cause of this slight change that can be detected in Bronka. Or perhaps it is Bronka who is responsible for his feeling it. Noga has observed all this. Reuven is observant, and he has seen Noga eying him in a strange way, as if she is glad to see him suffer and anxious on his behalf at the same time.

On Saturday evening she sat on the lawn with him and stared at him so pointedly that he could not stop himself asking:

"Why are you staring at me like that? Did you want to say something to me?"

"Pardon?"

"I said did you want to tell me something?"

"Not at all, Daddy. I thought you had said something."

"No, I didn't say anything," Reuven replied, surprised.

"Strange," said Noga, without explaining the remark, and without explaining what she thought was strange.

In the evening everybody, young and old, crowds into the dining hall, dressed in light evening clothes. Einav, clearly pregnant, makes no effort to conceal her lameness. Tomer, her husband, lavishes signs of affection on her. Black hairs protrude from his ears, as from his father's. His tanned skin has the tone of dull copper.

At night the enemy soldiers fire nervously into the darkness. From time to time they light up the valley with colored flares. Even in the daytime they do not leave us alone. In the next sector, to the north of us, a man was shot and wounded in the shoulder while working in the orchard in broad daylight. We, too, have had an incident. One evening a stray shot was fired at Grisha Isarov as he was spreading the nets in one of the fish ponds by the border. The incident was not entirely unprovoked. Grisha Isarov had cultivated a strange habit of bawling Arabic curses in the direction of the enemy positions. Hardly an intelligent action. Grisha is not a child. We hope that in future he will restrain his marked love of adventure.

If Grisha, who is not a child, behaves so irresponsibly, is it any wonder that Gai Harish, who is a child, has introduced a distasteful game among his friends? They play at wars. All afternoon the kibbutz paths re-echo with their noisy games. Armed with stout sticks, they wreak havoc and carnage on the enemies of Israel under the orders of their young commander. Needless to say, many of us are critical of this innovation and are furious at the teachers who do not put a stop to it. Reuven does not know what to do. He does not believe in threats. He advocates patience. Grown-ups, he has a habit of saying, do not have a monopoly of making mistakes. In the course of these days, Reuven handed Bronka a photograph of his two children, for Bronka to send to her brother-in-law in Munich.

In fairness to little Gai it must be admitted that he and his friends do nothing more than make a great deal of noise. The case of Oren Geva (who refuses to be called Oren Berger) is much sadder. He and his gang of hooligans are always up to mischief. They appropriate property and damage it, wreck Herzl Goldring's meticulously kept flower beds and answer his protests with coarse sneers, break into the larders and make off with sweetmeats intended for the little children, start up tractors and roam with impunity all over the valley, throw vulgar looks at the girls of their own age, and even at older women, and bully their juniors. If you go out in the evening to take your clothes to the laundry, there they are holding a council round a small bonfire from which there wafts a smell of roasting flesh. If you come back around midnight from a film show in the dining hall, you can hear whispered conversations and unpleasant laughter in the bushes. In the middle of the afternoon you look up at the tall water tower and see a strangled cat hanging from the topmost railing by a length of truck driver's rope. The case of Oren and his gang has already been discussed in various committees. According to Herbert Segal, an ill wind is blowing from the towns and corrupting our youth. According to Bronka Berger, the roots of the trouble are psychological. Dirty books protrude from their pockets. They smell of stolen cigarettes. Around this time an extremely serious incident roused the kibbutz to an angry ferment. One morning Herzl discovered an empty land mine with Syrian markings in the shrubbery. It was supposed that Oren's gang had been out on a nocturnal foraging expedition in no man's land. It was a miracle that no disaster had ensued.

Bronka suffered agonies of shame and sorrow. Ezra Berger said nothing. When questioned, he shrugged his shoulders and smiled drily. Pressed to answer, he said:

"I'll punish the whole brood of vipers, including my own beloved younger son, as the saying goes."

Urged on to act, he remarked:

"Give him time. Some lame girl will get hold of him and turn him into a lamp stand. Time wounds all heels, as the wise man said."

There are thus a number of things that are not running quite smoothly. But if we overlook the exceptions and consider the general picture, we will see that our lives flow smoothly on in their orderly routine way toward the approaching festival of Shavuoth. In the morning the members go off to work as usual. At midday they return to the dining hall, which welcomes them with jugs of chilled lemonade. After a brief rest everyone goes out to the fields again to finish the day's work.

The working day ends at five o'clock. From every house comes the splash of shower water, mingled with sounds of singing. The smell of coffee wafts from the verandas, shaded with shrubs and climbing plants. The lawns are suddenly dotted with deck chairs and groups of people, lazily leafing through the morning paper or snatching forty winks. Some cultivate their gardens, watering, hoeing, weeding, and pruning. Others indulge in their favorite hobby or pastime — stamp collecting, coin collecting, photography, tennis, pet cats or dogs, an aquarium. Some do it alone; others include all the members of their families.

Herbert Segal, for example, walks up and down the concrete path with Reuven Harish. If you must know, they are discussing the latest trends in Israeli literature. Herbert is of the opinion that the young writers are blind. They are living at the height of a national, social, eschatological revolution that is unprecedented in history, and what do they see? Nothing. Storms in teacups. They have no positive message to offer, or even a negative one, for that matter. Reuven thinks he can explain this phenomenon.

"Very well then," says Herbert, "let's hear your explanation."

"It's a matter of optics. They are the pupil of the eye. And the pupil of the eye, biologists say, is blind."

Even everyday matters take on a new light at this time of day.

Isaac Friedrich, the treasurer, is sitting on a bench under a tree with Tsvi Ramigolski, the secretary. They are deep in complicated calculations. If you eavesdrop, you can catch references to compound interest, credit, contracts, guarantees. But both men look completely relaxed. Not because the financial problems do not affect them personally, but because they, too, are touched by the calm of the time and the place.

Later, somebody brings two or three copies of the evening paper. The livelier members get together to look at the headlines over each other's shoulders. The papers soon disintegrate, the pages passing peacefully from hand to hand. If an occasional discussion blows up, it never develops into a heated argument, because fundamentally we all share the same outlook on the world.

The heat gradually evaporates. The quavering notes of Herbert Segal's violin are answered by Herzl Goldring's accordion.

On the basketball court loud shouts break out. The Metsudat Ram team, top of the kibbutz teams in the valley, is playing a practice match. A small band of spectators huddles round the court. Each successful move is greeted by a burst of cheering. In between cheers the only sound is the silken padding of rubber soles on the concrete. Tomer Geva makes a slight movement with his hips. The opponent who has been set to mark him is taken in by the feint and misses Tomer's actual movement. A totally silent pass. Suddenly the ball is in Rami Rimon's hands. Rami does not hesitate for a split second. He sends the ball straight back to Tomer, who in the meantime has zigzagged like a snake through the defenders' lines. Tomer glances left to mislead his opponents, twists to the right, and, with a spectacular leap, puts the ball through the hoop. A grimace, which is not a smile, plays over his face and vanishes. His mouth is wide open. His face is streaming with sweat. Without a word, with a sharp wave of the arm, he collects his men and places them in readiness for the enemy attack. His team responds like musicians obeying the gentle wave of the conductor's baton. It is not words that count here. We are compelled to admit it. Not words. Here it is muscles and lungs and deadly cunning that win the day. Gleaming bodies weaving a narrow passage. Quick wits and powerful vitality. Razor-sharp reaction. That is what counts here. Perfect control of every sinew and fiber. We are not fond of this place. We are lovers of words. Our responses are too slow.

Sometimes in the evening thick clouds of dust billow among the houses and settle broodingly in the trees. But the breezes soon tire of their quarreling. A light westerly wind caresses our brows and fills us with longing.

After the game Rami picks up his shirt, wipes the sweat off his body with it, and goes to Fruma's room. At this time even Fruma is not her usual sullen self. She is sitting on her veranda, wearing a flowered apron, pressing grapes into a jug. Rami stays with her for a quarter of an hour or so. Nibbles her cookies. Quenches his thirst with grape juice. Helps his mother to hoe and weed her garden. Fruma struggles to put his impending departure out of her mind. Occasionally she sighs. Rami hears her and grimaces.

Opposite, on the other side of the lawn, the Harish family are relaxing. The father is leafing through a book. The daughter is deep in her pretty embroidery. Even Gai, the prodigal son, has returned to the bosom of his family for a few moments. If it were not for the curious tin helmet on his head, we would find no fault with him.

On the dust path Bronka Berger and her daughter-in-law, Einav Geva, are taking a stroll together. They are deep in women's talk, about things a pregnant woman mustn't do, how to tell the sex of the child, good and bad things to eat. Bronka wants a granddaughter, Einav wants a son. So they disagree about the signs. Mutual affection shows on their faces. Their stroll, like everything around us at the moment, is calm and peaceful. Oh, how good it would be if we could make time stand still, if we could finish our story at this point with a shrug of the shoulders: and they all lived happily ever after. Anyone who looks forward to complicated happenings betrays his own perverse inclinations. But time flows heedlessly on, on its unseen course. The sun is about to set. Points of light appear on the mountain heights opposite, beyond the border. The men and women of the kibbutz patiently fold up their deck chairs and get ready for the communal supper. Herzl Goldring asks Nina if it is seven o'clock yet. Nina says it is. Herzl says he has to go and turn off a sprinkler behind the armory before supper. Nina asks him not to be too long. He promises, and keeps his word.

One Friday night, after the festive meal, which had opened with the lighting of Sabbath candles and the hooting of owls, Rami Rimon slips out and makes his way alone to the water tower. Quickly he climbs it. He moves up rung by rung till he reaches the top of the tower, squeezes his body against the iron railing and over onto the observation platform. Even an unromantic youth may well feel sad and seek a moment's solitude. From his lofty lookout post a strange, hazy scene meets his eyes. The sky has turned a dark gray. Beyond the gray screen the dying sun writhes convulsively in a mist of purple, yellow, violet, and gold.

In the enemy positions there is some movement to be discerned. For three or four days now they have been massing their forces. Rami screws up his eyes, the left eye especially, to see better. Military vehicles with six double wheels crawl around, surrounded by dim human forms. Yoash used to say: "Those people understand only one language, the language of violence. They interpret restraint as cowardice. And they're right. Our old men can't understand that, because they're still Europeans even here in Asia, and because of the time-honored Jewish love of peace. But one day their pressure will make life here unbearable for us, and we'll get permission to smash the Arabs, and after that the map of Israel won't look like a bent sausage any more." I was only a small child then. I didn't understand what he meant. In those days I was impressed by external signs, by Yoash's uniform, his green battle dress with its camouflage markings, his red beret, the badges. But now I understand what it's all about. Father always used to say: "Israel must be the opposite of the ghetto. If we're going to live in a ghetto here, we might as well have stayed in Europe. At least there we didn't have the hamsin." Father was such a little man, a little Jew, pale and sick and always humming Hasidic tunes, but deep down he wasn't a Jew, he was a man. That's why Yoash and I grew up to be men. If I'm killed. Mother will become a martyr. They'll all walk round her on tiptoe. And Noga will know. She'll curse herself for laughing at me. And for what she didn't give me before I was killed.

Rami curls his lips. There is no one here now to make fun of his horse's face. Even if there had been anyone here, he would not have dared make fun of him now that he is so upset. He thinks about the tough life in the army, which shows up the true man among the flock of spoiled chatterboxes. His chest fills. His future feats and exploits throw his mind in a whirl. You'll see. I'll show you. Yoash. Everyone. The lot of you.

He hears the sound of singing, long-drawn-out and poignant. Our kibbutz is welcoming the Sabbath with the slow, solemn melodies of the traditional table songs. The distance blurs the tunes and imbues them with a mournful, incantatory tone: Come, beloved, to greet the Sabbath. Sabbath descends on the Vale of Ginosar. Rami does not think about the words of the songs, but weaves from their threads a tissue of dreams.

He thinks about women. He has read somewhere recently that a woman's heart is a riddle that no man can solve. Women really do live in a different world. A more colorful world. Even when they are with you, they are not really with you. But the fault is yours. You let her fix the rules of the game. There is an expression "to conquer a woman." Like an enemy stronghold. Like fortifications. If you are like a woman, no woman will ever surrender to you.

Rami tosses his head. He hears a light throbbing in his temples. His sadness gives way to a firm determination. An end to all that. Once and for all.

Full of resolution he climbs down from the tower and turns his steps toward Noga's room.

No more beating about the bush. Straightforwardly. Simply and straightforwardly.

11. FORCE

That evening Rami Rimon tried to beat a new path to his friend's heart, a simple, straightforward path. Heedless of mischievous tongues, he went into Noga's room. Dafna Isarov could not restrain a soft exclamation of surprise.

Noga is in, lying on her stomach, her tiny chin propped up between her elbows, her body smelling sweetly after her Sabbath shower, her beautiful hair still damp and heavy. She is engrossed in a volume of poetry by a young poetess.

Rami made a sign to the plump Dafna: Would she mind excusing them? Dafna blushed fiery red, as if caught in the act, and fled from the room, without a backward glance. Rami crossed the room. Sat on the edge of Noga's bed. Put his hand on her shoulder.

"Put the book away."

Noga inquired if that was an order.

"Maybe. I want to talk to you."

"I thought you were going to attack me."

"I want to talk to you."

Gently, lazily, the girl changed her position. She had been lying on her stomach. Now she turned on her side. She cast a lively green glance at Rami.

"I'm listening."

"I've been thinking, and now I've decided. That's what I wanted to say."

"Is that all?"

"I've decided I don't want to join the paratroopers. Ill go into the infantry. Not like my brother. I'll start the hard way. In an obscure fighting unit. Wherever they send me."

"Why? Don't you…"

"I don't care," Rami interrupted, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down rapidly. "I want to do it the hard way. But you'll see, both of you. First the infantry. Then IU do a course and be a section commander. Then an officer. And then IU come back here."

"To be near me?"

"To fight here."

"Child."

Rami grabbed Noga's ribs and squeezed them till she cried out in pain. Outside the door a stifled sound was heard. Evidently Dafna, listening at the door, had broken down and was struggling with her laughter. Rami swore loudly, and the eavesdropper fled. Now he pressed his broad hands against Noga's breasts until she let out a soft groan.

"What's the matter with you, maniac."

"I've told you. I've come to a decision."

"Maniac you're a maniac leave me alone maniac, it hurts, you don't know anything you're a maniac."

There is a cruel expression on the boy's face. His eyes are protruding, his features distorted. Noga finds him repulsive. He's ugly. Why have I never noticed before how ugly he is?

Suddenly she stopped moving, relaxed all her muscles and said icily:

"Leave me alone, please. Now go. Go away."

The boy froze instantly, searched her face with a glazed, unrecognizing look, and once more clung to her with his tense body. It was not desire that drove him mad. It was humiliation. A sudden sob burst from Noga's throat. She had to struggle to control her groaning body, which threatened to betray her. Rami was panting. Let us look more closely at his eyes. Believe it or not, they are full of tears.

It was Ezra Berger who intervened at the critical moment to rescue the girl from the unbecoming struggle. While the pair were wrestling, they suddenly heard footsteps coming toward the door and then a loud knocking. Rami retreated, scarlet-faced, to Dafna Isarov's bed. Noga, meanwhile, adjusted her dressing gown, rolled onto her stomach and said, "Come in."

What is Ezra Berger doing in Turquoise's room after dinner on a Friday night? Ezra Berger is bringing Noga a packet of embroidery thread. These last weeks the girl has made frequent calls on the driver's good nature and exploited him to do her shopping for her. At first she used to reimburse him out of her meager savings. More recently he has been paying out of his own pocket. In return, Turquoise has made him a little bag to carry his sandwiches in, with the figure of a bear embroidered on it. In the early afternoon, between Ezra's first and second trip of the day, she goes to the motor shed to chat with him for a quarter of an hour. They have already snatched a number of such conversations. Not, of course, about serious topics, still less, needless to say, about the painful affair that affects them both, but just lighthearted banter. Ezra, in his usual bluff, friendly way, answers his little friend with proverbs and metaphors, while Noga answers him childishly, as she always does when she talks to people who are much older than she is. That is not to say that she is trying to captivate the man. Not at all. That is simply the way she always talks to people who are much older than she is. There is nothing wrong with these meetings, we must insist, except for one detail of which we do not approve, namely the driver's habit of putting his hand on Turquoise's head and stroking her hair in a paternal sort of way, and even tickling her neck a little. Noga is not a child any more. Is it possible that Ezra Berger has chosen to overlook the fact?

"Good Sabbath to you, young lady. See what I have for you." Ezra comes in and holds the packet out clumsily toward her. Noga smiles and holds out both her hands. Ezra catches sight of Rami lying curled up with his sullen face turned to the wall.

"Ha, my little warrior — you here, young Rominov? Have you been sent home from the army? What? Not called up yet? Capital! Meanwhile, you're keeping watch over your sweetheart's bed, eh? Like Solomon's bed, surrounded with sixty warriors."

"Good Sabbath, Ezra," replied Rami, curtly.

"Why aren't you with your mother? It's not nice to leave her all alone on Friday night. You can court young ladies any night. But if you'll take an old man's advice, you won't court them at all. Wait for them to come to you. 'A woman shall compass a man'—that's what the Prophet says. And he wasn't a prophet for nothing. By the way, why do you suppose there were 'threescore valiant men' round King Solomon's bed? Wouldn't two or three have been enough? The answer is in the text: 'threescore valiant men, of the valiant of Israel.' That's why he needed sixty of them. You see, the Bible isn't meant to be declaimed aloud. You have to read it carefully and think about it. Then you can hear a kind of undertone of, what shall we call it, of faint self-mockery. What do you say to that?"

Rami shrugs his shoulders. The old bear has chosen a fine time to pester us with his nonsense. Why doesn't he go away? Nothing ever goes according to plan. To hell with him.

"Well, Rominov, when are you off to make your name as a hero?"

"I'm going to the army in ten days," said Rami, with another shrug.

"And you're leaving behind a broken heart, eh? Have you ever heard the old Jewish story of 'find or found'? No? Then I'll tell you. In the old days they used to ask a bridegroom the morning after the wedding night one simple question: 'Find or found?' If he said 'found,' it was good. If he said 'find,' it was bad. Very bad. Why? Both words refer to Biblical sayings. One is 'He who has found a wife has found a good thing.' The other is 'I find the woman more bitter than death.' Witty, eh? They were wise old men, our ancestors. Every word implied ten more. You mustn't be angry with me, Rominov, because you're a bright lad, and you realize that I'm saying ten words so as not to have to say one. That's the way of jokers, Rominov, and jokers aren't happy people. Sometimes they say unpleasant things. It's not easy for them to control themselves, but they have to control themselves, because if they don't, how can you tell the difference between them and plain bad men? Why do I stay here boring you? As the wise man says, The best thing I have found for a body is silence.' But what the wise man forgot to add is that not everything which is good for the body is good for a man. Good night. Forgive me, Rominov. You've already forgiven me. You're a good lad."

"Good night," Rami answered, sullenly. But Noga cunningly frustrated his plans by saying suddenly, with a flattering smile:

"Don't go yet, Ezra. Stay with us for a bit. You're talking so nicely this evening."

And Ezra Berger?

You can never predict human behavior. We should have expected Ezra to stop talking and go. But Ezra didn't stop talking, and he didn't go. He gave Noga a long, amused look. Then he sat down carefully on the only chair, between the two beds, turned his rough face toward Rami, and rolled his eyes, like a clown.

Rami lit a cigarette and impatiently blew out a thick puff of smoke. By the light of the match we can observe something we have never noticed before: Rami Rimon has a slight mustache. Not much of one, it is true, hardly more than a pale, fuzzy shadow on his upper lip, but nevertheless.

Ezra, too, pulls out a cigarette and lights it with a gilt lighter. He closes one eye and opens the other wide, star ing fixedly at the gold ring on his little finger. Then he raises his eyes and looks the boy over carefully, from head to foot and then back again, from his feet to his head.

"Golden head. What a pity, Rominov, that you're being snatched away from us to take the king's shilling, as they used to say."

Rami says nothing. He shoots the older man a fierce look of unveiled hatred.

For a moment Ezra flinches as though struck across the face. But instantly he readopts an expression of amused sympathy.

"You have no choice, young Rominov. You must dress up in uniform and go leaping on the mountains, skipping on the hills. But sometimes, my boy, sometimes, on Sabbaths…" Ezra closes his eyes and makes a juicy sucking sound with his lips."…on Sabbaths my beloved will have a short leave, and then… then my beloved will come to his garden and eat its choice fruits."

And Turquoise? Turquoise laughs out loud in sweet ripples of sound, her green checkered dressing gown, too large for her, buttoned carelessly over her body, vaguely suggesting the curves of her figure, slipping up above her knees. She does not avert her green-flashing gaze from the boy.

"That's enough, Ezra. Stop it, for Heaven's sake. Let him be. Look, he's gone all red. Why do you tease him? He's smaller than you are."

There is a flirtatious lilt in her voice as she speaks. She is urged on by cruelty, but even her cruelty is — if we may be forgiven for saying so — so faint and gentle that our heart goes out to her. Besides, she has spoken the truth. Rami Rimon is indeed blushing. He looks down at the floor to hide the extraordinarily horselike curl of his lips. Is it any wonder that Noga redoubles her laughter, and in a shabby gesture hurls the packet of embroidery thread at him?

"Head up, Rami, don't hide, fight back. I want to see you fight."

This remark fills Ezra with a dejection that accords ill with his words. He lays his hand on Noga's bare knee, then withdraws it, and puts a finger to his eye as if he has got something in it. Turning to Rami, he says, in a changed voice:

"You see what I mean, my boy. Let's play a new game now. Let's play at being brothers."

Rami gives a look like a beaten horse, gets up, leans toward Noga and hisses.

"Snake. Just like your mother. Poisonous little snake."

On his way out he almost collides with Dafna, who has crept back to spy on the room from behind the door. In his fury he slaps her face. Her tears bring him back to his senses. His eyes, too, redden.

Meanwhile, inside the room, nothing has happened. Ezra is still sitting silently on the only chair; all he has done is to drop his cigarette end and stamp on it, covering his eyes with his hand. He drags his words out slowly:

"Don't worry. He'll be back. He'll behave himself now. You have to deal firmly with them sometimes. A man must remember where he comes from and where he's going, as the saying goes."

As he talks, he strokes his young friend's hair with his fingertips and sinks back into his silent ponderings. If she hates me now, she'll be his, and it'll be better for both of them. If she doesn't hate me, it's a sign that really. That I must. That it's fated. Everything is written, for men and beasts alike. And it is written: "One who is alone when he falls has not another to help him up." And in the same book: "Their love and their hatred and their envy are now perished." I wanted to know. I wanted to force a decision. Now.

"Now I'm off, too, Turquoise."

"Stay."

"No, I won't stay. You need to be alone now."

"You're not nice, Ezra. You're not…"

"Of course I'm not nice. Good night, Turquoise. I'm not nice, but…"

"But what?"

"Nothing, Turquoise. Good night."

Rami did not go back to Noga's room that night, or the next day, or during the days that followed. Three days before the festival he took his leave of his widowed mother and set out to make his name as a hero. Oh, how painful were those last hours for Fruma Rominov! She tried with all her strength not to break down and cry, but her strength was hardly up to the effort. She put all her loving care into her son's kit bag, as if it was the kit bag that was going off to face danger. In her devotion to her only remaining son she ironed his underwear, his handkerchiefs, and even his socks, a completely unnecessary action. She packed a tin of home-made cookies in the bottom of the bag, and a brand-new toilet set. She embroidered flowers on the toilet bag with her own hands. Even though she abhorred tobacco, she put in ten packets of special cigarettes that she had recently asked Isaac Friedrich, the treasurer, to buy for her, not the usual cigarettes that the kibbutz provides for its members. She did not overlook the slightest detail: bootlaces, bandages, plasters, three sorts of pills, talcum powder, the last photograph of Alter Rominov and the last photograph of Yoash Rimon, resplendent in officer's uniform, and even a picture of herself as a young woman. She also put in some writing paper, envelopes, and stamps. When she had packed everything, she unpacked it all and ironed the bag itself.

Rami did not repay his mother's affection in kind. His movements were cold and curt. He turned the kit bag upside down, poured out the contents, and extracted whatever was superfluous. He was particularly scornful about the stamps: every child knew that armed forces' mail didn't need stamps. To his credit it must be admitted that, after tearful pleas and sighs, he consented, though with a bad grace, to take the cookies with him. On the other hand, he refused even to bargain about a bag of grapes. They would be bound to get squashed and make everything else in the bag dirty. And, anyway, he'd be ashamed to turn up at an army camp all laden with goodies like a child going to kindergarten. The only thing lacking was for his mother to wet his hair and arrange it in pretty curls. The widow showered her son with advice and warnings. Rami nodded his head and smiled a rude, heedless smile. She embraced him and kissed him on the mouth. The boy did not resist her hugs, but neither did he respond to them with any sign of affection. Fruma tried to persuade him to go and say good-bye to his girl friend, Noga. Why wouldn't he make it up with her before he left? They must have quarreled about something quite trivial. There was no doubt that she wished him well. The boy scowled and cursed. He'd never go and see her, even if she came groveling on all fours. The widow bit her lip.

Finally Rami relented and forced himself to kiss his mother. His kiss broke down all her defenses. She burst into uncontrollable tears. How touching she looks when she cries, like an elderly baby. Her ugly weeping sears us. We feel like forcing Rami to have pity on her and fling himself on her neck. Good-bye, Mother, I'll write to you. Look at my boy, isn't he handsome, look at him, curse you, look how fine he looks, he's a sensitive boy, if you only knew, he loves nature, only he's reserved, but I know that he's a poet at heart, my fine son.

Rami shoulders his kit bag and leaves. On his way to the car he makes a detour to the cow shed. This is where he has been working for the past year, and he has to say good-bye to the other workers. But how silly of me to forget; there's no one here at this time of day. Only the bull stares at Rami Rimon with his bloodshot eyes. Rami puts his hand through the railings and slaps the bull's jaws. The bull responds with a gust of warm, damp breath. You're a great bull, Titan; don't let them slaughter you. Give them a corrida when they come to get you. Olé, olé!

He puts his hand through the bars again and fondles the ring in the bull's nose. The bull answers with a hollow moan. Good-bye, Titan. Rami loves you truly, because Rami has a sensitive heart.

12. THREE PATHS

Rabbi Naphtali Hirsh Berger, the father of the three Berger brothers, was the cantor in a synagogue of peddlers and waggoners on the outskirts of Kovel. He was a little man of almost unnaturally clumsy proportions, with short, stout legs, a pot belly, and no neck to intervene between his strong, bulging shoulders and his huge dark bull head. His expression was one of drowsy gravity. These features are reflected in the face of young Oren Berger. What was surprising to observe was the almost complete absence of eyes: two tiny slits in a dense network of deep wrinkles, but both sparkling an amazing blue. Another surprise was the pure, strong tenor voice that would burst suddenly from the powerful chest through the thick black beard. He would stand for two or three hours on end in the stone-paved square of the suburb, quite motionless except for the rhythmic chewing of his huge jaws on a quid of tobacco and an occasional jet of yellow juice. It was said that no one had ever seen him happy or sad; he was always just the same, going about his business but with his mind apparently on other things. His business was that of cantor and to some extent that of synagogue treasurer. He performed his tasks without enthusiasm, but without carelessness. His thoughts may have wandered or they may have been concentrated; either way they were always somewhere else, never where he was. There were other men like him in our town; we knew how they earned their livelihood, but we never knew what motivated them, or what they thought about. He always seemed to be daydreaming. Whether or not he actually dreamed, even his three sons, his own flesh and blood, did not know. The Germans came and took him and roasted him in the furnaces of Sobibor. That was long after his wife had died, long after his sons, one by one, had severed their links with their father. His sons all traveled long paths. Sometimes, though, they still recall the tiny blue sparks lost in the rugged contours of his face.

At times, when the roaring crowd acclaims the impressive agility of Tomer Geva on the basketball court in Metsudat Ram, or when we watch Oren wrestling with one of the boys, subduing him with icy rage, then we, too, think thoughts that we conceal in our breast and do not try to share with any stranger.

The first to break away was the eldest brother, Nehemiah. There was a boss-eyed rabbinical student in Kovel, who was something of a politician, something of a womanizer, and something of a philosopher. He it was who persuaded Nehemiah to escape from his father's house to Lvov and to make his way on to the university there.

Ezra was swept away, like so many young men and women, by the youth movement. He and his friend Aaron Ramigolski went up to Palestine together, to become founder-members of our kibbutz. The rest is well known.

Zechariah was banished because of the dogs.

It happened during Passover week, when he was still a young boy. Some gypsies came to Kovel and set up their tents on some land just outside our quarter, to the east. Each night from their camp there came the sounds of melancholy singing and loud bursts of coarse laughter. The nomads had dogs. Wild, starved dogs, of a savage disposition but also given to obsequious fawning. Zechariah made their acquaintance and won their favor with tidbits that he threw them. He took an unwholesome pleasure in playing with the dogs and lavishing caresses and other signs of affection on them.

Occasionally he observed them mating. At night he was consumed by an unnatural urge. Zechariah was a solitary boy, and from his earliest days all his actions had displayed an isolated arrogance.

On one occasion his father caught him playing with the dogs. Perhaps one of the local boys, one of his many childhood enemies, had informed on him. A terrible thing happened then: the father beat his son soundly, and the son, sobbing and hardly knowing what he was doing, set his allies the dogs on his father. The nomads' dogs, for all their obsequious fawning, were of a savage disposition. The whole neighborhood was shocked. The cantor's two eldest sons had already broken with their father, and now the youngest, too, was going to the bad.

Zechariah left his father's house under a curse, and became a bitter man. At first he went to Rovno, where he worked for a Polish farmer, but after a month the peasant dismissed him in a panic. His bearing had called to the man's mind an incident that had happened some years before, when a young Polish lad had taken to firing haystacks from political motives. Zechariah's eyes at times emitted grim flashes.

From Rovno he went on to Warsaw and took a job as a printer's apprentice with a well-known Jewish newspaper. At that time he had a non-Jewish girl friend, a pretty, hysterical girl who lived with him. Then the Germans came and imprisoned him in the ghetto. He escaped and traveled widely: he went to Russia; he may have gone to Sweden; he spent some time after the end of the war in a displaced persons' camp in Italy; from Italy he traveled with a widow to Atlit, and from Atlit to another camp in Cyprus. He returned to Atlit again in 1949, and from there he went, without the woman, to Ramla and then on to Jaffa. In Jaffa he found a partner and went into business for a year. After that he took his leave of his brothers and returned to Europe, to say a prayer in Kovel. He never reached Kovel. He made a detour to Germany, made various representations, and secured some reparation money. In Munich he met Isaac Hamburger, and established a flourishing partnership with him.

As for Nehemiah, he had a bitter struggle. He finished his course at the University of Lvov in abject poverty, taught general history in the Jewish gymnasium, emigrated to Palestine a few weeks before the outbreak of war, and came to Kibbutz Metsudat Ram. Ezra and Bronka did everything they could for him, but the physical work defeated him. He suffered the same fate, he often says, as Yehezkel Hefetz and Yitzhak Kumer in the stories by Brenner and Agnon. It was only to be expected, he adds with a faint smile, since the whole pattern of his life exactly matches that of the unfortunate heroes of the Hebrew novels of the last generation.

Ezra Berger, then, is unique among his brothers. Ezra Berger married and had children, and helped to establish Kibbutz Metsudat Ram. His life is not doomed to sterility. There is a moral in this: men are not condemned inevitably to an accursed, tedious life of sterility. With an effort of will a man can avert the curse and hew out a path of his own.

13. BLINDNESS

Finally, after a hard struggle, Reuven Harish's poem:

Chilly night with arms of metal

Settles slowly on our groves:

Black and scowling in the fields,

Menacing, the night wind roves.

Brief indeed is night's dominion:

Glaring searchlights pierce the gloom,

Criss-crossing on barbed-wire fences,

Scattering the birds of doom.

Sleep holds our beleaguered village,

But the watchmen never sleep;

Vigilant, they clasp their weapons,

While around the jackals weep.

Though the barren mountain threatens

To engulf us with its might,

Yet we have a strong protection

In our adamantine light.

Reuven had to go to Tel Aviv, to see the director of the publishing house of the movement and discuss with him the details of a new volume of his poems. He left the kibbutz early in the morning. By half past nine he was in Tel Aviv and by ten o'clock he had concluded his business, since the head of the publishing house was an old friend. They quickly reached complete agreement about the details of the publication, shook hands on the deal, and had a friendly chat over a glass of iced grapefruit juice. At a quarter past ten Reuven wondered whether to go to Jerusalem to look up some friends of his there. But at the central bus station a curious incident unsettled his plans. Things never turn out quite as one expects.

The bus station was thronging with noise and bustle. The hawkers raised their loud voices in competition with each other, having no care in the world beyond moneymaking.

Reuven walks slowly along the narrow streets around the bus station, now looking down at the pavement, now taking in the noisy street scene. His time is his own, and he enjoys his pensive stroll. He is detached from the nervous bustle all around him, untouched by the feverish activity. His clear forehead wears a lively look. His green glance roves from the brightly colored stalls to the faces of the passers-by, to the cars rumbling heavily through the narrow streets. His gait is calm and measured.

Reuven is wearing a neatly ironed white shirt over his blue trousers. His black leather brief case weighs next to nothing, containing as it does a few pages of poetry, a newspaper, and two sandwiches wrapped in brown paper. His face is gaunt, his forehead high, his eyes full of lively curiosity. Now and then he pauses to glance at a stall covered with colorful erotic magazines, or at a peddler carrying a tray of crude, cheap knickknacks. Sometimes his eyes linger on a well-built woman tripping along on high heels. Everyone dies eventually, as the crazy Dutchman said.

"He's right," Reuven suddenly says, so loudly that a nearby shoeblack looks up and asks:

"What?"

"No, it's all right," Reuven answers absently. "Thank you very much." At once his glance rests on a little boy in tears. A boy of five or six, standing between the fresh-fruit-juice stands and sobbing like an orphan. Nobody is taking any notice of him. Reuven hurries across the road. There is nothing more distressing than a lost child.

"What's the matter, sonny?"

The child doesn't answer but bawls even louder.

"What's your name?"

The boy opens his red eyes for a moment, then closes them again, and lets out a sound like the shrill wail of a beaten dog.

"Don't be frightened, there's a good boy. Have you lost your mummy? Your daddy? Tell me. I want to help you. Don't be frightened."

Reuven overcomes a feeling of repulsion for a moment and stretches out his hand to stroke the boy's head. The child, baring his teeth like a little wolf cub, kicks him in the shin and turns to run away. Reuven grabs hold of his arm and stops him.

"Perhaps he can't talk," Reuven addresses his words to no one in particular. "Perhaps he's dumb, or an imbecile."

This last thought shakes him. He grips the boy, who struggles as hard as he can to escape. Reuven blinks and tightens his hold. If I let him go, hell rush straight onto the road and get rim over. On the other hand, what can I do? A policeman, perhaps. I won't leave him until his parents turn up.

Reuven pulls the child toward him and lifts him up. The boy howls and kicks, and dirties Reuven's white shirt front. He clasps him forcefully to his breast. Sharp little teeth bite his cheeks and hurt him terribly. He lets out an involuntary gasp and pulls the child's hair to get the teeth away from his face. The boy, released from his hold, falls to the ground and gives a loud shriek. Suddenly our poet feels a hard blow on the back of his neck and another in his ribs.

"Are you mad, damn you! Leave my son alone!"

"Who… who are you, friend? Are you the…"

"I'm going to break every bone in his body. Lunatic. Look, look what you've done to my little boy," the juice seller shouts, his large mustache quivering with rage. His hard fist thuds into Reuven's ribs a second time. A curious crowd of grimacing, unfriendly watchers gathers in a tight ring around the quarrel.

"This madman picked up my little boy and threw him on the ground. The boy hadn't done anything to him, nothing at all. He almost killed him. This madman."

"My friend," Reuven stammers, "the boy seemed… I only thought…"

"You thought no one was looking, eh, you scum? You thought you could get away with anything here, huh?"

"No, I didn't… I just saw a little boy without any…" Reuven tried to gain the sympathy of the mocking crowd. "I wanted to…"

"Next time you mind your own business. Stay at home with your wife. Don't stick your nose in other people's affairs or you may get it punched in. Don't cry, Tsion, don't cry, sweetheart, Daddy'll kill the bastard on the spot if he's broken a bone in your body. Daddy'll kill him."

Briskly the man set to work feeling his son's body. The boy, though hurt by his parent's rough squeezing, did not dare make a sound, but yielded his body obediently to his hands, looking at Reuven Harish the while, calmly, curiously, almost amicably.

"Lucky for you there's no damage done," said the juice seller, concluding his hasty examination. "If I'd found anything broken I'd tear you limb from limb, so help me, as sure as my name's Alfonse. Spit at the nasty man, Tsion darling, spit at him, that's right."

Reuven Harish walked slowly on and turned into one of the many gloomy cafés in the narrow streets around the bus station. He staggered over to the filthy washbasin in the corner. He wetted his handkerchief, and tried to sponge the muddy stains off his crumpled shirt. Then he sat down, exhausted, at a table. He hid behind his newspaper and ordered a coffee without sugar. "Scum," he muttered to himself, biting his lip. "Dregs of humanity." The black coffee made him feel a little better. He was evidently agitated. His face was white as death. The hand holding the coffee cup was shaking. What should you do? You should take it calmly. Be composed. Be calm. Laugh at the man, my darling, my sweetheart, laugh at the beaten, kicked man. It hurts. It hurts here. And here.

He put his left hand to his chest. Tried to stifle the pain. Fierce spasms stabbed his chest. With no rhythm, no regularity. No fixed place. A wild orgy seemed to be breaking out in his body. His fingers felt numb and heavy; they were reluctant to obey his orders. Rebelliously they clenched themselves, relaxed, clenched again. In his left leg, too, in the ankle, he could feel a light, rapid pulse, as if the ankle were trying to tell him: I'm not attacking you yet, but remember that I'm alive, too, and that I hate you.

His vision was clouded, his throat felt strangled. His whole body was rebelling against him, giving vent to its base, treacherous hatred.

Reuven licked his lips: tongue and lips seemed alien. He instinctively wiped his eyes with his handkerchief. The mist did not clear. He remembered the mud on the handkerchief; he had probably rubbed it into his face now. Nausea gripped his stomach. A sickening lump rose in his gullet, caught there. He belched, and a bitter taste filled his mouth. The pain was still there, but far away, as if a thick screen separated the man from his pain. His head dropped with a thud onto the table, both hands clasping his temples.

A short, freckled waitress rushed over and asked if he felt ill. Reuven raised his head slowly, and stared at her like a child who wakes in the night and finds a strange face where he expected to see his mother.

"Another cup of coffee, please," he said in a strangely soft voice.

The waitress nodded, but stayed where she was, looking at him as if she expected him to say something else. Reuven said:

"No. I'm sorry. Not coffee. A glass of water, please. Tap water, not from the refrigerator. Yes, I'm all right. It's nothing serious. Thank you."

The pain was passing. The nausea remained. A strong feeling of gratitude washed like a hot wave through every fiber in his body. The waitress's concern affected him so powerfully that it was all he could do to hold back his tears. They're not all wolves. A powerful urge to kneel. To say a prayer. To be solemn.

What was it? What happened to me? The pain — mustn't, no, mustn't call it that terrible name. Just a rather powerful physical reaction. That's all.

When the waitress returned holding a lipstick-stained glass of water, Reuven turned towards her and said with a forced smile:

"So kind of you. Thank you very much indeed."

Have a bit of a nap. People come. And go. Live their lives. And then go far away. Pretty country. Dams, canals, lots of flowers, windmills on the chocolate boxes, clouds, rain, white headdresses, bicycles. Far, far away. Gott im Himmel, how tired I am. It's terrible. A real man wouldn't behave like this. He'd behave differently. He'd have smashed that lecher Hamburger's face in. A fist. A knife. An alley. At night. Alfonse. Stella Maris will tell me why. My little daughter. Why isn't your father like a knife? Why isn't he Alfonse? Stella Maris because I'm not. Bronka because Stella. Ezra because Bronka. There's a formula, an equation. Very close. Written up behind a paper-thin wall. Lean on it. You'll break through it. Like a hero in a film. It all fits together somehow. Let's try again. From Eva to Bronka, then Noga. Bronka and Ezra. God, it's like a nightmare. Noga, Eva, Ezra, what. Where am I? Here. Mein Gott, why am I so calm, it was my heart. Why pretend? Aber was. how silly.

A deep, familiar voice, a voice from somewhere else, interrupted his reverie. Could it be? Yes, it was.

"Incredible. Who'd believe it — Harismann himself, in person. Fancy seeing a man like you in a place like this."

Reuven stood up. It was a meaningless gesture, politeness from another world. He greeted Ezra with exaggerated cordiality, as if (how absurd), as if he was the headwaiter of the place.

"Well, well, look who it isn't. Our Ezra. What a small world. This is quite a…" He hesitated for a moment. "This is quite a meeting. Truly."

"Amazing!" said the truck driver. "A week ago I came in here at this sort of time, and who d'you think I suddenly saw? Yitzhak Friedrich. Over there, at that table. And now today I come in, and who do I find sitting here? Harismann. Good morning, Harismann," Ezra suddenly added in a different voice, as if to cancel everything that had been said so far and start the conversation afresh. Reuven showed no surprise; he accepted the change and simply said:

"Good morning, Ezra. I'm glad to see you."

"Feel like a drink, Harismann?"

"Perhaps… if you…"

"Just the ticket; let's act first and hear the explanations later. You see before you, my good woman, two thirsty peasants. Fruit juice. Iced."

"Ezra."

"At your service."

"Are you driving home now?"

"'And no one to take them home,' as it says in the Book of Judges. But I, Berger, shall take you home, my dear Harismann. My truck shall be your truck. I still haven't discovered what a good man like you is doing in a filthy hole like this."

The two men were sitting opposite each other, one slightly built in his filthy best clothes, the other massively built in an overall that was presumably gray. Ezra had come in here by chance, in search of a cold drink. He was rather amused by the chance encounter. Reuven, for his part, was pleased to see Ezra and did not try to analyze the reason why. It had not escaped the truck driver's attention that something had happened to his companion. He had a nasty wound on his cheek, and he was covered with mud all over. But Ezra was not one to pry. The conversation died out. Both men drank in silence. A little blue vein stood out on the back of Reuven's hand and beat with a rapid, unhealthy pulse. Ezra rolled a half-smoked cigarette between his fingers. It had gone out, but he did not try to relight it. Funny thing. Here we are, Harismann and I, and yet I don't. Something's happened to him. I mustn't look at him. If I look at him, he'll shut up. But he wants to tell me. And I want him to.

"Ezra," Reuven began, but stopped without finishing his sentence.

"I'm listening. Speak on."

"I… Are you in a hurry?"

Ezra shook his head without answering. His expression radiated sympathy, even though his eyes were still surrounded by fine wrinkles of amusement. Reuven fixed his glance on his empty glass and spoke in a monotone. Logically he ought to be laughing at my misfortune. But no. He's listening without gloating. What is he.

"They insulted me." Reuven came to the conclusion of his story. "They insulted me terribly. I might have sat here all day. If you hadn't come along. You think I'm exaggerating. You do, don't you? You think one ought to laugh off an incident like this, treat it as a joke. But…"

"You know what I'm going to say to you, Harismann?"

Reuven raised his eyes and looked for the first time into the other's.

"I say: come on. Let's get in the truck and go home. I've had one of those days, anyway. First I had a blockage in the fuel supply. Wasted time at a garage. And meanwhile my battery went flat. Out of the frying pan into the fire, as they say. Never mind. I'm not making another trip today. The truck will have to do without that pleasure for once."

"We've got used to traveling at night, haven't we?" Ezra said to his truck, as he put his foot on the running board and opened the door for his guest. "Open the window, Harismann. Why swelter in this heat? No, man, not that handle, that's the door handle. Are you trying to do the leap of death? The other one. That's it. She's not so young any more, this buggy. Once every handle had a label saying what it was, so there was no chance of making a mistake. Over the years they've worn off. Be careful next time."

"I'm sorry," Reuven apologized with a wan smile. "Forgive me. I'm tired. I didn't do it on purpose."

Ezra released the hand brake and maneuvered his way out of the narrow street. Reuven stared blankly ahead. Laboriously the truck made its way through one crowded street after another, halted from time to time by the threatening glare of a traffic light. Both men were silent, the one concentrating on driving, the other pressing his slight body against the door, trailing his arm out of the window. A greasy, sticky stench filled the cab. Now and again there came a welcome gust of cool sea air, which vanished almost as soon as it arrived. Ezra stuck his head out and swore at another driver. Reuven let the oath pass, out of fatigue. Once the brakes squeaked too sharply. The passenger's head hit the windshield. He let out a low groan. Ezra did not look round, too absorbed in the complicated journey through the crowded outskirts of the city. Eventually, the truck escaped and settled down to roaring in an even rate along the wide, flat road. It was Ezra who opened the conversation, a point we must note to his credit.

"Listen, Harismann, if you want a drink of coffee, there's a yellow thermos on the left. Your left, not mine. Have a look, there's a thermos wrapped up in newspaper. Go on, drink some, you'll feel better. By the way, exactly a week ago I happened to go into that very same cafe, and found — are you listening? — Friedrich. Funny, eh? Drink some coffee, go on. It's Nina Goldring's. Excellent coffee. Have some."

Reuven refused with a shrug of the shoulders. Ezra, not surprisingly, failed to catch the answer. It is a natural mistake of someone who has never driven to answer a driver's question with a gesture.

"Are you asleep, Harismann?"

"No, no, I'm wide awake. Thanks all the same, I don't want a drink."

Through the roar of the engine the driver misheard his reply.

"If you don't want to think, you can talk. I'm listening."

"What? Oh, no, I didn't say 'think,' I said 'drink.'"

"Go on, drink some. Why not."

"I'm sorry, we're talking at cross-purposes. I said I don't want anything to drink, thank you."

Ezra gave him a sideways look and said in a surprised tone of voice:

"Well don't, then, if you don't want to. I'm not trying to force you."

Reuven Harish said nothing. He tried to read his paper. The swaying of the truck made it difficult. And he felt sick again. He eyed the thickset driver and felt a sadness rising in him, which gave way at once to a different feeling, one of shy affection, such as thinkers sometimes experience in the company of men of action. To be more precise, he felt a kind of need to be liked.

The peaceful scenery of the plain of Sharon sped past the window. Neatly tended fields, new villages with their red roofs, fenced pasture lands, avenues of trees shading the road, water towers on the hilltops. Well-kept orchards, white-carpeted flower beds with their network of gleaming metal pipes. It should have been a soothing sight. But the harsh sun, the glass-blue sky, the fierce early-afternoon light, the straight road like a gash in the flesh of the green fields, for once all these depressed Reuven Harish. A man born in the gentle light of northern climes can never resign himself to the stark bright glare of this country. Even patriotic poems merely betray the poet's continual longing to come to terms with this cruel light.

For half an hour neither man broke the silence. Ezra Berger's heavy arms rested on the steering wheel. His body pressed almost lifelessly on the worn leather seat, giving off a smell of sweat. His cap covered half his face. Only his gnarled jaws were visible to the covert sideways gaze of his passenger. His face looked like a half-completed sculpture. His mouth hung slightly open. By the Netanya junction, Ezra drew two cigarettes out of his over-all pocket, put one to his mouth and offered the other to Reuven.

"No thanks, I don't smoke," Reuven replied, raising his voice to avoid another misunderstanding. Ezra grinned. After a moment or two he threw his cigarette out of the window.

"You're right," he said. "It's no good smoking when you're driving. It tastes funny, and you get no enjoyment out of it. And if you don't enjoy it, why smoke, as the sages would have said if smoking had been invented in their day."

Reuven had said nothing of the sort, but he did not trouble to explain. He was afraid that the noise of the engine would distort his words yet again. It was only as they were approaching Hedera that he felt a resurgence of that feeling of shy affection, or the shy need to be liked, and he tried to start a simple conversation.

"Ezra."

"Yes. I'm listening."

"Don't you get bored, driving all the time? I suppose…"

"No. Not at all. I always think when I'm driving. Let us follow our thoughts, as the Prophet says. Thinking isn't only the prerogative of poets."

"Inner life," Reuven said enthusiastically. "True wealth consists in having a rich inner life, that's what I say."

"That's right. The wise man has eyes in his head, as the Bible says. I'm not a wise man, but I do know how to think. If you think the same thought a hundred times, it ends up by being very refined."

"It can lead to melancholy," said Reuven vaguely.

"It can lead to anything. But if you think systematically, it always leads to the same thing."

Reuven cast an anxious glance in his direction. What is he getting at? Not that. He shouldn't have said anything. Not that.

"One thing and one thing alone: that we're not getting any younger, Harismann, you, me, the others. The best part of our journey's behind us. You understand what I'm talking about. We all have to die some time. When we were young, we used to think that one dies only once, and that one should die gloriously, as they say. Now we've reached the age. You remember how Ramigolski went? He was a good friend of mine, but I think we've made a kind of false saint of him. I know they say never speak ill of the dead, and all that, but we've come to celebrate his death like a carnival, as if it was good that someone should have died early on, good from an educational point of view, as it were, do you understand — are you asleep? No? Well, at our age, we must realize one fact: the important thing isn't to die gloriously, it's to die as late as possible. Another ten years, another twenty years. My father was already dead when he was my age. So what? So it means I've gained something. 'It is better for me to die than to live,' 'would God I had died for you.' Those verses may be allegorical or something, it's not my field, but they're not true. Am I right, Harismann?"

"Let me explain," Reuven began, but stopped when Ezra laid a heavy hand on his knee.

"Wait. I haven't finished what I was saying. Yesterday, at the Megiddo turning, I saw a shocking accident. You see terrible things every day on the roads."

Reuven bit his lip and said nothing.

"Are you tired? Do you want to have a nap? Wait. I'll tell you. On the hill going down to the turning for Megiddo there was a truck parked, with a long load of iron rods. Those rods they use on reinforced concrete buildings. Apparently the driver was sitting having a rest. Up comes a giant semitrailer, knocks into the back of him, and pushes the rods through the rear window of the cab. Spitted him like skewered meat. Through the neck. He didn't have a chance. So you can get killed even without doing anything wrong. That's what really shakes you, when you suddenly see how fragile we are. It's terrible."

"Terrible," echoed Reuven. Ezra went on talking, strangely, compulsively.

"Now, listen. Sometimes at night you're dazzled by someone's headlights. You drive by instinct. You can't see anything. You're entirely dependent on your instinct. Now tell me this, think carefully and tell me: What is instinct? What is it? It's something capricious, something irrational, completely mysterious. And don't forget: you can't see anything at all with your eyes. You're blinded. Are you asleep, Harismann? No? Still listening? Blinded. Smite this people with blindness. For a few seconds you're entirely dependent on your instinct. If it lets you down, you'll die blinded. Then you'll find out just how fragile you are. Like losing in a lottery. Like… like tearing paper. Like water."

"Tell me, Ezra, do you think…"

"But it's not just when you're dazzled, not just when you see a fatal road accident. You find yourself thinking that kind of thought any time, for no apparent reason. When you see a skeleton, all bare and white, in a film, you're scared, aren't you? Yes, of course you are. But a skeleton just like that goes with you everywhere. Do you want to have a drink of coffee from the thermos? No? When you eat, when you write, when you laugh, even when you shop, there's always a white skeleton with you, with white ribs, with a skull and teeth and gaping sockets instead of eyes, as in all the pictures. When you have a woman, for instance, it's really just two skeletons grinding together. And if you can't hear the terrible noise which would turn the whole thing into a macabre joke, that's just because there's still a soft layer in between. But it's only temporary, Harismann, it's perishable, it's made of a moist substance that rots easily. It's a very frail wrapping, do you see. You're probably half asleep, aren't you? I just wanted to say that we're very fragile. Amazingly so. If only… at least… But what's come over me? You're tired, and I'm talking on and on. I'm sure everything I've been saying is written in books. I've probably tired you terribly. 'Speech is silver, silence is golden,' as they say. You can go to sleep now. We've got another hour and a half's drive ahead of us. You're very tired. You're worn out. I want you to sleep. Sleep. I promise not to drive the truck down the mountainside. Sleep peacefully. I'm not carrying iron rods this time. You can rest assured, as they say. Yes."

14. MOUNTING EVIDENCE

During the days preceding the festival, gossip reached fever pitch. If the signs were to be believed, something very strange and disturbing had happened in our kibbutz. One night Israel Tsitron, who was on duty as night watchman, overheard a quarrel. From him we learned that all was not well between Noga and her boy friend, the widow's son, Rami. This was confirmed by the evidence of Dafna Isarov, even if there were some who disputed the details of her disturbing story. According to Dafna, one evening, one Friday night, Rami Rimon had burst into the room that she and Noga shared and attacked Noga by main force. Later, Ezra Berger had appeared and had clashed with Rami, at first with words but later with blows. Eventually, Rami had burst out of the room, looking, Dafna said, very strange. A strange friendship had certainly come into being — so testified the widow Fruma Rominov, between Reuven Harish's daughter and Bronka's husband.

Of course. Now that this news has come to our notice, we connect it with what we have seen with our own eyes but not thought much about. For some days now we have observed the man and the girl chatting together in the early afternoon by the motor shed. Up to now we have seen nothing wrong in these conversations. If the rumors are true, we have been very naive. It is alleged that Ezra Berger buys his little friend embroidery thread over and above the kibbutz ration and pays for it out of his own pocket. In return, the girl has made him an embroidered bag for his sandwiches. Nina Goldring, who supplies the sandwiches, has seen the bag with her own eyes. It has a bear embroidered on it.

Is it right or proper for the two of them to meet in broad daylight in the middle of the yard, in the shadow of the huge truck, and for the older man to finger the girl's chin and mutter his pointless proverbs to her? Is it right for her to respond with musical laughter, and even slap him on his hairy shoulder? No, it's not right, it's not proper, it smacks of licentiousness.

If we are to believe Dafna, things have gone even further. Noga has got into the habit of getting up in the middle of the night and stealing across to the shed behind the laundry building to meet the driver on his return. Admittedly, Dafna is suspected of exaggerating. It would only be natural. But there is no denying that the affair has gone too far. There is more to it than meets the eye. We are cautious in our judgment. We base our opinion not on Dafna's evidence, which is not universally accepted, but on that of Mundek Zohar, who is a reliable witness. His evidence is decisive, and we shall record it presently. Of Noga Harish it was said that her mother Eva's hot blood flowed in her veins. Of Ezra Berger, Herzl Goldring said, "Is it any wonder that his Oren is a delinquent? The apple never falls far from the tree." There were some (Fruma Rominov seems to have been the first to voice this alarming idea) who said that this was Ezra's way of having his revenge. And so on.

For some days we scrutinized the faces of Reuven and Bronka, looking for signs. "He who sows the wind will reap the whirlwind," said Grisha Isarov, parodying the truck driver's cryptic style of utterance.

Einav, quietly waiting for the end of her pregnancy, said to her husband Tomer one evening:

"He's in the news, your father."

Tomer shrugged his shoulders and said nothing.

"I think you ought to do something about it. It's your family, after all."

But Tomer, whose young body had no rival in the arduous work of haymaking, gave his wife a sneering look, spread out his massive arms and said:

"Why me? I'm not his father. If the old man wants to make a fool of himself, good luck to him. Mother's not much better than he is."

True, Bronka is no better than her husband. It was she who started it all. But this fact does nothing to relieve her present unhappiness. Often, in bed, she turns her face to the wall and cries. Reuven bites his lip and does not talk about it. What can he say? He strokes her cheek affectionately and says nothing. His heart is heavy. He has not changed his habits, though. Every evening he crosses the lawn to Bronka and stays with her until just before Ezra gets back. But for some days now he has resumed the habit of the early days of their friendship, when it was still pure and intellectual. He is content to sit with her, drink coffee, munch grapes, talk awkwardly about art, until Bronka buries her face in her hands and collapses into long fits of sobbing.

If there is a letter from Zechariah-Siegfried in Munich, Bronka gives it to Reuven so that he can read his wife's brief lines. Then they sit side by side on the divan, holding hands. Reuven is as silent as a boy who is in love for the first time. Bronka, too, is silent. She is knitting a hat for her future granddaughter. Sometimes he brings a book with him, and they read it together, as in the good old days. Once Bronka gazed at Reuven's lips and said:

"What's going to happen? Tell me, tell me."

"It's going to be bad," said Reuven.

Still the worst did not happen. It is true that Noga sometimes woke up in the middle of the night and slipped through the darkness behind the shrubbery to meet the man on his return. But Ezra, with clumsy affection, rested her head on his sweaty chest, stroked it consolingly, and sent her back to bed. Once he even kissed her. Mundek Zohar, who was on duty that night, saw it with his own eyes and is ready to swear to it, and Mundek is a reliable witness. But it was so dark that the watchman could not see the girl's hot tears, and so he misjudged the nature of the kiss. It was a warm-hearted, paternal kiss, the purest thing in the world.

15. WOMAN

At the end of the week came the hamsin. From the mountain range in the east a murderous dryness flowed down to engulf us. The sky was gray, as if the desert had risen to float upside down over our tiny roofs. The heat tore at our vitality with its cruel claws, bringing desperate weariness, tormenting the body and oppressing the soul. Hens died by the dozen, despite the elaborate cooling system. Obstinacy took hold of the cows, and Herbert Segal was reduced to driving them into the milking shed with a whip. The trees grew gray and whispered drily. Scorched yellow patches appeared in the lawns. The men and women of the kibbutz quarrelled violently over trifles. Decency restrains us from relating the words that Fruma Rominov hurled at Bronka Berger on one of these terrible days. But this much we may say, that Bronka, shaken, arrived at Reuven Harish's room during the afternoon, beckoned to him to come outside, so that the children should not hear, and announced breathlessly that she could not put up with any more of it, and that it was up to him, for God's sake, to do what any real father would have done long ago.

And so it was Fruma Rominov's judgment which brought about, even indirectly, the conversation between father and daughter that up to now Reuven Harish had tried to avoid.

They were strolling together in front of the kibbutz office. It was eight o'clock in the evening. The air was dark and stifling. They spoke softly.

"I wanted to ask you if you think, Noga."

"What sort of question's that, Daddy? I don't understand what you mean."

"If you think. If you've thought a single thought these last weeks, or if you've given up thinking altogether."

"I'm not the tourists, Daddy, so please talk frankly to me, don't beat about the bush."

"I'll talk, Noga. I'll talk. I'll talk in a moment. I won't beat about the bush. And I want you to talk to me, too, completely openly. Sincerely."

"Don't I always?"

"Perhaps. Tell me, Noga, do you know what people here have been saying about you recently?"

"What have people here been saying about me recently, Daddy?"

"You know very well what they've been saying. Gossip. Nasty gossip."

"It's always unhappy people who say unkind things."

"I… I want us to understand each other, Noga. Don't force me to say unkind things, too."

"Why, are you unhappy?"

"Why are you fighting against me, Noga? It hurts me. I don't want us to fight. I want you to be happy."

"It's hot, Daddy. I'm hot. We're all hot. It's the hamsin. Why do you want to talk about gossip now? Why do you think that life is all about talking? There are other things. Not just words. Words aren't everything. Why must you always explain everything? Why has everything got to be explained? The sky won't fall if something isn't explained."

"There are things…"

"Yes. I know. There are things. Fruma said something nasty to Bronka. I know, Dafna heard it and told me I hate words. It's because of those words that you've come to talk to me now, when we're so hot. That's enough. Let's stop."

"Never mind about Fruma and never mind about Bronka. I want to talk to you, Noga. About you."

"You want to talk and you talk all the time but you don't really talk."

"I am talking. I'm talking about your new… friendship, to call a spade a spade. I only want to know one thing: if you think at all."

"Friendship?"

"Yes."

"Ezra?"

"I… yes. Ezra."

"Tell me, do you feel… embarrassed? Do you find it difficult to ask me things straight out? I've got to keep away from Ezra because Bronka… Oh, it's simple, it's simple, Daddy, so simple, and you're walking on tiptoe as if I was made of glass. I'm not made of glass. I understand. It's simple. Either you and Bronka or me and Ezra, and you were first, so you have first claim. It's so simple, Daddy."

"Noga… Stella, listen… Why do you… Why do you have to put it… Listen to me for a moment."

"I'm listening, Daddy, I'm listening to every word, all the time. You don't have to ask me to listen. I'm all ears."

Reuven Harish is a little perplexed. In his embarrassment he tugs lightly at his upper lip, searching for the right words. The heat blurs his mind. The perspiration from his hand smudges his face, and the perspiration from his face sticks to his hand. A strange stabbing stirs in his chest but dies down before it becomes painful. Stella, meanwhile, a naughty little deer, turns her back on him and paws the earth with her foot. On her face is a grimace, which is almost a smile. Reuven tries to stroke her neck. She moves out of reach.

"Let me put it another way, Noga. Look. You're not a child, right? I'm not trying to interfere with your private life. But I don't want you to ruin your life. That's all. That's the only thing I'm talking about."

"You're sweet, Daddy," Noga says suddenly. "You're really sweet."

Her face shines in the dark. But her teeth, strangely, chatter as if she is ill. He's suffering. He's suffering, and now he's going to start talking about Mother. Oh, poor Daddy, silly Daddy, if only you realized that I'm on your side, only I can't say so because…

Reuven is suffering. This is not how he imagined the conversation. She's eluding me. I talk to her, and she dances circles round me. What is she thinking? You can never tell what they're thinking. They dance. You talk and they dance. They're both the same. Outwardly they look calm, but inside, a raving demon. But not her. I won't let her. She's mine.

Affectionately, half-jokingly, Reuven asked:

"To come to the point, Stella, what demon's got into you?"

Affectionately, half-jokingly, Noga answered:

"A wonderful demon, Daddy. A sad, wise demon, full of love. Sometimes he's frightening, but he's a gentle demon. A tired demon."

"Now I'll tell you something," Reuven said. "Something about your mother."

"No," said Noga. "Not that. I won't listen."

"Yes. You will listen. You must listen," said Reuven Harish, pressing home to the full his unexpected advantage.

"No. I don't have to. I won't listen. I won't listen to anything."

"When that wretch Hamburger came, your mother loathed him. I'm not exaggerating: she loathed him, but she behaved politely. He was a close relative; they had grown up in the same house together, but apparently the war corrupted him. That was what your mother thought. She said that he wasn't himself. He wasn't the little boy who had been betrothed to her when she was a little girl. He was someone else. A clown imitating the speech and manners of that dead boy. Well, then. Actually he spent the war in Switzerland, making money by speculating. I'll tell you about that, too, some time. Your mother said she hoped he'd leave soon. Tomorrow. At once. I was the one who urged her to behave politely toward him. After all, he'd had a hard life. He'd suffered a lot. But your mother hated him. He was clever. He used to say things like 'tame partridge' and laugh a slimy laugh. Your mother asked him to shut up, for heaven's sake. He would wink and say, for instance, 'Cold und Silber' or 'Rous, raus, Dichter.' These remarks hurt your mother terribly. He talked a great deal about women, by the way."

"I'm not listening."

"I looked after him most of the time because your mother didn't like to be near him. I took the wretched creature to Jerusalem, Sodom, Elat. Every place, every sight, every name reminded him of some obscenity or dirty joke. He made a point of spending a lot of money on me. Tried to be friendly with his great toothy horse smiles. He had enormous teeth. He talked about women. And he winked."

"I'm not listening."

"Once we were coming out of the dining hall, he and your mother and I, and he asked with a wink if it was true that we practiced free love here. The smile showed all those teeth of his. Your mother was so disgusted she ran off. When she came back, he sang some German nursery rhyme about Franzi the gardener peeping into the cellar and watching the prince's children praying. Make him go away tomorrow, your mother said that night, make him go at once. Tomorrow. He didn't stay with us long. Perhaps a fortnight. Then suddenly…"

"I'm not listening to a word you're saying. You're talking to thin air."

"Then one day I went to Tel Aviv, Stella dear, one awful day, and the next day I came home and there was nothing left. Some madness had taken hold of your mother. She went off with that swine. But in her heart, Noga my darling, in her heart I know she regrets it all. Her infatuation ruined her. Me. Us. She wrote me a long letter from Europe a month later, pouring her heart out. Her Isaac was a little angel once; they used to play duets together on the piano when they were little, read poetry, write, draw, but suffering had corrupted him, and she felt it was up to her, and her alone, to purify him. That was how we lost your mother. You were just a little toddler then."

"Daddy, don't say any more. Be nice. Please, please stop, Daddy."

"Her infatuation ruined everything. I'm not beating about the bush now. I'm telling you straight out, Noga."

"You did the same to someone else."

"No, I didn't. How can you compare it? Bronka and I…"

"You and Bronka. Me and Ezra. That's life. It's not made of words. It's ugly. I want you to stop now. Stop talking."

***

Then, for no reason, the girl dragged her father over to the shadow of a nearby tree and kissed his face, uttering as she did so a sob that sounded like a smothered laugh or a puppy's crying. Reuven stifled his words and gently stroked his daughter's hair and murmered, "Stella, Stella," and whispered to her to be careful, and Noga — in the soft low voice of another woman — told Reuven that she loved him now and always, while the hamsin raged relentlessly, unmoved even by powerful emotions.

Noga went to the abandoned stable to wait for Ezra's return. The darkness and the ancient smells of decay frightened her for once, and so she waited at the entrance to the stable. She sat down on a dark, rotting board and thought. Suffering corrupted him, and she felt it was up to her, and her alone, to purify him. This is where we found the rope. It wasn't very long ago. It's a long time since there were horses here. Horses aren't used any more. They've had their day. A horse is a splendid animal. A horse is a powerful animal. There's a contradiction in a horse. He can be wild, and rush over the plains. A horse has a wild smell when he sweats. I feel dizzy when I think of a horse's smell. He had enormous teeth, like a horse, Daddy said. A galloping horse is the most beautiful animal in the world. He spent the war in Switzerland, making money by speculating. Speculation is wrong. Franzi the gardener, what did Franzi the gardener see, what were the prince's children doing in a dark cellar? And what did he mean by "tame partridge"? How clumsy he looked when he poured the water I brought him down his throat without putting the mug to his lips, and the water splashed onto his chin and trickled down his neck and vanished into the hair on his chest. How strong. When he's driving, he thinks about the Bible, about Rachel, and Leah, for instance, and their children. "Leah" can mean "tired" in Hebrew. That's pretty, but sad. He didn't even know what turquoise was, but I taught him because I'm responsible for him. What does Raus, raus, Dichter mean? I wish I knew. Outside it's hot in the stable it's nice and cool I'm frightened to go inside don't be frightened Franzi the gardener is a good man he won't tell on the little princess. Mummy was prettier than me. Her light blue dressing gown I wore once and he met me on the path and said Cold und Silber and looked at me not at my face then he turned his head and looked away. Daddy's sure she regrets it all in her heart. You don't regret in your heart. Only in literary language. He asked if we practiced free love here. Mummy wanted him to go away. But I'm Daddy's daughter, too. Green eyes. It's true. Now listen carefully, Ezra, there's one thing you've got to remember. I love a horse because he's wild and I have to purify because I'm responsible. It's almost midnight. Not long now. Soon you'll. Old Franzi, the gardener, shame on his peeping eyes. And, you know, there's a contradiction in the color turquoise: it's blue and it's green, like a horse, which can be mild or wild.

Ezra spent a long time tonight with his friends the fishermen in Tiberias. He got home to the kibbutz at one o'clock in the morning. Noga had leaped up onto the running board before the truck stopped. She put her head into the cab and smiled, and her teeth chattered. She must be ill, Hushed with fever. Go to bed, little girl, you're trembling all over, are you crazy. Yes, Ezra, yes, yes. You're not well, little one, get moving, Turquoise, forward march — to bed, do you hear, little baby, don't argue now. No, I can't hear, Ezra, I can't hear a word. You're ill, silly, you've got a temperature. Little bear is feeling ill, stayed up late and caught a chill. Don't talk, Ezra, I don't want you to talk, I want you to put your arms round me and explain to me what "tame partridge" means and two more words I've forgotten. No, you're confused, Turquoise, you don't know what you're doing. I do know. I know what I want. I want you to put your arms round me and not talk and not talk in proverbs. And not talk.

Ezra took hold of her thin arm and tried to take her to her room. Noga wouldn't let him. She fought back. She stood rooted to the spot. Ezra didn't want to take her to her room by force. Perplexed, he paused and looked at her, desperately tired. The night air was still thick and oppressive. In the distance dogs howled wildly, and the jackals howled in answer. The night was full of dim anger. Trembling all over, Noga clung to the man's powerful body. He tried to prize her loose. She gripped his clothes with her nails. Delicious kisses on his hairy, sweat-matted chest. Backward she dragged him step by tiny step into the thick darkness of the myrtle bushes. Who taught her tongue to lick his salty neck so tenderly? Or her fingers to play so cleverly on the back of his head? Overcome, he fell, his heavy hands on her shoulders. His voice betrayed him, no longer forming words, only dry groans. Noga was terrified. She regretted it now and tried to escape. His grip was heavy, frightening. Her eyes flickered and went out. Her body awoke and filled with sweet gushes. Warm shudders flowed from one sweet part of her to another. Her breath came in pants, her mouth stretched wide open, her tiny teeth dug again and again into the blind flesh. The ground beneath her stirred, sending quivering ripples through her. On spreading ripples her body floated. Torrents flooded over her, bursting out strong and cruel from forgotten lairs. Wave after wave after wave. The confusion whirled in a cycle, in a burning rhythm. Boiling water battered her body. Boiling oil. Burning poison. Sweet seething poison slicing down into the marrow of her bones. An imprisoned scream, flash after flash swept away into the water, the waves were not black, they were gleaming, dazzling flares capering in the water, a streaming jet swept her sick body toward roaring waterfalls.

Two or three hours later. Dawn light outlining the slats of the shutters. She turns between her sheets. Strange, secret sensations. Her body curls up compulsively, her knees drawn up to her chin, pressing against her breasts, her fingers caressing her skin. Drop by drop, like rain in a gutter, a song dripped inside her:

From the Dead Sea to Jericho

The pomegranate sweetly smells,

A pair of eyes, a pair of doves,

And a voice like the sound of bells.

She can hear them in her skin. She can hear the bells.

16. HATRED

For six more days the hamsin oppressed us relentlessly. If you reached out to touch a bench, a wall, an irrigation tap, a stair rail, the inanimate object responded with incandescent hatred. Reuven Harish found relief from the oppression — incredible though it may seem — by casting it in a poetic mold.

Blazing heat, down you beat

On scorpion's lair and snake's retreat.

Leaving your arid desert seat,

The home of Genie and Afrit,

You stamp the plains with scorching feet,

Stifling everything you meet.

Panting souls find no retreat,

Strongest men admit defeat;

Gasping voices beg, entreat

Relief from yellow, parching heat.

Meanwhile, the enemy's provocations intensified. Frequent shots were fired into our fields, by day as well as by night. There were no casualties, however. The enemy were careful not to overstep the mark. They were content to harass us, and remind us that they were there, bent on our destruction.

At the end of the week a small army unit dug itself in the vineyards and pointed machine guns at the enemy positions installed halfway up the slope, on the territory that was the bloodstained subject of dispute between the two states. Our troops had orders not to provoke the enemy. If the enemy launched a serious action, if a stray tractor was cut off by firing, they were to cover it and extricate it. But they were forbidden to return random fire, so as not to aggravate the prevailing tension. They also had orders to dig some trenches, so that people working in outlying fields could take cover if attacked. Digging trenches during the stifling hamsin, even at night, is not the most pleasant of tasks. Our soldiers found assistance from an unexpected quarter: Oren Geva and his friends appeared one afternoon to offer their help. Before the commanding officer had managed to dismiss the intruders with a reprimand, they had already dug two or three magnificent trenches. The officer shrugged his shoulders and showed them where and how.

This new problem provoked conflicting opinions among the schoolteachers on the kibbutz. According to Herbert Segal, in addition to the obvious danger to which our children were exposed, it would also encourage militaristic attitudes. It was the forceful opinion of Reuven Harish, curiously, that swayed the balance. In the first place, he said, who could stop them. Second, it would provide a constructive outlet for their excess energies.

For several days the lads threw themselves into their work with a will. They worked well, and they were handsomely rewarded: a pat on the back from the commanding officer for Oren Geva, the satisfaction of being in the front lines, some rich additions to their vocabulary, the privilege of secretly handling the gleaming weapons, and even — pray that no word of it reaches hostile ears — unofficial permission to clean and oil a submachine gun.

In the dining hall after supper small groups gather to discuss the situation. Some decipher and interpret the signs; others hold that the enemy is simply out to demonstrate his presence; others maintain that we are witnessing the prelude to a big show, such as we saw three months ago, when they began by ambushing a tractor and ended up battering a kibbutz with heavy gunfire.

The other topic of conversation is the question of reprisals. Most of the older members think that it would be better for us not to heap coals on the fire. So long as the enemy refrains from launching a real attack, argues Mundek Zohar, head of the regional council, we are better off showing our contempt by maintaining a dignified silence. Podolski looks up from the work rotas to agree with Mundek Zohar and adds that we mustn't allow ourselves to play into their hands by doing what they want us to do.

The youngsters think differently, as is only natural. Tomer Geva lays a large hand on Podolski's lean shoulder and says: Podolski, Podolski, I'm very sad to have to inform you that the dear Arabs haven't read Tolstoy or Rosa Luxemburg, and I'm afraid they're not too well up in Mahatma Gandhi, either. But there's one language they're perfectly at home in. Without a crushing blow, a really juicy blow, as they say, we'll never stop the bastards and their blasted nuisance.

Grisha Isarov, though not a young man, has a youthful temperament. He endorses Tomer's sentiments and remarks: Prevention is better than cure, Mundek, and your fine ideas can cost lives. As for you, Podolski, you've nothing to fear. They're brave when they scent weakness and cowards when you show them a fist. I've known them for thirty years now. They haven't changed and they'll never change. Once, in '46, I went out to set an ambush for a gang of them. Not an ordinary ambush, though…

Meanwhile, the military authorities maintained a total silence. One Friday evening we had a visit from a group of high-ranking officers. We received them in the dining hall with cold drinks and fruit. They answered all our questions with a smile and a shake of the head. Afterward, they strolled around outside for twenty minutes, exchanging a few words in an undertone, while an undersized captain ran around energetically rolling and unrolling maps for them. At the same time, he made signs to the curious youngsters to keep their distance. Gai Harish's young gang observed the visitors from a respectful distance, their mouths agape, the heads cocked, their fair hair falling over their foreheads, and wonder blazing in their eyes.

Grisha Isarov's prestige took a mighty leap that night. Among the senior officers he discovered an old comrade from the days of the Jewish Brigade. They fell on each other and exchanged hearty bear hugs, while the youngsters looked on in amazement. Grisha was even allowed to join the officers for the last few minutes of their conference, but unfortunately he did not manage to adapt his voice to their hushed tones but expressed his opinions at the top of his voice. The seven Isarov children, including Dafna, basked in a halo of glory that night.

On Sunday another small group of officers visited us, this time a group of lower rank. They inspected the shelters and the trenches, and looked rather apprehensively at the telephone wire that emerged from the kibbutz office and ran along the lawn on a series of rough wooden poles. One of them detached himself from the group to peer into the surgery and examine the nurse's supplies. Finally, they sat down at an isolated table in the dining hall to jugs of fruit juice and baskets of fruit. They invited Tsvi Ramigolski, the secretary of the kibbutz, to join them, together with Grisha Isarov, with his tousled mustache and his wading boots, and two or three younger men, such as Tomer Geva, who had served as officers in the army.

What a pity that the latter haughtily refused to pass on to us the gist of that fascinating conversation. In reply to your questions they merely shook their heads secretively. If you persisted and pestered them and swore yourself to secrecy, they relented enough to dismiss you with a half-sentence such as:

"It's going to be hot."

Oren's gang, too, in their usual sly way, were prepared to inform you:

"It's going to be a big show."

The youngest group, Gai and his friends, promptly translated the hints into action. On Monday evening the kibbutz yard was full of shouting and bustle, scampering footsteps and sounds of battle, and at nightfall the little hill that faces the kibbutz gates to the west was stormed, and the Israeli flag planted on it with great pomp and circumstance.

Even to someone like ourselves, far removed from military matters, it was perfectly obvious that something was afoot, in the stifling heat of the hamsin. Grisha Isarov, who was responsible for security, had already taken several hours off his work in the fish ponds and enlisted the help of two or three other members in cleaning out and putting straight the shelters and the trenches.

Grisha Isarov, a man of forty or so, was not one of the founders of our kibbutz. He joined us two years before the Second World War. When war broke out, he volunteered for the Jewish Brigade and reached the rank of sergeant major in Her Majesty's Armed Forces. After the war he returned to the kibbutz, heavier, mustached, and with an inexhaustible fund of anecdotes. No wonder that Esther Klieger, a nursery-school teacher with an amazing knack for carving abstract sculptures out of tree stumps, succumbed to his charms. Grisha did not rest quietly for long. Within three or four months of returning from the war in Italy, he had succeeded in getting Esther with child, marrying her, and joining the underground army. His exploits as a company commander in the struggle for independence he will be happy to recount to you till midnight, and if he is busy in the Fish ponds, then you can hear the stories either from his plump daughter Dafna or from any one of his six other children, who are all as heavily built as their father and all marked, boys and girls alike, with a fine down on their upper lip, which Grisha jokingly refers to as the badge of his unit.

If it had not been for a certain unfortunate incident, Grisha might have risen to high rank in the army; he might have joined the group of senior officers that Friday night in his own right and not as a favor. The details of the misdemeanor that put a premature end to Grisha Isarov's promising military career are not known for certain. According to our old ally, gossip, it concerned a punishment inflicted on one of the men under his command, which exceeded the bounds of military regulations. According to Grisha himself, the modern Israeli army is better suited to tin soldiers than to fighting men. A man of his caliber would not waste his life and talents in an army of halberdiers and gay hussars commanded by chocolate-box admirals.

Anyway, a couple of years after the end of the War of Independence Grisha returned to Metsudat Ram for good and shouldered the arduous responsibility of the fish ponds. His bluff, hearty manner endears him to all around him. His numerous progeny, too, give rise to good-humored jests. Grisha Isarov also manages the security of the kibbutz with wholehearted enthusiasm, though not without a hint of frivolity. Occasionally, for instance, he straightens his massive back, lays down the fish nets, and hurls vehement Arabic curses at the enemy positions. Or sometimes he sways his hips at them like an enormous belly dancer and gives a hideous laugh. But he is not the kind of man to overlook such trivial tasks as repairing a torn stretcher, taking stock of the ammunition, or his recent effort of cleaning out and putting straight the shelters and trenches.

It was a difficult period for Herzl Goldring. He hardly had time to play his accordion. Because of the heat the plants needed to be watered at least twice as often as normally, and even that did little good. There were not enough rubber hoses for the job. Time and again he had pestered Yitzhak Friedrich, the treasurer, for a small sum to buy plastic hose pipes, but each time Frederick the Great had fobbed him off with excuses; either it's the beginning of the month, and how can we tell whether we'll have enough cash to see it out, or else it's the end of the month, and who has cash to lay out at the end of the month. If he'd asked for a large amount, he'd have got it by now. But if you need a small sum for a vital purpose, they fob you off with one excuse after another. It's symptomatic of the whole place. So Herzl Goldring grumbles to his wife Nina as they sit on their little veranda in the evening, with the light out.

All round the kibbutz grounds you see plants drooping, withering, fainting with the heat. Before you've fixed up the hose to water the flowers on one side of the kibbutz, those on the other side have started to wilt. And Herzl Goldring is a man who feels physical pain at the sight of a dying plant, because he loves his work.

Herzl Goldring's dedication to his flower beds is a by-word in the kibbutz. He belongs to the German faction, and in his heart of hearts he has never managed to reconcile himself to the ways of the Russians. They're so inconsistent. One day they're all sympathy and plead to be allowed to help you after their work, laying and weeding the lawns; another day they turn a deaf ear to all your requests and entreaties and empty a barrowload of building rubble on the same lawn that they so eagerly volunteered to help make. True, Herzl's wife is also a Russian. But Nina is unique among her countrywomen for her reserved manner. For many years she has borne the burden of managing the kitchen stores, generating a spirit of economy, cleanliness, and open-mindedness. Like her husband, she is gifted with a fine aesthetic sense. Their room, tastefully furnished in a European style, is gleaming and spotless. True, the pretty rugs, bookcases, and chest of drawers were acquired with money that Herzl received from the German government in reparation for his family's lost fortune, but he should not be judged harshly on this account. The money he received was paid over almost in its entirety to Yitzhak Friedrich. We must not criticize him for keeping a small sum to furnish his home and buy himself an accordion. What else was there left in his life? Their only daughter had died in her infancy of diphtheria. Being childless, they naturally wanted to make the most of their modest home. It was a venial human weakness.

As rumor has it, the Goldrings are not a happy couple. Every evening they sit in easy chairs on the darkened veranda, saying nothing, doing nothing. Sometimes Herzl has to go and turn off a sprinkler; he promises Nina not to be long, and he keeps his word. Their house is quiet. The only sounds in the evening come from the radio and from Herzl's accordion. He plays march tunes, to our perpetual surprise. The Goldrings have their supper early, before the dining room gets too full. They greet everyone, strangers included, but it is impossible to engage them in friendly conversation. Herzl agrees blankly to everything you say to him, as if he only wants to be left in peace. Nina reacts with exaggerated concern, as if she is trying hard to make you think she is interested in you, whereas in fact she is only interested in making you believe that she is interested in you.

Herzl takes no part in kibbutz meetings, except to complain from time to time about the destruction of his plants. On such occasions he reddens, wrinkles his nose, and announces indifferently that if they want his resignation, he is prepared to tender it on a moment's notice. If his arguments are accepted, he goes on to say that actions speak louder than words, and leaves the meeting immediately, since the other items on the agenda are no concern of his. If they are not accepted, he states that his resignation takes effect forthwith, and leaves the meeting immediately, for the same reason. But at six o'clock the next morning he shatters the silence of the yard with his lawn mower, as usual, and makes no reference to his threat. Every few days he loses his temper for some trivial reason and snarls an acid "I wish you were dead" at someone, then returns to his customary politeness. Some of our young people, either because of the irritating noise of his lawn mower or for some other reason, nickname Herzl Goldring "the dentist." The title is not witty, and it does not meet with our approval.

Despite everything, he is a wonderful gardener, and his devotion, imagination, and taste have turned our kibbutz into a garden of delights. Thanks to him, we have none of the unsightly plots, beds of weeds, and piles of rubble that you find in the grounds of some kibbutzim. It would be even lovelier if it were not for the mischievous Russians. That has been Herzl Goldring's opinion for many years. They lack the most basic cultured instincts. Is culture a matter of book learning and long words? No. Far from it. No, Reuven Harish, culture is a matter of everyday life, of taking trouble over details, of cultivating a general aesthetic sense. These people walk across the lawns, making ugly bare strips, dump rubbish among the bushes, trample down the young seedlings, and why? Just to take a short cut or out of pure thoughtlessness. How sad that our children, including those of the Germans, pick up this corrupt culture, this false culture. It gets worse every day. Corruption is like bindweed: if you don't eradicate it ruthlessly, it kills everything.

Herzl Goldring looks at you through his sunglasses. His look is embarrassed, not embarrassing, but nevertheless you feel ashamed, you lower your eyes, you stammer an excuse and promise Herzl Goldring never to cut his foliage to decorate your room. But you are bound to break your promise. But why the hell should a man feel ashamed of any step he takes in his own home? Is it any wonder that Herzl Goldring hates you bitterly in the hidden depths of his heart?

Every day at half past four in the afternoon the mail arrives in a red van that announces its presence with a hollow, cowlike blast on its horn. Tsvi Ramigolski gets up from his desk, over which hangs a photograph of his dead brother Aaron. "All right, I'm coming," he murmurs abstractedly, as if someone will hear him and stop hooting. He hurries out into the dusty square in front of the hut. Halfway there, he claps his hand to his forehead and goes back to pick up the outward-bound mail that in his haste he has forgotten. Then he presses through the impatient crowd thronging round the van, exchanges bundles, and shouts out the names of those who have letters. Gai Harish clutches the lucky ones and begs for the stamps. Oren Geva eyes the silver emblem on the hood of the van and thinks inscrutable thoughts. Herbert Segal, meanwhile, receives a new record with religious awe and scrutinizes the writing on the wrapper. Mendel Morag is here, too, to send a parcel of cakes to his relatives.

We live in a small, far-off land, in its northeastern extremity, in a small village a long way from the nearest town. Like all isolated communities, always and everywhere, we love getting letters. Let us imagine that we have the right to peep at letters that are not addressed to us and see what excitements we can espy.

Here, for instance, is a letter from Rami Rimon to his onetime girl friend. It contains no reproach and no words of conciliation. It is a very short letter: the obligatory words of greeting, then a brief description of his preliminary training. What news at home? I'm holding my own, and I've had some pieces of good luck I'll tell you about some other time. Food's not bad. Not enough sleep. One can get used to anything, though. You forget some things and learn others. I hope things on our border don't get too hot before I get there, because I want to be in on the action. Nothing else to report. If you can, say a few nice words to my mother now and then. It must be hard on her. Write to me if you feel like it.

Fruma, too, has had a letter from her son. Rami's letter to his mother is even shorter than the one to Noga. No description of his training, not even a brief one. No mention of the shortage of sleep. All he says is that he is well, that the others in his tent are all pleasant boys, though a mixed bunch, that he's in excellent health. He hopes she isn't mourning for him day and night. He'll come home on leave soon. Finally, as if after reconsideration, he remarks the cookies were lovely, Mom, and it would be nice if you sent me some more.

Fruma, of course, will bake some and send them off very soon. What a pity her relations with other people nowadays are so bitterly quarrelsome.

Dr. Nehemiah Berger writes to his brother and sister-in-law from Jerusalem. He thanks them for being kind enough to invite him to stay. He is almost on his way. No, he is not afraid of the situation on the border. On the contrary, he sometimes finds Jerusalem terribly dreary. He is so bored that he is unable to concentrate on his research, so he is wasting his time on ridiculous translations that earn him his living. What a tragicomic paradox: one earns five times as much for a mechanical translation as for original research. He's not afraid of the heat in the valley, either. Jerusalem may be cooler but it is the dryness that makes him ill and drains the intellectual juices that are vital for creative work. Above all, he confesses to an overpowering longing to see his relatives again. What sort of life do I lead here? No wife, no children, only painful research work, and who can say whether I shall live to complete it? Sometimes I say to myself, Nehemiah, the history of Jewish socialism is a complex structure of wonders and miracles. Who are you to try and plumb its depths? There's one thing I know, and I'll maintain it till my dying day: anyone who says that socialism is an imported plant in our garden doesn't know what he's talking about. We never dissociated our national messianic aspirations from the goal of social salvation. But to prove it one has to explore paths thousands of years old, picking up a fragment here and there, without getting lost in the details and losing sight of the fundamental thesis. It's wearisome work. And who can I talk to about it except to you, my dear Ezra and Bronka, my nearest and dearest, and your dear children? Which reminds me, how is Einav? It can't be long now till the birth. I hope and pray it goes well. Our brother Zechariah sent me a picture postcard. He may be coming over, but he doesn't give any details. Does he write to you regularly? Give my love to Oren and little Tomer — he's probably not so little any more — and to Einav. I'll be on my way to see you soon. All the best. Your loving brother, Nehemiah.

And what about Siegfried? Siegfried's letter is rather strange, brimming with an odd joy. Has peace finally come to your land? A curse on the enemies of Israel who do not let us find our redemption quietly. Look after yourselves. Wouldn't it be better for our dear Einav to move away from the border till she's had her child? We have a brother in the capital who would be happy to look after her. Think over my advice. Everything is flowing smoothly here. I'm doing good business and "pouring out my wrath on the Gentiles." I've taken on an ex-Gestapo officer as a doorman. You would be as happy as I am if you could only see him bowing and scraping. I'm so happy to have my enemies in my power. Revenge is certainly sweet. Sweeter than honey. I've got the gold and silver now, and they all dance attendance on me, with "Jawohl, Herr Berger," "Bitte, Herr Berger," "Danke, Herr Berger," "Wunderbar, Herr Berger." When I see you in a few weeks' time I'll tell you all about it, and we can enjoy the enemy's humiliation together. There is justice in this world, that's what I say, even if our national poet Bialik isn't right when he says "justice will be done when I depart this world." Here am I, the son of a Polish-Jewish cantor who was burned in the furnaces of Sobibor, lording it over the son of a Prussian Junker, the grandson of a Prussian Junker, the great-grandson of the Devil himself, and he is grateful to me for paying him a couple of pence more than doormen get paid in other clubs. It's a miracle, that's what I say. Signs and wonders, mighty hand and outstretched arm! Incidentally, Hamburger has just bought another car. He's got two now, one for himself and one for his wife. What a pity that he's so blinded by wealth he can't see the wonder of it. He's also taken on a liveried chauffeur. Eva will tell you her news herself. I'll leave her some room.

Eva says thank you for the pretty picture. Here in Munich the weather is cold and rainy. The rain never stops. It has a certain beauty, but I feel sad when I remember the weather in the valley. Life is quiet and pleasant here. But no life is entirely free from sadness. And all sorts of strange thoughts. Be well. Tell me how Stella is getting on at school. Do you think Reuven would be good enough to cut off a lock of her hair and send it to me via you? Would you ask him? Please. I pray that my daughter won't hate me. Yours, Eva.

Ezra Berger reads the letter from his two brothers, the one in Germany and the other in Jerusalem, and thinks them over during one of the long silences between himself and his little friend. Amazing things happen. Wonders and miracles, as Zechariah says. Father used to say to us, love work and hate power and put your heart into everything you do. But nobody could say that Father put his heart into being a cantor. May he rest in perfect peace. When Nehemiah ran away to Lvov, to the university, Father went into mourning for him. When Ezra joined the movement and came to Palestine, Father said we all have our trials to bear. When Siegfried went off and became Siegfried, Father said it's a very sore trial. Two's company, three's a crowd, little Noga. There's a great truth in that. Pour out your wrath on the Gentiles, Zechariah said when he came here in 1948. That was his be-all and end-all. I remember a terrible argument he had with Nehemiah. I'm going to go back there, he said, and be a dirty Jew. A filthy Yid. That's what he said. Yes, I said, you're right, men aren't made of myrrh and frankincense, but you're my brother and you weren't born to be a scoundrel. Nehemiah's argument was different. Stay here, have lots of children. That's our revenge. Zechariah laughed and paraphrased an old saying. Their world stands on three things, he said, murder, fornication, and greed. Those are its three legs. I'm going to smash one or two of those legs, just as they smashed me. As our dear father used to say: Hate power, hate work, hate your enemies, and you'll float like pure oil on sewage. Our brother Zechariah said this, too, that day: a true Jew, gentlemen, must pierce the darkness and eat away the rotten foundations of the earth, as our national poet Bialik puts it. If they bruise our head, we must bruise their heel, and their heels are murder, profit, and debauchery. Murder is forbidden in the Torah, but even the Devil wouldn't stop me debauching them and bleeding their money out of them. So Zechariah went to Munich, and Nehemiah lives in Jerusalem. "It is better for me to die than to live." "Would God I had died for you." Those verses may be allegorical, or something, but they're not true. That's what I think, little Turquoise. Here am I sitting under my vine and under my fig tree, as the Bible says, and my wife as a fruitful vine by the sides of my house, and where's Ramigolski now? Ramigolski is a white skeleton without a wrapping. My fate has been better than Zechariah's, better than Nehemiah's, better than my friend Ramigolski's. My lot has been a happy one. But it doesn't matter. It doesn't mean a thing. I was thinking and I happened to talk aloud, like a man crying out when he dreams. Listen, Turquoise, my brother who lives in Germany can interpret dreams. Really. We didn't throw him in a pit and show his striped robe to our father. You don't understand? I'll explain. A: Who wears striped robes nowadays? Only the Arabs. B: Our father was burned. C: Our brother, who interprets dreams, doesn't feed the Gentiles; he pours out his wrath on them. D: Conclusion. There is no conclusion. The conclusion is that the analogy doesn't work, and it's best to forget about it, because I'm tired and it's half past midnight.

Between Ezra and Bronka there is silence.

Since they live in a small apartment, they sometimes accidentally touch or bump into one another. Then they look at each other. Bronka pales. Ezra mutters:

"Sorry."

Bronka does not ask. Ezra doesn't expect her to ask. All she ever asks is, for instance:

"Have you written to your brothers yet?"

And Ezra, as if weighing her words before he answers:

"Not yet. Maybe I'll have time on Saturday. We'll see."

Ezra spends most of his time in his truck. What little free time he has is divided between his friends the fishermen of Tiberias and his little friend, in the grove beside the swimming pool. It is surprising, in view of this, that he did not forget Bronka's birthday. On one of his journeys he bought her a pretty vase, and set it silently on her bedside table. As for Bronka, she did not refuse her present. As she buttoned up her housecoat, early in the morning, with her back to him, she said:

"Thank you. It was kind of you."

Ezra replied tersely:

"Yes."

Bronka said:

"Perhaps you could take the curtains down for me, too. They've got to be washed; they're all dusty."

And Ezra:

"Why not? May I stand on this chair, or must I go and borrow a stepladder from the stores?"

Every Sunday, the beginning of the week, Bronka lays at the foot of her husband's bed a clean, neatly folded shirt and pair of trousers. Every Friday she takes his dirty working clothes, turns the pockets inside out, and puts them in the laundry bag. And every night, when Ezra gets back from his journey, he finds a cup of tea waiting for him as usual on the table, covered with a saucer to keep it warm. Every three or four days Tomer visits his parents' house to see to the little garden. Oren empties the garbage bins every three days, provided his mother reminds him and provided he is not suffering from one of the dark moods that take hold of him from time to time for no apparent reason. And Einav, on those evenings when Bronka does not feel well, brings her her supper on a tray, covered with a white napkin. Recently, Bronka has been unwell for three days running. Ezra did not give up his second daily trip, but he bought his wife a book about symphonic music in Tel Aviv to take her mind off her illness and her thoughts.

Now for an act of heroism.

On Saturday evening, when the other members were all gathered for their weekly meeting, Tomer Geva started up a gray tractor, switched on the headlights, and set out to turn off the irrigation taps in the outlying fields. On the way he thought about various things, about his father, for instance, who had still not lost his youthful vigor. A great mystery this, which impresses Arabs and women; it is the only thing that lets you live your life, and without it you're nothing. On the way he almost ran over a jackal, which was caught in the headlights and was saved only by its instincts. The creature escaped and was swallowed up in the great darkness, running in terrified zigzags across the fields to the end of the dark, where it rested and wept and laughed with madness in its voice.

The oppressive heat was still making itself felt. And the dogs howled, as dogs do on hot nights. The swish of the sprinklers clashed with the crickets' chirping. Amid these sounds, hideous and deafening, came the vicious howl of bullets close to Tomer's ear. Tomer hesitated for only a fraction of a second. He determined the direction of the shots. With a flick of his hand he put out the lights. He leaped out and landed on the rough earth. The tractor continued at its former pace but headed to the left, down the slope. The bullets pursued the tractor, and the youth was saved, though wounded, apparently, in the arm. The tractor, driverless, rushed down the slope. The bullets pierced it with fierce savagery. There was a roar, flashes rent the darkness, a dull shock, a guttural shriek, then silence.

Who else except these wretches would have laid an ambush in a wadi and opened fire at night at a range of a hundred yards? The tractor had rolled straight into the thick of them. Terrified as if it had been an armored car, they had thrown a hand grenade at it and run.

***

The next afternoon, after Tomer had been operated on and two bullets removed from his arm, his family and friends gathered round his hospital bed. Congratulations, explanations, and jokes assailed the patient. Even Einav's tears could not detract from the warmhearted atmosphere. We may quote Oren's words. First, the tractor is finished. Done for. The grenade smashed it to smithereens. Perhaps one or two pieces of the engine could still be used. Secondly, there was an investigation. With a tracker and dogs. You should have seen the dogs, Tomer. They ran through the vineyard. You're the talk of the whole valley. A single boy defeated a whole ambush unarmed. They found traces of blood on the way out of the wadi. They blew themselves up with their own grenade. The boy took the tractor and turned it on them. Third, Tomer, reinforcements have been brought up. On both sides. We're flexing our muscles. If we have another squeak out of them — that's what they said to the wogs — we'll smash their whole army. Now we're waiting for them to squeak. So we can smash them. If you'd been better, they'd have done it tonight. Crushed them bone by bone. Squashed them. Till there was nothing left.

Oren's dark eyes flashed with excitement. Hatred hardened the set of his jaws and his mouth. There was no smile on his face, only icy rage. Tomer lifted himself up in bed and gave his brother's chin a friendly punch with his good hand. He smiled a forced, fleeting smile, but it met with no response. Oren was not disposed to let affection interfere with serious business. Let us take a look at his face. If we interpret the signs rightly, an enthralling idea is going through the boy's mind. Despite his self-control, he is biting his lower lip. He looks excited.

17. TWO WOMEN

Reuven Harish is fond of stories that bring out the bright side of human nature, such as that of the well-fed, pleasure-loving businessman who is fired one day with a holy zeal and dedicates his life and fortune to the welfare of the Jewish nation, or of the difficult, repressed man who is overcome one day by a spark of humanity and self-sacrifice. Stories such as these appeal to his considered view of the world, according to which life is too complicated to be reducible to simple formulas.

It is a pity that Fruma Rominov does not seem willing to comply with this scheme and betray unexpected symptoms of love of her fellow men. Fruma Rominov does not like kibbutz life. Even her face seems to testify to her consuming sense of mortification. Her mouth droops sulkily like a spoiled child's; her tiny eyes of indeterminate color search your face as if to mock at your weakness. Her gray hair is dry, her body lean and angular under her blue dress. Fundamentally, we agree with Reuven Harish's negative view of Fruma. But there is a side to her character that merits respect and that we must not overlook in forming our opinion of her. Fruma Rominov does not believe in kibbutz life, yet she adheres zealously to its principles, because so long as the principles remain unaltered she holds that even their opponents must observe them strictly. She does not approve of compromises. She sees cant and hypocrisy for what it is. And that is to Fruma Rominov's credit.

The heat wave lasted for nine days. Then a westerly breeze whirled pleasantly into the valley and chased the hamsin back toward the bleak mountains and beyond them to the desert plains to the east. The cool air touched the inanimate objects and soothed their raging fury. We could breathe again. The oppressive heat had dried the very marrow in our bones. Now we could be more agreeable. We would not give up judging one another, for that is our secret weapon in our task of world reform, but from now on we could temper our judgments with a measure of charity.

It goes without saying that this does not apply to Fruma Rominov. Fruma stands apart from the general relief. It is evening time. Fruma bustles around the great baking oven in the communal kitchen. She is baking cookies. Two evenings a week the large oven is available to the women of the kibbutz for their private baking. Fruma Rominov is baking cookies for her son the soldier. A few weeks ago Fruma emerged from her shell and stealthily left a dish of little cakes on Noga Harish's bed. Fruma imagined that Noga would one day be the mother of her grandchildren. But in the meantime something shameful has happened. Her mother's lascivious blood runs in her veins. How could she have done a thing like that to Rami at such a difficult time? And I know my boy was fond of her. She doesn't deserve him. Sometimes I think there is more immorality in a kibbutz than elsewhere. It's not an accident. If only Yoash… Yoash would have made his way in the world. Yoash could have overcome all the obstacles. Yoash would have sorted out his life and become a somebody. He was well-balanced. He could have spat on them all. He could have been a somebody. But Rami will also settle down. After his military service they'll give him an important job, and perhaps there'll be a small room in his apartment for me. In Haifa, maybe, on the Carmel. I need to live somewhere high up, because I'm not well. I'll have a room of my own and I'll look after the children when you go out to the movies. It's a good thing, from that point of view, that he's a long way from the little hussy now. I'll bring up the children to be well-mannered. Not little savages. Don't worry about that hussy. You'll find someone better, even someone prettier. Because you're a good-looking boy. This is no place for a boy like you. This is a place for invalids. And you're so strong. You're much better-looking than she is. You're good-looking like Yoash. You'll laugh at them. You've got the kind of looks that drive girls wild. That's what I say, and I know what I'm talking about.

With a sigh Fruma bent down to look at the oven, screwing up her eyes because of the heat. The cookies smelled good.

"A few more minutes," she said.

Einav Geva, who was also baking, said:

"I never take mine out at the right time. It's always either too soon or too late. I haven't got your knack, Fruma, of catching them at the exact moment."

"Never mind," Fruma answered, "experience comes with age. That's life."

How she limps. Tomer Berger, such a greasy Casanova, and he's ended up catching a cripple. Or did she catch him? You'll make such a marriage, Rami, that their eyes will pop out of their heads. Only take care of yourself. Because you're good-looking. You may not be brilliant. Not so good at talking in impressive phrases. But you're straightforward. Like me. Sometimes I'm sad when I think how straightforward people suffer in this life. Clever people don't say everything they think. But you always say everything you think, son. Always. To everyone. It's not wise, Rami, it's not always wise. But you'll develop. You have an open mind. You'll learn from experience. You won't always be the good little lamb that everyone exploits. If they want a volunteer to unload a truckload of manure at six o'clock in the evening? Rami. If they need someone to get a dead cat out of the food store? Rami. Rami, Rami, always Rami. Don't be a fool. Don't be such a simpleton. Now they're laughing at you because your girl-friend's left you and gone off with an old lecher. They don't understand that you're not a fool. You enjoyed her, and then you dumped her because she's not a nice girl for all her good looks. That's what happened. Yes, that's how it was, idiot. You don't always have to tell the whole truth. Don't be a simpleton, or they'll destroy you. They don't deserve to have you living here, because you're decent to your finger-tips, like your mother. Now, now's the right moment to take them out. She limps twice as badly now she's pregnant. What a terrible limp.

Fruma removes the hot tray from the oven with an old cloth and holds it under Einav's nose.

"Sniff this. Smells good, eh?"

Einav smiles shyly and says:

"You're unbeatable, Fruma."

"Try one. Melts in the mouth, eh? Take another one, for your husband. They say he likes sweet things. By the way, when are you having your baby? You must have worked it out."

"Next month, apparently."

"Splendid. I'm delighted to hear it. It doesn't have to be difficult the first time. Don't let your friends frighten you. What are you going to call the child?"

"I, we thought…"

"What about Reuven? Reuven Berger. It would make your mother-in-law very happy. By the way, they say she hasn't been too cheerful lately."

"Do you think…"

"No. I didn't mean anything specific. Just generally. You know I… I'm not a hypocrite. But I wanted to say something to you, something personal. It's about your leg. There's a new doctor in Jerusalem, at the Hadassa Hospital, a recent immigrant from Poland, who works miracles with orthopedic cases. There was an interesting article about it in the paper — perhaps you saw it. As soon as I read it, I thought of you. I'm always like that. I think a lot about other people, but I don't make a big fuss about it. It might be worth your going to Jerusalem to see this doctor. It can't do any harm. You never know in life what will change your luck. Isn't that right? Your leg's got worse recently, hasn't it? You don't mind me talking about it, do you? I've really been thinking about you recently. You're still young, and you ought to try to be pretty. Men are apt to behave badly when they don't find their wives attractive physically. That's life."

Einav tries to change the subject. It's natural.

"I don't care if I'm pretty or not, at the moment. I can't think about such things just now. What does Rami have to say, Fruma?"

As if by magic Fruma's face changes. The wrinkles round her eyes vanish, the firm set of her jaws relaxes somewhat, and the corners of her mouth droop, suggesting a spoiled child about to burst into tears.

"Rami? My Rami? He writes me wonderful letters. He's getting on marvelously in the army. Rami is like me: he's so honest and straightforward and dedicated that he's well thought of everywhere. It's a very rare quality. Incidentally, I think that your father-in-law is only carrying on with Reuven Harish's daughter now because my Rami paved the way for him, so to speak. But my Rami saw straightaway that it was rotten fruit. He took a bite, enjoyed it a bit, then threw it away." (Here Fruma wrinkles her nose in disgust. Her voice is full of venom. Her face is twisted in a cruel, gloating grin.) "Your father-in-law picked up and sucked what my Rami threw away. It's disgusting. All in all, there are interesting goings on in your family now. If I were in your place, I'd keep an eye on my husband. I hope you don't mind me talking about it. I'm saying it for your good, really. After all, I've had a lot of experience, and I only want to give you sound advice. Now that your husband's been wounded, you'd better be all eyes. It gives them a kind of magic charm. Incidentally, they say that little Dafna's got her eyes on Tomer. These things have become fashionable now among our young girls, as everybody seems to realize except our schoolteachers. That's life."

Einav looks down at the pastry on the table in front of her, kneading it and molding it into little cakes. She does not look up at Fruma. She wants to avoid the malice, but she does not understand it clearly. She is not glad of Fruma's company.

Unhurriedly, Fruma transfers her cookies from the baking sheet to a tin, and unhurriedly she lights a cigarette and casts a serious glance at Nina Goldring, who is in charge of the stores, dragging a sack of sugar. Isn't that just typical of the kibbutz? Typical. A woman struggling and nobody offering to help her.

"Nina, do you want a hand?"

"No, thanks," Nina says, "I've finished. That's where it goes. Thanks, anyway, it was kind of you to offer."

"What do you think, Fruma?" Einav asks. "Is the hamsin going to start again? I wouldn't want to have the baby in a heat wave."

"You're quite right, my girl. That's very true. The hamsin drives men wild. You'll go away to have the baby, and he'll find himself some tasty morsel behind your back. Taste one of this kind, too, Einav. I put a bit of wine in the pastry. Delicious, isn't it? Does Bronka ever bake cakes for you? No? Not surprising. They say she's very busy. Teaching. It's interesting, by the way, I've been reading a novel just this week about an actress who had nine husbands, one after the other, and, then, when she was already a grandmother, she got married again to a young artist. You haven't tried these yet, Einav, the spiced ones. They're excellent. Here, take one, don't refuse an old widow. Well, then… What were we talking about? Yes. Imagine if your mother-in-law suddenly got pregnant by Reuven Harish. You think it's impossible? You'd be surprised if you knew some of the things that happen. There's a novel about an old man who has a child as a mistress. I read a lot now I'm all alone. Somebody ought to write a novel some day about our kibbutz. There's plenty of interesting material. And symbolism, too."

Einav asks Fruma when Rami will be coming home on leave. Fruma looks at Einav and doesn't understand for a moment what connection there is between her question and what went before. But she is not perplexed for long. A sour smile of complicity flits across her face and instantly vanishes.

"One day I'll show you my Rami's letters. He writes beautifully. I'm sure he's got a natural talent for writing. If only the teachers here had taken the trouble to help him develop. But no, they didn't do it and they never would. They're not interested in developing talents. On the contrary. They want to produce simple people. Just simple people, who'll work all day in the fields and go to bed at night and make children and grab a weapon when it's necessary and rush out to die heroically in battle. Constructive people. Come and see me some time, Einav; I'll give you the address of that Pole in Jerusalem. Your cake could have turned out quite well, Einav. It's only a little bit burned. Never mind. Experience comes with age."

Fruma Rominov is a thin, wrinkled woman. She holds herself very erect. Her nose is narrow and pointed like a bird's beak, her hair is faded to an indeterminate color, her eyes are blue. Her eyes are blue, but sometimes, when a gloating look comes into them, they take on a vague, murky color. She is slightly built, and her movements are sharp and lively. Her mouth is different. It frequently has an offended air, and its corners twitch tearfully. Her movements, as we have said, are sharp and lively, and they fill you with nervous apprehension. As if you have something to fear.

In the old days Alter Rominov's cheerful laugh moderated his wife's bitterness. Alter Rominov was a tiny man, like his wife. It was amazing that from such loins should have sprung a strapping, well-built pair of sons. The boys did not inherit their father's cramped, European-Jewish appearance. Apart from the horsy jaws, none of Alter Rominov's features was reproduced in his two sons. For obvious reasons they hebraized their surname from Rominov to Rimon.

We loved their father for his unbounded kindness. He was always in a good mood. Always trying to be funny. There was nothing sharp about his humor; his jokes, like their author, were mild, pale, and inoffensive. The kind of jokes that win a man neither admirers nor enemies. He was the principal butt of his own humor. "Don't give me a gun when I'm on night watch," he said. "A man like me can frighten robbers away unarmed." We understood him and felt a gentle sympathy for him. His name was omitted from the rota of night watchmen.

The physical work ruined Alter Rominov. Most of the founder-members of the kibbutz adapted and acclimatized themselves to the rigors of the life. The work and the climate brought out a dormant strength in such characters as Reuven Harish and Ezra Berger, and, of course, Grisha Isarov — each in his own way. But Alter Rominov grew weaker and weaker and looked more shriveled every summer. He used to wander around the camp, battered and exhausted, trying to hide his weakness with poor jokes.

"You can see that I'm 100 per cent European," he used to say. "You've become completely Asiatic, but I'm a European through and through. The hamsin finishes me off. What I need is white ducks and a topee."

And when you slapped him heartily on the back and asked how he was, he would answer:

"I feel like a rabbinical student pressed into the Czar's service, ha ha ha."

He was miserable, and there was always a look of shy puzzlement in his eyes, which could be quite endearing. But he also had a stubborn pride. It was his pride that made him resist his wife's attempts to persuade him to leave the kibbutz and live like a civilized human being. He listened to everything else she said, but not to this. To his sons he used to say:

"The land of Israel ought to be the opposite of the ghetto. If we want to make a ghetto, it would have been better to stay in Europe. At least there there was no hamsin."

And it was during a hamsin that he collapsed and died. Not like his son Yoash and not like his friend Aaron Ramigolski, but like a ghetto Jew. In his last years he had been working in the laundry, but one morning he was asked to go and help Israel Tsitron in the banana plantation. Alter put on a curious hat and said:

"For the sake of the nation, let's try irrigation!"

He worked the irrigation pipes for three or four hours. When the sun began to beat down on his head, he vomited. He was told to sit down and rest. He gave one of his shy smiles and said:

"Death among the hose pipes."

Ten minutes later he vomited again, flopped down, and said:

"I'm so hot."

Israel Tsitron went off to fetch him some water. When he came back, Rominov was sitting with his back against the trunk of a gigantic banana tree, as if he were resting; but he was dead. Fruma contends that we killed him. We deny the charge gently and try to change the subject. Reuven Harish wrote a poem in his memory, which was published in our news sheet.

Two years later Yoash Rimon fell in the Suez campaign. He was commanding a parachute squadron. The two successive disasters did not break Fruma's spirit. She revealed great resources of strength. It must be counted to our credit that we do not judge Fruma with our accustomed severity. What a pity that she, for her part, judges our actions with redoubled severity. Fruma Rominov volunteered to run the kindergarten, which she does with intelligence and authority. The children love her because she does not practice favoritism and because she always tells them the truth, even the kind of truth that is not normally told to small children. The parents respect her. On the education committee she is outstanding for her consistent and uncompromising stands. On several issues she has saved us from adopting the easy way out. At one of the meetings she said:

"I am opposed to certain aspects of the kibbutz ideology. But since they exist, they must be upheld. Hypocrisy is no solution. It's very easy to pretend, but one pretence leads to another. That's life. And therefore…"

Such words naturally engrave themselves on one's memory.

***

Fruma Rominov gathers up her baking equipment and her cakes, covers the whole trayload with a white cloth, and steps briskly out of the kitchen, asking Einav on the way whether she can do anything to help her. Einav thanks her and says she can manage by herself. Fruma tells Einav that she is a wonderful girl and goes out into the night. The night stoops over her and blows vague scents in her face.

18. MENACE

The night stoops over you and blows its scents at you.

An unpleasant, sour smell wafts from the hen house. A dense vapor from the cowshed, a damp smell from the stores. Various odors drift from all sides. A wild smell from the fields. The riotous air of the mountains provides a lively accompaniment. The cascades of mingled odors excite the furious barking of the dogs, which gives way to distracted and terrifying howls.

The moon is still in hiding. Your eyes seek its pale radiance and find only the stars, conversing in a bluish Sicker. The mighty, moonless sky is indifferent alike to you and to the silent, encircling foe.

Our village is encircled. Outside the fence something stirs. If only you could interpret the signs. A snarling menace surrounds the fence trying to penetrate and disrupt our tidy order. Base treason whispers already on the outskirts of the camp. Mute objects mutiny first. In the panting darkness they slowly change their shape. Take on other forms. You look at them, and they seem alien; their angles soften and curve. You look at the trusty bench half hidden, as always, among the flowering shrubs, and you find all its lines altered. You sharpen your gaze and try to put down the treachery, and it intensifies with a snicker. There are no lines to be seen. Only shapes, unconnected shapes, black within black wrapped in black. You fix your eyes on a pleasant arbor, but they seem to detect a cautious movement. Look up at the mighty sky. There, at least, things are as they were. But no. Even above you something is happening. From the top of the water tower a bluish light hits you with a terrifying wink. A spasm has seized dumb objects. They are rebeling against good order. Even the searchlight beam quivers apprehensively. Unruly shadows respond with a riotous dance.

Now the crickets. The crickets exchange secret messages. Into their concentration intrudes the distant throbbing of the refrigeration plant. The swishing sprinklers intrigue against you and join the side of the crickets. The crickets are learning your secrets and signaling your fears to their listening friends out in the hostile fields.

The mountains are invisible, but their presence broods over the valley. The mountains are there. Drunken gorges pouring down to attack us. Blocks of dark rock hanging high up as by a thread, threatening to sever their connection with the mountain. A hint of a movement, a patient, subdued murmur comes creeping. The mountains are there. In total silence, they are there. Standing like curved columns, like giants frozen in some obscene act and turned to stone, the mountains are there.

The mountains stand in massive succession. Plotting evil deep in their frozen cascades of rock. The mountains are scored by ravines. The mountains are invisible in the darkness, but the stars declare their position. To the east the pattern of stars breaks to reveal a clearly defined pool of black. A massive screen blocks the stars. That is where the mountains are. That is where they are silently waiting to see what will happen. It won't be long now. The night is charged.

19. THE CLAPPER IN THE BELL

The decision had been taken some days earlier in the highest circles. Our kibbutz was to work a small field known as the Camel's Field, at the foot of the mountain, which had been the object of bloody disputes between the two warring states. From the legal point of view the land was ours, as the maps testified. But the reality was different. For years now the small plot had been worked by fellahin who came down the mountain under the protective cover of the enemy army. After careful consideration it had been decided that the time was ripe to make the facts correspond to the theory and to assert our legal right to the land. The army, of course, was to be responsible for our protection.

Tsvi Ramigolski, the secretary of the kibbutz, said:

"We must hope for the best but be prepared for the worst."

Nina Goldring said:

"Let's hope it all goes smoothly."

Reuven Harish said:

"The issue may be no more than symbolic. But only fools refuse to recognize that life is made up of symbols."

And Grisha Isarov, accompanied by a chorus of enthusiastic youngsters:

"At last!"

We were ordered to have an armor-plated tractor ready in the shed, to draw up a list of names, and to wait for the signal, which might come, we were told, at any moment between now and the winter. We had to wait twenty whole weeks for the signal to come. Things did not get under way till the autumn. Meanwhile, other events, of a personal character, took place.

Noga Harish goes into her room and turns the light on.

It's late. Ten o'clock. Where is Dafna? Dafna has gone to the basketball field to watch a game and admire Tomer's half-naked torso. The game is over by now. The voices have died away, the floodlighting is off. Dafna, as usual, has gone with the players to crown their victory with flattering remarks. A crowd of players and supporters has gathered in the dining hall to celebrate the team's achievements with bottles of fruit juice.

Noga's room is silent. Noga is stretched out on her bed, leafing through a book of verse by a young poetess. She is not reading. Her hands are turning the pages idly, while her eyes stare up at the ceiling.

Grandma Stella, Mother's mother, was a very stern woman. Uncle Isaac is Mother's cousin, and a match was arranged between them when they were children, as between kings and princesses in the Middle Ages. Then Daddy came and spoiled all the arrangements. The princess ran away with the minstrel. The kingdom was in a ferment. Uncle Isaac was a pianist. He still is. I remember when he came here, he lifted me onto his lap and he was fat and he tried to teach me to play the piano in the recreation hall. He kept kissing me. I remember his smell. It was a strong, rough smell, very hot and rather frightening. He was terribly polite. He brought me dolls and clothes for them and mechanical toys for Gai. Daddy wouldn't let us take them because we're kibbutz children and because they came from Germany, a land of murderers. What is a land of murderers? I'd like to go and see the land of murderers some day. Mother said that suffering had corrupted Uncle Isaac and that she was responsible for him and had to purify him. How do you purify a man? How does suffering corrupt? What does it corrupt? At the end of the story the princess came back to the crown prince as the fairy grandmother had decreed. A young peasant lad had snatched her away, but she went back to the palace and lived happily ever after. Now comes the question. Where am I? I'm not in the story. I must find an opening and get into the story. I'm the peasant's pretty daughter, and the princess… No. I'm the princess's daughter by… No. I'm the little daughter who stayed behind with Phalti, the son of Laish, when Michal went back to the palace to the old minstrel king David. I look like Grandma Stella. He walked behind her crying. He's got strong shoulders. They're hairy. They're bent, as if he's tired. Her mother's blood flows in her veins. In another hour or two he'll be back. Therefore shall a man leave everything and cleave to his wife and they shall be one flesh. I said to him, Ezra, it's just words. It can't be like that. One flesh is only in poetry. They're two people really. Where am I in the story? Little lunatic. Only a lunatic would throw stones into the pool at night to smash the moon's reflection to make the moon a white puddle trembling in a black puddle. One day, in a hundred years, in a thousand years' time, you'll take me in your truck, and we'll go somewhere else. Perhaps to your fishermen in Tiberias. They're your friends. You're a fisherman. I'll be a goldfish. Mother used to love water. Streams and rivers and lakes. I belong to the mountains. When I was little, Daddy used to teach us a poem at school about a vulture, and I was the vulture. You're not saying anything, my big bear. You never say anything. Only proverbs. Don't talk to me in proverbs; I've heard them all before. Come here, touch me. Your hands are always so warm. Feel mine. They're frozen, aren't they? Let's see if you can say a proverb about my hands — quickly without thinking. No. Don't. Let's go for a ride in your truck, dear bear. A long way away. Now listen to a pretty thought: if you were my father, I'd be your daughter. It's eleven o'clock already. Time won't pass, and you won't come and be my daddy. My grandmother's name was Stella, and Mother's new husband is her kind of fella. You think you know who I am. I'm Turquoise Hamburger. You don't know a thing. You're just a simple truck driver. I'm the queen's long-lost daughter. I'm a little girl whose big sister took her to the desert and left her there and went back to the palace without her. But I'm going. I'm going to the palace. The murderers won't hurt me. I know a secret password. I'll go to the palace, and she'll scream with terror. She'll fall at my feet, and I'll spare her. Perhaps. Then I shall have a case to try. One man stole another man's wife, and I shall punish them both severely. The one who stole the poor man's lamb has sinned before me, and the other one will be punished because he didn't cry out or resist. Why did you give in, dear bear? You're so strong. The queen knows you're strong. After all, the queen is really your daughter. That's a secret. So why didn't you say anything? You talk, but you don't say anything. My father isn't made of myrrh and frankincense, and you're not, but I am. How innocent they both are, my fathers.

You're heavy, Ezra. That's what I love about you: you're heavy. You're big but you're simple. I'm going to embroider you on a napkin, because I love you. Don't talk. A horse is a wonderful animal. It's a paradoxical animal. It can be obedient like a donkey, but it can also gallop across the plains. Don't talk proverbs. When a horse sweats, it smells of love. I get excited when I think of a horse's smell. No, don't talk. Let's travel. Let's go somewhere else. A gypsy girl and a bear. Don't talk. A galloping horse is the most wonderful animal in the world. It will gallop into the distance, and we'll hear its hoofbeats like a clapper like a heartbeat like a drumbeat in the king's palace when the gypsies come and it suddenly turns out that the girl with the dancing bear is the princess is the clapper in the bell.

20. IF THERE IS JUSTICE

Rami Rimon came home for the weekend on leave.

His face was thinner. His skin had shrunk a little. His jaws seemed more prominent. The lines on his face were sharper. His mother's face struggling to get out. Fine creases ringed his mouth. The sun had etched wrinkles round his eyes. Twin furrows ran from his nose to the corners of his mouth.

He was wearing an impeccable greenish uniform, with his beret tucked in his pocket. His stout boots were shod with steel at toe and heel. His sleeves were rolled up to reveal hairy forearms, and his hands were covered with little scars. He was conscious of his manly appearance as he strode slowly across the yard with an air of studied indifference. The men and women he met greeted him warmly. He responded with an offhand nod. There were traces of gun grease under his fingernails, and his left elbow was dressed with a grubby bandage.

When the first tumult of hugs and kisses, received by Rami with a wavering smile, had died down, Fruma said:

"Well, you won't believe it, but I was just thinking of you the moment before you turned up. Mother's intuition."

Rami thought there was nothing strange in that. He had said in his letter that he would come on Friday afternoon, and she knew perfectly well what time the bus came. As he spoke, he put down his shabby kit bag, pulled his shirt outside his trousers, lit a cigarette, and laid a heavy hand on Fruma's shoulder.

"It's good to see you, Mom. I wanted to tell you that I'm really glad to see you again."

Fruma glanced at his dusty boots and said:

"You've lost so much weight."

Rami drew on his cigarette and asked about her health.

"Come inside and have a shower before dinner. You're all sweaty. Would you like a cold drink first? No. A warm drink would be better for you. Wait, though, the first thing is to take you along to the surgery. I want the nurse to have a look at your elbow."

Rami started to explain about the wound. It happened during a bayonet practice; the clumsy oaf of a section commander… but Fruma did not let him finish the story.

"There you go dropping your ash on the floor. I've just washed it in your honor. There are four ash trays in the house, and you…"

Rami sat down in his filthy clothes on the clean white bedspread and kicked off his boots. Fruma rushed to fetch her husband's old slippers. Her eyes were dry, but she tried to turn her face away from her son to hide the look he disliked so much. Rami, however, pretended not to have seen that strained look, as of a dam about to burst. He lay back on the bed, looked up at the ceiling, drew the ash tray that Fruma had put in his hand closer to him and blew out a puff of smoke.

"The day before yesterday we crossed a river on a rope bridge. Two ropes stretched one above the other, one to walk on and the other to hold. With all our stuff on our backs, spade, blankets, gun, ammunition, the lot. Now, who do you suppose it was who lost his balance and fell in the water? The section commander! We all…"

Fruma eyed her son and exclaimed:

"You've lost at least ten pounds. Have you had any lunch? Where? No, you haven't. I'll dash across to the hall and get you something to eat. Just a snack — I'll make you a proper meal when you've had a rest. How about some raw carrot? It's very good for you. Are you sure? I can't force you. All right, then, have a shower and go to sleep. You can eat when you wake up. But perhaps I'd better take you to the surgery right away. Wait a minute. Here's a nice glass of orange juice. Don't argue, drink it."

"I jumped in the water and fished him out," Rami continued. "Then I had to dive in again to look for his rifle. Poor wretch! It was hilarious. It wasn't his first accident, though. Once, on an exercise…"

"You need some new socks. They're all falling apart," Fruma remarked as she pulled his dirty laundry out of the kit bag.

"Once, on an exercise, he fired his submachine gun by accident. Nearly killed the battalion commander. He's the clumsiest fool you can imagine. You can tell what he's like from his name. He's called Zalman Zulman. I've written a song about him, and we sing it all day long. Listen."

"But they don't feed you there. And you didn't write every other day, as you promised. But I saw in the letter box that you wrote to Noga Harish. That's life. Your mother works her fingers to the bone, and some child comes and collects the honey. It doesn't matter now. There's something I must know: Did she answer your letter? No? Just as I thought. You don't know what she's like. It was just as well you ditched her. Everybody knows what she is. The mistress of a man who's old enough to be her grandfather. It's disgusting. Disgusting. Have you got enough razor blades? It's disgusting, I tell you."

"Is it true they're starting to work the Camel's Field? That's going to cause a flare-up, all right. Provided, of course, the powers that be don't get cold feet. You know, Jewish sentimentality and all that. My buddies say…"

"Go and have a shower. The water's just right now. No, I heard every word. Test me. 'Jewish sentimentality.' There aren't many boys of your age with such an independent way of thinking. After your shower you can have a nap. Meanwhile, I'll ask the nurse to come here. That wound looks very nasty. You've got to have it seen to."

"By the way, Mom, did you just say that she…"

"Yes, son?"

"All right. Never mind. It doesn't matter now."

"Tell me, tell me what you need. I'm not tired. I can do anything you want me to."

"No, thanks, I don't need anything. I just wanted to say something, but it's not important. It's irrelevant. I've forgotten. Stop running around. I can't bear it. We'll talk this evening. Meanwhile, you must have a rest, too."

"Me! I'll rest in my grave. I don't need to rest. I'm not tired. When you were a baby, you had something wrong with your ears. A chronic infection. There weren't any antibiotics then. You cried all night, night after night. You were in pain. And you've always been a sensitive boy. I rocked your cradle all night, night after night, and sang you songs. One does everything for children, without counting the cost. You won't repay me. You'll repay it to your own children. I won't be here any more, but you'll be a good father, because you're so sensitive. You don't think about rest when you're doing something for your children. How old were you then? You've forgotten all about it. It was the time when Yoash started going to school, so it must have been when you were eighteen months old. You were always a delicate child. Here am I rambling on, and you need to sleep. Go to sleep now."

"By the way, Mom, if you're going to the surgery could you bring me some corn ointment. You won't forget, will you?"

At five o'clock Rami woke up, put on a clean white shirt and gray trousers, quietly helped himself to a snack, and then went to the basketball field. On the way he met Einav, limping awkwardly. She asked how he was. He said he was fine. She asked if it was a hard life. He said he was ready to face any hardship. She asked if his mother was pleased with him and answered her own question:

"Of course Fruma's pleased with you. You're so bronzed and handsome."

The field was floodlit, but the light was not noticeable in the bright twilight. The only living souls there were Oren's gang. Rami put his hands in his pockets and stood for a while without doing or saying anything. The Sabbath will go by. Empty. Without anything happening. With mother. Sticky. What do I need? A cigarette. That thin boy playing by himself over there in the corner is called Ido Zohar. Once I caught him sitting in the common room at night writing a poem. What was I saying? A cigarette.

Rami put the cigarette to his mouth and two planes roared by, shattering the Sabbatical calm, hidden in the twilight glow. The dying sun struck sparks off their fuselage. The metal shone back dazzlingly. In a flash Rami realized that they were not our planes. They had the enemy's markings on their wings. An excited shout burst from his throat.

"Theirs!"

Instinctively he looked down, just long enough to hear Oren's confused cry, but by the time he looked up again the drama was almost over. The enemy planes had turned tail and were fleeing from other planes that were approaching powerfully from the southwest, evidently trying to block their escape. Instantly, dark shapes fell through the air toward the orchards to the north. Both planes had jettisoned the spare fuel tanks fixed to their wings to speed their flight. Rami clenched his fists and growled through his teeth, "Let them have it." Before he had finished there was an answering burst of gunfire. Lightning flashed. After what seemed a long interval, there came a dull roll of thunder. The fate of the raid was settled in an instant. The enemy planes disappeared over the mountains, one of them trailing a cloud of white smoke mixed with gray. Their pursuers paused, circled the valley twice like angry hounds, then vanished into the darkening sky.

Oren shouted jubilantly:

"We hit one! We smashed one! We brought one down!"

And Rami Rimon, like a child, not like a soldier, hugged Oren Geva and exclaimed:

"I hope they burn! I hope they burn to death!"

He pounded Oren's ribs exultantly with his fists until Oren drew away groaning with pain. Rami was seized by demented joy.

His joy accompanied him to the dining hall, where a spirit of noisy excitement reigned. He made his way among the tables to where Noga Harish stood in her best dress, looking at the notice board. He put his hands on her shoulders and whispered in her ear:

"Well, silly girl, did you see or didn't you?"

Noga turned to face him with a condescending smile.

"Good Sabbath, Rami. You're very brown. It suits you. You look happy."

"I… I saw it all. From beginning to end. I was up at the basketball field. Suddenly I heard a noise to the east, and I realized at once that…"

"You're like my little brother. You're cute. You're happy."

These remarks encouraged Rami. He spoke up boldly:

"Shall we go outside? Will you come outside with me?"

Noga thought for a moment. Then she smiled inwardly, with her eyes, not with her mouth.

"Why not?" she said.

"Come on then," said Rami, and took hold of her arm. Almost at once he let it go.

When they were outside the dining hall, Noga said:

"Where shall we go?"

Strangely enough, at that moment Noga remembered something she had forgotten: Rami's full name was Avraham. Avraham Rominov.

"Anywhere," Rami said. "Let's go."

Noga suggested they sit down on the yellow bench, facing the door of the dining hall. Rami was embarrassed. People would see them there, he said. And stare at them. And talk.

Noga smiled again, and again she asked calmly, "Why not?"

Rami could find no answer to her question. He crossed his legs, took a cigarette out of his shirt pocket, tapped it three times on his matchbox, stuck it in the corner of his mouth, struck a match, shielded the flame with both hands even though there was no wind, inhaled deeply with half-closed eyes, blew out a long stream of smoke, and when all this was done, lowered his eyes to the ground once more. Finally, he gave her a sidelong glance and began:

"Well? What have you got to say for yourself?"

Noga replied that she hadn't been going to say anything. On the contrary, she thought it was he who was going to do the talking.

"Oh, nothing special. Just… What do you expect me to do?" he suddenly burst out violently. "Spend the whole evening, the whole Sabbath, my whole leave with my mother, like some mother's darling?"

"Why not? She's missed you badly."

"Why not? Because… All right. I can see I bore you. Don't think I can't live without you. I can get on quite well without you. Do you think I can't?"

Noga said she was sure he could manage perfectly well without her.

They fell silent.

Hasia Ramigolski and Esther Klieger-Isarov came toward them, chatting in Yiddish and laughing. When they caught sight of Noga and Rami their conversation stopped dead. As they walked past, Hasia said:

"Good evening. Shabbat Shalom." She dwelt suggestively on the stressed syllables.

Rami grunted, but Noga smiled and said gently:

"A very good evening to you both."

Rami said nothing for a while. Then he murmured:

"Well?"

"I'm listening."

"I hear they're going to start working on the hill," Rami said. "There's going to be trouble."

"It's so pointless."

Rami quickly changed the subject. He told the story of his section commander who had fallen in the water while trying to demonstrate how to cross a river on a rope bridge. He went on to say that it wasn't the poor fool's first accident. "Once, on an exercise, he accidentally fired his submachine gun and nearly killed the battalion commander. You can tell what he's like from his name. He's called Zalman Zulman, of all things. I've written a rhyme about him:

Zalman Zulman's full of fun,

Always letting off his gun.

Zalman Zulman lost his grip,

Took an unexpected dip.

Zalman Zulman…

"Just a minute. Does he play an instrument?"

"Who?"

"Zalman. The man you were talking about. What's the matter with your elbow?"

"What's that got to do with it?" Rami asked indignantly.

"With what?"

"With what we were talking about."

"You were telling me about someone called Zalman. I asked if he played an instrument. You haven't answered my question."

"But I don't see what…"

"You're very brown. It suits you."

"It's hardly surprising. We train all day in the sun. Of course we get brown. Listen: we went on a fifty-mile route march, with all the kit, gun, pack, spade, and all at the trot. Eight of the people in my squad…"

"Chilly, don't you think?"

"…collapsed on the way. And we had to carry them on stretchers. I…"

"I'm cold. Couldn't you finish the story tomorrow? If you don't mind terribly."

"What's the matter?" Rami considered, and then asked thickly, "What's up? Is somebody waiting for you? Are you rushing off to… to keep an appointment?"

"Yes. I've got to take my father his dinner. He isn't well."

"What, again?" Rami asked absently. Noga explained that he had a pain in his chest and the doctor had ordered him to go to bed.

"Next week he's got to go and have an examination. That's all. Shall we meet here again tomorrow afternoon?"

Rami did not answer. He lit another cigarette and threw the lighted match away behind the bench. Noga said good night and started to go. Then she stopped, turned, and said:

"Don't smoke too much."

At that moment five steps separated them. Rami asked irritably why she should care whether he smoked a lot or a little. Noga ignored his question and said:

"You're very brown. It suits you. Good night."

Rami said nothing. He sat alone on the bench until the dancing started in the square, as it did every Friday night at a quarter past nine.

When it was over, shortly before midnight, he set off for his mother's room. He changed his course, however, because he met Dafna Isarov, who asked him if he was going home to bed already, and Rami thought he detected a sneer in her voice. So he turned off the path. His feet guided him toward the cow shed, where he had worked before he was called up. And as he walked he talked to himself.

This could never have happened to Yoash. It's happened to me, though. Women understand only one language, brute force. But, as mother said, I was always a delicate child. Hell. Now they're laughing. Everybody wants something bad to happen to someone else so as to make life more interesting. It's like that everywhere; it's like that on the kibbutz and it's even like that in the army. You're a child you're a child you're a child. You're like my little brother. Maybe being brown does suit me, but it hasn't got me anywhere. She didn't insult me for once. She didn't even call me a horse. What did she do to me tonight, how did she make fun of me? My Rami is a delicate, sensitive boy. I wish I could die. That'd show them. I can bend this sprinkler with my bare hands. That'll drive Theodor Herzl Goldring mad. I've got stronger hands than Yoash. If only he weren't dead, I'd show him. Where am I going? Walking around like some Jack looking for his Jill. Leaping on the mountains, skipping in the hills, as that filthy old lecher would say. People like that ought to be put down. Like Arabs. Punch him in the face, he raises his hands to protect himself, you hit him in the stomach and give him a kick for good measure. All over. Here we are at the cow shed. Hey, Titan, good bull. Are you awake? Bulls sleep standing up because they can't lie down because of the iron ring. If they come to slaughter you, Titan, don't let them. Don't give in. Show your mettle. Don't be a ghetto bull. Give them a corrida. We mustn't give in without a struggle. We must be strong and quick and light and violent like a jet fighter. Swoop and dart and turn and soar like a knife flashing through the sky like a fighter. A fighter is such a powerful thing. I could have been a pilot, but Mother.

Strange that the moon is shining. The moon does strange things. Changes things strangely. Changes the colors of things. Silver. My Rami is a delicate sensitive child Rami writes poems like Izo Zohar he loves nature hell he loves plants and animals hope they bum to death. Her father has a pain in his chest. It's because of old Berger. Dirty old man. Her father taught us a poem by Bialik once, called "The Slaughter," where it says that there is no justice in this world. It's true. It's a ghetto poem, but it's true. He's lived his life, he's got grown-up children, he's found his niche. Why did he steal her from me? What have I done to him? And she said I was brown and handsome. If I'm brown and handsome, and he's old and fat, then why.

When I die, she'll know. It'll shatter her. The moon colors everything white. Silver. Listen, Noga, listen. I've also got a pain in my chest, I'm also in pain, so why don't you. I make fun of Zalman Zulman, she makes fun of me, they all make fun of me. It shows there isn't any justice in the world, only slaughter, Titan, worse than anything the Devil could invent. That's from the same poem. The man who's being slaughtered starts thinking about justice. The man who's slaughtering him thinks only about violence. My mistake was not to use force on her. Why, Titan, why didn't I use force, do you know why? I'll tell you. Because my Rami is a delicate boy curse them he loves nature hope they burn he loves plants and animals filthy whores. That sounds like planes overhead. It's after midnight. I love these planes, roaring along without lights. There's going to be a big war. I'll die. Then they'll know.

The fish ponds. A light in Grisha's hut. A pressure lamp. I can hear Grisha's voice. In the boat. Shouting to his fishermen. He's been in three wars and he's come out alive.

Maybe Dafna, his daughter. Ridiculous. They'd laugh. What's in this filthy shed? Barrels. Sacks of fish food. The fishermen's supper. If they find me here. Grisha's belt. A pistol. It's a revolver. Fancy leaving a revolver in an empty shed. They'll be coming back to eat soon. They'll laugh, they'll laugh. They'll say I went for a walk to look for inspiration. I know how it works. It has a revolving drum with six chambers. You put a bullet in each chamber. After each shot the drum revolves and brings another bullet in line with the barrel. That's how the revolver works. Now let's see how Rami Rimon works. A trial. Without a judge. I'm the judge. Now let's begin.

Rami takes a bullet out of the leather holster, a yellow metal case containing a little brown metal projectile. First of all, he puts the bullet in his mouth. A sharp, metallic taste. Then he puts the bullet in one of the chambers. He spins the drum without looking, because luck must be blind. He puts the gun to his temple. The chances are five to one. He squeezes the trigger. A dry thud. Rami inserts a second bullet. Spins the blind drum. Four to two. Gun to temple. Squeezes. Dry thud. Maybe I'm being silly. We'll soon know, Judge. I'm not trying to kill myself. It's only an experiment. Up to five. A delicate sensitive child couldn't do this. A third bullet. Blind spin. Cold damp hand. I've touched something damp. If I can do this, I'm not a delicate sensitive child. Up to five. Gun to temple. Squeeze the trigger. Dry thud. I'm past halfway. Two more tries. Fourth bullet. Now the odds are against me. Now comes the test. Watch carefully, Judge. Spin. Slowly. The drum, slowly. Without looking. Slowly. Temple. You're crazy. But you're no coward. Slowly squeeze. It's cold here.

Now the fifth. Last one. Like an injection. Delicate sensitive child's trembling. Why? Nothing will happen because nothing's happened so far, even though according to the odds I should have died with the fourth bullet. Don't tremble, dear little delicate child who cried all night with earache, don't tremble, think of Grisha Isarov who's come out of three wars alive. Yoash wouldn't have trembled, because he was Yoash. Little ghetto boy, with a little cap and a gray coat and side curls. I want to know how many I. Not to kill myself. Four. That's enough. Madness to go on. No, we said five — five let it be. Don't change your mind, coward, don't lie, you said five, not four. Five let it be. Put the gun to your temple. Now squeeze, horse, squeeze, you're a ghetto child, you're a little boy, you're my little brother, squeeze. Wait a moment. I'm allowed to think first. Suppose I die here. She'll know. She'll know I wasn't joking. But they'll say "broken heart" they'll say "unrequited love" they'll say "emotional crisis." Sticky, very sticky. Hell. Squeeze. You won't feel a thing. A bullet in the brain is instant death. No time for pain. And afterward? Like plunging through the sky. An invisible fighter. It doesn't hurt. Perhaps I've already pressed the trigger and died perhaps when you die nothing changes. Other people see a corpse blood bones and you carry on as usual. I can try again. If I press the trigger, it's a sign I'm still alive. Afterward everything will be black and warm. When you die it's warm even though the body gets cold. Warm and safe like under a blanket in winter. And quiet. Squeeze. You've got a chance. Like when we used to play dice when I was little and sometimes I wanted very badly to throw a six and I threw a six. Now I want very badly to press the trigger but my finger won't press. Trembling. Careful you don't press it accidentally. Everything is different when the moon shines yellow. Can hear Grisha cursing next week we're going to the firing range that'll be interesting I'll be top of the class I'm an excellent shot now count up to three and shoot. Eyes open. No. Eyes closed. No. One, two, th- no. Up to ten. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten.

But Rami Rimon did not try his luck the fifth time. He put down the revolver and went out into the fields and wandered about till his feet guided him back to the cow shed. Grisha won't notice. And if he does, he'll have a shock. I forgot to check the most important thing. I didn't look inside the gun to see what would have happened if I'd pressed the fifth time. Better not to know. Some things are better left undone.

A new thought occurred to Rami. It soothed him like a gentle caress. Not all men are born to be heroes. Maybe I wasn't born to be a hero. But in every man there's something special, something that isn't in other men. In my nature, for instance, there's a certain sensitivity. A capacity to suffer and feel pain. Perhaps I was born to be an artist, or even a doctor. Some women go for doctors and others go for artists. Men aren't all cast in the same mold. It's true, I'm not Yoash. But Yoash wasn't me. I've got some things he didn't have. A painter, perhaps.

It'll be morning soon. Planes in the sky. Sad. Zalman Zulman's full of fun, always letting off his gun. Zalman Zulman lost his grip, took an unexpected dip. Zalman Zulman, whore like me, looking for justice in the w.c. Zalman Zulman go to bed, time to rest your weary head.

I composed the poem. I can abolish it. It's an abolished poem.

21. TO READ POEMS

The summer is at its height.

The school is closed. The children have been sent to help in the fields. Tractors rumble noisily to and fro. Every spare hand has been pressed into service. Time is short. We, too, are going. Be patient.

We shall leave Reuven Harish in peace. We know that he is going through a difficult period. We refer to his health, not to his family troubles. We judge physical infirmities indulgently. Gone are the days when we made a man like Alter Rominov work in the fields. Most of us are no longer young, and we know the terror of unexplained pains.

Reuven Harish had a pain in his chest, and the doctor ordered him to bed for a few days. He had two women to look after him. Bronka brought him his breakfast and lunch on a tray, and Noga brought him his supper. Noga also looked after Gai on the rare occasions when the little rascal showed up at his father's house. Relations between the two women, not surprisingly, were curt. Bronka might say, for instance:

"The bedclothes need changing."

Noga throws her a sidelong glance, and answers after a deliberate interval:

"Yes."

Bronka asks:

"Does he sleep well at night? If not, I've got some very good pills."

Noga says:

"I don't know. I don't ask him how he sleeps at night."

Bronka says:

"There are some boxes of grapes outside the kitchens. I'll go and fetch some."

Noga says:

"Thank you."

Bronka says:

"You don't have to thank me."

Noga asks with a calm, calculated smile:

"Why not?"

After a few days Reuven went to hospital for a checkup. The results of the examination came in the post at the end of the week. He was not suffering from a malignant disease. The examination had revealed a slight dilation of the blood vessels that, in conjunction with instability and frequent fluctuations in the blood pressure, could give rise to a certain anxiety. Anxiety, not panic, the kibbutz doctor emphasized to the patient. There was no danger. The conclusions were self-evident: to avoid all tension, take plenty of rest, abstain from certain foods, not to give up physical work but not to overdo it. Gardening was an excellent form of exercise. Above all, not to fall prey to depression. The latest expert opinion was that depression has a direct effect on the bodily organs, and the blood vessels provided the prime example. There was no danger, no defect, certainly no cause for panic, only a temporary unpleasantness that demanded a measure of caution and restraint.

One evening Bronka called on Reuven to ask whether he would like to go to the meeting of the classical music circle. She thought it would do him good to go. It would take his mind off his gloomy thoughts. Reuven replied that music would only aggravate his recent tendency to depression. Bronka said that his isolation was encouraging unkind speculation. Reuven answered that he did not consider himself above being judged by his fellows. In any case, he added, waving a frail arm in the general direction of the window, as people grew older they must keep their eyes open. Bronka said she did not see exactly what he was getting at. Reuven did not answer. The room grew darker. Outside the lamp came on and cast a faint light through the window. Reuven groaned. Bronka asked anxiously if he was feeling ill. Reuven ignored her question and said:

"Bronka, very soon you're going to be grandmother to a dear little granddaughter. I've been thinking, perhaps… Perhaps you ought to tell Ezra…"

Before he had finished his sentence Bronka got up from her chair and came over to sit on the edge of his bed. She rolled back the blanket and laid her kind, wrinkled hand on his chest. Her voice when she spoke was full of emotion:

"Reuven."

"Yes?"

"I beg of you…"

"Yes. Carry on."

"Get up. Let's go and listen to the music."

"You know, Bronka, I never took Ezra seriously."

"I don't understand. What are you trying to say?"

"I hadn't judged him, if you see what I mean. Until the day we traveled back from Tel Aviv together. After what happened at the bus station. I was shattered. He didn't gloat. No. That journey opened my eyes. I saw him. I saw that he… that he was alive. Do you know what he talked to me about all the way?"

"The Bible? The fishermen? His two brothers?"

"No. About death. He said the important thing wasn't to die gloriously. It was to die as late as possible. You remember the Dutch colonel? You know, I told you about him. When you're ill, you connect things in your mind. I made the connection. He too…"

"Don't talk about that."

"Bronka, we, you, me, Ezra, we're past the halfway mark. We're nearer to the end of the journey than the start. I've got to go back. I've forgotten something at an earlier stop. It doesn't matter. It was a line from a poem I shan't write. It's sad. There's something else I have to say. After all… all that, you'd think… I thought all that would count in my favour… But no. There are no reductions. No privileges. Not even for… It doesn't matter. I don't think the system is right. But that's not the main point. The main point," Reuven continued after a pause, his warm, steady voice filling the room, filling the darkness, "the main point is that we both have children, and our children judge us and they don't judge us fairly. It's dark outside, Bronka, and outside in the dark my daughter is living a wild life. How does she think of me? A tedious sermonizer. A quitter. A man who didn't have the strength to save her mother for her. A loser. A disgrace, Bronka, that's how she thinks of me. She lives a wild life outside in the dark, she hates words, Bronka. What does she think of me? She's out there now. I'm jealous of her. I'm jealous for her. She doesn't belong to me. She'll go somewhere else."

"Reuven."

"But I'm not ashamed. I may not be a winner…"

"Reuven, I'll stay here. I won't go to the music. I'll put the kettle on. We'll have some tea."

"I may not be a winner, but I'm not ashamed for a moment. Of anything. I'm not ashamed of my poems. And I'm not ashamed of my children. Even if they go away. Even if they make fun of me. Even if they change. I'm not ashamed of anything in my world. Bronka."

"Yes."

"What will you do if Einav has a boy instead of a girl?"

"What a funny question. What'll I do? What can I do? What a strange question."

"It doesn't matter. Bronka."

"Yes."

"I've changed my mind."

"What about?"

"The music. I'll get dressed. We'll go."

"We'll go?"

"Wait. The kettle's boiling. Have some tea first."

"Coffee. I'd rather have coffee."

"But…"

"And then we'll go. Together."

And on Saturday morning, when Reuven was sitting in a deck chair in his little garden and Noga was lying next to him on the grass and asking if he shouldn't go indoors because it was getting very hot outside, Reuven answered her question with one of his own.

"Stella, you used to read a lot of poetry. Do you still have the time and the inclination to read poetry?"

"Why do you ask?"

"It occurred to me that we might… that it would be nice if you and I could read poems together one evening a week.

"If you like, I've got no…"

"No, you don't have to. No."

"Daddy," Noga said, "there's something I've always wanted to say to you, but I never know how to say it. It's that people… that people are people. Take yourself, for instance. You should let yourself be. Don't force yourself to be words. People can't ever be words. And you… You don't have to keep on proving. You're not a proof. You're You're a person. I haven't said it very well, have I? You haven't understood. I can't explain. I've got to tell you. But I don't know how to."

"So you don't want to. You don't want us to read poetry together one evening a week. You don't have to. I just thought we might, perhaps, we might start with…"

22. MORE OF THE BLESSED ROUTINE

With eyes like hawks' we observe our neighbors' actions. Our judgments take effect in a hundred and one devious ways.

Let us eavesdrop, for example, on the conversations in the communal clothes store. Here the long hot hours crawl sluggishly on, hours of ironing and mending and sorting clothes. The cupboards are divided into compartments, family by family, like the cells in a honeycomb.

Einav Geva tells Nina Goldring what she has heard from Dafna Isarov. Nina Goldring tells Einav Geva what she has heard from Yitzhak Friedrich, the treasurer. Fruma Rominov tells Hasia Ramigolski, on the authority of Gerda Zohar, who heard from Bronka Berger, the original source: Reuven Harish is worn out and depressed. Because of his illness and also because of his daughter. Apropos of which, some say that Ezra Berger has written to his brother in Germany, the one called Zechariah, who changed his name to Siegfried, and hinted in his usual apothegmatic way at the new complication.

"And what about Siegfried?"

"Well, this Siegfried is a business partner of Eva's new husband. So Eva will find out about it all. As for Eva, there's a feeling going around that she'll come back to us. And then we'll see."

"They say her husband's bought her a car and hired her a chauffeur, and she lives like a lady in high society."

"Still, I think she'll come back. I don't believe she's happy there. Do you really think money and comfort are everything? No, money can't buy happiness," said Hasia Ramigolski, and Gerda Zohar was quick to agree with her.

"Meanwhile, Siegfried's on his way here. Bronka said he's coming to Israel to sign on artists for his cabaret. Anyway, Eva will find out about her daughter. If you ask me, it'll give her something to think about."

"Blood's thicker than water. And the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, as they say."

"There's a famous novel about an old man who was always running after young girls."

"You think there isn't enough material here for a novel already?"

"Anyway, now that things have taken this turn…"

"If you think about it, from one point of view you could say that Bronka's really Noga's stepmother. In that case, Ezra's her mother's husband, in other words, her father. But from the other point of view you could say that Reuven is Ezra's father-in-law. And in that case, Bronka is Reuven's… You don't follow? I'll explain again. Slowly. Look:"

"I'm not surprised at the children. Ezra's or Reuven's. You don't have to be a great psychologist to see that…."

"I'm surprised at Reuven not making the girl stop it. A real father would have…"

"Yes, but don't forget that his relations with the girl aren't easy."

"Oh, no. Definitely not. Not at all easy."

As soon as Fruma had left, Einav Geva said sweetly:

"About Fruma, I want to tell you, they say she's wild because Noga Harish dropped her little genius. Fruma won't ever forgive her for it."

At this Hasia Ramigolski rounded on Einav menacingly:

"It sounds to me, Einav, as if you're gloating. I don't approve of gloating over someone else's misfortunes."

"Heaven forbid. I wasn't gloating. I was simply stating a fact. Fruma won't forgive her. She doesn't know how to be friendly. Once we were working together at the baking oven. You can't imagine the kind of things I had to listen to. Don't ask me to repeat them. She was oozing malice from every pore. She told me, for instance, under the pretence of being friendly, that…"

"No, Einav. You're still young. You don't understand human nature. Fruma isn't malicious. Fruma is a woman who's suffered misfortunes. And one can understand her. And if you don't understand a person like that, if you can't understand, it's a sign that…"

"You're right, Hasia, you're quite right." Einav avoided the ambush that threatened to cut off her line of retreat. "I'm not disagreeing with you about that. All I'm saying is that there's no contradiction: a woman can be unfortunate and still be malicious."

Hasia rejected the offer of a cease-fire. She had another blow to deal, and a chance to secure much better terms of capitulation.

"You don't understand at all, my dear. But just wait a bit. You'll be a mother soon. I hope you aren't made to suffer. But if you are, you'll learn a few home truths. You'll realize, for instance, that Fruma is a wonderfully straightforward woman. Of course, you haven't had a chance to appreciate that yet. When you've had to face the disasters that Fruma's had to overcome…"

Einav put up a desperate struggle. Her voice took on a sing-song tone, as if she was trying to teach Hasia a fact of life.

"I'm telling you, Hasia, Fruma Rominov would be malicious even without the disasters. It's in her nature. I've heard what sort of a person she was before all those famous disasters. I've heard. It's in her nature, I tell you. And you can't change human nature. It's a waste of time talking about it. By the way, Hasia, that's a lovely blue shirt your Tsvi…"

No. Hasia was not one to allow her victim to escape from her clutches by an old trick like that. Hasia wasn't interested at the moment in Tsvi's shirts. She was interested in crushing once and for all the shallow arrogance of these young people who consider themselves to be experts in psychology.

"No, my dear. If you want to know what Fruma Rominov was like when she was younger, you ask me. Fruma may be a difficult person. But she's straightforward. And that's a very positive combination. Before you form opinions about people, Einav, my dear, you must understand a bit about psychology. Talking casually like that, excuse me for saying so, is a sign of immaturity. But I understand you. I understand what makes you think as you do. I see exactly why you can't be objective. I won't explain now. In a few years' time, perhaps. If you still remember this conversation, I'll remind you what you were like once, and we'll both smile. You know, when a person judges someone else, he's really judging himself, without realizing it. And you can see what he's really like."

Einav gave a last wriggle. "I didn't mean to say that Fruma was entirely negative. You don't have to be an expert in psychology to know that there's nobody who's entirely negative. There are various facets to everybody, including Fruma. All I wanted to…"

"You've changed your ground now. If you'd only thought before you started speaking, Einav, you wouldn't have said things you'd have to retract later. These trousers are only good for the garbage heap. That Grisha gets through working clothes like a youngster of twenty."

Einav, grateful for her conqueror's magnanimity, ventured cautiously:

"Have you heard what they've been saying lately, Hasia? About Grisha, I mean."

"I've heard something, not about him but about one of his daughters. You'd better watch out, Einav. They say your husband's made friends with one of the little Isarov girls. I heard that last week, after a basketball game, the little Isarov girl dried his back for him. If I were in your place, I'd have a word with my young man before the birds start chirruping. You should always stitch that kind of seam from the back. It's stronger that way, and it looks better too. That's right, unstitch it, don't be slovenly at your age, unstitch it and sew it again from the back."

The buried roots of a burned tree trunk.

Three small concrete bungalows with corrugated-iron roofs. Like those the British army built to house its men. Each one is divided into two dwellings by a plywood partition. In this way we were enabled to house six old people. They are the parents of the founders of our kibbutz, who survived and came here to shelter beneath their sons' and daughters' wings.

The grandparents occupy a special position here in Metsudat Ram. They are not real members, but they enjoy most of the members' rights without any of the obligations. They have voluntarily taken on certain tasks, such as knitting and darning socks.

We must admit that there is something ridiculous, even embarrassing, in the spectacle of an ancient old man bending over a worn-out sock and painfully darning it. But who compelled them to? We didn't. They offered to do it of their own free will.

Throughout the morning you can see them, a dark cluster in the shade of the spreading sycamore that stands opposite their bungalows. They sit in easy chairs, their frail bodies wrapped in dressing gowns; the knitting quivers in their hands, and their heads are bent as though they are muttering spells.

Sometimes brown-skinned children gather at a slight distance, pointing and chanting: "Grandpas, grandmas, dance, dance, dance."

When we said that the old folk are lean, we were not idly generalizing. As it happens, there are three old men and three old women living here, and not one of the six is fat. The leading figure among them, known as Gospodin Podolski (the father of the Podolski who arranges the work rota), is tall and thin, but he has a hunch on his left shoulder. The other two men are short and frail; they are nicknamed respectively "Thick" and "Thin." The former's head, cheeks, chin, and neck are covered with short white bristles. The latter is completely bald. His face is pink and smooth like a young girl's. His gestures are so careful that it seems as if he is moving through a world made entirely of crystal.

Of the women, one is as slender as a twisted stick; her face is long and sharp; her hair is thin and shows the skin of her scalp. The second is hunched up like a baby, with her head sunk between her shoulders. But her eyes are clear and radiate an inner light. The third is sunken-cheeked and always wears a black dress and a necklace of glass beads and a pince-nez secured by a curling red cord. She is Esther Klieger's mother and the grandmother of the Isarov tribe.

Toward ten o'clock they nod off to sleep. They look like dark statues. Even in these burning hours, they are muffled in cardigans, pullovers, and woolen caps. They seem like an expedition camping apprehensively in dangerous territory. Or like the representatives of a state that no longer exists, lingering on with stubborn pride in a strange and hostile capital.

They do not talk much. Sunbeams filter through the leafy sycamore and touch them kindly. If one of them starts to say something, he can rarely expect an answer. They speak a Yiddish dotted with Russian and Polish words. Mrs. Klieger, for example, may say:

"It drives me mad. I used to be able to thread a needle with my eyes shut."

Or:

"That beetroot soup yesterday was nothing like borsch."

Or:

"My flower pot broke, and I planted the geranium in an old tin."

Or:

"My sleeping pills have no effect on me any more."

And Gospodin Podolski, after considerable reflection:

"Well, well."

Or:

"That mouse came again last night. I found proof. It ate one of my cookies."

Sometimes, with his eyes closed, "Thick" may say:

"There was a goy in my town. Trochim his name was. He owned woods. He was a terrible anti-Semite. And he, of all people, hid a Jewish girl in the bad days. Two Jewish girls."

And one of the women, the one with the thinning hair:

"All the rags under the stairs ought to be burned."

The connection between this and the previous remark is dubious. But "Thick" interrupts her accusingly:

"A diet without salt robs you of all your strength. And I mean all your strength."

At this Gospodin Podolski emits an angry growl and shakes his head. He eyes his audience. Then he lays a firm hand on the arm of "Thin," an unusual gesture here. "Thin" trembles. Gospodin Podolski states with conviction:

"Nowadays one may keep a small farm there. Not like in Stalin's days."

The hunched-up woman replies:

"The Ukrainians were always the worst. A thousand curses on them. And the same goes for the Lithuanians."

Mrs. Klieger tries to illustrate this with a story.

"Back in Rovno there used to be a Jew. He was really well off. He had his own mill. And what does he do now? Now he's a carter near Haifa. But I knew him. He was a good man. A saint. He still is. Such men you don't find any more. He had three daughters. One of them…"

But fatigue overcomes Mrs. Klieger. Her story disintegrates and evaporates in the hot air. Or perhaps she stopped because the hunched woman cut in with:

"Tea will be here soon."

The old folk all come from the vicinity of Kovel. The parents of the German members did not survive. Some died peacefully, like Grandma Stella Hamburger, and some died violently, like Reuven Harish's parents and sisters.

Many years ago, in Kovel, when the future founders of our kibbutz were carried away by their enthusiasm for the Zionist youth movement, their parents tried to stop them, some with anger, some with taunts, and others with rational arguments. But in time the tables were turned, and they were forced to seek refuge here with their obstinate progeny. In consequence, they behave toward their sons and daughters, and even toward their grandchildren, with extreme politeness and even respect. They do not proffer advice, as old people elsewhere do. They submit uncomplainingly to all the regulations of the kibbutz. A silenced terror seems to govern all their dealings with the kibbutz institutions. If one brings them a trayload of tea, they half rise and bow, and Gospodin Podolski offers his thanks on behalf of the whole community. This is the point of the Jewish saying "He who has been scalded by hot water blows on cold water." In the presence of the kibbutz secretary or treasurer or sanitary officer they behave as if he represented a tyrannical Gentile authority. Every evening they shuffle weakly to their children's rooms to have coffee with the family and to look — but only look — at their grandchildren. They would never dare play with the little children or tell them stories for fear of breaking the unfathomable educational rules. When the malicious chorus chants at them: "Grandpas, Grandmas, dance, dance, dance," they hunch their shoulders and turn up their collars, as if against a fierce wind. After all, they have been warned time and again, tactfully but firmly, that a modern child is not to be smacked or rebuked, so as not to harm its delicate sensibilities.

Their old age is apparently protected against every want and humiliation. But they are isolated in their own quarters. They try to contract themselves to avoid being in the way. An air of sadness envelops them. How can it be helped? They have left their best years far away, their own children have got the better of them, they have felt the touch of an icy finger, and they are doomed to sadness. Even the evergreen pine trees, when a slight wind touches their boughs, let out a faint moan.

At midday the dining hall fills with hungry, thirsty people. By one, the hall is almost empty. The members whose turn it is to work in the dining hall clear and wipe the tables and start laying them ready for supper. They work expertly, mechanically, their minds free to dwell on other things. Within limits, of course. Absent-mindedness is liable to interfere with efficiency.

At two o'clock Ezra Berger signs the bill of lading, collects his thermos of coffee and bag of sandwiches from Nina Goldring, and sets off on his second trip of the day.

Shortly afterward, Fruma Rominov appears at the door of the kitchens to load her dishes with the young children's evening meal. At the other end of the kitchens Herbert Segal pants as he unloads the milk churns from his little trolley. If you walk across the yard, you will come across Reuven Harish, his shoulders slightly bowed, trailing a group of tourists. His speech is slow and thoughtful, as if he is confiding his doubts to his audience rather than haranguing them with brisk slogans. At times he attains a musical flood of enthusiasm, and his voice wavers, as if in an effort to stem a rising surge of emotion. His audience, not unnaturally, frame such remarks as:

"This is a real religious experience."

Or:

"A truly Biblical figure."

Later, at four o'clock in the afternoon, the time-honored rest; deck chairs on the lawn, the whisper of the wind in the trees, the scent of roses and of coffee, the clicking of knitting needles, evening papers, reading glasses, the twilight glow, answered by a blaze of light on the mountaintops to the east, Herzl Goldring's accordion, Herbert Segal's violin, the spray from the sprinklers. Even the sight of Oren Geva and his friends stealthily climbing up to the observation point at the top of the water tower for some unknown purpose cannot dispel the calm.

Every Saturday evening the kibbutz assembly meets. Tsvi Ramigolski puts on his glasses, beats the table top with his hand, rebukes the knitters, appeals vainly to the cluster gathered around the new week's work roster.

Occasionally, a dispute arises, but it is always good-tempered. The practical-minded propose practical solutions, while the theorists swoop on their solutions and produce a dozen proofs to show that what seems good in the short run will produce appalling results in the course of time. Tsvi Ramigolski guides the dispute skillfully toward a compromise between the demands of idealism on the one hand and realism on the other.

A report on security from Grisha Isarov. Grisha's delivery is gruff, but his news is good: the grim prophecies have been proved wrong. Things are quiet. No worries. Still, no one can tell what will happen tomorrow. Or even tonight. I'm no prophet. Especially when the word comes through about the Camel's Field. Meanwhile, as I said, things are quiet. Still, things were calm in '36, just before the troubles. I remember once, that winter, I was in Beer-Tuvia at the time… Yes, well. There's one other thing I have to say, comrades: this place is a hive of rumors. And that's bad. Very bad, indeed. Like the story about the shepherd who always cried wolf, wolf, and when the wolf came — you all know the end of the story, comrades. I think the moral is clear to us all. So a bit less talk. That's it.

On Thursday evenings the various committees meet. Their atmosphere is not favorable to grandiose theories; practical details are the order of the day. In the financial committee, Mundek Zohar bargains with Yitzhak Friedrich for the erection of a special building for the regional council, which is housed at present in a tumble-down shack. Mundek thinks it is high time to put up a small building. Isaac Friedrich thinks that the time is not right yet or, rather, that there are not sufficient funds available, the current year being a lean one.

In the cultural committee, the news of Dr. Nehemiah Berger's impending visit is considered. This would be a splendid occasion to organize a series of lectures on the history of socialism. The matter will be discussed.

In the educational committee, the pressing problem of delinquency is aired. The subject is Fiercely debated, and a far-reaching decision is taken: to send Oren Geva to a consultant psychologist in Tel Aviv who is employed by the kibbutz movement. This decision is to be kept a close secret.

On Thursday night, an hour before midnight, Einav Geva felt the severe labor pains that frequently accompany the birth of a first child. Tomer, perturbed and somewhat irritated, drove his wife to the hospital. He made every effort to drive the dusty truck as smoothly as possible and to avoid the potholes in the road, so as not to cause his wife unnecessary pain.

Einav entered the maternity ward at close to one o'clock. Tomer stayed for a few hours, time enough to smoke eight or nine cigarettes and joke a little with a tall, dark-skinned nurse. At four o'clock in the morning he asked the night nurses to tell his wife that he was going home now, but that he would come back that afternoon. He had to go and supervise the work of getting in the cattle fodder. He had already turned to go when the night nurse's voice stopped him.

"Congratulations it's a boy."

Tomer gaped at her in amazement.

"What, she's…. she's had it already?"

The nurse barely looked up from the papers on her desk.

"Congratulations it's a boy."

Tomer blanched and leaped toward the desk. Seizing the nurse's elbow, he asked shyly:

"Excuse me, is it a boy or a girl? Which is it?"

"Congratulations it's a boy I've told you five times already." Tomer groped in his pocket, drew out a cigarette, put it to his lips and forgot to light it.

"When am I allowed to see it?"

When she answered that he had best come back in the afternoon, he clasped his large hands and said:

"Tell her congratulations. Tell her I'll come back this afternoon. Tell her I'm not allowed to see her before then, and anyway I can't because we're getting in the cattle fodder, and I've got to be there because otherwise they'll cut the wrong field, the one by the bananas, and… never mind. Tell her I'll be back in a few hours' time. Yes. So it's a boy you say. That's very good."

Something else happened that same Thursday night.

Turquoise went out, as usual, to wait for her older friend. Titan, the bull, watched her through the bars. He breathed heavily. His breath was warm and moist. The girl saw the bull and pulled a face. Titan's eyes were bloodshot.

Behind the cattle shed were the outlines of the tractor shed. It was cold, and she shivered slightly. From the cold and from boredom she jumped lightly up and down on the balls of her feet. And then it happened.

At twenty-five past eleven that Thursday night, in the middle of a light jump, Noga Harish felt a pain. A terrible pain. A pain in her abdomen.

She stopped jumping and put a shaking hand on the spot. The blood drained from her cheeks. Her mouth fell open. Her heart froze. In a moment of sudden, fierce comprehension other, earlier signs fell into place. No. Yes.

Mo-ther, she murmured, her eyes bulging. The cold turned to a raging fever. The blood that had drained from her face flushed back into her skin. Mother.

Then suddenly a strange thing happened. The beam of the searchlight on top of the water tower collided with another light. The yellow ray of the enemy searchlight.

The two powerful lamps pointed their jets of light straight at each other's eye, as if trying to dazzle the other to death.

Opposite loomed the disjointed forms of the mountains, lit by a garish reddish-purple glow.

The two beams of light remained locked in a furious embrace, piercing each other's eyes, bitter and stubborn, like knives poised for murder or like drunken lovers.

23. SIMPLE FISHERFOLK

She looks up at the starry sky. Old queen Stella. The princess. The clapper of the bell. Gypsies. Him.

"Drive to Tiberias. To your fishermen. With me. Now."

"Are you out of your mind, Turquoise? Get out. Why did you get in? It's almost morning."

"I wish you dead, Ezra. I wish you'd drop dead. Right now."

Ezra tugs at his cap. His face is twisted in an expression of stupefaction. His mouth is set firmly. He does not know yet. His grandson is struggling to be born. He does not know. Noga does not know what she is saying.

"Get moving, I said. I said drive to Tiberias. Right now."

And after a moment's pause:

"I wish I were dead. You don't understand anything anything anything. You're so thick, great bear. What you've done to me. You don't care you don't care about anything great rough sweaty bear what you've done to me."

He looks at her. Tired. Reaches out to touch her cheek. Changes his mind. Starts the engine. Turns round to face back along the dead road. His face is blank. Numbly he squints at her and asks:

"You mean…?"

Noga does not answer. Ezra shakes his head a few times. In a furious undertone he says:

"No."

And again, after a silence, after a grinding of gears:

"What have I done to you?"

Turquoise suddenly gives an ugly laugh, fraught with something that is not laughter.

"Well? Shall we get married? It's usual to get married in such cases, isn't it?"

The man does not answer. His lower jaw drops, though, in what looks like a yawn, but isn't. His face in the dark wears a hangdog air. Noga looks. Sees. Still in the same tone that sounds like coarse laughter:

"Fool. Silly fool. You're a bad man. My father will kill you. My Rami will kill you."

Suddenly he brakes, steers to the edge of the road, lets go of the wheel, grabs her shoulders and plasters her face with rough kisses. Lets her go. Lights a cigarette. He starts driving again, slowly, as if the truck were heavily loaded. His head hunched into his shoulders.

Close to two o'clock, at the approach to the sleeping town, Noga was overcome by nausea. She put her head out of the window and vomited.

The air inside the restaurant smelled of smoke and grilled fish. The fishermen nodded to Ezra and his girl. They showed no sign of surprise. They did not exchange smiles. Abushdid himself in his stained apron approached their table and inquired how they would like their coffee. Ezra said that the girl would have the same kind of coffee as he drank. With cardamom.

The others smoked in silence. Asis remarked, not to Ezra Berger in particular, that a bent oar had cost them two broken pressure lamps. Kabilio said that at today's prices it would cost sixty pounds to replace them if it cost a cent. Asis thought it wouldn't cost more than forty. Forty at most. Ezra asked whether Babadjani had been let out yet. Yes, yes, Abushdid said happily, Babadjani's been let out. He had a stroke of bad luck. He's out now. You never know what you've got coming to you. Your luck hides away in a dark corner, and suddenly it jumps out and kicks you in the teeth.

Ezra inquired where Babadjani was. Babadjani's on the water, Asis said. He might look in later. Or he might make straight for home. You never know what a man'll take it into his head to do.

Noga asked softly why the fishermen here worked with rowboats and not with motorboats. Gershon Saragosti smiled for a moment, then stopped smiling and said:

"We're just simple folk, sweetheart."

The coffee was strong, with an intoxicating smell of spices. Abushdid explained to Noga that the smell came from the cardamom.

An easterly breeze blew off the lake, bringing with it a rich black fragrance. A night bird's call sounded. Gershon Saragosti was smoking a strong-smelling foreign cigarette. Ezra asked if he could have one. Saragosti apologized for not offering. He was too tired to think straight. Anyway, he'd had all sorts of pains in odd places these last few days. This is no life, God knows. It's no life if you're not healthy. You must know what the Bible says about that, Ezra. When you're not young any more, you're not happy. Doesn't it say something like that in the Bible? Here, have a cigarette. Take one for your daughter, too. Or don't you let her smoke yet? Too young? Take one for yourself. So what does the good book say?

"'His life abhors bread and his soul dainty meat, his flesh is consumed so that it cannot be seen, yea, his soul draws near unto the grave, and his life to the destroyers'; that's what it says in the Book of Job, and there's a great moral. Listen, Kabilio, you listen, too. It says that a man mustn't complain. Why should we accept the good and not accept the bad? I say this not as a religious man, Saragosti, but quite simply; you have to take the rough with the smooth. One day you're licking honey, the next you're chewing onions, as they say."

"You're right, Ezra, by the holy Torah you're right. It's a hard life. Is this your daughter, Ezra? She doesn't look much like her father. She's got a very beautiful mother, I should say."

Noga said yes, her mother was very beautiful. And the fisherman, draped in a rough overcoat, his cheeks sprouting stubble, asked, if her mother is so beautiful, why her father wanders around the world like a man with no place to go.

"My father," Noga said with a sidelong glance at Ezra, "my father is a very special man."

"A very special man, by the holy Torah, by my life," said Abushdid. "A simple, uneducated man but he knows the Torah and he knows life. He's a wise man."

"A wise man has eyes in his head," Ezra said slowly, "and where are my eyes? In hell, that's where my eyes are, Abushdid."

"Why do you say such wicked things, Ezra, why do you curse yourself in front of your daughter? You shouldn't do it. That's the way to bring bad luck on yourself, it is, Heaven forbid."

"My daughter knows. My daughter's not a child any more. She's old enough to see. The fool sees with his eyes, but the wise man sees straight to the heart. Isn't that right, Turquoise?"

"Whatever you say is always right, Daddy."

Ezra asked Noga if she was happy here. Noga said of course she was. She'd never been anywhere like this before. Ezra asked if she felt better now. Noga replied that now she didn't feel anything. Gershon Saragosti smiled at her and said again:

"We're just simple folk."

And again he smiled. His face seemed made to smile.

Silence.

Asis began to tell, from his corner, the story of how two pressure lamps that were as good as new were broken. Kabilio helped him when necessary by supplying forgotten details. Abushdid dozed at his counter. Gershon Saragosti, too, was asleep, slumped over a table some way away. Turquoise rested her head on her daddy's shoulder. Ezra thought she was asleep. But Noga was awake. Her tears caressed his shoulder through the dusty shirt.

Through the doorway opposite a stretch of water showed. The lake. Black and vaguely chilly.

Abushdid woke up and turned on the radio, fiddled with the knob and found a faraway station broadcasting dance music. A sharp eye could make out the shapes of the mountains beyond the dark lake. Yellow lights flickered there, hovering mysteriously between the water and the stars, inexplicable unless one was aware of the presence of the mountain which was reflected on the black water. It was three o clock in the morning.

Saragosti and Asis rose to leave.

"No Babadjani," said Kabilio.

"We can't wait for him till morning," Gershon Saragosti said.

"Any message for him?" asked Kabilio.

"No message. Only to steer clear of bad luck," said Asis.

"And you stick to good luck, the pair of you," said Abushdid.

The murmur of the easterly breeze. Ripples stirring on the water. The roots of the mountains hidden in the sea bed. Nothing intervenes. The moon has set. In the silent deep live the fish. Breathing through gills. Some swim in shoals; others prefer solitude. Vast expanses of dark water open up before them. They are free to wander as they choose. The air is damp. A report sounds. Noga asks what that strange sound was. Ezra stares at her as if he has difficulty in recognizing her. He pauses for a long while, as if he has forgotten, as if he will never answer. At the end of his silence his speech is blurred.

"Sound of oars. Asis and Saragosti are out on the water."

Softly Noga murmurs:

"Now."