Elsewhere, Perhaps

24. AN UNDESIRABLE CHARACTER

Six weeks later the last signs of spring died away. The cornfields turned gray and dry under the white light. The luxuriant vegetation gave way to skeletal brambles. A deadly pressure seemed to flow down from the mountains. Long blazing blinding dazzling days. But for three days a false autumn reigned.

Such false autumn days occur occasionally in our summer. In the morning a blessed coolness blows from the west. Dark clouds like a band of strolling players come between us and the fearsome light. A gentle breeze murmurs in the foliage and in the pine needles, and a cool dampness bears witness to the new regime. Deep breath expands the chest. Even the cramped muscles of the eyelids relax somewhat, free from the terror of the cruel glare. Everyone relaxes and gulps in the welcome freshness of the autumn air.

But these low clouds, these faithless nomads, are deceptive. In the morning they court us, but at midday the feigned mask of kindness falls away, and they display their true ferocity. Dampness and oppressive heaviness beat down mercilessly, and the familiar leaden grayness returns to the sky. Soon the white light is back, clear and bright and savage.

Early on one of these false autumn days, at breakfast time, a long yellow taxi drew up in front of the dining hall. A dark-suited man wearing a purple tie got out, holding a small blue case in his left hand. For a moment he inspected his surroundings, closing one eye and opening the other wide, and pensively rolling out his lower lip. His face suddenly contorted into what looked like a forced smile. He put down his case, produced a green handkerchief, and carefully wiped his forehead, his chin and both his hands. Then he lit a cigarette and waved his arm casually to the driver, who was watching him through the car window. The driver understood his meaning and settled back in his green leather seat for a long wait.

The man betrayed no sign of haste. He stood as if rooted to the spot, inspecting his surroundings. Men and women passed close by him, on the path that circles the dining hall, and cast him curious but friendly glances. The newcomer returned their looks and even nodded politely, but he did not address anyone. Eventually, he caught sight of a green bench half-hidden in the shrubs at the edge of the lawn. He picked up his suitcase and walked over to it. His step was light and bouncy. Evidently the case was not heavy. He sat quite still, smoking with an aborbed look, as if trying to extract every particle of taste from each mouthful of smoke. Once or twice the thumb of his left hand, which was holding the cigarette, rose to scratch his eyebrows, an intriguing gesture that conveyed no hint of embarrassment but only absent-mindedness or else concentration — and a certain anxiety, since for an instant the burning tip of the cigarette almost touched his black hair.

The stranger's face was full of folds and wrinkles, as if he had too much skin, so that instead of being stretched over the bones of his skull it hung from them in limp abandon. On his upper lip there was a tiny, shapeless mustache, around which a curious movement could be detected, as if his nose and its surrounds were forever twitching with some mysterious life.

Finally, he pinched the stub of his cigarette until the remaining tobacco spilled out; he stood up, picked up his case, and walked across to the door of the dining hall. He walked with a slight stoop, like a man walking into a strong head wind.

It seems that it was Podolski, the co-ordinator of the work rota, who greeted the stranger and asked if he could help him. The latter replied in well-phrased, musical Hebrew and in a somewhat hoarse bass voice, and inquired where he might Find Comrade Berger. Podolski asked whether he was referring to Ezra Berger or to his son Tomer. The stranger smiled, in such a way to arouse distinctly uneasy feelings in the other. He was looking for Comrade Ezra Berger, the father. Podolski shook his head and replied:

"Ezra? He's out on a trip. He leaves at six in the morning. But Tomer is in the dining hall. I'll call him."

The stranger apologized for any inconvenience he was causing, but said that he would prefer, if it was not too much trouble, to see Comrade Bronka Berger first.

Podolski suggested that he go into the dining hall and have something to eat and drink, and meanwhile he, Podolski, would go and look for Bronka. The stranger replied that he was impressed by the hospitality for which kibbutzim were famous, but that he preferred to wait over on the bench. There was no need to hurry. He was not a busy man. He had plenty of time. There was something he would like to know, he added, adjusting his purple tie as he spoke, even though it was not out of place, he would like to know, well… how to put it… whether… whether there was any news in the Berger family. He knew, of course, about the arrival of dear little Danny, but… what he wanted to know was… how matters stood generally in the family, because, er… he was himself a member of the family and… he would like to know the facts before he met Bronka. Naturally, his interlocutor was not obliged to answer.

Podolski reflected for a moment, then said:

"It seems they still have problems. If you'll excuse me, I'll go and tell Bronka you've arrived."

Ten minutes later Bronka appeared, wearing working trousers and a white apron. Zechariah embraced his sister-in-law and kissed her very properly on both cheeks. Bronka, her wrinkled face all smiles, asked when he had arrived in Israel and when he had got to Metsudat Ram and which way he had come and whether he found the heat oppressive and why he hadn't sent a telegram to say he was coming and what his plans were and how he was. Above all, what a pity, what a terrible pity it was that Ezra hadn't known that it was today that. As she spoke she seized his suitcase and began to lead the way. Here am I wearing you out with my chatter, and you must be tired out from the journey, and hungry and thirsty besides.

Zechariah took the suitcase from Bronka and placed his hands firmly on her hips.

"Excuse me a moment," he said. "There are some more cases in the taxi. I must pay the driver and dismiss him. There are some presents for all the family, too."

It turned out that Zechariah had arrived at dawn on an SAS plane and had already been in touch with various people in Tel Aviv by telephone. He had intended to spend a day or two first in Tel Aviv to deal with some urgent business matters. But while he was passing through customs he had been overcome by such strong feelings of nostalgia that he had thrown everything to the winds and hurried straight here, to his beloved family. What is more important than one's family, my dear Bronka? Nothing in the whole wide world. So here I am, bursting to proclaim, "I am your brother Joseph." You must excuse this emotional outburst, Bronka, but that's the way with emotion; it carries one away, ha ha, yes, that's the way with emotion.

When they were inside the shuttered room Zechariah hastened to unwrap some of his packages. Before he would touch the glass of fruit juice that Bronka offered him, he insisted on showing her the presents.

"Look at this material, Bronka. Feel it. Isn't it magnificent? Yes, Bronka, it's for you. You can make it up into a beautiful dress. Lovely cloth for a lovely lady. In this case is a tape recorder for the young couple, and there's a complete woolen outfit here for dear little Danny — how I long to hold him and kiss him and cry over him; the electric shaver is for my own beloved brother Ezra, and I haven't forgotten our dear Oren, either — he's sure to like this model railway. Look, Bronka, it works on its own electrical circuit, and it's just like the great railway system of Europe. No, I haven't forgotten about the principles. I'm a man of principle and I respect the principles of others, including the collectivist ideology of the kibbutz. Of course, of course. But all the same, can't I give some small, purely token gift to the people I love? Please, Bronka, let's hear no more about it. Not a word. If you don't want my presents, that's a sign you don't want me, either. I'll leave right away. Surely you don't want to offend your dear brother? That's enough, Bronka. I've already heard all your arguments. You're not saying anything new. Look, Bronka, look, look at this tape recorder: it's the latest model, three tracks, four speeds, extrasensitive microphone; you can record the most complicated music. God rot those filthy Germans in hell — but there's nothing wrong with their industry. This is the most famous make in the world. Oh, Bronka, my dear, they make marvelous machinery!"

While Zechariah poured out his persuasive arguments without letting his sister-in-law get a word in edgeways, his thin, hairy fingers ran over the objects taken out of their packing cases and boxes. His movements were as skillful and dexterous as those of a traveling salesman, and his voice held the insistent tone with which traveling salesmen hector their stunned victims into buying.

Bronka poured him a glass of ice-cold juice. Zechariah pursed his lips and sipped it delicately. His eyes filled with forced joy. He wiped his lips with his green handkerchief and replaced it instantly in his pocket with the skill of a prestidigitator.

"It's cold," he said, "and refreshing for the weary soul."

Bronka asked if he would like a shower. Zechariah refused with a spate of polite phrases. Not at all, not at all, he must be disturbing her terribly, she had her work to do, she could leave him and get on with it, he wouldn't steal or break anything, she could trust him.

Bronka burst out laughing.

"No, I don't have to go back to work. We'll go to the nursery to see Danny, and on the way I'll look in and say I shan't be doing any more work this morning. We don't have a visitor like you every day, after all. It's so many years since we last met. Yes. You came in '48 as a refugee, and you left us after a year. Still, let's not talk about the past now. Ezra will be sorry, of course, that he wasn't here to greet you. But it's not his fault. It's your fault, because you decided to surprise us. You're the guilty party, Zechariah."

"Yes, I'm the guilty party." As Zechariah spoke, he scratched his eyebrows and his little mustache with his thumb. After a slight pause, as if recalling his duty, he smiled.

Bronka did not enjoy his smile. It exposed all his teeth, upper and lower; the sight was not a pretty one. It was even slightly frightening.

Her visitor removed his dark jacket, tucked his shirt well into his trousers, and loosened his tie. Then he went out with Bronka for his first stroll in the kibbutz grounds.

As they ambled along, he took out a cigarette and lit it with a gilt lighter. As he did so he remarked that he had given an identical lighter as a present to his brother Ezra. All in all, he continued, despite the distance that separated him from his brothers, he always felt, deep down in his heart, very close to them both. Their troubles pained him as if they were his own. That was the way with emotion, he said; it overcame distances.

Bronka decided to change the subject. She indicated a white building and said that it was the nursery. They would go in and take a look at little Danny. Danny was asleep, a pink skull with a covering of dark down, a tiny clenched fist thrust into a soft cheek.

Zechariah's face suddenly wrinkled, and he looked like an old man in tears. But perhaps it was just the sudden transition from bright sunshine to the dark interior that contorted his features.

They went outside.

Zechariah-Siegfried Berger said:

"Father's first great-grandchild, God rest his soul. I'm not saying a word against your customs here, but I'd have thought he should have been named Naphtali-Hirsch, or Naphtali, or at least Tsvi, if you want a more modern equivalent. But, of course, the younger generation must do as it pleases. They look forward, we look backward. That's the way it is. Not the other way round."

Bronka said:

"That's the stable over there. Horses."

Zechariah's mouth fell limply open, and for an instant Bronka had a vague impression of a reptile, or a frog. But the image was dispelled at once, as he exclaimed enthusiastically:

"Horses! Horses are splendid. I didn't know they were still used on kibbutzim. I love horses."

Bronka said nothing. Discreetly, her visitor lavished courtly attentions on her, stepping aside to make way for her, bowing slightly, offering her his arm, or taking hold of her elbow at every obstacle. Bronka was flattered but felt slightly embarrassed. Was it merely foreign good manners? Surely it was nothing more. They walked around the kibbutz for another half-hour, Bronka in her blue working trousers and white apron and Siegfried with his shirt and tie. Outside the playground he grinned and interrupted his hostess.

"Swings! That's magnificent!"

"The children play here unsupervised for hours; their social habits…"

"Bronka, do sit on the swing. Let's swing together. Please. I feel as happy as a sandboy."

Bronka ignored the strange request, and they strolled on together. They came to the recreation hall. They inspected it inside and out, and Bronka described the cultural life of the kibbutz.

Zechariah said:

"I have regards and some small gifts from Eva to her previous family."

Bronka:

"Is she happy over there?"

Zechariah:

"Happy? What is happiness? I can tell you that Isaac Hamburger takes good care of all her needs, both physical and intellectual. Is that high fence electrified? No? I thought, perhaps, for security… Excuse my ignorance."

Bronka gave a brief account of how Tomer was wounded. Zechariah struck his hands together and groaned aloud, as if acting the part of a terrified woman.

"Good God, what a miraculous escape. Damnation on the enemies of Israel, who never let us five in peace."

They strolled on.

Back at the house, Bronka suggested that he lie down and rest until lunchtime. Ezra would be back at half past one, and needless to say he wouldn't be making his second journey today. It was not easy to explain why it was that his brother had voluntarily decided to do the work of two drivers.

Bronka suspected that Zechariah already had an inkling of the situation; she preferred him to know the true facts, and so she tried to hint at them.

Zechariah took off his shoes, lay back on the divan, and lit a cigarette. He extinguished the lighter flame with his finger. Bronka let out a surprised sound. Zechariah showed his teeth and said that he always did that: if he felt drowsy, he touched the flame and woke up. Bronka's eyes widened, but her voice was calm and controlled as she said:

"But… why? You can take a nap. It would be good for you. Ezra won't be back till half past one."

Zechariah replied:

"I don't want to sleep, but if you don't object I'll keep quiet. I want to think about dear, sweet little Danny."

Silence.

Bronka served cakes and fruit and coffee. Zechariah closed one eye and opened the other wide. He looked at her as though he were seeing her for the first time. Eventually, he said:

"Dear Bronka, I feel completely at home here."

Silence.

Bronka said to herself: I still don't know this man. On the one hand, there's something of Ezra in him. What is it? Ezra is a silent man, and this one talks a lot. Perhaps they share a kind of forced cheerfulness. On the other hand, they are not alike. I can't like this man. He's very polite, it's true. But his politeness seems to be a screen for a kind of coarseness underneath. I wonder what Reuven will have to say about him.

A little bird spread the news, or perhaps it was Podolski. A visitor from Germany had arrived, Ezra's brother. From the amount of luggage he had brought with him it looked as though he was planning to stay a long time. In the clothes store, in the kitchens, in the laundry rooms, tongues wagged. Some said the family's problems were about to come to an end. Others said that, on the contrary, they were only beginning.

As soon as Ezra stopped his engine and got down from the cab, he was told that his brother had arrived. Not the one from Jerusalem, the one from Germany. He had arrived at breakfast time, suddenly, in a yellow hired car. It was Podolski who had taken him to Bronka, and he had brought a lot of luggage with him.

Ezra doffed his dusty cap, slapped it twice against his knee, and hurried to his house. Curiously enough, of all the emotions he might have felt, it was a sudden absence of mind that came over him.

At the sound of heavy footsteps on the steps leading up to the veranda, Zechariah leapt up with an agility that was out of keeping with his age and position in life. The door opened, and the two brothers met face to face. Zechariah saw the grease stains on his brother's clothes. Ezra noticed his younger brother's mustache, which was an innovation. Surprisingly, in that instant he also noticed the nervous twitching of the mustache.

For a moment they continued to look at each other. Then they fell in each other's arms, thumped each other on the back, gabbled in Yiddish, parted only to return to the bear hug.

Bronka let them savor their pleasure for a few minutes. Then, choosing the right moment, when the hugging had stopped and a look of embarrassment was appearing on her husband's rugged features, she handed him his clean clothes and suggested that he have a shower right away. Ezra was grateful. He made his excuses to his guest and went out to the showers. He would have to return, of course, in a quarter of an hour, but in the meantime he could collect his thoughts. Bronka's consideration and understanding had come to his rescue yet again. He had to admit it.

In the afternoon they all sat out on the lawn.

Bronka filled and refilled the fruit basket and the cookie dish. Ezra borrowed an extra deck chair from his neighbor, Mundek Zohar. The talk flowed easily. They talked, for instance, of world politics. Bronka said that the situation in Israel depended on the relations between the great powers. Ezra thought that in the modern world a large-scale war was no longer a possibility. Not because the prophecy had come true and the wolf was lying down with the lamb — he didn't want to be taken for a simpleton — but because there were no lambs left. They had all been eaten by the wolves. The vision had been fulfilled: the wolf was lying down with the wolf. He wasn't just being witty. Nation would not lift up sword against nation, simply because they had all studied war, and they would go on studying war.

Bronka said that one single madman could destroy the whole of mankind.

Zechariah agreed with alacrity and surprising enthusiasm. He added that the next war would be an exciting spectacle. It is uncertain whether he was being serious or not.

They also discussed the principles of the kibbutz. Bronka protested about Zechariah's presents, which she found embarrassing. Zechariah repeated solemnly that he respected the principles of the kibbutz, because he himself was a man of principle. But he had a right to demand that his own principles be respected, and he regarded the right to make small presents to his family as a matter of principle. He was, he might say, a wealthy man now. And a wealthy man had a moral obligation to share his wealth with his relatives, because family bonds were sacrosanct. Moreover, he still recalled how when he had first come to the country in 1948, naked and penniless, his dear brothers Ezra and Nehemiah had not hesitated to share all they had with him.

Zechariah then described life in the new Germany. The leading thinkers spent all their time in self-mortification. Humanity oozed from their every pore. Even if we envisaged Germany as an old whore playing the young virgin, we could still enjoy their embarrassment and laugh wholeheartedly at their clumsy contortions.

At about four o'clock Einav and Tomer arrived, and brought Danny with them. Zechariah, without the least embarrassment, played with the baby and lavished signs of affection on Einav, complimenting her on her good looks and those of her baby. Danny had inherited, he said, his mother's fine features. He was a fortunate child to have such a beautiful mother. The baby's smile was the spit and image of his mother's. And he could claim some expertise in the matter of beautiful women, if they would pardon his lapse from modesty.

Tomer was taken aback when his uncle asked him, with a shrewd, piercing glance, whether he believed in the survival of the soul after death.

Before he had recovered from his surprise, Oren arrived. He was introduced to his uncle and was confronted almost at once with the same curious question. Did he believe in the survival of the soul?

Oren frowned and looked down at the ground as he answered that "soul" was just a literary word and that he, Oren, hated literature. Zechariah smiled till the pink inside of his lower lip showed. Then he offered Tomer, Einav, and Oren the presents he had brought them, saying that they were a token of his fondness for them. Bronka said:

"That's not settled yet."

They drank coffee. Zechariah complained that he was being gorged with food and drink Bronka said he was probably used to finer fare. It's the thought that counts, Zechariah replied. Feelings were more important than food. He had been intending to go to Tel Aviv first, but at the airport that morning he had been overcome by nostalgia and postponed his business. Tomorrow, though, or the day after at the latest he would have to go to Tel Aviv. Force majeure. He had come to find Israeli artistes. The public was crying out for piquant novelties. The Germans were eager to taste the choice fruits of the land, the piquant flavor of the new Israel. They were excited by men with breasts, singing fish, white Negroes, and Israeli Jews — non-Jewish Jews.

Bronka and Zechariah disagreed about the nature of the new Israel. Zechariah maintained that the new Jews were the opposite of the old Jews and that even the moronic Aryans were aware of the fact. Bronka admitted that there was a difference between the Jews of the Diaspora and the Israelis, but claimed that the new Israel was the logical outcome of Jewish history. Zechariah objected that logical terms were neither alive nor dead. Tomer then made an outspoken contribution to the discussion:

"Thanks to the might of Israel, even the Diaspora Jews can hold their heads up high."

Zechariah turned to face him. He brought his face close to Tomer's strong tanned features, and his nostrils and mustache quivered as if he were sniffing the boy's flesh.

"Hold their heads up high? Anyone who holds his head up high is no longer a Jew."

Einav said:

"What a strange idea. I don't agree at all."

Tomer said:

"A Jew is a man, and a man is someone who holds his head up. A proud Jew never stoops."

"Anyone who never stoops is not a man," Zechariah said. "He is more than a man: he is a superman. Like you, my dear nephew. I've heard all about your exploits. But I was talking about ordinary Jews. Heroes are different."

Tomer thought for a moment, then answered:

"Zechariah, you talk as if 'Jew' and 'hero' were opposites. And that's not true."

Zechariah scratched his bushy eyebrows with his thumb and said:

"We mustn't quarrel. I'm heavily outnumbered, and anyway I'm your guest."

And they all laughed out of politeness.

Einav lifted Danny out of his pram.

"Danny says good night. Danny's going to have his supper and go to bed."

Bronka and Ezra said good night to their grandson, Tomer whispered something to Einav, and Zechariah was allowed to kiss the baby. He also kissed Einav on the forehead and on the cheek. Tomer, as he watched, said to himself that it would be best for the man to leave as soon as possible. A man like that was capable of anything.

A quarter of an hour later Oren, too, left, without saying a word. The visitor had given him an idea, and he wanted to think it over for half an hour or so, somewhere else.

As for Tomer, this was the time when he had his daily swim. He asked to be excused. We'll meet again. Perhaps we'll meet again. Yes, we'll meet again perhaps. Perhaps after supper.

Siegfried surprised his hosts by asking Tomer if he could go with him. He was fond of swimming, even if he was not a great swimmer. If Tomer could wait five minutes, he would unpack his swimming trunks and join him.

Tomer was taken aback but managed to smile and say:

"Why not? Do come. I'll bring you back here afterward."

Zechariah nodded to his brother and winked at his sister-in-law. Bronka was startled for an instant: it was a wink of complicity. What was he up to? Nonsense. It didn't mean anything.

***

On their way to the swimming pool Tomer explained, out of politeness, about the buildings they passed. After each description Zechariah thanked him and clapped his hands for joy, as if he had learned some great new truth from Tomer's terse words, which were spoken in fact to forestall an awkward silence or an embarrassing remark from his uncle.

"That's the clinic. One of the first buildings to be built here. It's about thirty years old."

"Thirty years? That's a long time."

"Over there they've dug a shelter, in case of shellings or air raids."

"Oh!"

"That's the memorial to Aaron Ramigolski. One of the founders. He died in the course of the work. It also commemorates the other victims."

"Thank you. Thank you for your kindness, dear Tomer."

But Tomer's efforts failed to have the desired effect. Siegfried did say something embarrassing. Taking advantage of a pause, he said:

"Tell me, my dear nephew, how do you manage to solve the problem of women?"

"What?"

"The problem of women. I mean variety, adventure. I mean — you understand — you're a healthy young lad. Well? Do you go into town sometimes? Or perhaps you manage to amuse yourself here on the kibbutz? Forgive my curiosity. I'm speaking to you as man to man."

Tomer:

"Here… Here we have different customs. We…"

Siegfried:

"Customs may differ, but men are the same everywhere. You surely don't mean to tell me that here on the kibbutz you vigorous young men keep your hands idly in your pockets, to use the old Hebrew phrase? No, I can't believe it. Can it really be that men here look at their neighbors' wives morning, noon, and evening without anything happening? It's impossible to believe. Come on, I can't believe it. I can't imagine it. After all, we're modern men."

Tomer:

"Well, there may be the odd incident. But by and large…"

Siegfried:

"And you?"

"Me? I don't."

"Never mind. You don't owe me anything. I tried to ask you freely, as a man. But naturally you don't have to answer. Cigarette?"

Tomer hastily nodded. They smoked. They reached the swimming pool and changed. It was evening. The water reflected a distorted image of the pine trees. Slight ripples disturbed its surface and shattered the image. Tomer explained that the water was clear because it was changed every three days. It was linked to the irrigation system. Zechariah expressed exaggerated enthusiasm, as if this were an exciting technological innovation.

Silence. There were not many swimmers. High above there were signs of twilight, and in the west the sun was setting in a riot of colors. Soft light sparkled on the water. Some girls were playing opposite, jumping off the top diving board and splashing each other. The spray caught the light of the setting sun, like a string of pearls scattered through the air, or sparks from fireworks soaring and falling back into the water. The visitor rubbed his eyes and sighed.

"Ready?" Tomer said. "It'll be getting dark soon."

"How beautiful it is here. Such a pure silence. I almost feel an urge to pray."

"Yes. It's nice here."

The two men stepped forward and dived. Tomer, if the truth be told, was apprehensive. Could the old boy really swim, or was he just fooling? Better watch out.

Zechariah-Siegfried quickly allayed his nephew's doubts. He plowed through the water with precise, economical strokes. His white body capped with black hair cut a perfectly straight path through the ripples. Tomer swam the width of the pool, plunged, and surfaced in the opposite corner. He cast a glance at his uncle, either to calm his inner fears or to seek his admiration. Zechariah was floating almost motionless on his back, supporting himself with rapid, precise movements of his legs.

Tomer shook his head and said:

"You can swim."

Zechariah, still keeping his gaze fixed on the darkening sky, murmured:

"Some day your uncle will tell you a story about gypsies and a dog. Not now. Now we're swimming. Some other time. You don't look like your father, Tomer. You're an Israeli. Sculpted with a firm chisel. What were we talking about? Yes. Gypsies and a dog. I'll tell you some other time. We're going to make a fine pair of friends, my lad."

After a few moments he added:

"The water's marvelous. Warm and caressing like a woman. Swimming in water like this is like petting. It arouses one's desire."

Tomer said nothing. Disgusted, he swam away from the visitor. He struck out across the pool and climbed out. Logically, Zechariah ought to have followed his lead. But Zechariah did not act logically or take the hint. He slowed the movement of his legs. For a moment he lay motionless on the water, not breathing, corpselike. Suddenly his body began to sink. Tomer saw the water distort the lines of his strange head, the eyes unclosed. At first he thought he was just playing. But the motionless body continued to sink until it was lost in the murky depths. The young man was alarmed. His heart had told him from the start that the stranger would bring disaster. Now his heart beat violently. He tensed all his muscles, filled his lungs with air, dived into the water and plunged to the limit of his breath. In the dark depths he felt all around him, but his hands touched nothing solid. He returned to the surface. Panic overcame his presence of mind. Even on the night he was wounded he had not felt so frightened. He filled his lungs and prepared to dive again. Like a dark arrow at that moment at the other end of the pool the man shot out of the water, waving, breathing deeply, smiling at Tomer with his hideous smile, which displayed the inside of his lower lip.

"You frightened me," Tomer said.

"I'm sorry. I'm very sorry."

"It's time to go home. Let's get out."

"Just a little more," Zechariah pleaded. "Just a little longer."

There was a flirtatious pleading in his voice, like a woman or an obstinate child.

They swam for a little longer.

Zechariah did not repeat his earlier action. He swam slowly, rhythmically, savoring each stroke. He let the water wash over his face, then raised his head. He raised his head and spread out his legs. His legs moved like a pair of powerful pistons. Firm muscles rippled beneath the white skin of his back. Tomer was surprised: covered with clothes that body gave no hint of its true character.

Suddenly, in the center of the pool, his body rose, his back curved like a bow, his arms outstretched, and he turned an elegant and spectacular back somersault in the water.

At that moment, in the midst of the magical feat, as the setting sun softened the lines and brought out the massivity of the scenery, Noga Harish first caught sight of Zechariah-Siegfried Berger.

She was standing at the edge of the pine wood, which ran down to the pool. She had wandered here in the course of a pensive evening stroll. Gossip had informed her of the brother's arrival. But at first glance she mistook him for someone else. She saw Zechariah-Siegfried, and her thoughts were confused. So confused that for a split second she was on the point of dashing across to the edge of the pool to see and to be seen. But the urge died away at once. The girl stood without moving and looked at the man. Eventually, when the visitor, responding to Tomer's signals, climbed out of the water and toweled himself dry, Noga Harish turned and disappeared once more into the wood. She returned home by another route.

Tomer and his uncle set out for the Bergers' house. It was already night. The first crickets had started their mournful song. A breeze was stirring the tops of the pine trees, which, as usual, gave out a soft, sad moan.

"If we don't hurry, we'll miss supper. I don't usually stay in the pool longer than ten minutes."

Of course, of course, Zechariah did not want to upset the routine. He offered Tomer his heartfelt apologies for causing the delay. No one knew better than he did the importance of time. Every moment was precious. "Incidentally, when I got out of the water, there was a beautiful girl standing on the other side, looking at me. I can always sense it when a beautiful woman is looking at me. It's an instinct. Who was she? Didn't you see her? Pity. A real Oriental beauty. In my opinion, my dear Tomer, this land produces stunning beauties. They're not like the blonde, blue-eyed Nordic women. But, of course, that's a matter of taste. What do you think? What's your opinion?"

Tomer's opinion was very definite. He didn't approve of his uncle. Tomer's opinion of Zechariah-Siegfried Berger was adverse.

25. YOU'RE ONE OF US

To clarify the true nature of what is to come, let us address ourselves briefly to Hasia Ramigolski. We might have turned to Esther Klieger — Esther Isarov, that is — or to Nina Goldring or to Gerda Zohar, or even to men such as Israel Tsitron or Mendel Morag, all hard-working people who eat their bread in the sweat of their brows and judge both themselves and others severely. We have chosen Hasia Ramigolski, not because her husband is the secretary of the kibbutz — a fact that counts neither for nor against her — but because we have seen her and exchanged words with her. Words, however, that any member of our kibbutz might have spoken at the time.

Hasia is no foolish young girl. Hard years have etched their mark on her face and in her heart. Experience has taught her simple truths, such as it is the exception that proves the rule. Life is not governed by rules. Life is made up of numerous small acts, and it is by these that even great men are to be judged. Hasia also knows that the hours of sadness, anxiety, and routine outnumber those of joy and pleasure, though life is not all bitterness, and there is also joy and contentment.

Admittedly, Hasia does not express her thoughts in this way. She is not given to voicing truths or coining slogans. But that is what we are here for. That is why Hasia works her fingers to the bone while we — to our shame — rest our hands on our arms and our arms on the desk and watch her out of the window, scratching the air with our pen, doing nothing. We are here to express things. We do not shirk our task. We express for Hasia what Hasia herself does not express. But our heart is bitter. We are uneasy. For once we shall let her speak for herself.

"A man should always try to be completely fair. It isn't always possible, but there are some people whe try and some who don't try. And the harder it is, the better you see what kind of a man he is, or if he's a man at all. If at least he makes an effort, then he's a man. If he behaves like a swine, then he's a swine. Personal example, my dear, that's what's important. At least with me. Take Reuven Harish, for instance. Before all this business he was really a somebody. I don't mean he didn't have his faults. Of course he did. I've known him for years, and I understand all his facets and all his problems. He's not a simple man. And he's had to go through a lot. But he was a somebody. He set an example. At least, he always tried to be fair. When Eva left, for instance. But now? He's reaping what he sowed. All the complications started because of him. I'm not blaming. Things like the goings on between him and Bronka happen, of course. A man of his age is still a man. But not when he's got an adolescent daughter. It's a very difficult age. As a teacher he ought to have realized that. That's how it is. Once you lose your head, that's it. You lose all restraint — whether you're an intellectual or not. And another thing — you should always know whom you're getting involved with. We've known for a long time that Ezra is a bit strange. What did they think? That he didn't know? That he didn't care? Isn't he a man, too, and a complicated character at that? Last winter already, believe it or not, even before Noga began, I said to my Tsvi that Ezra would do something that would make us all sit up and take notice. Not that he would commit murder or suicide. No, he's not the violent type, even if he is pretty massive to look at. But to start something with the girl — that's his form of revenge. You could tell. Last winter already I had a premonition. Do you remember the film we had here a month or two ago? That French film, with Françoise Arnoul. Remember? There was exactly the same thing there, with the general who carried on with the lieutenant's wife, and the lieutenant took his revenge with the general's daughter. Exactly the same. People are the same everywhere. The next day, after the film, I said as much to Nina in the kitchens, you can ask her, even though she didn't agree with me at the time. She said it wasn't the same. Of course, it's not exactly the same. I don't say that situations repeat themselves exactly. But people feel the same things everywhere, always. Actually, though, that wasn't what I wanted to say. I wanted to tell you something completely different. You get this triangle in lots of novels, too. And especially in a situation like this, with a girl like Noga, who takes after her mother. You know what I mean. I think heredity is very important. You can't change: if you're born like that, that's the way you are. All right. Up to there I can understand it. Even that she's pregnant from Ezra doesn't surprise me in the least. I said as much to my Tsvi at Shavuoth; I said that Ezra would make her pregnant. She doesn't know anything; nobody's ever taught her. That's another thing, incidentally, that'll have to change here: sexual education is very important for adolescents, because it's a difficult age. And Ezra isn't exactly the type to take precautions. All right, what's done is done. It's happened before in other kibbutzim and even here. It's not so long since Einav got married when she was four months gone. Of course that was entirely different — different age, different circumstances. Still, these things do happen. But that wasn't what I wanted to say to you. So far it's easy enough to understand. Not to condone, of course, but to understand. But there's one thing I can't begin to understand. I simply can't comprehend it. They say the girl absolutely refuses to have an abortion. What an idea! She has all sorts of romantic notions. And how she refuses! Reuven's gone completely to pieces, and she doesn't give a damn. And Ezra, of course, is just a shadow of his old self. He goes about quoting verses from Job and Ecclesiastes like… I don't envy him now. Even Bronka — imagine! — went to plead with the little so-and-so to go and have it. But nothing does any good. Her mind is made up. She says it's her child, and she won't budge. She's been taken out of school, even though Herbert Segal said she mustn't be victimized. I'm really surprised at Herbert. Usually he's much more strict and much less sentimental. All right. That wasn't what I wanted to talk about. She doesn't go and see Reuven. She hides from Ezra, or maybe he's hiding from her. So who's she got left? You'll never guess. The tourist. Ezra's brother, who's been here for two or three weeks now. Of course he's already stuck his nose deep into the dirt. I have a feeling he's the type that's fond of dirt, you know, a nihilist or an extrastentialist, some kind of a beatnik, and he's become Noga's spiritual father. Do you realize how far it's gone? And you know what they're saying about him? They say he has exactly the wrong influence on her. He's urging her not to do it. I mean to go ahead and have the child. Do you understand what's going on? Do you? If I were Bronka, I'd kick him out. Let him find somewhere else to stir up trouble. They're all the same, those Jews who went back to Germany after the war. They're up to no good. All kinds of underworld figures. You can imagine. To cut a long story short, when a man starts to go off the rails, and stops trying to be fair, you never know where it'll end up. Do you suppose Reuven ever dreamed that his affair with Bronka would lead to this? Believe me, if that child is born on this kibbutz — I won't work another day in the nursery. I'm only human, too. You know that I always try to be fair. But if they don't throw that tourist out, even if he is Ezra's brother and the Bergers' guest, then I tell you I really don't know what I'm doing here. Everything has its limits. He has a terrible influence on the girl. It's he who's urging her on to this madness. I won't be surprised, you mark what I'm saying, I won't be surprised if all this ends up in some catastrophe, Heaven forbid. I only hope I'm wrong. And, believe me, it hurts."

Ten days after her nocturnal visit to the fishermen in Tiberias, Noga informed her father of her condition. Reuven was unable to control himself and shed some tears in her presence. Noga, too, wept. Then Reuven summoned his last reserves of courage and said that something must be done. Noga made him totter and seize the back of his chair when she informed him icily that she did not intend to agree to "do anything." She would never consent to it. She would have the child. Why? Just to hurt and get her revenge? No, only because she must accept her punishment and her responsibility. She must suffer. Suffering would purify her. Silly little girl, they're just words, just the words of a dreaming girl. Dear Daddy, pure Daddy, you're the little boy, and I'm the grown woman. You'll never understand, Daddy. You're like… you're like a good little boy. Like Gai. You always think the world's made of words. You always always always want it to be good. Why should it be good? Why should it? Why shouldn't it be bad? Why not? Yes, bad. If it's worse, then it'll be truer. More alive, I tell you. But you can't see what I'm saying, dear Daddy, you're too pure and good. Don't cry, big boy, don't cry. Look at me. I'm not crying. Let's not cry. All right? Don't try to tell me that I'm bringing a miserable little bastard into the world. I've thought about that. Yes, I have. Are you surprised? Don't be surprised, Daddy. If you don't suffer, you don't live. If you're not a miserable bastard, you're sterile. Empty. I'm not talking about you. You're suffering now. My poor little girl, you can't know what… It'll be terrible, Noga, terrible….

Noga Harish kept up her stand. The kibbutz was up in arms. All except Herbert Segal, his eyes hidden behind his round tinted spectacles, who repeatedly stated to the education committee: we mustn't destroy her. But at the moment there was nobody else who would accept his opinion.

Reuven Harish — incredible to relate — called on Ezra Berger. He found him in the garage at a surprising time: six o'clock on a Saturday morning. They stood face to face, not looking at one another. Reuven muttered:

"I, er… I happened to be passing."

Ezra stammered:

"The fuel supply is blocked. That is, I thought it was. I opened the hood and…"

Reuven considered, then suddenly frowned and said, in a strange voice:

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

And Ezra, his face deathly pale:

"I… I've begged her. Pleaded with her. What more can I…"

Reuven, oddly calm, asked:

"How… How could you… How could you have…"

Ezra said nothing. Suddenly, as if neither of them had spoken, as if they had not even seen each other, he rolled underneath the truck and started fiddling furiously with the engine, covering himself with black oil in his frenzy. As if Reuven Harish were not there. As if he did not exist.

Reuven left.

***

Bronka went to Noga's room. She spoke to her at some length. She said she was speaking to her just as she would have spoken to her own daughter, if she had had a daughter. She had always dreamed of having a daughter. From now on, if Noga wanted it, they would be mother and daughter. Time would heal everything. Time and love. It would be as if nothing had happened. From now on everything would change. Even between her and Reuven. "You're not to blame, Noga dear. How you're suffering, how you suffered, and I never knew. I'm to blame for everything. But now it'll all be different. If you'll only realize that…"

And Noga, when she had been speaking for a long time, wearily:

"Listen, Bronka, I'll need an older woman to help me when the time comes. You know what I think? I think you could be the woman. I think I want you to be the woman. Will you help me in… in a few months' time?"

"But Noga, dear…"

"Will you? Will you?"

Zechariah-Siegfried Berger had been to Tel Aviv on business and also made a trip to Jerusalem to see his brother Nehemiah. He had not stayed long; he had hurried back to the valley, to Metsudat Ram, because his other dear brother was in trouble. How could he not hurry back to help him? But if you'll listen to my humble advice, Ezra, it's better for you not to get mixed up in the business. That is to say, it's better for us if she does what she wants. Seen objectively, it's not a disaster. A peasant girl is going to have a bastard child, that's all. It's happened before, to thousands of girls in thousands of villages. And from the subjective point of view, dear brother, we derive a clear advantage. The community will reject the miscreant, and she will disappear for good, together with her baby. Maybe her father will go after her. Leave the financial side to your brother Zechariah. The money won't make any difference to me. I'm not thinking of her but of us. We'll get out of our difficulty and heal the rift in the family. A man must do everything he can for his family. And my family, brother dear, is you and Bronka and Tomer and Einav and dear little Danny and Oren and our brother Nehemiah. I'm a lonely man, Ezra. I haven't got a soul in the world except for my family. I want us to be happy. And our happiness will be complete when the little whore and her bastard are thrown out of here. Then, my dear Ezra, we shall return to our senses and be a happy family again. You and Bronka and your children and grandchildren, like olive shoots round your table, as the saying goes. Yes."

To Noga Harish Siegfried addressed different words. You must stand firm to the last. You're an intelligent girl. Don't be ruled by those sheeplike gossips. Respond to the call of the blood. Not a soul of Israel may be killed, because to kill one Jewish soul is tantamount to killing the whole of mankind. Even if that soul is still a fetus. You must bring the life that is taking shape within you into the world, because there is no joy like the joy of motherhood. What's more, to stand alone and proud against the hostility of the mass is the finest and noblest stance there is. By the way, that is what your mother thinks, too. I wrote to her and asked her what she felt about it. She feels as you do. Your mother loves you deeply, and she prays every day that you won't hate her. You can trust me. I'm her close friend and confidant in her new home. But that's not the main point. The main point, my sweetheart, is this: you must come with me, with your dear uncle Zechariah, to your mother. To your mother's house. There are forests and lakes there, and golden leaves and low gray clouds, and green dreaming hills. Calm death dwells there, and we are in his arms. There your child will be born. You will belong there. You don't belong here, dearest. You must come with me to your mother. You don't belong here. You belong with us. You're one of us.

26. A WINTRY TYPE OF PERSON

Zechariah-Siegfried Berger concluded his business in Tel Aviv. In the course of three or four days he signed on a troupe of dancers who danced Biblical dances, shepherds' dances, and pioneers' dances, and also a poetess who wrote in the language of the future, a daring patchwork of words from different languages, selected for their sound rather than their sense. She would read — or, more accurately, perform — her poems for Siegfried's clientele.

He also found three beautiful girls who neither sang nor acted, but they were fair-haired and pale-eyed and powerfully built. He signed them on to appear in khaki uniforms in his cabaret in Munich. They would be armed with submachine guns and portray scenes from the life of the Israeli fighting woman, such as the capture of a fort or the interrogation of a captured Arab officer.

Anyone who wants to succeed in the entertainment business, Zechariah said to Noga, who stared fixedly at his tiny mustache, must understand secret urges and hidden desires. If I am to stand up to the competition of my professional rivals and attract the public into my den, I must aim at the depths. I'm no match for Munich with clowns and acrobats and strippers. But if I bring along a subtle excitement, then I can bowl Munich over. The son of a murdered Jewish cantor takes Munich by storm, Noga my sweetest — you can't conceive of the poignancy of it. Imagine: a girl, a Jewish girl, a pretty, well-built Jewish girl standing on a suggestively lit stage, holding a submachine gun and trampling on an enemy soldier in a torn uniform who writhes and grovels and kisses her feet. It'll send them wild.

Zechariah concluded his business in Tel Aviv in time to pay a visit to our ancient and holy capital city, to see his beloved and erudite brother Nehemiah. The visit was not a success. The brothers began by exchanging memories. The memories upset them. They turned to present-day national problems and promptly quarreled. Nehemiah suspected his visitor of praising Jewish socialism in a mocking tone. He lost his temper and voiced his suspicions aloud. Zechariah was deeply hurt and answered bitterly:

"I love socialism and I love Judaism and I hold myself to be a zealous humanist. But if brothers stop believing what their brothers are saying, then the whole world reverts to chaos. Just think of Cain and Abel."

Nehemiah replied that the world reverted to chaos because of nihilism. As he spoke he smiled, as if to say, "I'm dropping a hint."

Zechariah agreed at once. He even repeated his brother's remark word for word. Then they discussed Ezra and reflected together on the complicated family situation. They both came to the conclusion that the purity of the family is the most important thing, both for the individual and for society. Zechariah explained that he was thinking of persuading the girl to go to Germany with him, to her mother. She had made up her mind to have the child. The social position of the child would be very awkward. He couldn't live at Metsudat Ram, whereas in Germany, of course, the atmosphere was completely different. He himself would handle the formalities and the other troublesome details for the sake of our dear brother Ezra's happiness.

Nehemiah suggested a short tour of the city. Zechariah agreed. But the friendship between the brothers was disrupted once more when Zechariah hailed a taxi and continued to ply his brother with costly amusements. Nehemiah was annoyed, but he did not manage to deprive Zechariah of the dominant role that he had discreetly usurped. At the end of their tour, Siegfried announced that our capital was a spiritual, poetic town, with very picturesque quarters.

Nehemiah suggested that his brother stay the night with him. To their mutual relief, however, he had to return to Tel Aviv the same day on business. And from Tel Aviv he intended to hurry straight back to Metsudat Ram. He had already decided to stay there until he had brought the problem to a satisfactory conclusion and rescued his brother Ezra. The two brothers parted with an embrace. They kissed each other on both cheeks. Nehemiah urged his brother to act straightforwardly and wished him luck. His heart, needless to say, was heavy.

Zechariah returned to Metsudat Ram, having completed his business and fulfilled his obligations to his elder brother. We were not pleased to see him back. The man was planning something. We suspected his motives. He did not inspire us with confidence. He lacked frankness. There were some who considered that he was not here on his own account, but that he had been sent by our ex-comrade Eva. Fruma Rominov, as usual, gave pointed expression to the general feeling:

"The man reminds me of a pimp."

Ezra Berger had resumed his double burden of work. He now spent almost half his hours in the cab of his truck. He also spent some time with his friends the fishermen in Tiberias. He no longer saw Noga. Perhaps he was avoiding her, or perhaps she was hiding from him. Or perhaps Herbert Segal was right when he said that they were kept apart by a common sense of guilt.

Noga worked five hours a day, as was the rule for boys and girls of her age during the school holidays. She helped Herzl Goldring with his gardening. Herzl Goldring is a bitter man, given to outbursts of fierce rage. But he treated Noga Harish with remarkable gentleness. He was not even strict about the hours she worked. If she arrived late or left early, Herzl saw and heard nothing. As they bent together over a shrub that needed trimming, he would try to amuse her with stories of her childhood. Herzl's daughter, who had died in infancy of diphtheria, had been born at the same time as Noga. He remembered the two girls when they were a year old sitting in a playpen, playing with colored bricks. He recalled the scene with complete equanimity, as if he were seeing it in the present, as if nothing had happened since. His way of recalling scenes from the past wrung Noga's heart. He remembered the colors of the bricks. He had painted them himself. A blonde head pressed against a dark head, curls touching curls, two beautiful little girls, Noga, two very special little girls. But how could you possibly remember Asnat? You've forgotten.

One day in July Fruma Rominov stopped Noga Harish outside the clothes store and said to her:

"You're beginning to bulge. Which month are you in? Third? Fourth?"

Noga turned to leave.

"Wait, wait a moment. You haven't heard what I have to say."

"Not just now, please, Fruma."

"Be patient. Wait just a minute. You can't go and see your father at the moment. Right? No, of course not. So where do you go to have your afternoon tea? You don't? That's bad. You must look after yourself now. Plenty of fruit, plenty of fresh vegetables, plenty of dairy produce. Do you like cream cheese? You need to take in a lot of calcium. Yes. You know why I'm saying this. I thought, I wanted to suggest, perhaps you'd come and have tea with me in the afternoons. I'm always alone. I could make you a snack, the sort of food you need. For example, I can get hold of some malt beer. I'll explain to you some time why beer is important when you're pregnant. You could listen to the radio, too, with me, and even play the recorder. I'm not musical, but I've never been averse to listening to a tune or two. You mustn't give up playing the recorder. Men may betray you; things are always faithful. That's life. So come around five o'clock. If you like, you can help me with the ironing, too. For your sake, not mine."

Noga thanked Fruma, but declined her offer. She preferred to sleep all the afternoon. She felt very tired these days. It must be the heat. Anyway, she would bear in mind what Fruma had said. Hurriedly, she turned her back, because her eyes were brimming. She had always been taught that warmheartedness and consideration were the opposite of malice, as day is the opposite of night. And now Fruma.

Herbert Segal held a meeting of Noga's class to discuss the matter with them. I want to consult you as people with experience of life. I haven't come here to make a speech. I've come to exchange ideas. I want you to know that I have called this meeting on my own initiative, without consulting the education committee. Our discussion will remain strictly between ourselves. You won't embarrass me. I trust you. I know a hint will suffice. Good. Let's begin. Our subject is the predicament of your friend Noga. No, that's not right. The predicament is your predicament. Our predicament.

To express what he had in mind, Herbert had to explain two notions. He explained to the children the meaning of "tragedy" and the meaning of "tact." With the aid of these two terms he initiated a subdued, rather solemn discussion. The conclusion was voiced by the children. Herbert accepted it. Noga must not be victimized. We must not behave like a mob gloating over someone else's distress. The solution was not artificial sympathy. That kind of sympathy was more hurtful than outright insults. But she must not be victimized. Whether or not she was responsible for her fate, she was suffering. We must be sensitive to her suffering. We must, in Herbert's phrase, exercise tact. And in his opinion, incidentally, the question of responsibility was not, generally speaking, a simple one. It was a philosophical problem.

Herbert Segal is a remarkable man. His words took effect. There were no more scornful or sarcastic comments. Perhaps Oren's serious remarks helped to damp down the general feelings. Dafna Isarov treated Noga as if she were ill. She walked on tiptoe in their shared room. It was not everyone who had the fortune to live with a girl who could be the heroine of a sad novel. Dafna was conscious of the responsibility that Herbert had impressed on the group, and especially, of course, on her.

As for Oren, he got into a fierce fight with an older boy, who was serving in the army, because the latter had dared to say to him sarcastically that the Berger family was about to celebrate a happy event, the birth of a new uncle for little Danny. Oren did not give a virtuoso performance. There was no exhibition of feints and subtle stratagems. He fought straightforwardly. He went straight to the point, to the disappointment of his supporters and detractors alike, and delivered a brutal kick to the most sensitive point.

He did not hate Noga. We need not weary ourselves with explanations. One day he slipped her a note folded up into a small wad, which said: Noga youre right if thats what you feel then you must do it because you must do what you feel not what other people feel your friend OC

Either because he felt like it, or prompted by dark influences, Oren drowned Mendel Morag's favorite cat. With an army dagger he removed the skin from the body, salted and dried it, replaced the eyes by green marbles, and made it into a soft, furry rug for Noga's bedside. Needless to say, the girl rejected the gift. But it must be added that Oren bore her no grudge.

Again, at sunset, on one of the benches in the garden, the girl in a blue skirt and bright blouse and the visitor in a white shirt and an orange tie, with the picture of a well-known movie star printed on it.

Those who passed by pretended not to see them, either because their power of judging had reached saturation point or because the community, at the end of a subtle and complicated process, had formed its final conclusions. About Reuven Harish they said:

"He's withdrawn completely into himself."

"She never goes to see him."

"He's not the type to collapse at a single blow. But he's yielding, he's bending. It's horrible."

About Ezra Berger:

"Gradually he'll go back to Bronka. They'll meet each other halfway. There'll be a period of melancholy, but he'll go back. It's bound to happen."

"Time. That's all. Time heals all wounds. Winter will come. He won't go on driving day and night. There won't be anywhere for him to go day and night. The nights will get longer. And he'll go back to Bronka. Last Saturday he played on the lawn with the grandchild. Twice he laughed aloud. And that evening he was seen on Grisha's veranda, playing chess with Grisha. Time doesn't stand still. He's only got to get rid of his guest. He has a bad influence on him."

The man stared fixedly at the cigarette he was holding. The girl was sitting curled up at the far end of the bench. Her little belly made whoever looked at her realize how slender, how long her legs were. (But nobody looked at her for long. They looked away quickly as if burned.)

The leaves rustled on the trees. Starlings performed a hysterical dance in the air. They settled on the electric wires, then flapped gently toward the water tower, but changed their minds halfway and with a sudden unanimous decision headed instead for the tin roof of the cattle sheds.

Zechariah went on smoking.

A small branch from one of the bushes nudged Noga's shoulder. She played with it. She pushed it away and, like a spring, it came back and poked her again on the shoulder.

Zechariah observed her game. He chuckled.

Noga said:

"That's not a smile; it's a grimace. You can't smile."

Zechariah told her about an ill-fated woman who had said something similar to him many years before.

Noga asked what had happened to the woman.

"She must be dead by now. What of it?"

Noga said she was sure he must have seen a lot in the course of his life.

Zechariah started to describe Eva Hamburger's present life Noga did not press him for details, nor did she interrupt him. He stopped talking. Stabbed out his cigarette. Lit another.

"I shan't press you to speak," he said. "I know who you are. You're one of us."

"It's getting dark," Noga said. "Let's go and have supper. If we're late…" She did not complete the sentence. Apparently she was not concentrating.

Zechariah stood up and offered the girl his arm. Noga did not take the hint; she refused to be supported. She walked beside the man, not touching him even lightly

After supper Noga went to her room. She got into bed. Nowadays she spent twelve or fourteen hours every day asleep. A great tiredness came over her all the time.

Zechariah sat in his brother's house. Bronka would not hint that he should leave, even though she wanted him to. She served him one cold drink after another, because he was not used to the climate. His throat was always parched. Over and over again, Bronka told him to feel at home and help himself to a drink whenever he felt like it. Zechariah claimed that it tasted better when it was poured out for him by Bronka. Sometimes he told her strange stories. She listened to them because he was her guest and her husband's brother, but she did not answer him much because she did not like the man.

He told her, for instance, about the early days in Germany. It had been in 1950, or at the end of 1949. He had come to squeeze some reparation money out of them, and while his claims were under examination he was penniless. So he had to find work, any work. Those were difficult days. Everything was still in ruins. He found a rather strange job, but one couldn't afford to be choosy in those days. He was taken on as a temporary worker in the municipal health department in Hamburg. He worked at night, in a team of displaced refugees. Their job was to round up stray dogs. They were paid according to the number of dogs they caught, and at that time there was an ever-increasing multitude of strays. Some of them still showed signs of a pedigree, but the purity of their line had become contaminated during the war years. We used to fool the authorities. We would catch the dogs, present them to the official in charge, get an officially stamped receipt for each dog, all in accordance with the strictest German efficiency, and then we would take them to the municipal rubbish dump to poison them. And, thereby, as you will have guessed by now, my dear Bronka, hangs the tale. We didn't kill the dogs. We used to let them go. Within an hour or two they had reappeared in the suburbs. We dutifully rounded them up again the next night and once again received good German money for each and every dog. There were some dogs we captured and released twenty or thirty times. The authorities were alarmed at their extraordinary proliferation. The more they harassed them, the more they multiplied. As for us, we made friends with our mangy four-legged breadwinners and even gave them names — Heinz, Fritz, Franz, and Hermann. They used to give themselves up of their own free will, because they were fond of the journey to the municipal rubbish dump. Sometimes they found good food there. A stray dog's life is not a happy one, both from an economical and, more especially, from a psychological point of view. A dog needs to be loved. He needs a name. Needs to be recognized. We used to stroke them and tickle them behind the ears and call each one by its name and nickname, Fredi, Hansi, Rudi-Rudolfi-Rudolfini. After all, they were strays. A dog will sacrifice himself for a single sign of affection. A dog needs to belong. I'm sure you realize, Bronka, my love, that we didn't spare the lives of the mad dogs. We weren't criminals; we did have some sense of moral responsibility. Anyway, eventually, as you know, my claims received official approval, and then, beloved sister-in-law, then, new horizons opened up before me. But I fear I am not succeeding in entertaining you with my stories. Thomas Mann, in The Magic Mountain, describes a bore who is always badgering people with his trite moral tales. But his disease was tuberculosis. He was consumptive. You don't have to listen to me. I love you, my dear Bronka, even when you look at me with disgust or boredom on your face, because we both belong to the same family, and I love my family regardless of how they treat me. A man like me will go to the ends of the earth for a sign of affection. And a family is not a limited company. A family is a destiny. A man must always love his destiny, because he has no choice. Would you be kind enough to pour me another glass of orange juice? It's my throat. My throat's so dry. I don't stop talking. And I'm not used to the Asiatic climate. I am a — how shall I put it? — no, not a European, I'm a — let me put it this way — I'm a wintry type of person.

27. BELLS AND SADNESS

Reuven Harish was housebound. He had no teaching to do. It was the summer holidays. He should have been spending his time preparing his lessons for the coming school year. He tried to, but the words danced around on the page. He sits down at his desk and opens a book. The words do not form sentences. He opens another book. His head drops onto the desk. He gets up, washes his face with cold water, sips a cup of coffee, returns to the desk, and once more his hand pushes the book away, and his glance starts wandering. The coffee is supplied by the generous Nina Goldring. Nina has good-naturedly taken on herself the task of caring for Reuven Harish. Now that neither Bronka nor Noga sets foot inside his room, Nina gladly performs the errand of mercy. Reuven is not well. His shoulders seem to droop, his birdlike profile has become sharper than ever. Even his bright green eyes become blurred at times. He looks like someone who is exhausted from lack of sleep. This is far from being the case. Reuven is given to long, dreamless stretches of deep sleep. Just like his daughter. For no apparent reason his face is sometimes bathed in hot sweat, and giddiness lays him out on his bed. On bad days he is forbidden by the kibbutz doctor to make any effort. Seated in a deck chair on his veranda, he picks grapes from a large bunch until he suddenly dozes off in the heat of the morning sun and sleeps for several hours.

Sometimes he recalls a nocturnal journey, in a truck battered by icy jets of furious rain. In his hallucination Reuven hears a voice, and a pale hand with delicate fingers softly touches his knee. Along with the hand come visions. Large birds, evening twilight, bells of distant churches. Within the shrouded image lurks something pure and crystalline, something that cannot be named. Reuven wonders and feels sad. What is it, dear God, what is this thing? Far far away it shows, with the rain and the sound of bells.

We were pleasantly surprised at this time by young Gai Harish. He had changed for the better. We are no tyros in matters of education, and we do not expect miracles. But this boy had become quieter and more serious. Even his manners had improved. Credit must go to the modest Herbert Segal, who had taken it on himself to speak to the boy and explain to him straightforwardly the meaning of tragedy and the importance of tact.

Gai looked at Herbert out of his warm dark eyes and inquired whether the baby would belong to the Berger or the Harish family. Herbert sighed and replied that the baby had no chance of being happy, because it would have no real family. Neither the Berger family nor the Harish family would be able to offer it a loving home.

Gai silently considered the matter. Finally he declared that he could love such a baby, because that kind of baby especially needed to be loved.

Herbert blinked shortsightedly. He Fidgeted with his fingers, as if he were feeling the boy's words. Gai added that his mother, too, had fallen in love with a stranger, and that was why he and Noga had grown up without a mother. He was not angry with his mother. But inwardly he had already made up his mind never to fall in love. Falling in love always leads to disaster.

Herbert uncharacteristically looked down at the floor, taking care not to meet the boy's gaze. With a certain hesitancy he explained that this was not always the case, that love sometimes made people happy. Gai agreed as far as love between men was concerned, the way that he loved his father or Tomer loved Oren. But one should never get married. Or even fall in love with a woman. One should live like you, Herbert. Without any woman. Because you're a wise man.

Herbert Segal said nothing.

Gai asked who, in Herbert's opinion, was to blame: father or mother, Noga or Ezra.

Herbert explained simply that life is sometimes complicated. There are some situations in which you cannot say that X is the guilty party and Y is the victim. Much to Herbert Segal's astonishment, Gai replied that the conflict between Jews and Arabs was an example of such a situation. Both sides say that their ancestors lived in this land and both sides are absolutely right. What is the moral? The moral is very simple. The moral is that might is right.

Herbert deferred answering immediately, hunting for a simple but crushing argument that would refute Gai's strange conclusion. At the last moment he remembered that his duty was not to defeat the child but to encourage his friendship. He therefore refrained from exercising his right to have the last word. As they parted on the doorstep, Gai looked straight into Herbert's gray eyes and made two promises. One, that he would not talk to his father or to Noga or to anyone about what had happened in the family. And, two, that he would call on Herbert from time to time for a chat or an argument. Herbert also tried to persuade Gai to let him play him some music, because music soothes the emotions and stirs up thoughts, which are our true property in life. Gai did not reply at once; he pondered and finally said that he sometimes had thoughts at night before he fell asleep. But in the daytime? In the daytime he thought only when he had to. He shook hands and left.

As he walked away, Gai said to himself that from now on it was his duty to take care of Daddy, because Daddy had problems. The thought excited him. Herbert was thinking about the boy's warm dark eyes. He came to the conclusion that the child was very mature for his age and that it would be wonderful if he could become his spiritual father. Herbert Segal was fond of Gai Harish.

The summer lost some of its earlier exuberance. The discerning eye could see the signs. True, the heat still tyrannized us with the obstinacy of an old man striving to conceal his waning vigor by means of continual bitter outbursts. It was clear, however, that the days were growing shorter. The hours of darkness, the gentle hours, lengthened. The power of the incandescent light was ebbing. The twilight became richer.

Day and night, in three shifts, tractors turned the soil in preparation for the sowing of the winter crops. Golden fields yielded to the plow and turned over to reveal their dark innards. In the orchard activity was at its height. Exhausted men filled the dining hall in the evenings. Inside the rooms the air was stifling for most of the night. More and more adventurous souls chose to sleep outside on the verandas, or even on the lawns, with white sheets wrapped over their heads to protect them from the fury of the mosquitoes. At dawn you could see a kind of scattered army of ghosts lying about, swathed in white shrouds. But the appearance is illusory. The night watchmen nudge the sleepers awake with the first glimmer of daylight. The shrouds unwrap to disclose live men and women, tired men and women, grumbling, liable to occasional gossiping and virulent petty quarrels. We must not judge them severely. The season imposes exhausting labors on them all, while we do — what? Only those whose eye is alert to the movements of the birds and the minute changes in the color of vegetation can take a certain comfort. Faint signs, like secret messages, herald the onset of other powers.

Zechariah-Siegfried Berger extended his stay at Metsudat Ram, not without pressing on the treasurer, Yitzhak Friedrich, a monthly sum to cover his keep. Ezra's complaints and Bronka's sarcasms had no effect. I am a wealthy man, and it is right and proper to dip one's hand into a rich man's pocket. If I'm not allowed to pay, I'll take offense and leave at once. Do you want to drive me away?

In her heart Bronka did indeed pray that he would pack up and go. So did many other members. But Ezra prized his brother's company, as did one of our young girls, condemned to solitude because of an embarrassing accident.

Zechariah's decision to stay was open to a number of interpretations. His own account of it was that the company of his relatives was dearer to him than that of anyone else in the whole wide world, and he loved being here because here he could observe the building of our old-new country.

Others claimed that a sordid scheme was hatching in his mind. Who could say what its object was? Perhaps he was here on Eva's instructions to persuade Noga Harish to go back to Germany with him. Such was Bronka's opinion. Or perhaps he desired the girl and wanted her for himself. So Tomer thought. Fruma Rominov held to an even more unpleasant explanation: his behavior was that of a cunning pimp, who takes a helpless girl in trouble under his wing, helps her to bring her bastard child into the world, and acquires absolute power over her body and her soul.

One's first impression of Zechariah-Siegfried would be that of a scoundrel, if one did not know about his background and outlook and his attachment to his family. It is my love of my family, he explains to Ezra, that makes me undertake the unpleasant task of resolving this girl's doubts and persuading her to go to Europe. But there is also a question of principle: her place is with her mother. She is delicate and spoiled, and she will develop better in Europe than here in the front line of battle. Moreover, if we can see the matter from Eva's point of view, how marvelous it would be for mother and daughter to have the joy of bringing up the child together. It would give Eva a purpose in life. As for my bosom friend Isaac Hamburger, I am sure that the artistic side of his character will forge strong bonds of love between him and his new daughter, and with his prospective grandchild. And I can reveal, by the way, that the most recent letter from my friends indicates their wholehearted approval of my plan.

Unless you suspect the truth of Zechariah-Siegfried's words, you must admit their logic, even if this only becomes apparent on deeper reflection.

Zechariah's behavior, too, is logical and systematic. He seeks the company of Noga Harish. Sometimes he manages to arouse her curiosity. For the most part, she listens to the sound of his voice, but the words elude her. His voice soothes her. When he is with her, she is relaxed. He pins cautious hopes on her silence. He is convinced that he has the girl in his power. He does not realize that in fact only a gentle torpor keeps her with him. But even this is illusory.

Zechariah also attempts to win the friendship of Gai, as befits a friend of the family. Gai does not respond to his advances. We must wait to see the effect of a Schweigermann bicycle that is at the moment on its way from Munich to Metsudat Ram, having been ordered by Herr Siegfried Berger as a present for his admirable young friend Gai Harish.

Naturally, Zechariah does not overlook the father. He is the principal obstacle. The girl will not be able to withstand his collapse. A tear or two, and the whole careful edifice will tumble like a house of cards. The matter demands careful consideration. Reuven Harish is adamantine. His sympathy cannot be bought for the price of a modest German edition of his selected poems. Vulgar methods will not succeed with him. There is a clash of principles, like the clash of iron on iron, or the conflict between mountain and valley, to borrow our dear pioneer's own favorite metaphor. His friendship may be won gradually, of course, by flattery. But that course demands a protracted effort, whose outcome is far from certain. On the other hand, this Harismann is suffering from a complaint, whose details deserve careful attention. Certain illnesses, under unusual circumstances, can dispose of a man at a blow. And in case of any disaster, the girl passes legally into her mother's care, and that puts an end to subterfuge. And besides all these possibilities, there are other courses of action open. We can bring the law round to our side. That is the proper way for decent, law-abiding citizens. Perhaps what we really need is an intelligent lawyer. Let's go over the facts carefully: a couple have two children. The parents have been divorced for some years. Both are in their right mind. Both are financially capable of supporting the children. In such a case, legal common sense suggests that the father should have custody of the son and the mother of the daughter. That would be an equable solution in the true sense of the word. The fact that the mother has so far taken no steps to exercise her legal right detracts in no way, of course, from the legal validity of that right. And especially, gentlemen of the jury, since the father has by his own actions sacrificed both his moral and his legal right to the custody of the children. We deeply regret having to publicize the fact that he has embroiled himself in a personal scandal, the details of which my client can supply without any difficulty, and the harmful effects of which on the minds of the children will be attested by the eminent psychologist whom we shall call in due course. The mother, on the other hand, is happily remarried and her morals are above reproach. To this, likewise, we shall bring incontrovertible testimony. The conclusion, gentlemen, is logically inescapable: it is the mother, and not the father, who is entitled, on both legal and moral grounds, to have custody of the children. My client, however, is prepared to display outstanding generosity. She does not insist upon invoking the full rigor of the law. She is prepared to settle for a reasonable compromise, disregarding the father's misdemeanors and general conduct. Our offer is straightforward and exceedingly generous: he may keep the son. But on my client's behalf let me warn him that if he dares to reject our offer, considerate and magnanimous as it is, we shall challenge his right to the son as well, and he may find himself the loser on both counts.

The case rests. But this course must be a last resort. We want the deer unwounded. Netted, not shot. I haven't come to drag the girl away kicking and screaming. I want to get Harismann's blessing. And get it I will. He is a man of ideals. I shall use his ideals to break through his defenses. He will give his blessing, and I shall deign to accept it, as a favor. I shall accept out of humanitarian motives. He'll beg me to take her.

Needless to say, the visitor's thoughts were not outwardly apparent. His appearance was neat and smart. He radiated a smell of luxurious grooming. He divided his time between his brother's family and theoretical lectures to Noga, between dear little Danny, who provided him with much entertainment, and the swimming pool, which also saw a great deal of him and became accustomed to the unexpected power of his muscles. Once a week he traveled to Tel Aviv or Haifa, returning the following day. Bronka and Ezra did not know the purpose of his trips, just as they were uncertain of the purpose of his stay. But to Tomer, in consideration of his youth, Siegfried spoke frankly.

"I go to enjoy myself. Just once a week — no one can accuse me of excess. Surely I'm not expected to live entirely without a woman. When you finally decide to join me, my dear Tomer, I'm at your service, ready and waiting to shower you with delights."

Noga was attentive to her body. Never before had she been so clearly aware of the independent life of her muscles or the warmth of her flesh. She lay on her back with her eyes closed and listened to the sounds of her body. The gentle throbbing of the blood at her temples and wrists, the inner gargle produced from time to time by the digestive juices, the rhythm of her breathing, which was linked to the rhythm of her thoughts, the tender stabbing deep inside her belly.

Previously, Noga had not liked her body. She disliked the coarseness of tangible reality. There was no difficulty in escaping from the body to a dream world of colorful disembodied forms. It was enough to press gradually with two fingers on the eyeballs for bright spirals of color to sweep you away to another world, a world of bells, bells whose tongue you are. Now the pleasures have changed. Now it is into the body, not away from it. To get inside yourself. The same wild dream every night: to be a fetus inside your own body, to curl up in the enclosed warmth.

The posture demanded by this mood: sitting on the floor, at the foot of the bed, knees raised, head between the knees, arms folded round it. Or another possibility: lying on your back and gently, slowly stroking your breast.

Herzl Goldring did not overburden Noga with work. When she left early, he pretended not to notice. If he thought he heard a groan or saw a twitch of nausea on her face, he insisted that she put down her hoe and go and lie down. Once, without any preamble, he said in an acid tone:

"Listen, you don't have to have the baby."

Surprised and half-amused, Noga asked:

"How do you know?"

"Nina thinks so too. So do other people. Lots of them."

"Are you suggesting I should put it to the vote in the assembly?"

"Oh, no, heaven forbid. Of course it's a personal matter, completely private; nobody else has the right to decide."

"Now you're right, Herzl, absolutely right, and when you're right, no one can argue with you."

"Argue? Perish the thought. I wasn't trying to argue. But I feel I ought to apologize."

"You? Apologize? Why? What have you done?"

Herzl was tongue-tied. He concluded:

"Oh, I'm very sorry, I'm really very sorry, Noga. Very sorry."

Needless to say, Herzl Goldring did not repeat his mistake. He never raised the subject again.

Kind people like Herbert Segal took great pains discreetly to influence the general mood of opinion and to surround Noga with an atmosphere of tolerance and friendliness. Not because Herbert justified her behavior, but because reason and compassion led for once to the same conclusion. The girl was facing a strong temptation to leave the kibbutz and the country and to join her mother. Those who took that course never returned. Moreover, Reuven Harish was dear to us all. His troubles were our troubles. We could imagine what would happen to Reuven Harish if his daughter went to live with her mother. When the moment came, we should have to meet and decide on the fate of the child. But we would not crush the girl. We would defer passing judgment and treat her tolerantly. Herbert Segal came to this conclusion early on and did a great deal to impress it on others. He expressed it in various ways, but the fundamental idea was the same.

The echoing chorus would come:

"She's not to blame. After all, she comes from a broken home."

"Her determination to have the baby is a sign of her strong character."

"Throw her out? Then what about Reuven?"

"We mustn't react emotionally. It needs thought."

The direction of the public mind in our kibbutz is an extremely subtle process. You cannot stand up and preach to a community of mature, sophisticated men and women. You have to talk to individuals. You have to choose wisely whom to talk to. This delicate task modest Herbert Segal took upon himself. His first move was to call a meeting of Noga's classmates; he brought them to an understanding of the situation without exercising his authority. Oren Giva did not stand in his way. Next, Herbert turned to Gai Harish and sealed a secret compact with him. Then he discreetly stimulated the maternal feelings of the older women. Not with high-flown phrases. He played on their sympathy with hints and asides. He quenched their blazing moral fury: nothing was easier than to expel someone from their midst to keep the camp pure and free from taint. But what would happen afterward? Would we be able, as a community, to look ourselves in the eye? Easy solutions were a sign of weakness. Were we to counter the weakness of a poor, confused girl with our own collective weakness? No, we mustn't be governed by weakness. Otherwise, we would lose our moral justification and our right to judge the girl. She was a victim, and so was her father, and we must not forget it for a moment, because we were responsible for the happiness of each individual among us, and because Reuven was one of us, and his daughter was one of us, too. We must not treat her as a dangerous example or a corrupting influence. Such notions were alien to our spirit. She was neither an example nor an influence; she was a sixteen-year-old girl. We must not react like ignorant, prejudiced peasants. Could you imagine this girl thrown out on the street?

A flood of compassion broke over our kibbutz toward the end of the summer. The women competed in good works and acts of kindness toward the straying lamb. She was surrounded by sympathy and warmth. Sincere invitations to come round and talk. You're so lonely. Why don't you come and have tea with us, come and have a rest, take a shower, look at pictures, pour out your troubles? The women in the sewing room acted beyond the call of duty. After complicated calculations they managed to ascertain Noga's current measurements without an embarrassing fitting. They made her a set of maternity clothes, and Einav Geva smuggled them into her room.

Esther Klieger presented Noga with a brightly wrapped book, saying:

"For you. Read it. No need to give it back. Keep it. Only make sure my Dafna doesn't get hold of it."

"But… why? What is it?"

"Look and see. Very useful book. Do you feel all right, my dear? Yes? You can always turn to me. Even in the middle of the night. Don't be too shy. You're like my own Dafna to me. Grisha feels the same way as I do. For us you're Dafna's sister. Yes. Take good care of yourself, my dear. And don't forget to come."

Noga unwrapped the book. A guide for the expectant mother. Blushing slightly, Noga thanked Esther Klieger. Esther was delighted.

Within the next few days the following books were collected and handed over to her: Childbirth Without Tears, Introduction to Sex, Bringing Up Your Child, and also two identical copies — one from Hasia Ramigolski and the other from Gerda Zohar — of The Happy Mother.

Even in the dining hall, Noga was treated to dainty tidbits — chicken liver, dairy produce, raw carrot, malt beer, and sweets normally reserved for babies and small children.

Stubborn soul. How she must have suffered in her short life, that she rejects the generous kindness of the women and prefers the solitary company of a rather shady tourist who is visiting the kibbutz. Furthermore, she spends an undesirable amount of time sleeping.

Fruma Rominov approached the health committee with the suggestion that Noga Harish should be sent to a private nursing home in Haifa for the next few months. In the first place, psychologically she needed a change of atmosphere. Second, physically the girl was underweight. Her hips were too narrow. She needed to put on weight before the birth, which might be a difficult one. Third, which ought to be first, really, she ought to be removed from a certain harmful influence. Fruma's suggestion was not adopted. The committee accepted the arguments of Gerda Zohar, its secretary: the girl should stay here, since she needed constant care — not medical care but social care.

Every Thursday the women go to the laundry and hang out the washing that is not done by machine. Once, Fruma Rominov arrived early and hung out Noga's washing. Fruma, we must bear in mind, had not been well lately. She had been complaining of dizzy spells and constant lassitude. Although the doctor had discovered no physical cause, Fruma had stopped working. She had never done such a thing before. For three weeks she had not left her room. Even her meals had been brought to her on a tray by a member of the health committee. Fruma declared that the doctor had sided with those who wanted to see her dead. It wasn't his fault. He must have been put up to it. She relied on her intuition, which had never let her down. She had sunk all her life into this place. She had sacrificed her husband. She had sacrificed her son. She would sacrifice herself. That, after all, was the easiest sacrifice of all. If only one of the officials of the kibbutz could at least take the trouble to get Rami recalled on leave, so that he could be with his mother in her last days. But no. Who would do that for her? The Pogolskis or the Ramidolskis? Huh. Fruma announced to all and sundry that her end was near. She had even dreamed of her death twice recently. The dream could not be ignored. The proof was that poor Alter, too, had dreamed of his own funeral four days before they had sent him into the banana plantation and killed him. But I won't say anything. I haven't said anything all my life. I won't say anything now in my last days. Another month or two. After my funeral, all your Golskis and Dolskis will be able to do everything they're capable of, because there won't be anyone left in this kibbutz to make them feel ashamed. Noga? Noga doesn't prove a thing. I understand her. I understand her better than anyone. If you haven't suffered yourself, you can't understand others who suffer. You might think that what has happened to her is a punishment for what she did; if my Rami weren't such a sensitive boy he could tell some terrible stories about her. But I'm not crowing. I can sense when people are really suffering. There's a saying: Don't laugh at your enemy's downfall. And, by the way, I don't like to boast, but I might add that I've also done my bit for her. And long before everybody started chasing after her with love and kisses, because the fashion changed. No, it was weeks ago, when she was treated like a mangy bitch. Neglected. Despised. Abandoned. Fruma was the one who went up to her and said "My house is open to you." I wouldn't tell anybody else this. Except for you, Herbert, because you… It doesn't matter. You'll be the one to deliver the funeral address for Fruma Rominov. I don't want any Dolski-Golskis. I want you. You can start getting your speech ready. I won't keep you waiting.

One Saturday night Reuven Harish went for his usual walk. His steps led him along the path that ran behind the cow shed and down to the fish ponds. He stopped by the water pump. He breathed deeply. He saw birds. He heard the wind. He recalled a long journey in Ezra Berger's truck. Iron rods. He saw some small stones in the dust. He stooped and picked some up. Aimed at a rusty cart shaft. Missed. Breathed deeply again. Suddenly he decided to go and see his daughter. He hadn't set eyes on her for seven weeks. Go to her room. Noga-Maris.

What shall I say to her? She's not mine any more. I'll say I've come to see her. I'll say we don't have to talk. Let's sit and say nothing. You don't mind? You can say no. Then I'll leave. I've simply come to be. Here. Not to talk. May I?

Noga said yes. Sit down, I'll stay here on the bed, because I'm tired. No, I wasn't going to sleep. Sit down, do. I'm… I'm glad you've come.

"Are you?"

"Yes, I am."

Silence.

Distant laughter. Sounds of singing. In the wood. A strange melody. The air is hot. The electric light is very yellow. A bird shrieks close at hand. A moth hurls itself at the mosquito net in the window frame, making drunkenly for the light. Again and again it dashes itself against the netting, thudding lightly, in stubborn desperation. Beams of moonlight, too, try to penetrate into the room. The net does not halt them. They filter through it with ease. They have no body, not even a tiny one. They are here, inside, with us. It's only because of the electric light that they can't be seen. Here they are. Familiar smell. Painful. Father's smell. Her eyes are veiled. Perhaps a lump in her throat. Darling. Child. You're like Gai, Daddy. You're a big child. You could be my little brother. Don't be sad, Daddy, don't be sad. Won't do it again. Ever. Promise. Don't be sad. Everything will be all right. Don't worry, Daddy. Don't be sad. It'll be all right. I can't bear to see you sad. Don't. I promise. I've promised.

"Daddy."

"Yes."

"Were you asleep?"

"No."

"Nor was I."

"I know."

"Daddy."

"Yes."

"Let's go away."

"Where to?"

"Let's go away tomorrow. With Gai."

"Where to?"

"Somewhere far away. To the end of the world."

"Where to?"

"On the way we'll stop and collect her. Not without her. The four of us."

"Where to?"

"Somewhere else. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere safe. Just us."

"You're hurting me, Stella."

Silence.

Dafna Isarov cautiously opened the door, saw Reuven, muttered something, and shut the door again.

"Daddy."

"Yes."

"What are you thinking about?"

"Nothing in particular."

"What about?"

"Wiesbaden."

"What?"

"Wiesbaden. It's a place. A town. In Germany."

"What is there there?"

"Hot springs. When I was a child I saw… Never mind."

"What did you see?"

"Never mind. I didn't come to talk."

"No, go on. Talk. I want you to."

"Hot springs. Steam gushing out of the ground."

"What made you think of it?"

"They took me there. I was four. Five, perhaps. My father got a job there. In Wiesbaden."

"Was it a nice place?"

"I can't remember."

"Why were you thinking about… that place?"

"Wiesbaden. Because of the geysers. The hot springs."

"What?"

"I was frightened. Terribly frightened. I can remember. Steam gushing out with an awful hissing sound. I was only a child. Everything shook. Perhaps it was only me shaking. No. The earth shook. Everything."

"Like in an earthquake?"

"You know, Stella, for years and years I used to have terrible dreams about Wiesbaden. And now… now they're coming back."

"When?"

"Now. Last night, perhaps the night before. Several times. It's a nightmare."

"What did you dream? Tell me."

"I dreamed it was gushing. Under my feet. Right where I was standing. Something suddenly moved under my foot, a little crack in the ground, white steam came out, a bigger crack, a fissure. I run, it widens, steam and seething vapor, it chases me, it… it scalds. I scream. It's black. Roasting like burning oil. In the dream it's not always in Wiesbaden. It can be anywhere. Wherever I happen to be. All of a sudden."

"I… Daddy, I'll go there. I'll go and see the place you mentioned. Is it very far from… Never mind. I want to. I'll go there."

"Stella, don't look at me like that. I don't… I knew you'd go. Go."

"And you?"

"No."

"Never?"

"Never."

"But how can you… all alone?"

"I don't think I can."

"Daddy, what sort of a country is it?"

"Where?"

"There. Germany."

"I was born there."

"Yes."

"Pretty. It's a pretty country. Mountains, forests, wind, lakes, rivers, old towns, inns, peasants, thick beer, castles. And Wiesbaden."

"And the people?"

"I don't know. All the people I knew, all of them, either killed or got killed. But a strong wind blows. Filling the sails. You can hire boats on the lakes and sail, as your mother does. The sun isn't too bright, either. Or perhaps my memory is confusing it. Like twilight all the time. Less tiring for the eyes. Less light."

"You'll hate me."

"No, I won't."

"Yes, you will hate me."

"No. I… I've always hated hatred. I only hate… I don't know how to say it. Only Wiesbaden."

"You'll live."

"Yes."

"How?"

"I'll teach. Read books. Bring up Gai. If Gai decides to stay."

"Sad."

"Perhaps not. Perhaps not so sad. Perhaps like… like Herbert, for example. Living along one long groove. Dead straight. Calmly. Clenched teeth. Living drily."

"What else do you remember? Tell me more about it. Everything."

"I can't remember everything. I try to forget. But I can't forget Wiesbaden. I'm frightened. I can remember a little. I can remember bells, for instance."

"Bells? Did you say bells?"

"Yes, bells. Every Sunday. In the evening. At twilight. Endless fields, dark plains, black mountains in the distance. Great valleys. Forests. Little towns among the forests. Sounds everywhere, everywhere the sound of bells. Not a man in sight, not a breath of wind, not a bird in the sky. Bells. As if everything were dead, and only the bells were alive and singing, singing and alive, ding-dong sleep, ding-dong die, done ding-dong, die down dong. I'm frightened, Noga, I'm frightened at night, I'm frightened now."

28. THE GOLDEN DAGGER

Ezra Berger gave up his extra trip.

One evening he went to see Podolski, who was in charge of the work rota, and said:

"Podolski, I'm only going out' once tomorrow. And the same from tomorrow on."

"Has something happened?"

"Nothing's happened. I'm just tired. 'Is my strength the strength of stones?'" he added jokingly. But he forgot to accompany his joke with a smile. His decision may have been due to exhaustion, or perhaps rather to the blessed influence of Zechariah-Siegfried. Zechariah had long conversations with his brother. His purpose was apparently to reforge the link between Ezra and Bronka. Obviously, the attempt was made indirectly. It is doubtful whether Ezra himself was aware of his brother's secret aim.

Bronka treated Ezra with discreet consideration. She treated him as one treats a man who has newly arrived from distant parts. Once, at dawn, they both happened to wake up together, and without a word they resumed the relations that had been severed for a long time.

Now that affairs between husband and wife and daughter and father were resolved, it was evident that Ezra did not bear a grudge or seek revenge.

Somehow, like a tree insensibly growing a rough scab over a wound, old routines were re-established in the Berger household — the glass of tea together at bedtime or Bronka's patient massaging of Ezra's stiff right knee.

After the afternoon tea, for instance, Siegfried took the baby for a walk in its pram, and Tomer and Einav went to the swimming pool or the basketball field, leaving Bronka and Ezra on their own like a young couple.

Ezra came home from his journey around two o'clock every day, had a shower and lay down on his bed for a siesta, just as in days gone by. Once, Bronka said that she wanted them both to go away for a holiday after the New Year but that if Ezra objected she wouldn't press him. Ezra sleepily consented.

Sometimes they met by chance, in the dining hall or on one of the lawns. They nodded to one another and looked away. Strangers. Not embarrassed, not bitter, just strangers. Surprisingly enough, Noga, attentive though she was to her own body, hardly associated her baby with Ezra Berger. Ezra had walked out of her thoughts. Noga saw the thickset, coarse-featured truck driver, and as she did so she felt as if he… as if the man were familiar from somewhere else. It was as if her mind's eye were blinded. It was not that she had forgotten the facts. But the connections between the facts had ceased to exist.

Something similar had happened to Ezra. Sometimes he sat at the table in the evening and read aloud from the Bible in a colorless voice, shuddering suddenly at an outburst of mad howling from the jackals and asking himself, what did I do, when was I, ages ago I was. But he tried to skirt it. To isolate himself from it. Get back to the Bible. Sometimes he inflicted on his memory a protracted, minutely detailed torture. To his surprise he discovered that memories were wearing rather than painful. The memories were disintegrating into heaps of words that did not belong, that had no life, that… had no connection.

This is not easy to understand. We had thought they were in love. But no. Perhaps they were using one another. Perhaps — hard though it is to say it — perhaps Noga and Ezra had been holding onto one another as one holds onto an instrument or a weapon. Now, with the goal achieved, the tool had dropped from the tired hand, and all that was left was the urge to rest.

Slowly, as if with great weariness, Ezra came back. There were moments when Bronka dreamed of a dramatic reconciliation. She suppressed her dream. It seemed that there was a deep truth in the words spoken by Ezra to Podolski: I'm tired. I haven't got the strength of stones. I'm tired.

Bronka did not set her course out of weariness. There were still times when she missed Reuven. With determination she snapped the thread. Her eyes were opened. She saw how far. And she was a strong woman.

The scars turned pink, then gray, then faded. Perhaps because Ezra and Bronka had never hated one another. Even during the bitter days there had been a dim, whispering sympathy between them. Only they had been remote from one another. Now they had come back to each other because they had an urgent need to lean. They leaned.

One day Siegfried pinched Einav's cheek and whispered gleefully:

"Look at them, my lovely, look at those two old lovebirds. He's reading the Bible to her; she's taken off her glasses and is looking at his lips; they're both relaxed; it's a real honeymoon. She's taken him under her wing and become his mother and his sister, as our national poet puts it. Hm?"

There was a certain amount of truth in the visitor's remark, even if it was exaggerated and full of lascivious glee. There was no honeymoon. But there was — we use the term with some hesitation — a brotherly feeling. There were still long intervening hours of gray, dreary silence. It seemed as though they would last right up to the end. The big, clumsy clock would go on ticking. If they did not take care to turn the tap off properly, it would go on noisily dripping.

Zechariah had an idea. To invite his family out for a friendly evening together, somewhere pleasant, somewhere else. The change of air and the intimacy would be a balm for worn-out feelings.

He ordered a taxi to take them to Tiberias at eight o'clock, after supper and little Danny's bedtime. They were a full taxiload: the elder Bergers and the younger Bergers, the guest playing the host for the evening, and, at Ezra's request, Grisha Isarov too. Ezra and Grisha had become close friends recently. Three or four evenings a week they sat together in Grisha's room, playing dominoes or chess. Grisha told wonderful stories, and Ezra summarized the morals of the stories in Biblical verses taken out of context.

Zechariah wore a dark suit and a flower in his buttonhole. Ezra and Tomer were in white open-necked shirts. Grisha — for a change — put on a pair of shorts that displayed an enormous pair of hairy legs. Einav, for her part, wore the low-cut dress that she reserved for special outings.

They started the evening with a couple of hours in the bar of a large hotel by the Sea of Galilee. There was a small orchestra. Grisha twirled his mustache and bawled his orders at a cowering waiter.

Zechariah bowed to Einav and invited her onto the blue-lit dance floor. The saxophone was laughing and crying. Einav leaned on Zechariah's shoulder and felt a new woman. They danced together for a long time, while Bronka and Tomer glared at them angrily, though each for a different reason. Zechariah attracted admiring glances. He danced effortlessly but with amazing precision. Painted tourist women tried to lure him with smiles, but he remained faithful to his beloved Einav. Her face was radiant, and her limp had disappeared.

Ezra and Grisha engaged in a good-humored drinking contest. Zechariah, in the brief intervals between dances, outdrank them both and made fun of them, although — needless to say — his jokes never exceeded the bounds of friendly good manners. The drink did not get the better of him.

But Ezra and Grisha were carried away by the change of scene and the drinks. Around midnight they burst into spirited song, attracting the cheerful attention of the other occupants of the bar.

Tomer, who was not a drinker and was not fond of the old songs, said nothing, but glowered furiously at his wife's legs. Bronka followed his glance and announced that she was tired. Reluctantly, the others acceded and rose to leave. The wealthiest member of the party, of course, settled the bill.

They strolled for a while by the lakeside. Grisha and Ezra strode ahead, arm in arm, conversing hoarsely. Then came Zechariah and Einav, he with his arm round her waist. Bronka and her son meekly brought up the rear.

It was a warm, clear night, with a full moon. The water rippled and flashed. The outline of the mountains showed opposite. The lights of the town shone yellow. A breeze was blowing. Grisha and Ezra exchanged memories of the good old pioneering days. Bronka intruded an occasional remark. Zechariah described to Einav the latest European fashions. A subdued quarrel brewed up between Einav and Tomer, but they controlled themselves so as not to disrupt the cheerful mood of the evening. Zechariah and Grisha argued about an incident in the fighting in the Western Desert during the Second World War. On logical grounds Zechariah was right. Grisha produced a crushing retort: I was there and I saw it with my own eyes.

Zechariah gave in with a sigh:

"Conclusive proof. You win."

Grisha was delighted.

Eventually, they turned toward the main street of Tiberias in search of a taxi. Suddenly a voice assailed them from behind:

"Hey, Ezra, what's up with you, then — here you are and you don't look in and see us?"

"Gershon Saragosti!" Ezra exclaimed.

They were all forced to go to Abushdid's together. Ezra introduced his friends to his family and his family to his friends, and they were welcomed with coffee, the like of which was not to be found anywhere else in Tiberias. Coffee that was as black as night and as strong as iron, as Yosef Babadjani put it.

"What's up, Ezra?" Kabilio asked in amazement. "Where's your daughter, your lovely daughter, what a lovely daughter, where is she, why haven't you brought her with you? She's not ill, heaven forbid?"

Ezra grabbed Kabilio's elbow and whispered:

"Shut up Kabilio."

Kabilio's eyes opened wide. He looked at Ezra as though he did not understand. Then at once he understood. His expression changed; he let out a long breath, winked at Ezra, and whispered with a grin:

"Of course. I see. Now I see. I won't breathe a word. Your wife… and that sweetie you said was your daughter… I see. Of course I'll shut up. Like a clam I'll shut up. You can trust me."

So they sat, talking to the fishermen, for half an hour or so.

Grisha Isarov, who was himself a fisherman, won his hearers' hearts in the first five minutes. There was already a wager on between him and Babadjani, the stake being a bottle of arak; the subject of the bet only a fellow fisherman could understand.

Gershon Saragosti was overcome by Einav's beauty. He put his feelings into words. Einav blushed, smiled, and hastily smothered her smile. Tomer bristled and muttered to the fisherman, Shut up or… Siegfried woke up to the situation, and interposed a string of lively definitions of female beauty. There was a general round of laughter. Siegfried boasted that, just as some men were wine tasters, he was a professional woman taster. Again everyone laughed, except for Bronka, who had dropped off to sleep. Einav thumped the table with her little hand and shouted, Disgusting! You're all disgusting! But Tomer found himself among the laughers. There are two kinds of women, Ezra began. Zechariah interrupted him: There are three kinds — the two you were thinking of and… Siegfried named the third kind. There were helpless guffaws. Einav blushed again, and remarked sadly:

"That wasn't a nice joke."

Ezra chuckled.

"I've got another one. A nice one."

He told it. Needless to say, the fishermen all refused to be outdone. Grisha too. Even Tomer stuck his neck out and tersely told a story about a woman and an express train. Ezra was merry. We have not seen him merry before. Even in his merriment there was nothing rowdy or ill-mannered. Ezra may be only a simple truck driver, but he knows one thing his brother will never learn: how to keep things within bounds. Eventually Grisha began to tell an amazing story from the war. We shall keep our promise to him and reproduce it here verbatim, apart from one or two understandable omissions:

"Once I had in my possession a gold-plated dagger, inscribed in Gothic letters with the name "Ludendorff," and underneath, in square capitals, FROM ADOLF HITLER, WITH SALUTATIONS, TO MARSHAL GRAZIANI. You see this hand? All of you? Touch it. This very hand held that dagger. A historic dagger. I imagine that Ludendorff used it as a paper knife and that in the days of the Nazis they took it out of the museum and gave it to Hitler, and Hitler presented it to the Italian Fascist Marshal Graziani. There are two fantastic stories about that dagger. One: how it fell into my hands. Two: how it was taken out of my hands.

"After the defeat of Italy I lost my unit. I simply went off on a short after-duty,* and when I got back they'd moved on without me. To tell you the truth, I wasn't sorry. Those were great days in Rome, and I wanted to stay there. How did I live? Partly with the British, partly with the Americans, mostly with the Italian girls. Oh, those Italian girls! Once I went for a walk with one of them outside the city. We came to a magnificent villa, which was guarded by American soldiers. I was in Palestinian uniform. I was a staff sergeant. Now I'm a captain. That is, I was a captain. In our army. But nowadays we haven't got an army, only a lot of chocolate-cream soldiers. So I don't use my rank any more. All right. So, we see this guarded villa. I joke a bit with the sentries. Of course they're drunk to a man. I tell them I work for the secret department of the British Intelligence* and that I'm on a special mission. They inform me that the stores for two divisions are housed there. I point to the badge on my arm and say I'm in the Jewish Corps of the Top Secret Service, searching for all kinds of war criminals^* They tell me that this was Graziani's villa. They're tight as ticks, and pretty impressed, but they still won't let me past without papers. So I pull out my union card and show it to them. It's all written in Hebrew. They call their officer over. Now, if they were drunk, their black officer is pissed out of his mind. He's almost crawling along on all fours, in his pajama trousers. Believe it or not, he's taken in by the card. He fingers it, sniffs at Ben Gurion's signature, takes a good look at the doll who's with me, and says, I salute you. He even has a go at saluting.

"Well, in we go, me and this girl, and we walk around the gardens for a while. We see some prisoners looking after the fantastic flowers, and I shout at them to pull their socks up, and they're not too impressed, but they smile like good little kids; si signore, si signore. Then we inspect the house for war criminals.* What a house! Words can't describe it. We find Graziani's bedroom. All done up in blue. Like a dream. We lock the door and commit a little war crime.^* And there, in the bedroom, I suddenly spot this golden dagger lying on the dressing table, minding its own business. I pick it up, look at it, take it over to the light, turn it over. I see LUDENDORFF, HITLER, GRAZIANI. Grisha, I say to myself, Grisha, you're taking this with you to show your grandchildren what sort of a man their grandpa was. So I took it.

"Now I'll tell you an even more fantastic story. How I lost it.

"I lost the dagger in Rumania in '47, when I was sent there for the illegal immigration. I mean, as you can guess for yourselves, I didn't lose it. It was stolen. And how was it stolen? You'd never guess. It was a work of art. I was supposed to meet a member of the Communist government in Bucharest. Yes. I was the chief representative of the Hagganah in Eastern Europe. That is, one of the chief representatives. Well, I was invited to the house of this minister. We talked about this and that. It turned out he'd been a member of the anti-Nazi underground. Anyway, that's what he told me. We became friends. I spent about four hours in his apartment. I told him about the Jewish struggle. I thought to myself, You've made a good friend here. He told the dirtiest jokes of any man I've met. Anyway, for some reason I pulled the dagger out of my briefcase. (I used to take it with me everywhere. I was young in those days.) I showed it to him. He was amazed. He said he just had to show it to his wife; she was also an anti-Nazi, partisan and all that. All right, I say, why not? Please do. I hand it over to him. He goes into the next room. After a few minutes he comes back. Hands me the dagger. I put it away in my pocket. When I get back to my hotel, I look at it, and what do I see? It's not the same dagger. The so-and-so must have swapped them while he was out of the room. What could I do? Kick up a rumpus? Out of the question. Don't forget we had interests to look after. Incidentally, I've still got the Rumanian's dagger. I'll show it to you some time to prove that Grisha tells the truth. But what's it worth? Pennies. If I show it to my grandchildren, they'll say, What a fool grandpa was even when he was young. It's not for nothing there are all those jokes about Rumanians being thieves."

They exchanged stories about thieves and thefts. Ezra told the joke about "find" and "found." Then he told the one about Solomon's bed and the sixty valiant men. Everyone laughed.

Close to three o'clock in the morning they woke Bronka, called a taxi, and went home. It was a riotous journey. Everyone, Ezra, Zechariah, Tomer, Grisha, the pot-bellied driver, joked noisily. Only Bronka and Einav could not keep awake. They dozed on each other's shoulders.

Zechariah eyed his brother, and said to himself:

Good. Very good.

29. HERBERT SEGAL FIGHTS BACK

The summer broke up.

Three weeks before the New Year there were five successive days of false autumn. The temperature dropped sharply, the sky was overcast, the treetops rustled in the breeze. Five gentle days. On the fifth day Fruma Rominov died. She died at seven o'clock in the morning. She had gone out to look for the sanitary officer. She wanted to tell him that a certain kind of worm had appeared on the pine trees that could cause inflammations of the skin and eyes in young children. The trees must be sprayed with an insecticide that would kill off the worm but not harm the children.

The sanitary officer promised he would come before lunch. Fruma said she wanted to see it done with her own eyes.

She started back toward the nursery. On the way she saw a yellow kitten playing with a ball on the lawn. She stopped and watched. She felt a quiet sorrow. Living creature with gentle movements. Agile. Supple. Light. The sight of it surprised Fruma. She smiled a bitter smile to herself. But the ball, why didn't I notice sooner, the ball belongs to the little children.

Fruma bent down to pick up the ball. As she did so, she heard a fine, grating whistle in her ears. She turned her head to see where the sound was coming from. As she turned her head her body turned too. She sank down on the grass, and her face ran with sweat. She tried to wipe it off with her apron. Her hand shook, and fell. Fruma summoned all her strength and tried to get up, because she could see someone coming toward her and she was ashamed to be seen lying on the grass in the early morning. She let out a hollow sob. She collapsed. Ido Zohar hurried up to her and asked if she felt ill. Fruma's face was crumpled and angry. Her eyes were damp. Ido felt he was disturbing her. He turned to go. After ten paces he changed his mind and tried to lift her. Fruma's body was heavy. Ido was embarrassed to be clasping her arms in his. He shouted. Fruma's lips whispered. Now her eyes began to run, and big tears licked her bony cheeks. Her breathing was heavy and uneven. Suddenly her lips parted, and all her teeth showed. Ido was alarmed and shouted again. Running footsteps sounded. Dafna Isarov, trembling, came up and asked what was wrong. Ido hissed twice: the doctor, fetch the doctor. Dafna flushed. Fruma fixed the boy's face with a chill gray piercing look. Ido had an idea and asked if she wanted some water. Fruma said nothing. The look with which she held Ido's face was not alive.

Later, as if through a gray mist, Herzl Goldring and Mendel Morag appeared and carried Fruma off. They put her frail arms round their shoulders. Held in the two men's embrace, Fruma was taken to the surgery. The doctor tried an intracardiac injection and prolonged artificial respiration. He said to Herzl Goldring:

"There's hope yet. Run and get a car, quickly. To the hospital."

The concerted efforts seemed to have had some effect. Fruma's face quivered slightly, the muscles of her jaw relaxed, her mouth opened, and her fingers slowly clenched. The doctor checked her pulse. Finally, he shook his head and said faintly:

"Only a reflex action."

Herzl Goldring burst in to announce that the car was waiting. The doctor said it would not be needed. For some reason he added:

"Thank you very much, Herzl."

At two o'clock in the afternoon Rami arrived. Herbert Segal led him to his room and sat him down in an armchair.

Rami said:

"So suddenly, they told me… suddenly, they said, suddenly."

Herbert covered his round glasses with his little hand and said:

"It can't be helped."

Rami fixed him with a tired look. After a moment he muttered:

"What a terrible thing. So suddenly."

Herbert touched Rami's shoulder.

"Be brave, my boy."

The remark was meant to encourage him, but in fact it had the opposite effect. Rami dropped his head onto the table and began to sob. His voice was loud and strange, almost like stifled laughter. Herbert gave him a glass of cold water. Rami opened his eyes and looked at Herbert Segal as though he did not recognize him. His eyes were dry. He reached for the glass and took a sip. Then, with sudden resolution, he pushed the glass away. Herbert stood up, went over to the window, and closed the shutters. Rami asked hesitantly if he could see… her. Herbert answered firmly: No. Not now.

Silence.

Herbert broke the silence to ask if there were any relatives who should be informed. For a moment Rami had difficulty in remembering. Then he said that there was Mother's sister in Kiryat Hayim and also Father's nephew's family in Rishon-le-Tsion. We haven't seen them since the last funeral. Yoash's. A moment later he added:

"Mother doesn't like them. They're very selfish. They think only of themselves."

Herbert said:

"That doesn't matter now."

Rami suddenly noticed the clothes he was wearing, and sobbed:

"I… I've come straight from training. Look, Herbert, my clothes are filthy. It… It isn't possible… So suddenly…"

Herbert repeated:

"It doesn't matter. It's not important now, what you're wearing."

Suddenly Rami, as if recalling an essential formula, asked how the accident had happened. When. Where. Herbert answered each question with extreme brevity. Rami did not seem to be listening properly. He leaned back heavily in the armchair. Closed his eyes. Crossed his legs. Then he changed his mind, and stretched them out in front of him.

Herbert went out for a few minutes on urgent business. When he returned, he found the boy unnaturally calm, as if he had had a long sleep in the meantime. Unnaturally calmly he said:

"Summer will soon be over. I'll be sent on a course to become a corporal, and Noga Harish will have a son."

Herbert looked at Rami long and hard. At that moment an exciting idea occurred to him. As usual with him, his lips tightened to a narrow straight line.

Mourning descended on Metsudat Ram. No one except Herbert Segal stopped working, because mourning does not interrupt work. But everywhere people worked silently, almost sullenly. Tsvi Ramigolski took Mundek Zohar with him to dig the grave. Tsvi had already telephoned a notice of the death to the newspaper of the kibbutz movement. Now he picked up a spade and went with Mundek to the cemetery. For a long time Tsvi had not done any physical work apart from gardening. His hands blistered, and he panted. He was fat, and his shoulders sagged slightly. The soil was hard, dry, and stubborn. The spades clanged. The cemetery was on the edge of the pine wood. There was a continuous moaning from the pines.

Should Fruma's grave be dug next to that of her husband Alter, or by that of her son Yoash, in the section opposite. Mundek Zohar refused to offer an opinion. Tsvi pondered with his eyes closed. Finally he said:

"Of course, next to Alter. That's right. Husband and wife together. I hate death," he added suddenly, in an uncharacteristic outburst of rage.

The soil, as we have said, was hard. The spades gave out a metallic sound. And the stones gave out a stony sound.

That evening the entrance to the dining hall was draped with black crepe. Without any prior arrangement all the members of the kibbutz assembled after supper in the dark square outside the hall. Little Was said. Faces were serious. At seven o'clock a small group, including Reuven and Bronka, Gerda and Mundek, went to Herbert Segal's room to keep the orphan company. Rami was still sitting in the same armchair; only his feet were propped up on a small stool that Herbert had thoughtfully provided. They sat down.

Reuven Harish sighed and said:

"Remember, Rami, you're not alone. You have a home."

Rami nodded and said nothing.

Gerda said:

"Have you eaten anything?"

As the boy did not reply or even look at her, she turned to Herbert Segal and asked him:

"Has he eaten?"

Herbert made a worried gesture as if to ask her to leave him alone.

Tsvi Ramigolski remarked hesitantly:

"Winter is coming. A decision will have to be made about the Camel's Field. We're in for a difficult time."

After a short silence Rami observed:

"Those twenty-three dunams aren't worth all the fuss."

Herbert half smiled at Tsvi Ramigolski, as if to say: Well done, the boy's talking at last. Keep it up. Tsvi took the hint and continued:

"We must never give in over land. Land is the most important thing in the world."

Rami asked for a cigarette. Mundek Zohar hurriedly offered him one. The boy took a drag and extended his jaw. He drew the smoke down into his lungs and closed his eyes. Without opening them, he said:

"I used to think that once, too. Now I think there are more important things in the world than land."

Herbert raised his eyebrows and noted the words in his memory. The others were a little perplexed. Was it proper to start an argument at such a time? Actually, why not? He needed to be distracted. Reuven Harish replied:

"You're quite right, there are more important things than land. But without land they can't exist."

Rami interrupted abruptly to ask whether they had arranged for someone to sit up with his mother. She mustn't be left alone all night. He shivered. Herbert eyed him sternly through his steel-rimmed spectacles and said gravely:

"That's all right. Don't you worry about it."

Rami, having apparently forgotten his question, asked Reuven Harish how Noga was. Was she feeling O.K.? Reuven answered with a faint yes and lowered his eyes. Rami said that he admired Noga immensely for her decision. He considered that she was doing something exceptional.

Herbert made a mental note of this remark, too. The others, Reuven, Bronka, did not dare take issue with him.

Three or four younger members arrived, among them Tomer and Einav. The new arrivals were pale. They had been amazed to hear sounds of conversation coming from the room. Rami greeted them as if he were host.

"Come in. Sit down."

Herbert added:

"Come and sit down over here."

Einav said:

"Rami, I'm really so sorry."

Then, following a hint from Herbert Segal, the youngsters began to discuss the sowing of the winter crops. They said that the system of crop rotation was not planned as it should be. There was a dangerous disregard of the natural order of the crops. Bronka and Gerda went to the cooking alcove and made tea. Herbert whispered to them not to badger Rami or force him to drink. But Rami interrupted him and said to Bronka:

"No lemon for me, please. I hate lemon."

Herbert Segal was alert. He was full of a new sense of responsibility. He had been studying the boy for several hours. He had changed. Not because of his mother's death. The shock had not had time to register yet. That was not the source of the change. His whole attitude had altered. The lad went off to the army full of blazing ambition. Now I can see a different quality in him, a kind of contraction of the desires. Now one notices — what's the best way to put it? — a kind of sensitivity and attentiveness. One can see the signs of a responsible man. Of course, it's still in an unformed state, but giving him a sensible hand will go a long way to help. I used to think he was doomed to become a rigid, arrogant dolt. I was wrong. He's got the makings of a responsible man. Maybe Fruma was right when she used to repeat so obstinately that he was fond of animals and plants. Fruma was a perceptive woman. But you had to be perceptive yourself to realize how perceptive she was.

Herbert Segal's senses were alert. His new sense of responsibility coursed rhythmically through his veins. He looked kindly on Rami Rimon.

The next day we buried Fruma.

Rami Rominov, leaning on Herbert's arm, walked behind the coffin. At times it seemed as if Herbert was being supported by Rami, since Rami was so much taller than he. The whole kibbutz community followed them in silence, men, women, and youngsters. There were, we recall, three or four jet fighters circling over the valley throughout the funeral, shattering the silence. They soared, wheeled, and plunged. Their roaring provoked the air until it shrieked and howled like a living thing.

At the open grave side Herbert Segal spoke as follows:

"My friends, Fruma is no longer with us, and our hearts refuse to believe it. Perhaps I was somewhat closer to Fruma than the rest of us. But you all know as I do that her life was not an easy one. Not an easy one at all. Perhaps she could have made her life easier, but she was not the type to look for an easy life. She had to bear two successive blows of fate within a few years. First she lost Alter, and soon afterward she lost Yoash. And, I ask myself, who else could have withstood such blows as she did? Fruma, my friends, had great reserves of strength. She knew how to look fate straight in the eye. And that's not easy to do. Only strong people, very strong people, can look fate straight in its terrible eye and not be broken. Collapse, as we know, lies in wait for all of us. And our defenses are very frail. Fruma was a strong woman. She had something of that blazing determination that is the mark of heroes. No, Fruma was no hero. Not in the accepted sense of the word. She did not set her sights high. But there was something heroic in her self-control. In her determination to carry on. Her severity toward us, and her even greater severity toward herself. None of us will ever forget how she helped her husband during the difficult years. Fruma was endowed with a stubborn, uncompromising honesty. I remember, my friends, how once, at a meeting of the education committee, Fruma said with her customary piercing frankness that she rejected certain aspects of the collectivist ideology. And immediately she added very simply that as long as principles were principles we should follow them. No, my friends, there was nothing compromising in Fruma's nature."

Herbert paused for a while to allow the jets to whip angrily past and looked down into the open grave where the bare coffin lay. Suddenly, he took off his spectacles and revealed a delicate, innocent face that he had kept hidden from us for years. With his eyes closed and in a stifled tone of voice he continued:

"Fruma, our friend, you didn't know much happiness in your life. You suffered. You were always suffering. And we didn't always… we didn't always notice… what friends ought to… forgive us… we are only human. We shall miss you. I… do…"

The air was once more rent by a savage howl. The planes appeared, swooped, turned, and flew off. Herbert waited for them to vanish. When all was quiet again, he hesitated, his lips quivered; suddenly, he took two steps backward, hid his face behind his spectacles, and disappeared into his audience without finishing his address.

The earth thudded. Rami closed his eyes. A fly landed on his forehead. Rami did not brush it away but dropped his head onto Nina Goldring's shoulder, stamped childishly, and cried. (There was also a schoolboy there, by the name of Ido Zohar, who could not contain his tears, because he always responded to sadness. But his tears do not belong to our story.)

***

Two hours after the funeral Herbert Segal went to see Noga, to ask her whether she felt like coming to his room to keep Rami company. Noga asked him if he really thought that… that that was a good idea. Herbert said he had given the matter a good deal of thought. You ought to come and see him. He's asked about you twice.

Noga cast a sharp green look at Herbert Segal. Herbert did not look away, but his wise gray eyes stared steadily back. Simultaneously, the shadow of a smile touched both their eyes. Noga said:

"Why not? I'll come."

Herbert answered:

"I didn't doubt it for an instant. I was sure you would."

Rami Rimon was stretched out on Herbert Segal's bed. Someone had thrust a newspaper into his hand. It fascinated him strangely, as if every headline was meant for him alone. But the context was beyond his grasp. As soon as he saw Noga come in, he leaped up, leaned on the table, and stared at her body. He did not look up at her face. Noga followed his gaze and asked:

"Have I changed much?"

Rami said vaguely:

"You haven't come. It's Herbert. Herbert sent you. I know he did."

"Sit down, Rami. You're tired."

Rami obeyed her.

"Now stop looking at me like that. I don't like it."

"I… didn't mean to. Sorry, Noga. I'm sorry. I…"

"Hang on, I'll make some coffee. Let's have some coffee. I'm sure Herbert won't mind me using his things."

"No, Noga, I shouldn't drink coffee at a time like this. This is no time for drinking coffee."

"Yes, you are going to have coffee. It's all ready. Don't argue."

After a nicely calculated interval Herbert Segal returned to his room. He found the two young people deep in an argument about the planets. Rami argued that Venus was the planet closest to Earth. Noga insisted that Mars was much closer, because there were intelligent creatures on it, who dug canals. They both produced decisive arguments based on things they remembered well from school. Each accused the other of remembering badly and confusing the facts. Rami accidentally touched Noga's stomach with his elbow, and his face turned scarlet. Their argument was not a bitter one. A certain friendliness animated it. If it weren't for the time and the place, Herbert Segal said to himself, you would think it was brotherly love. Herbert did not forget for an instant their respective conditions. At that moment he was suddenly conscious of the weight of his own loneliness. He wanted music. He longed for a tune as an alcoholic longs for wine. He controlled himself. Now that things were taking a turn for the better he should be feeling satisfied. No. He stared in front of him in silent dismay. He seemed to see Fruma, and he said to her: Fruma. He bit his lips and tightened them to a narrow line. He ordered himself to be clear-headed. He obeyed the order. He mustered the image and dismissed it.

Rami said:

"This little girl behaves as if she knew everything."

Noga said:

"Don't be ashamed to admit you were wrong. It's nothing to be ashamed of. To err is human."

Herbert explained gently that Venus is usually closer to Earth, but that in certain rare conditions Mars is nearer. On the other hand, Mars is closer to Earth in its outward appearance. Both Noga and Rami accepted Herbert's verdict. Neither had really wanted to win the argument. Herbert told them what he knew about the nearer planets and gave an account of the unsolved mysteries surrounding them. He went on to explain the differences between astronomy and astrology, a difference that symbolizes the contrast between the two great streams of human intellectual life, Myth and Logos.

The conversation continued. Herbert thrilled and amazed his guests. Early in the evening Nina Goldring arrived with a tray of food. Noga and Rami were so absorbed that they did not give her a glance. Nina left in a state of stunned amazement. She needed to share her amazement with one of her friends. She happened to meet Hasia or Esther. And a little bird did the rest.

As for Herbert and his guests, an almost palpable bond of sympathy was forged between them.

30. THE CREDIT SIDE

Rami Rominov stayed with Herbert Segal for the seven days of mourning. Herbert went back to his work in the cow shed, but he spent his free time sitting with Rami and talking to him about music. If it had not been for the rules of mourning he would have played him some examples. His descriptions were so vivid that Rami could almost hear the music.

Even when Herbert was working, Rami was not abandoned to solitude. Noga kept him company. On the third day she offered to read him some of her favorite poems. Rami supposed that that would be inappropriate. Noga replied that grief was a matter of feeling, not of rules and customs. Rami agreed.

By the end of the third day they had reached the point where Rami asked Noga when the baby was due. Noga stared out of the window toward the mountain, softly touched her belly and answered dreamily that it was due at the end of the winter. She was longing for winter to come. Summer was flat and empty, winter was dark and deep and alive.

Rami went on to ask gently what she intended to do, that was to say, what… what were her plans. Noga admitted that if it were not for her father she would have decided long ago to go to her mother, to have the baby far away, to live there for a few years, and get a taste of a different life. But it was difficult for her to decide what was better for her father, for her to go or to stay. It was madness. But she did not explain which of the two alternatives seemed to her to be mad.

Rami said:

"At first, my mother hoped that we'd get married. So did I. Then she hated you, and so did I. Specially that Friday — remember? — when I came home on leave for the first time, and there was that air battle and you were rude to me. I nearly… I nearly did something terrible that night. I'll tell you all about it some time. Down by the fish ponds, in Grisha's hut, I stood there and… I was very upset. Because of you, Noga. It was your fault. But now I don't… I mean, I want, I wanted to tell you that… now I respect what you've done. Maybe respect isn't quite the right word, but I really do. Terribly. That you've decided to have the baby. I really do."

Noga seemed pleased by Rami's speech. She reached out and touched his cheek. She withdrew her finger at once. She was not smiling.

Rami told her about the course he was going to go on, for which there was a complicated preparatory training. Once I thought I'd be a great soldier. Now I think I dreamed too much of being another Yoash. Now I think people aren't the same. Not all exactly alike. I mean there are different kinds of people. People have different kinds of character. Don't laugh. You won't believe me, Noga, I… for instance recently I've been reading some books about art. Don't laugh at me. Yes, you did smile."

Noga, naturally, had not laughed at Rami.

It seemed that Rami was making a quick recovery. Even Nina Goldring noticed. And of course Herbert Segal kept a watchful eye open. Herbert was full of quiet pride. Needless to say he controlled it and did not reveal it to anybody.

On one occasion Gai Harish came into the room carrying a basket full of strawberries sent by Reuven from his garden. Who was tending the garden now? Gai himself. Gai did not give in when his sister begged him to stay and talk to her and Rami. He had to go back to Daddy. He had promised to paint the table on the veranda blue. And he was in the habit of keeping his promises.

Noga kissed him on his pointed chin.

On the fifth day renewed gloom settled on Rami. He wanted to go to the cemetery. Noga joined him without asking. Beside the mound of earth with its flimsy wooden marker, the boy stood for a few minutes, his mouth tightened by sadness. His face bore a surprised expression, as if he had forgotten why he had come.

On their way back they crossed the wood by the swimming pool. The dead pine needles that whispered beneath their feet awoke memories in them. Rami said:

"It seems like years ago."

Noga agreed.

When the week of mourning was over, Rami rejoined his unit. Two days later Noga had a long letter from him, couched in emotional language. Next day Herbert Segal, too, had a letter from his protege, giving a detailed account of his life, except for those details that are not allowed to be told to civilians. From now on Rami wrote to Noga almost every day. To Herbert Segal he wrote regularly twice a week. At Rami's specific request, Herbert took out a subscription to a literary and artistic magazine for him. He asked Rami to write and share his impressions of the magazine. Rami did so.

Needless to say, the course of events did not escape our watchful eye. Opinions were divided. Some said:

"It's in bad taste, to say the least. Fruma must be turning in her grave. How could he, even before the week of mourning was up… And who with? With a girl in that condition…"

Others said:

"Herbert is pulling the strings. He has plans of his own."

And others again said:

"After all, they're both unhappy. So they have something in common now. In fact, it may all be for the best. What's wrong with it, after all?"

The time that Noga spent with Rami in Herbert Segal's room she had not spent with Zechariah-Siegfried Berger. To be more precise, she had stopped seeing him. On the other hand, we cannot deny that she longed to see him and to listen to him, and especially to hear the sound of his voice. On one occasion Zechariah-Siegfried had told her with a curious smile that he was here as the emissary of a distant power. Noga considered that she found him fascinating because he was strange and full of surprises. Now that she re-examined his remark she discovered a touching poetical meaning to it.

Sometimes at night she woke up in a fever of wanderlust. She sat up in bed, stretched her arms out in front of her as in a dance, and whispered: Take me, gray uncle, take Turquoise somewhere else, far, far away, take her to her mother, into the darkness, into those dark forests of yours.

One morning, as she was getting dressed, she felt a gentle spasm inside her. She felt herself anxiously. The spasm stopped, and did not reappear for several days. That morning she had meant to go and look for Zechariah. Her experience made her change her mind, and decide not to see him. But she was unable to explain the connection between cause and affect. She did not try very hard. She went to her father's room instead.

She found Reuven lying in bed, surrounded by pills and medicines, reading an old German book. She stayed with him for a couple of hours. She asked him to tell her about Fruma Rominov as a young woman. Reuven complied willingly, but he spoke in a tired voice.

Alter Rominov had never been a well man. Yet he always refused to see the doctor. We always used to see Fruma running along next to the doctor pressing him with questions and complaints. Fruma and Alter, despite the difference in their characters, were always devoted to each other. Alter gave in to Fruma, though, in almost everything. Fruma was a determined woman.

The change that had taken place in Noga did not escape Zechariah's attention. On one occasion he shared his innermost thoughts with Tomer in the way that one jokingly talks a foreign language to a child. He spoke as follows:

"You and I, as men, may find it hard to understand what's happening to her. I was hoping that she would go with me to the place where she belongs. Sometimes the pious missionary and the sly pimp use very similar means of enticement. But the resemblance is only superficial. The Jesuits were well aware of the similarity, but they were equally aware of its limits. Only a fool would confuse Jesuits with pimps. It would be better for your father, too, by the way. As you are well aware, my dearest Tomer, the baby will confront your father with a very difficult decision. And I was about to — you see, my friend, a woman is not a man; that's a cardinal principle in life. I have a special feeling for those remarkable creatures. It doesn't matter now. Incidentally, you, too, if you only took the trouble to broaden your experience… But that's beside the point. I knew beforehand that she would kick and struggle. I thought about her father, too. Of course I did. By the way, from a strictly legal point of view… Never mind, that's also beside the point right now. You see, Tomer, my beloved nephew, there has been a recrudescence of pure childhood love, full of compassion for the poor, lonely orphan. Innocence, decency, and progressive education have brought about a sudden relapse. You know what a relapse is, my boy, don't you? No? I'll explain. Actually there's no need. That's not the fly in the ointment. What is? The fly in the ointment is a man by the name of Segal. He appears suddenly like a deus ex machina and earnestly tries to unpick the whole delicate fabric that has been so skillfully woven by your dear, devoted uncle, Zechariah, namely me. Do you know what deus ex machina means? No? Wait, I'll explain. Actually, that's also superfluous. I can use a different sort of illustration. An exposed flank. You know, my dearly beloved friend, what an exposed flank is, do you not? Yes, of course you do. You're a real live officer in our new Jewish army. Of course. I like that look you're giving me, as if I were a madman or a clown. That shows me I'm making you nervous. And that, my boy, gives me a special pleasure, a multiflavored pleasure, each flavor sweeter than honey, a pleasure that you can never taste, because… because of the difference between us, my dearest nephew. Yes. Well. Never mind. That's beside the point. We were talking about Segal. Segal ex machina. I spin my web, he spins his. I break up one match, and the pander makes another — if I may be permitted to use a metaphor taken from real life. And so my hammer has met its anvil, as our national poet Bialik puts it. A war between spiders, or should we say, rather, two fairies clashing over an innocent soul. The good fairy is Segal, and the wicked fairy is your funny uncle, Siegfried, namely me. The good fairy appears ex machina and supposes that I am already lying bound and gagged at his feet. Forgive me for boring you with my chatter; I get very much attached to my cleverness sometimes. But there's one thing Segal doesn't know, namely that his humble opponent has already defeated greater challenges than him. His opponent knows what Herr Herbert cannot grasp, because he lives in a world of make-believe. He knows that the machina itself has been dismantled and is of no further avail. Machina, by the way, comes from a Greek word, from which the word 'machine' was stolen, and the two words mean the same. Still, that's beside the point. Are you still hesitating whom to put your money on? O man of little faith. Put your trust in your loving uncle. He will get the girl. And not by force. Herbert Segal's plans will be frustrated, because he is a man of progressive principles. I shall win her with signs and wonders. But not by force. I hate force, Tomer my angel, because force is blunt, whereas we must be sharper than needles."

Zechariah interrupted the spate of his discourse, lit a cigarette, sniffed the lighter flame for a moment, then blew it out loudly. His face quivered; flaccid folds of flesh hung from his cheekbones. He looked ridiculous. He looked frightened and frightening. Tomer took advantage of the pause to ask perplexedly:

"Herbert Segal? What's Herbert Segal got to do with it?" Siegfried flashed him a grimace that was meant to be a smile and announced pensively:

"Force is something very powerful. An ocean. A universe. A law. Like… Never mind now. Tomer, my own dear son, how would you like to come to Haifa with me tonight? Would you? Come with me, my Tomer, and get a taste of life. I shall gladly bear the burden, and I shall shower you with pleasures. Open your mouth, and I shall fill it with delights. Come, O fairest of men. Come, and let us go together to meet the beloved. How about it?"

Tomer refused.

Tomer was disgusted by his uncle. One fact, however, was gradually dawning on him: Zechariah was planning to leave and to take Noga Harish with him. And that was all to the good. To that end it was worthwhile bearing the troublesome presence of the wandering Jew a little longer. From the whole long speech he drew one conclusion: the old lecher was going to Haifa that evening. If he was going to Haifa, then he wouldn't be there in the evening, and that, Tomer said to himself with a feeling of relief, was on the credit side. There are two sides to every coin.

31. A WITHERED TREE

Can one omit mentioning the model electric railway, worked by remote control? No, certainly not. It was a splendid and fascinating toy, designed as a perfect scale model of the European railways. Zechariah-Siegfried had brought it with him two months previously as a present for his younger nephew, Oren. It seemed as though the donor was no less thrilled with it than the recipient. Oren and his uncle spent hours on end playing with the train. At first, however, the boy had refused to touch the gift. But Zechariah tempted his nephew. He laid the track out on the floor of Ezra and Bronka's room, set up the signals, connected the controls, and played with the train on his own, while Oren stood chewing sweets and watching him with a patronizing smile on his face. Finally, Siegfried tricked the boy. He took off the front wheels of one of the engines and pretended not to be able to put them back. Oren silently picked up the engine and with two skillful movements snapped the wheels into place. His face wore an expression of contempt. Zechariah showered him with compliments and declared that Oren displayed extraordinary technical skill. Oren bent glumly over the control panel and fiddled with the insides with a bored expression on his face. Within five minutes the two of them were racing the trains. The toy responded to their fingers and revealed its hidden possibilities.

Zechariah and Oren had long hours of leisure during the summer. They took over the secret space between the pillars that supported the Bergers' house, and there Siegfried constructed an intricate network of lines running over hills and down valleys, through tunnels and across bridges. There were junctions and stations and gradients and branches laid out with rich imagination.

Oren was not tall, but his body was broad and solid, his face broad and compact. His hair was close-cropped and rough. Siegfried often said:

"What a masculine appearance. What an air of manhood. Enough to overpower the most fragile and delicate women, with pure, transparent skin and slender bodies. They'll fall for you. You're tough."

Oren noticed a dirty smile fleeting like a shadow beneath his uncle's bushy eyebrows, accompanied by the closing of one eye and the opening wide of the other, as if in absent-mindedness, or the opposite.

The space between the pillars of the house was cool and dim. It was a secret hiding place. The garden plants hid it from the path that led to the steps up to the veranda. True, neither Siegfried nor Oren could stand up straight here. But they had no intention of standing up. They bent over their flashing toy, holding handles and levers and electric switches, their heads extended and their bodies curled. They hardly spoke. Even Siegfried suppressed his usual cheerful chatter. Sometimes he smoked as he played. On one occasion Oren dared to ask him casually for a cigarette. Siegfried grinned happily and said:

"Certainly not. I can't let you smoke. You're too young."

Oren agreed earnestly:

"Yes. Because it's wrong."

Zechariah curled his lower lip, displaying its pink inside.

"Yes, wrong. Improper. Not allowed."

Oren said:

"Against the principles."

Siegfried said:

"Corrupting."

Oren said:

"And very nasty."

Siegfried said:

"It harms the innocence of youth. And nothing is more precious than youthful innocence.

Oren said:

"Nothing in the world."

Siegfried let out a low chuckle. Oren did not echo it. They smoked in silence.

Let us watch them, the man and the boy, racing the engines toward one another until they collide with a dry bang. Yellow sparks flash from the line. If they continue like this they will soon end up by destroying the fascinating toy. If it had been given to us, we would have hidden it away in a cupboard and played with it when no one was looking, in an entirely different way. We would not have been carried away by the thrill of destruction. We love system and harmony.

First of all, the control panel, with its different-colored switches, red and green and black. From here you can govern the whole complicated layout with two fingers. You can operate the junctions and raise and lower automatic crossing gates. You can make a train go faster, or stop it in mid-course. You can even work a shunting engine in one of the tiny stations and detach a wagon from one train and connect it to another. That is not all. By means of an intricate clock mechanism you can set the whole system, with its various levels and junctions, to run automatically. All its operations are co-ordinated according to an accurate timetable. But by doing this you take all the fun out of the game.

The shape of the engines is strictly rectangular; they convey a striking impression of restrained power. Through the windshield you can see the tiny figure of the driver, with his peaked cap, and the assistant driver with a bushy mustache. Little passengers peep out of the red carriages with their German inscriptions, respectable gentlemen with hats and suits, businessmen in gray raincoats, ladies in traveling clothes, even the bags and suitcases have not been forgotten. They are neatly stacked on the shelves above the seats.

Is there any thrill in the world to compare with the thrill of complete mastery, Fingers running lightly over the control panel and deciding numerous fates? But, alas, we can also see how even this noble pleasure can degenerate in the hands of unscrupulous adventurers in insatiable quest of the unusual, the fascinating, and the unnatural.

Siegfried and Oren run the trains head-on at one another and enjoy the crash and the sparks. At times Siegfried rests his arm on Oren's shoulder and says affectionately:

"My orphan. You're strong and tough. Don't give in to them."

And Oren, with a strange gleam in his eye, replies:

"No, I won't give. I'll take. It's a pity you're going away. You and I could. Yesterday I exploded a hand grenade in the wood. I threw it into a fire. It smashed the fire."

Zechariah:

"Put out this flame. No, not by blowing. The way I do it. With your finger. That's the sign."

"I want you to tell me why you came. You tell lies. You're ugly."

"No, my boy. You can count on me. I shan't leave before I'm finished. I shan't abandon my agents."

"I can wire up the veranda railings. Electrify them."

"No, there's no need to do that. You mustn't. Someone might get hurt."

"Suppose you go away and I'm left alone."

"My orphan. You can manage on your own. You're tough. Gentle women love tough orphans."

A few minutes later, as Oren laid a gray freight car across the track to derail a fast-moving train:

"Hey, Uncle, what's the matter with you? Are you a clown? Are you ill?"

Siegfried, with supreme seriousness:

"Hush. I am ill. I'm seriously ill. Cancer. I'll die again soon. Actually, I came here to die in the Holy Land. Our poor brother Zechariah, may his memory be for a blessing, may his soul be bound up in the bundle of life, was a strange man but an interesting and original one. Peace be upon his ashes, saith Herbert Segal."

Oren, his eyes screwed up and his jaw protruding:

"When? How long?"

"Oh, my silly little orphan, I was only kidding. I'm not a sick man. I'm still alive. I shan't die here. I shall die in the forests. In enemy territory. I came here to honor thy father and thy mother."

"You're like my father, only much more."

"You, too, son. Both of us. I'm not my brother's brother, and you're not your brother's brother. Cain and Abel. You're a bad apple. You'll fall off the good tree."

"No, I'll infect them. All of them."

"Firm and clean on the outside, sweeter than a good one inside. Juicier. Sweet decay, the essence of rottenness."

"You're mad, Siegfried. That's what my mother says."

"Your mother has an excellent eye for character."

Sometimes the waves throw up a rotting plank on the beach. To and fro the water tosses the blackened object, alternately dashing it on the sand and dragging it back with a melancholy rhythmic ebb and flow. You would suppose the plank would go on being wave-tossed for ever. To and fro, to and fro. But you can't trust water. Suddenly it abandons its baby, leaving it high and dry. From now on it belongs to the desolate sands, to the yellow vengeance of the scorching sun, a solitary black spot.

Afternoon again. Once again the lawn offers its gentle slope. The leafy trees once more filter the slanting rays, which pattern the green with nervous spots of light.

Einav and Tomer, clad in white shorts, are playing tennis. Einav is fair, with a broad face and gently molded figure. Tomer is dark, with thick hairy arms, and his movements are economical. The ball arcs elegantly from one racket to the other. The players are so skillful that their motions are hardly perceptible. A slight twist of the hips, a short sharp wave of the arm, a glance to follow the ball's flight.

Two or three children watch the couple play, exchanging covert giggles and whispers. Far off to the west a busy motor chugs. The distance softens the sound. A powerful smell of coffee fills the air. Herzl Goldring is working in his own garden. His plot is trimmed in amazingly rectangular forms. His wife Nina looks on from the veranda, wearing her reading glasses. She is busy writing a letter, or an article for the kibbutz newssheet. Reuven Harish comes out for his evening stroll. He will be back in twenty minutes, as usual.

Grisha Isarov and Ezra Berger, their heavy bodies stripped to the waist, are sitting over a chessboard set up on an over-turned box. Mendel Morag stands over the game, offering iocular advice. Ezra is smoking a cigarette, and Grisha is sucking on his unlit pipe, which is elaborately carved.

In Fruma Rominov's house the windows have been taken out of their frames. The furniture has been removed, and through the open door the painter's ladder is visible. One of the younger couples is due to move in soon, chosen on grounds of seniority.

Our own dear Stella Maris appears from the bushes and settles herself on the green bench in the shade of the trees. She has a small leather case in her hand. She rests it on her lap and drums on it with her fingers. Ezra looks up from his game and eyes her as if he recognizes her. Noga notices his glance. She chews her upper lip, and closes her eyes. Grisha Isarov raps the box with the back of his hand. Ezra starts, takes a deep breath, and returns to the game. With three long strides Tomer recovers his ball, which has run away down the sloping lawn. Einav wipes her damp face with the hem of her shirt. Her limp gives her an additional charm. She has a striking figure. Nina Goldring calls to Herzl to come and have his coffee. Coffee's ready; if he doesn't hurry up it'll get cold. Herzl puts down his shears, dusts his hands, and climbs the steps to the veranda. Noga opens her leather case, and takes out a folded sheet of paper and a red pencil. She unfolds the paper but keeps the pencil clasped between her teeth. She closes her eyes again. Grisha must have said something funny: Ezra gives a coarse laugh. Herzl Goldring throws him a reproachful look. From the direction of the recreation hall Bronka appears, wheeling Danny in his stroller, his arms and legs waving. She asks Einav and Tomer if they want to go on playing. They can carry on; she'll be happy to have Danny for a little longer. Danny and she are having a lovely time together; they've just had a nice long walk, and now they're ready to start again.

From the hidden space underneath the Bergers' house a lean man with a thin black mustache emerges. He comes up on Noga from behind and casts his shadow on the sheet of paper spread out before her. Noga's eyes are closed. The man reaches out and strokes the air near her hair, which is done up in a bun now. His shadow responds by moving across the paper.

Without surprise the girl's eyes open, and she slowly turns her head. He bares his lips in a smile. Noga indicates the place to her left and says:

"Sit down. Don't stand behind me, sit down. I don't like people standing behind me."

Zechariah sits down with an exaggerated effort and says:

"Bless you, my dear. You're kind to an old man. The old man is touched and moved by your kindness."

"Wait. Stop. Tell me what countries are on the way."

"Well, you can choose, my sweet, you can choose an exciting route. All borders are open. Everything is possible. What would you like to see: Italy? Switzerland? France? Scandinavia?"

"I haven't said yes yet. I'm still here."

"And that's just what your wonderful mother has written to me. I had a letter from her yesterday. You can't imagine how much happiness your decision has brought her. And yet, despite her longing to see you, she, too, suggests we shouldn't go by the most direct route. No, you must see the world. That's what dear Eva writes. You must show her beautiful places. Take your time. I can hold on for another two or three weeks before I hold my daughter in my arms, even though my heart is aching. I can't sleep at night. We've got a lovely room ready for our own Stella Maris, in the attic, with windows on three sides, with Munich at her feet. A panoramic view, the lake, the forest, the big park. Ulrich, the gardener, has even been told to put up a hammock for our dear one at the bottom of the garden, among the whispering fir trees. Even Isaac is excited. He can hardly wait. We spend whole days making plans. But we can wait. You must take our girl on a long tour, Siegfried. You must show her the world. And in the winter, after the happy event, we shall leave the baby with old Martha, who was cousin Isaac's nanny as well as mine, and we'll all take off for Spain. We have reservations for the spring in Majorca. Tell my child all about Majorca. Kiss her for me on her forehead and on her sweet chin."

"I still haven't said yes. I'm not yours yet," Noga said in a flat tone of voice.

"You know, my dear, there is an expression I am very fond of: The president-elect/ Think about it, my sweetheart. He doesn't hold the reins of power yet, but at a certain definite, publicly known date he will enter into office. Meanwhile, he can roll it round his tongue and savor it. It's his for certain. He knows it. Everyone knows it. Like a sweet that you slowly unwrap. Like a bottle that you don't uncork at once. But it's yours. Even more so than when the drink goes down your throat. Like making love, when you delay the climax. Anticipation is so sweet. Like a big flame that's still locked up inside a matchhead, and you roll the match between your fingers. By the way, are you going to let me?"

"Let you what?"

"Carry out your mother's instructions."

Before Noga could say a word, Siegfried had leaned over and kissed her on the forehead and on the chin, as Eva had written, and gently stroked her hair. Noga mechanically touched the places that his lips had touched, as if the skin had been burned. She spoke in a whisper:

"Leave me alone now. I haven't said yes."

"No, you haven't, my little saint, but your heart has spoken the word, and I have heard it. I've heard it, my little Stella; one heart has heard another."

"Go away now. Don't be here."

"I'll go. Right away. I wanted to talk to you about clothes, but I'll come back another time. Your mind's elsewhere. You're dreaming about him."

"What clothes? About who?"

"New clothes, special clothes for our great trip, summer clothes and winter clothes. But you're not concentrating now. You're dreaming about your young knight with the horse's teeth. Have I guessed right? Yes? Yes, of course I have. Seek and ye shall find. Herbert Segal has handed the little soldier over to you. And you have accepted the responsibility. You're sorry for him. Mark what I say. You're sorry for the soldier, but it's not easy for you to remember every moment of the day that you've got to feel sorry for him. So you have to keep reminding yourself what a poor little colt he is."

"Go away, Siegfried. Go away."

"You've got a generous heart, my girl. A kindly, devoted heart. Even at difficult times you think of others. What a wonderful heart you have, my child; you're a lonely, hated outcast, hounded by the Herberts, and just the same you overcome your suffering and force yourself to think of others. To live for others. To help them. To serve them. To sacrifice yourself and your desires and your happiness for your father, your father who didn't spare you a moment's thought when he went out looking for a mistress. To give up your future for a confused, repulsive orphan, who kicked you yesterday and who will kick you again tomorrow, because he's not crazy enough to marry a girl in your condition. You're a saint, my child, you're choosing to sacrifice yourself for people who don't love you. You're a real saint."

Here, in a strange, exaggerated gesture, Siegfried went down on his knees before his young friend, and two thin streams of tears ran down his cheeks.

The onlookers, Tomer and Einav and the Goldrings, stared at him in horror and amazement. Nina said to Herzl:

"What a clown."

Tomer said to Einav:

"He's mad. Crazy!"

Einav said:

"That's it. That's the word I was looking for. That's exactly the right word for him."

Noga stood up and left the spot with quick, small steps. She did not look back. Zechariah got up, bowed politely to his audience, fingered his mustache and shrugged his shoulders.

Grisha Isarov and Mendel Morag exchanged a hurried glance. Grisha laid his hand on Ezra's arm and said gently:

"Play. It's your turn."

Ezra stared glassily, slowly passed his hand close to his forehead, and finally muttered:

"What? What? Yes. That's right. Of course. Quite right. It's my turn. Yes."

Meanwhile, Siegfried had disappeared. The scene calmed down. Tranquillity reigned once more.

Bronka decided to speak frankly to Zechariah. That evening she went to his room. (He had been given a room in one of the huts on the edge of the kibbutz, though not before he had pressed another check on Yitzhak Friedrich to cover his board and lodging and any inconvenience he might have caused, as he put it.)

Zechariah received his sister-in-law reclining on a camp bed, wearing a nylon vest. His lean, powerful body gleamed with perspiration, because it was very hot inside the hut. It was Bronka's first visit to the room. Ezra, on the other hand, had been there a few times, to play dominoes and engage in general philosophical conversation. And at other times Oren had spent an hour or two here for some purpose or other.

Zechariah said:

"What a pleasant surprise. Please sit down. I'm sorry I can't receive you as befits your dignity. I've nothing to offer you except some dry biscuits and German magazines."

Bronka, ignoring his invitation, did not sit down on the bed. (There was no chair in the tumble-down hut.) Her face was grim and determined. She stood to attention by the door, her feet together and her arms held stiffly at her sides.

"I've come to say that your behavior today was the last straw."

Zechariah nodded sympathetically. There was a gleam of understanding and concern in his eyes. To increase Bronka's embarrassment, he made no reply beyond his sympathetic nod.

"I'm talking about the scene you made on the lawn this afternoon."

Zechariah nodded agreement once again, as though waiting for her to continue, as if so far she had said nothing to explain her surprising visit. Bronka's confidence was somewhat shaken by his silence. She hesitated. She frantically hunted for something she could say that would draw him out of his silence.

"It was… it was absolutely impossible."

Siegfried's face suddenly lost its expression of tolerant sympathy and a crooked, gloating smile appeared in its place.

"Well." He spat the monosyllable out harshly.

"I insist that you explain to me frankly and openly what you are here for."

Instantly, Zechariah's expression changed as though one dramatic mask had been magically substituted for another. Astonishment spread over his features. His voice when he spoke was that of a man who has been viciously insulted.

"But Bro-nka… Coff im Himmel, what an extraordinary question. Ex-traor-dinary… You know I've come here to be with my beloved family. What else have I got in the whole wide world? I'm a lonely old man, Bronka. I've come in out of the cold to warm myself at your hearth. But of course if I'm in the way… No question about it, at once, tomorrow morning, tonight even. No question about it. At once."

As he spoke, he sprang to his feet as if he had made up his mind to pack his bags immediately.

Bronka apologized. Perish the thought. She hadn't meant to hurt his feelings. He wasn't causing any inconvenience. On the contrary, they were glad to have him. Hadn't they said so often? All she had wanted to do was to ask him one specific question, about his… his rather peculiar relations with Noga Harish.

"Ah, so that's all you came about," said Zechariah, and he sighed an enormous sigh of relief, as if it were only now, at last, that Bronka's true purpose had been revealed and as if the discovery had taken a great weight off his mind.

"This afternoon… on the lawn… You… I mean, I'd like to know just what your intentions are toward her. You understand, forgive me, I'm asking you as… as your hostess, if you prefer to see it in that light."

"But of course, Bronka, of course, there's no question about it, of course I owe you an explanation. The explanation is very simple, my dear Bronka. I've got nothing to hide from you. Far from it. So let's talk about it. Let's speak up quite frankly. Agreed?"

"Yes, quite frankly," Bronka echoed, without questioning the reciprocal frankness that Zechariah demanded. What secrets could he ask her to reveal in exchange?

"Agreed," she added.

"Fine," said Zechariah, leaning back against the wall as if in preparation to deliver a long lecture. "Well then. Item one. In the course of my work in the Diaspora I happened to meet a wonderful woman, the wife of an old friend of mine. I refer, of course, to Eva Hamburger. She requested me to take advantage of my visit to my family in Israel to make the acquaintance of her daughter, who, as it happens, lives in the same kibbutz as my own relations, and to give her her mother's love. At the same time, I was requested to inform the mother reliably about the girl's condition. I complied with the request, met the daughter, and wrote to the mother informing her of her unfortunate condition. Is there anything wrong with that?"

Bronka shook her head mechanically.

"Item two. By return mail the mother asked me to convey to her daughter her feelings of apprehension, of guilt, and of remorse. This mission, too, I fulfilled to the very best of my limited ability. I was also requested to tell the girl that her mother earnestly entreated her to come back with me to live with her mother and her stepfather, Herr Isaac Hamburger. They were eagerly looking forward to seeing her They were both convinced that in view of her predicament a change of environment and way of life would be good for the girl. That, moreover, both from a social and from a financial point of view the proposed arrangement was preferable to her present circumstances, which could be described without exaggeration as intolerable. True? You see, my dear Bronka, I am revealing all my secrets to you frankly and openly, and I expect you to repay me in kind."

Bronka recovered from the barrage of words and asked sternly:

"But what need is there for a go-between? Perhaps you can explain that to me. Why can't Eva write to Noga directly? And why was it necessary to ignore Reuven Harish and get at his daughter behind his back? After all, isn't he her father, and doesn't decency demand that he be consulted about such a decision?"

Zechariah smiled happily, as if Bronka's questions were meant to help him make his point more clearly.

"You have asked three important questions, Bronka my dear, and all three of them go straight to the heart of the matter. First of all, the go-between. As you well know, the human mind is a complicated thing. Not at all simple. Our Eva is smitten by feelings of guilt and remorse, as I believe I have already stated quite frankly. She is afraid that her daughter reproaches her for abandoning her. It is only natural that she should take advantage of the visit of her old friend, in whose tact and experience she places generous — perhaps overgenerous — confidence. As for the girl's father," Siegfried said, instantly wiping the smile off his face, "he belongs to the next item."

"Go on. I'm listening."

"I shall now have to take advantage of the agreement we made to speak perfectly frankly, as I have something to say that may not be very pleasant. Noga's father complicated his life with… how shall we put it?…with a late-flowering love affair with a married woman. Everyone is entitled to complicate his own life as much as he pleases. But this selfish man also complicated the lives of his children. And his children are Eva's children, too. True, Eva was not faithful to him, either. But she left her home, went into voluntary exile, and sacrificed the joy of living with her children, all to protect the children and avoid damaging their impressionable minds. The same cannot be said of the father. Both he and the woman who deceived her husband to gratify their mutual lust, both of them ignored their children. They indulged the desires of their flesh, and neglected their children, who are their real flesh and blood. We consider — both the Hamburgers and yours truly — that this was an appalling crime. And the main victim was the adolescent girl, who in her desperation ruined her own life almost beyond repair. Eva, her present husband and their closest friend all believe — although with sorrow and pain in thei'r hearts — that the father has lost all moral and legal right to decide his daughter's fate. If the father had not done what he did, the daughter would not have been driven to the course she took. The proof is easy enough, because the man whom the girl used as a means of ruining her life is closely related to her father's mistress. Forgive me, Bronka, for setting the facts so plainly before you."

Bronka smiled despite herself, and said:

"You astonish me. You would make a great lawyer. You find it so easy to argue black into white."

"I'm color blind, my dear. Colors just run riot in front of my eyes."

"Everything you say is put so tactfully, and yet behind it all I can sense a terrible rudeness, as if… as if you were filling in an official form."

Zechariah chose to ignore the critical remark. He leaned toward Bronka and picked his words carefully.

"Now for item four. As far as the previous items are concerned, the mission entrusted to me by the mother and the harmful influence of the father, I was only a spokesman. A kind of roving ambassador. But item four concerns me myself. Now, if you will forgive my rather formal preamble, I propose to dispense with formalities and make a personal confession."

Bronka widened her eyes and murmured:

"Yes. Yes."

Zechariah sighed, closed his eyes, reopened one of them, and said:

"A very personal confession. I am, as is well known, a lonely old man. No home, no wife, no children. A few memories of my childhood, a few scars left by my sufferings, that's all my possessions. Who or what have I got in the whole wide world apart from my brother and his family? I came to you to… to pick up a few crumbs of your happiness, a happiness that has never fallen to my lot." (Zechariah's eyes — for the second time that day — filled with tears.) "I came to… to find warmth. To draw some wistful satisfaction from the contentment of my dear brother Ezra. That is why I didn't go to stay with Nehemiah, Bronka, my love: Nehemiah, like me, is a withered tree. So, I came here to pick up some crumbs of happiness. I am a parasite, a creeper clinging to the oaks of the forest. I am no more than what our enemies accuse me of being. But what did I find — to my horror — when I arrived? A tragedy. An appalling tragedy in my brother's family. The last solid rock on which my life was founded, the last mainstay of my crumbling hopes, was being carried away and destroyed. My beloved brother was the victim of a faithless woman, the plaything of a wanton little girl, cast out from the bosom of his family. How could I help being shocked? Was my heart made of stone? So I said to myself, you, who have never had a home, who will never have a home, if you can manage to restore the ruins of this one home you will be able to say on your dying day: I have not lived in vain. I may have been a rotting tree, but my decay enriched the lives of others. What I mean is — forgive my rhetoric, emotion is blocking my throat — what I mean is, I undertook — without asking your permission — to do whatever lay in my power for you. For many nights I thought the matter over I came to the conclusion that if I could only persuade the complex-ridden little creature to quit my brother's life and disappear from here for ever, it would open the way for a reconciliation between husband and wife. Then, and only then, Uncle Zechariah could pack his bags and leave behind him a job well done. He would not expect any gratitude. He would go back out into the cold dark night. But deep down in his heart he would carry with him wherever he went a secret pride, a worthwhile reward for all his labors. Was that a sin? Did I do wrong, dear Bronka? I was only trying to help you….To rid you of the little hussy. To take away with me the abscess that is poisoning your lives and your happiness. And also to teach the errant wife a lesson, so that she would always be faithful to my brother. Besides — I openly admit it — gratifying my modest pride. Was that a sin?"

And as he spoke, Siegfried went down on his knees before Bronka, just as he had done a few hours previously to Noga, and his face was tear-stained.

Bronka whispered:

"I don't understand it at all. I'm afraid of you. You're strange. You're slv."

Siegfried groaned desperately.

"Don't try to understand, Bronka, don't try to understand, it's not understanding that's needed, it's feeling. You're right. I must go. But not alone. I must take little Eva with me. For your sake, Bronka. For my brother's sake. For Oren's sake. For Noga's sake. For Eva's sake."

Suddenly, in a vehement outburst, he added:

"Will you help me? Will you help me?"

And without waiting for her answer, he compulsively pushed her toward the door, bowed a servile bow, smirked, sobbed, declared that this time he had truly revealed all his secrets, pleaded once again for Bronka's sympathy, and slammed the door shut behind her.

Bronka went out into the night with a heavy heart. She tried to control herself and put her thoughts in order. She was still convinced that the man was a scoundrel and a clown. And yet, as she reached that conclusion, she had a feeling that her judgment was somehow unfair to him.

That feeling, like all her other feelings at that moment, was sharoly defined.

Zechariah threw himself down on his bed, drew a small flask out from under his mattress, and took a few swigs. Then he sneezed twice. Then he slowly perused a German magazine. And after that, unbelievable though it may seem, he cried.

32. COME, LET'S GO

From Reuven Harish's last poem:

When far to West the crimson sun has set

And night falls swiftly, like a sudden blow,

When heart is tired of pleading, "No, not yet,"

Then sounds an ice-blue whisper: Come, let's go.

33. DIM IN THE NIGHT

Dim in the night comes the sound of enemy soldiers singing on the slopes of the mountain. Round their fortified positions they have lit small camp fires. Their faint undulating song comes down off the mountain to howl outside our windows.

Wistful yearning fills the night. The points of fire hover in the sky, since darkness hides the mountain range from sight. They may be singing With joy, but the night tends to distort the sound and fill it with simmering sadness.

What are they plotting? Autumn is near. Every morning white-robed workmen gather there to dig trenches and build concrete defenses. An officer stands over them holding what looks like a thin stick. Fragments of his orders make their way down to us. Deep pits are dug at the edge of the Camel's Field. The heaps of fresh-dug earth mount day by day. Pickaxes clang against rock. A constant procession of clumsy flat trucks, with a lively, arrogant jeep darting in and out. Soldiers with steel helmets watch us every hour of the day and study all our movements. The squat fellahin who used to work the Camel's Field are no more to be seen. Grisha Isarov's juicy curses meet with no response. Their men seem to be under new, stricter orders. At times their slender jet planes appear and fly low over the mountain. They steer clear of the sky above our valley. High above the roof tops of our little bungalows our own planes flash in pairs.

Eight days before the New Year festival a military patrol set out at twilight along one of the forsaken tracks, right under the noses of the enemy positions. We can hardly deny that this was intended to tempt them into an early engagement. In our defense we can say that the patrol did not cross the disputed line. The time was carefully chosen so that the setting sun would be shining straight into their eyes. Before the patrol set out we were instructed to take the children down into the underground shelters. But the operation passed without incident. The enemy let the patrol pass within a stone's throw without firing a shot. What were they plotting? We, for our part, if we may be forgiven, experienced a thrill of anticipation. Something was about to happen. The rhythm of our lives was about to change.

True, there were those among us who were not free from pangs of sadness. Ido Zohar, for example. Ido climbed, alone, to the observation post at the top of the water tower. There he found a filthy old mattress with its innards spilling out. The boy lay flat on his back and looked up at the slight late-summer clouds. From time to time he addressed himself to them. He had a question to ask. But why should late-summer clouds linger to listen to a dreamy youth? The clouds eye him and pass silently on their way. They seem not to be moving, in the absence of a wind. But a closer examination reveals their secret. In reality they are slowly drifting eastward, and others take their place. These, too, are at the mercy of powerful forces. They have no fixed shape. Are they the ghosts of primeval monsters? Which is the most subtle of the beasts of the field? For whom does the autumn speak? And what is the mission of the birds?

Three days before the festival, the kibbutz assembled to elect its new committees. In a number of cases we could not avoid bringing public pressure to bear on those who refused to accept the burden of office. The community can neither exercise brute force nor hold out promises of material gain. Our system compels us to rely entirely on moral sanctions. The formation of the new committees was completed in the course of two general assemblies. The members of the various committees can expect to receive no material advantages. On the contrary, they have to shoulder an additional burden of difficulties and frustrations. Despite this, suitable candidates were found and consented to stand.

Herbert Segal was elected secretary of the kibbutz. That is not to say that we had anything against Tsvi Ramigolski, who had fulfilled his duties to the very best of his ability. Nevertheless, we were pleased at Herbert's election. People are not made identically, like coins coming from the mint. On the basis of long acquaintance with both of them we are convinced that the best of Herbert Segal's ability is better than the best of Tsvi Ramigolski's. Tsvi, incidentally, did not escape the burden of active responsibility: he was to succeed Podolski as co-ordinator of the work rota, so that Podolski could take over from Yitzhak Friedrich the office of treasurer. Mundek Zohar, naturally, continued to serve as chairman of the regional council. The vacant chair of the education committee, which had recently lost two of its leading members, Herbert Segal, the new secretary of the kibbutz, and the late Fruma Rominov, was left unfilled until after the festival. Many members supported the candidature of Bronka Berger. We, for reasons best known to ourselves, preferred Yitzhak Friedrich, the ex-treasurer.

A decision would also have to be taken about the case of Grisha Isarov. It had been suggested to Grisha that he spend two years away from his family helping an emerging African country to build up its armed forces. Grisha had difficulty in concealing his enthusiasm and excitement. Some of his opponents said that he was incapable of staying in the same place for five consecutive years. If we let him, he would spread his wings and flit from one adventure to another. Others objected to the proposal on the grounds that there was no one to replace him in his work at the Fish ponds. Our own objection was founded on different considerations. Esther Klieger's life would be hell if she were left to bring up seven unruly children on her own. And a man ought to accept responsibility for his family.

The day before the festival, Rami Rominov came home on leave. The arduous training had left his face lean and weatherbeaten. His resemblance to a certain quadruped had become so marked that it was no longer amusing.

Out of his meager earnings as a soldier Rami had bought Herbert Segal a book titled Israeli Society and the Challenge of Our Times, and for Noga he had bought a small box of water colors.

Rami left his bags in Herbert's room and went to the dining hall. He made a detour to avoid passing his mother's room. That same morning a young couple had moved in. Rami did not want to see the changes; he was afraid of the sadness. But the sadness crept in in a different way. The women who were serving lunch showered special tidbits on him. They were trying to make him happy. They failed, because he saw through their motives and only felt more miserable.

Toward evening, just before the festive meal, Rami and Noga went for a short walk together. Noga said to Rami that he looked nicer out of uniform. Rami agreed. They did not talk about army life. She did not ask, and he was not eager to tell. The conversation turned on a different topic: whether people's characters could be changed. Rami did not deny the effects of heredity, but he believed in the power of education, and even more so in the power of personal determination. Noga thought that the poet whose name she had forgotten was right when he had said that man was merely a reflection of the landscape of his birthplace. She interpreted the phrase "landscape of his birthplace" broadly, to mean inherited characteristics. "Birthplace" is something in our blood, not just a geographical location.

Rami was inclined to disagree but changed his mind and said to Noga that she was not an ordinary sort of girl. Noga smiled at him gratefully. Her smile made him shiver, and this Noga noticed. A feeling of pride ran through her. She leaned toward him and kissed him as if he were her brother Gai. Rami went pale. He reached out and squeezed her shoulder roughly, studiedly, as if he had been rehearsing the gesture in his mind. Suddenly he asked her hoarsely if she would be his wife. Noga smoothed her skirt. Both their gazes fixed on the same spot. Noga was the first to raise her eyes.

"Why?" she asked.

Rami's lips curled and he muttered:

"What do you mean 'Why?' I… That's not an answer. I'm asking you a serious question."

"You shouldn't have asked."

"Yes I should. I had to."

Noga said:

"You're sweet, Avraham Rominov."

And in her voice there sounded that long-forgotten tone in which as a child she had always addressed people much older than herself.

The dining hall is brightly lit. There are white cloths on the tables, and brightly colored plastic dishes. A large banner with the cheerful message: RING OUT THE OLD, RING IN THE NEW! The portrait of Aaron Ramigolski may God avenge his soul, looks down on us: a young man with an unruly mop of hair, an open-necked shirt and an attempt at a mustache. His features resemble those of his brother Tsvi, though they are somewhat softer. Aaron's face is Tsvi's face without the harsh imprint of the years. What is he thinking as he looks down at us? We teach our children to try to live up to his memory. We tell ourselves the same thing. We look at him. He looks back at us without a trace of rancor. The company bursts into song. Latecomers walk on tiptoe. Nobody looks askance at them. Their neighbors wish them a Happy New Year, and they reply, a happy and prosperous New Year to you. A sharp ear can isolate some familiar voices: Grisha's pass rumble, Einav's soprano, and our guest Siegfried rushing shamelessly ahead of the rest. To all outward appearances, Siegfried has become one of us. He has abandoned his jacket and tie and now sits wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up above his elbows. You can tell he is happy, because he is beating time on the table with his cup. The singing is followed, as is our custom, by a sequence of readings. Some of them are taken from traditional texts and some from our newborn folklore. Herbert Segal, the new secretary of the kibbutz, reads: "Send us dew and rain in their due season." Ezra leans toward his brother and whispers:

"Our ancestors were clever peasants. Did you notice: they didn't pray for a certain quantity of rain. They asked to have it in its due season. At the right time. And that's the really important thing."

Zechariah smiles delightedly at this exciting piece of exegesis and says:

"Yes, yes, that's right."

Now, according to custom, the heads of the various farming activities rise in turn to give an account of the achievements of the past year.

Dafna Isarov gives a spirited reading of the poem "In the Fields," by our national poet Bialik. Rami casts a sidelong glance at the Harish family. Noga is sitting between her father and her brother. Herbert Segal, Rami's neighbor, intercepts his glance and makes room for it in his tight-lipped ruminations. Perhaps another eye is watching Herbert watching Rami. But no. It seems certain that the adversary has temporarily abandoned his barricades and is wholeheartedly enjoying the celebrations.

Grisha thunders (from notes):

"Let us drink to the new year. Let us drink to working men and women wherever they may be. Let us drink to a year of plenty, a year of joy and peace. Lehayim, comrades. A Happy New Year!"

Bottles are opened, and red wine is poured into plastic teacups.

The hubbub of the meal.

Herzl Goldring and his wife Nina enter, very late. They look for a place to sit. Gerda Zohar, in a black skirt and white apron, seats them at the last table. She smiles. Herzl mumbles:

"Yes, yes, Happy New Year, that's right, Happy New Year."

Outside all is silence.

The bungalows and nurseries are in darkness. The yellow lamplight falls in murky puddles.

Tomer, who, as his luck would have it, has to serve as night watchman on this festive night, leans on his rifle and scratches his head. It would not be true to say that he is thinking: truer rather that he is fuming. Beyond his post is a slope. At the foot of the slope is the swimming pool. Next to the pool is a pine wood. Behind the pines are graves. Beyond the graves are fields. At the end of the fields are mountains. If the mountains have eyes, then surely we and our New Year and all our old years must seem like grasshoppers to them. But high above the mountains the stars look down contemptuously on the mountains' haughtiness. What are the mountains when viewed by the stars? Heaps of shifting dust, here today and gone tomorrow. There is a terrible threat of arrogance in the stars. But when we look at them we see no arrogance. Only repose. Perhaps a faint flicker of mockery. Perhaps a watchful slumber. Perhaps some other quality, which we cannot grasp. Weariness overcomes us. Our hand drops. We shall drop with it. Our lives cascade from gulley to gulley till they drain away into the sand for a fleeting sensation in our hidden parts. If only we had the weight of massive mountains, the peaceful arrogance of stars, the calm of solidified lava, a magical key to unknown gardens, away from curse and blessing, hope and fury. Our flesh, our blood subject us to cruel humiliations. We cannot rid ourselves of the humiliation, but we are free to protest. Of course, the mountains will ignore our protest. But they are mountains, and what are we.

We cower at the foot of the mountains. What is beyond them? Vast desert plains, twisted canyons at the mercy of dry scorching winds. Anti-Lebanon Hauran Golan Bashan Gilead Moab Arnon Edom, a long grim mountain wall. Beyond them there is no enchanted garden. There is a land of lizard viper asp and fox. And beyond that are more mountains, more dreadful than ours, stretching away to the east. Beyond them is the plain of the two rivers, held in the jaws of the mountains. And further beyond, fresh mountain ranges spread to infinity, with peaks of permanent snow severed by knife-gashed valleys, where black goats furiously tear the scrub tended by shepherds as black as they are. And everything is tyrannized by the dread light of a merciless moon. We do not belong here. Our place is in cool shady gardens. But which is the way back.

"Happy New Year, Harismann," Ezra said, when the festive meal was over. The younger people were dancing in large circles, the older ones clustering at the windows.

"Happy New Year, Ezra," said Reuven, with a faded smile.

"So how are you, Harismann. How are you keeping?" Ezra continued, putting on a cheerful face.

"So-so," Reuven answered, with a weary shake of his head. Suddenly he exclaimed furiously:

"Why ask? We're old men. There's no point in asking."

"Keep well," Ezra concluded. "Look after yourself, Harismann. Take care."

"We're old men," Reuven repeated with a curious persistence.

Ezra turned away to look for his wife and his guest. He had the feeling he had spoiled something. Now he wanted company. He suddenly recalled his nocturnal journeys and relished the memory of roads swathed in drifts of white mist.

Reuven retired to his room. He washed, and glanced through the newspaper over a glass of tea. Dimly he heard the sounds of dancing. He heard the drone of the crickets. He got up and turned on the radio. A feverish voice speaking a strange language. No, it's not Dutch yet, Colonel, it's not your language yet.

He switched off. Swallowed a pill and washed it down with the remains of the tea. Turned restlessly in bed. Kicked the blanket off. Rolled himself up in the sheet. More sounds. He groaned. Thought about distant water. Felt a stabbing pain in his shoulder. Finally, sleep came over him. He dreamed of a plain full of wild horses. There were gigantic men, and women, too. The place and the people were strange. In his dream he tried to formulate something. A faraway shout shattered the picture and the words. Dim in the night came the sound of enemy soldiers singing on the slopes of the mountain. Their song howled outside Reuven's window and leaped into his dreams. Somebody cried far away. Reuven was flooded with a blackness in which abandoned boats were carried by the tide with broken masts. A bird screeched. Then fell silent. A new dream came, full of a pale finger not attached to any body, full of the sound of drums beating out a dim rhythm.

34. MY BROTHER'S KEEPER

Reuven Harish woke up. The drums had not died down. Their faint rhythm had become stronger. The air was charged with sound. The shutters opened, and he saw, with wide eyes, the jagged flashes of machine-gun fire. It had started.

For some weeks now the fellahin had abandoned the Camel's Field. They had stopped coming down to it in their dark robes. Our patrols had been skirting its edge in the evenings, when the setting sun was shining into the loopholes of the enemy fortifications. The men inside had refrained from firing. Both camps seemed to be breathing deeply, tensely. If the rains had come a few days sooner, the Camel's Field would have remained uncultivated. In the spring it would have sprouted thistles and briars and colorful wild flowers. Perhaps even the dead might. But the rains chose to come later.

It happened that same morning.

Opposite Reuven Harish's window strode the large Figure of Grisha Isarov, in olive-green army clothes and enormous boots. A heavy black pistol hung carelessly from his army belt.

"Get down to the shelter," Grisha shouted. "Right away. Quickly. This is no time for the Muses."

At five o'clock in the morning, when the mountaintops were wreathed with an enchanted halo of purple light, the tractor had been started up. Its cab was heavily armored with steel plates. A large plow was coupled to it. The blades gleamed. The engine rumbled and roared hoarsely.

Twenty minutes before the sun burst through the mountain screen, the tractor had crossed the invisible line, put down a marker, and dug its tusks into the soil of the Camel's Field. As the sun rose, furious machine guns began tickling its steel ribs. Reuven Harish leaned out of his window and addressed the myrtle bushes outside:

"Welcome, Colonel. I knew you'd be back. And here you are."

He was half-asleep. For the moment.

It was a limpid blue morning. The fish ponds received the sunlight, transmuted it as water does, and sent out brilliant dashes.

The tractor pivoted on its tracks and began to cut a second furrow, parallel and close to the first. The bursts of machine-gun fire did not affect it. Such pinpricks were beneath its dignity. Solemnly, steadily it proceeded on its straight course. Reuven continued to stand at his window. He bit into an apple. Grimaced. Someone called out to him again to go to the shelter. Reuven asked why. Mundek shouted that everyone was in the shelter, the children, the women and the men who were not on duty.

"What are you waiting for?" he added.

Reuven asked himself the same question but could find no definite answer. He laughed aloud and threw the rest of the apple into the myrtle bushes.

Polished, resplendent, wearing a hat and a spotted tie, and equipped with a walking stick, Herr Berger the tourist stood outside the secretary's office and surveyed the scene about him.

One after the other, the pair of them, Reuven from his window and Siegfried from his vantage point, saw two balls of fire blazing in the Camel's Field. One landed under the nose of the indifferent monster. The other whizzed past and shattered far away, at the edge of our vineyard. At once there was an answering whoosh. White lights flickered on the mountainside opposite. Now we unleashed our pent-up fury. A thick, dark column of smoke rose among the trenches and slanted northeastward, betraying the direction of the wind.

The tractor absent-mindedly, as though absorbed in philosophical speculation, continued on its course. Its pace neither increased nor slackened. It remained, as before, solemn and steady.

The firing grew faster and heavier. All around the armor-plated reptile bubbles of dazzling light burst, raising clouds of earth, smoke, and stones. Was the haughty machine protected by an invisible magic cordon?

Now that things were coming to a head, Reuven experienced a powerful surge of excitement. He felt a physical disturbance at the sight of the enemy shells falling wide of their target. The haughty indifference filled him with optimistic foreboding.

The world shattered into one great scream. A shell plunged into one of the fish ponds and raised a plume of muddy water. Another shell singled out the pine wood, smashed through the trees and blazed red black yellow orange. A third shell, quiveringly close, sliced off the roof of the tractor shed. A foul scorching smell assaulted Reuven Harish's nostrils. He leaned out of his window, held his head and vomited into the myrtles. He was still feeling happy. That powerful feverish flush that grips weak men when they suddenly have a ringside view of violent fighting. Let the struggle wage on to the utter end of its final destiny.

Reuven stood at his window, his mouth open wide to scream or to sing. But his innards rebeled and he vomited again and again. Herr Berger heard his retching. He came and stood on the other side of the myrtles. Calmly, politely, he asked whether he could be of assistance. A gun silenced the howling of the wind. Shells screamed here and in the enemy camp. The pine wood blazed with fire, and fire had taken the enemy's strongholds. Another fire raged in the tractor shed. A stench of burning rubber. The bloodcurdling bellow of a wounded cow.

Reuven Harish:

"Come in, my dear sir I have been waiting for you to come."

Siegfried, still calmly polite.

"I'm coming, I'm on my way, I'll be with you directly."

Columns of dust rose from tne slopes of the mountain. Dark men shot out of a dugout, running here and there with arms raised, like puppets whose strings have snapped.

A sound like a cord snapping close to the eardrum, followed by a menacing howl. The shell crashed into the wall of Fruma's house, the house that had been Fruma's in days gone by. The roof tilted, faltered, clung to the rafters with its fingernails, and finally gave in and collapsed with a hollow groan, raising a mushroom of dust.

Now from another point of view: the fire smoke howling sound and fury are mere illusion. Deception of unreliable senses. What is all the running of the tiny bouncing figures? What is their dark fear? The mountains stand as always.

At last an armor-piercing bullet penetrated the tractor's defenses and shattered its haughty pride. A blurred manikin shot out and zigzagged blindly across the field, falling and getting up, clasping his stomach, beating his chest with his fist as though swearing a powerful oath, leaping and flailing the air, as if the force of gravity had been momentarily weakened, caught his foot in a hole and collapsed on the ground, still kicking his legs in the air as though the whole universe had risen against him. Then, realizing the futility of kicking against empty space, he stretched his legs out, rested, made peace, lay still.

Reuven sits facing his visitor. A bowl of rosy-cheeked apples separates them. Slight disorder reigns in the room. The proper place for books is not on the floor. The packet of pills should have been put away in a drawer The sour smell of vomit is not pleasant to breathe.

Siegfried:

"I have come."

Reuven:

"So I see."

Siegfried:

"You're not well."

Reuven (why?):

"Thank you."

Siegfried:

"You're not cheerful."

Reuven:

"I'm ready."

Siegfried:

"Yes, you're ready. With your pure soul and your innocent mind you're ready for a Syrian shell to turn you into yet another Ramigolski, another plaster saint."

"My dear sir, try to tell me something new. Your cleverness has a rotten smell. You're playing the part of a grand-opera executioner. You're a dead man. I'm not afraid of you. So, you're laughing, Mr. Berger. But you're laughing at the wrong place. You're confused. That's not where you're supposed to laugh. Why did you laugh? Go and learn your part. You laughed in the wrong place."

"That's enough, Harismann. You have no strength left. You're tired out. Look at yourself. You're flushed. You're pale. No, don't look out of the window. You haven't got an alibi. You did flush. You did go pale. Your hand is shaking. You're all hunched up in your chair. You've lost her. You're ashamed to cry. You're holding back the tears. You're biting your lip. Don't deny it. You're gritting your teeth. Don't be ashamed. Cry. Let the tears flow. She's mine. You're mine. You're taking over the bank, but you've lost everything. That's not right, my dear pioneer, that's not the way for an honest man to behave. You want me to disappear. To be a bad dream. A nightmare. Feel me. Touch me. I'm not a ghost. I'm here, with you. In you. I'm real. I'm your humble servant. Your daughter's suitor. Your brother. Your best friend. Kiss my hand, Harismann. Beg for mercy. You're mine."

"Go away, sir, go away. Don't stay here."

"I'll take good care of her. I'll be gentle. I'll love her for you, too."

"Tell me, sir: she's beautiful, isn't she? Beautiful, quiet, dreamy — isn't she? She's… she's a miracle, sir. Isn't she?"

"Oh, how we love her, Harismann, you and I. In her we are one flesh. Why are you getting up? Sit down. Or rather lie down. Don't move. Movement now can be fatal. Lie still on the floor. Don't try to get up. It's dangerous. Lie still. Relax. Perfectly still. I'll fetch you some water. Here are your pills. No, you mustn't struggle. Relax, I said. Don't make any effort. Rest. It'll pass. The doctor's busy now with the wounded, but when it's all over he'll see you, too. I'm here by your side. You're not forsaken. You're in reliable hands. No, don't pull a face. Close your eyes. You're a good-looking man. High, clear brow. Don't be afraid. There's a friend at hand. Can you still hear me? A bosom friend. Don't move. Unclench your fist. Don't chew your lip, obstinate man. Take care. Be sensible. Don't put a strain on your heart. Stop gurgling like that. Here, I'll sit next to you. On the floor. Give me your hand. Pulse too fast. Perhaps I'll stroke your hair. I'll sing you a German song if you like. A lovely, sad children's song. I'll tell you an old story, too. Perhaps you'll go to sleep. Think of water. A little spring on the rocky mountainside. A stream trickling through the forest. An innocent little girl meets a wolf. Now a wide dark river. The water is cold, unchanging, gliding into the arms of the sea. Sea. Little waves. A dark jetty. White foam. A man and his daughter sailing together to the end of the sea. Go, pure man, go quietly, go in peace. Don't think about operatic executioners. Don't think darkness. Darkness is a tunnel from light to light. The transition is not difficult. Go to another place. Go across valleys and over mountains. See the roads that are forbidden to me. Who are you now, pure man. You're me when I was alive. I love you. I love you in your daughter. We were brothers. I loved you very much."

At dawn on the day following the festival of the New Year an armored tractor from Kibbutz Metsudat Ram began to plow a piece of land that had previously been worked illegally by the enemy. At first light the enemy artillery opened fire. The work continued, and the fire was not returned. The enemy proceeded to shell the civilian settlement indiscriminately with recoilless guns. The population took to the shelters. Our forces retaliated with heavy artillery fire. When approximately one-third of the disputed plot of land had been plowed, the tractor received a direct hit and its driver was killed. The engagement lasted some eighty minutes. Firing ceased only with the total silencing of the enemy positions, which sustained a large number of direct hits. With the exception of the tractor driver, our forces suffered no casualties. A member of Metsudat Ram, Misha Isarson, aged forty-four, was wounded in the arm by shrapnel. His wound was dressed on the spot, and he continued to discharge his duties as superintendent of the civil defense of the kibbutz. It is reported that during the shelling a member of the kibbutz died in his room. He was known to be ill at the time. Houses, farm buildings, and agricultural equipment suffered serious damage.

After the investigation and before the funeral, Ezra and Bronka, in agreement with Herbert Segal and others, decided to ask Siegfried to leave. Nobody suspected him and nobody blamed him, but we had received no clear explanation of the circumstances of his presence in Reuven Harish's room at the time of the tragedy. Noga's calm but insistent demand that he leave immediately tipped the balance against him.

The request was put to Siegfried Firmly but politely, and he responded with an indifference bordering on meekness. For pedagogic and other reasons Herbert Segal refused to allow him to see Noga. Siegfried replied that he understood and accepted Herbert's reasons. He offered Herbert a considerable sum of money for a library to be named in memory of Reuven Harish. When Herbert declined it, he burst into tears. He repeated the outburst when he took his leave of his brother and his family.

He left the country on a night flight. From the airport he sent a telegram to the secretary of Kibbutz Metsudat Ram expressing his gratitude and sympathy.

Siegfried left, and the rain came. Cruel drops. Monotonous complaint. Grumbling gutters. Dry dust turned to thick mud. Wet wind dashing against shuttered windows. Continuous howling of battered treetops.

On a dark, rainy morning Reuven Harish and the tractor driver, whose name was Mordecai Gelber, were laid to rest. Because of the rain there was only a short address. There was a symbolic link between the two deaths, as anyone with any sensitivity would appreciate, said Herbert Segal. Reuven Harish had been a pure man. We mourned his passing.

…EVER AFTER

Three months passed.

Noga Harish was in the last three weeks of her pregnancy. On a stormy midwinter's day we saw her married to Avraham Rominov. There were no celebrations. Herbert Segal kissed both the orphans. Rami kissed Noga. Someone, Hasia or Nina or Gerda, perhaps all three, stifled a sob. Oren Geva scratched a pattern of wavy lines in the plaster on the wall with his fingernails. Ido Zohar took refuge in the empty recreation hall and composed a poem. Bronka made some curtains for the couple's room. Grisha dug a trench outside their window to carry off the rain water.

A fortnight went by. Gai Harish caught a cold. The good women looked after him. He was moved in the evening from the children's house to the Bergers' home. Bronka gave him tea with honey. Noga and Rami came to keep him company. Bronka stroked Noga's hair. Rami played checkers with the patient. Then he played chess with Ezra. Then the young couple left. Bronka turned the light out. In the night Gai's temperature went up, and next morning it came down again.

Gossip has informed us that Einav is pregnant again. Danny can crawl now. He plays with bricks. Tomer likes to throw his son up in the air and catch him in his big hands. Danny screams with joy. Einav screams with fear.

Ezra needs to wear glasses. In the evenings he reads aloud from the Bible in a cracked voice. Bronka sits facing him, knitting, listening or not listening.

Herbert Segal, in his room, puts a record on the record player and listens alone to the sound of the orchestra and the sounds of the wind and the rain. Sometimes he makes tea and mutters to himself, like many lonely people. Sometimes he gets out his violin and plays a simple tune or two.

What about Israel Tsitron, Herzl Goldring, Mendel Morag, Tsvi Ramigolski, Yitzhak Friedrich, and their wives, and the other members of the kibbutz? Now that it is winter and there is little work to be done they sleep a lot. Some of them read to broaden their minds. Some of them take part in study groups organized by the cultural committee. Others are content to withdraw into themselves. As we do, too, at merciful moments, when it does not gnaw at us or waft a cold deadness in our face.

The rain comes and goes. Dark clouds roll overhead and hurl themselves against the mountain wall. But they do not break it. The slopes sprout wild plants. Turbid water pours down the gulleys. The fishermen have removed their nets from the stormy lake. I am tired of the masquerade. I shall unmask. Perhaps, I, too, shall go to Abushdid's and huddle in a dark comer. Sip coffee and stare at the damp walls.

On the day of the spring festival Noga gave birth to her daughter. She named her Inbal, meaning the tongue of a bell. The baby was underweight, and her head was slightly flattened in the difficult delivery. Look at her face. Do all those other faces meet in it, Grandma Stella's, Eva's, Noga's, Siegfried's, Rami's, Ezra's, Reuven's? Her features are still unformed, though. True, she has blue eyes. But the color may well change in a few weeks' time.

The mountains are as in days gone by. I turn my eyes from them. I shall take my leave on a Friday night, at the Bergers' house. Outside the wind may howl and the rain beat down. The house is like a bell. Ezra is seated, wearing his glasses, which make him look old and resigned. Bronka and Noga confabulate in the cooking alcove. There is a warmth between them. Stella Maris. A paraffin heater bunts with a blue flame. On the rug, as always, are two babies. Dan and Inbal. Tomer and Rami discuss the news peacefully, amicably. Herbert Segal, who is visiting, drinks a glass of tea in silence, keeping his thoughts to himself. Einav drops off to sleep with a newspaper over her face. Gai and Oren are here, too, standing at Ezra's desk, heads together, dark hair touching fair hair, their joint stamp collection spread out in front of them.

The armchair in the corner is ringed with light. No one is sitting in it. Do not fill it with men and women who belong elsewhere. You must listen to the rain scratching at the windowpanes. You must look only at the people who are here, inside the warm room. You must see clearly. Remove every impediment. Absorb the different voices of the large family. Summon your strength. Perhaps close your eyes. And try to give this the name of love.