Wednesday, March 2, 1966, 10:15 p.m.
There was no rain today. And no wind. A clear, fine winter day. And very cold. The windows are shut tight and the electric heater is on, yet the smell of wet leaves, of wet soil permeate the air. The very smells of my childhood. Thirty-six years on this kibbutz haven’t made me any less of a European. Not that I haven’t bronzed in the sun and lost the sickly pallor of my father, a middling Leipzig banker. But I still suffer in the summer and feel more at home here when it rains.
I am ashamed to admit that after all these years intimate contact with all these high-strung Russian-Polish men and women is still a strain for me.
But I have no regrets. Nearly everything I ever did in my life has been done with a clear conscience. Then what troubles me? Perhaps a vague sense of not belonging. Of homesickness. Of a sorrow that has no address. In this odd place without rivers, without forests, without churchbells. Without all those things I loved. Nevertheless, I’m perfectly capable of drawing up the most coldly objective historical, ideological, and personal balance sheets, all three of which tell me the same thing—that there is no mistake. Every one of us here can take a modest measure of pride in what we’ve done, in our long, dogged struggle to create out of nothing this attractive village, even if it looks as if it had been built out of blocks by an intelligent child. And in our struggle to create a better society without shedding blood and with virtually no infringement on anyone’s personal freedom. Detached as I am, I approve of this achievement. We haven’t done a bad job. And to some extent we have truly made better people of ourselves.
But what do we really know about ourselves? Nothing. Now, on the verge of old age, I understand even less than I thought I understood when I was young. And I don’t believe anyone else understands anything any more than I do. Not the philosophers. Not the psychologists. Not even the heads of the kibbutz movement. When it comes to our own selves we know less than scientists do about the secrets of nature, or the beginnings of the cosmos, or the origins of life. Which is nothing at all.
One Saturday, when I happened to be on lunch duty with Rimona Lifshitz, she serving the food and I the drinks, I asked her out of sheer politeness whether she wasn’t finding it hard going and perhaps might need some help. To which she replied with her lovely, inscrutable smile that I shouldn’t feel sad because everything was looking up. Those words were almost like the touch of a warm hand. Some say she’s an unusual girl. Others think her phlegmatic or far worse. For my own part, ever since that Saturday, I have made it an unwritten rule to give her a little smile each time we meet. And now, early this morning, her Yonatan disappeared without a word, leaving me with the task of finding out where he is and deciding what should be done. Where and how to start looking for him? What does a man like myself, a fifty-nine-year-old confirmed bachelor who happens to have acquired from others a modicum of trust or even respect—what do I know about such things?
Nothing. Less than that. My ignorance is total.
As it is about our youth in general. Sometimes, when I look at these young men who have been through wars, and have shot and killed and been shot at, and have plowed fields by the thousands of acres, they make me think of wrestlers lost in thought. You can’t get a word out of them. At most a shrug of the shoulders. Their entire working vocabulary consists of yes, no, maybe, and what difference does it make? Inarticulate peasants? Roughewn warriors? Just earthen clods? Not necessarily. Sometimes, passing by late at night, you come across four or five of them sitting and singing like a pack of wolves baying at the moon. For what? Or now and then, one of them shuts himself up in the recreation hall and scrimmages savagely with the piano. Technically clumsy he may be, but you can hear the longing in it. For what? For the overcast lands of the north abandoned by his parents? For strange cities? For the sea? I have no idea. For the past nine years—ever since I stopped working in the chicken coop on doctor’s orders—I’ve been keeping the kibbutz books, and now I’ve been given a new and unwelcome responsibility. Whatever made me accept it? That’s a good question. I need time to solve it, though.
“Solve.” How odd this verb sounds to me. We have spent our entire lives in this place, coming up with one solution after another. To the youth problem, to the Arab problem, the Diaspora problem, the elderly problem, the soil and water problem, the guard duty problem, the sex problem, the housing problem—every conceivable problem under the sun. It’s as if all these years we’ve been painstakingly seeking to inscribe a few ingenious formulae on the waves of the sea or to make the stars line up in the sky by threes in drill formation.
And now back to today’s events. It’s late, and tomorrow is another day. On my own initiative, and without bothering to explain, I called off tonight’s rehearsal by leaving a laconic note on the dining-hall bulletin board; I didn’t think any of us was able to concentrate on music. The whole kibbutz is in an uproar. And everyone expects me to know what to do. Which is—what? The quintet will have to wait for a calmer night, when all of us are less preoccupied.
Correction: I personally need some music right now. In private. Brahms perhaps. My door is locked. I’m wearing my pajamas and over them the heavy sweater Bolognesi knit for me six or seven years ago. I’ve made some tea with lemon. I am jotting down a few pages in my journal. Then I’ll go to bed and try to sleep. What I must do is write down the events of the day and one or two thoughts of my own. Some sixteen years ago I took it upon myself to keep a daily record of life on the kibbutz, even though I haven’t the vaguest idea who on this kibbutz, or anywhere else in this world, for that matter, will take an interest in it. Who indeed?
(A somewhat theological aside. The dogs are barking, the night birds are screeching. The silence is hovering over the darkness—in the valleys, in the mountains, on the sea—mutely but insistently demanding a response from us all, man, dog, bird. And it’s up to us to make ourselves understood.)
From a purely technical point of view, Yolek Lifshitz is still secretary of this kibbutz. Officially I won’t assume office until after the vote at the general meeting scheduled for Saturday night. Practically speaking, though, for the past several days I’ve been acting as secretary. I feel I have no choice. When it comes to emotions, my own or anyone else’s, I’m at a total loss. They’re a closed book to me, an enigma within a mystery. And though I’ve done my share of reading in my solitary years, whatever I’ve found there, whether fact or fiction, has only made the enigma more enigmatic and the mystery more mysterious. First Freud comes along and says one thing. Good enough. Only then along comes Jung and says something else and no less plausible. And Dostoyevsky was no slouch either at showing us other abysses of the soul. Well, more power to them all. Yet I am not convinced. I have my doubts.
Not one of them can enlighten me on where young Yonatan Lifshitz might be right now. Is he sleeping in some abandoned house or shack? Outdoors? In a city? On an old mattress in a deserted watchman’s hut? In a tent in an army camp? Or is he wide-awake and desperate, still on the move? Is he in a car? A plane? A halftrack? Is he looking for a streetwalker in the alleys of south Tel Aviv? Or is he navigating by the stars in the wilderness of Judea or the Negev? Is he serious, or just playing a practical joke on somebody? Is he taking revenge, acting the desperado, or simply being a spoiled child? Is he looking for something or running away from it?
The responsibility is now mine. It’s up to me to decide what must be done. Call in the police? Sit tight and wait it out? Make discreet inquiries in the neighboring villages? Treat the matter as urgent? Or try to take it in stride?
Just who are these youngsters anyway? What is going on in their heads? They’re first-rate farmers, no doubt about it. What we ourselves did with enormous effort, they toss off without any sweat. Presumably they’re brave and proficient soldiers. Yet always with an air of melancholy about them. As if they stemmed from another race, an entirely different tribe. Neither Asiatics nor Europeans. Neither Gentiles nor Jews. Neither idealists nor on the make. What can their lives mean to them, raised in this whirlwind of history, this place-in-progress, this experiment-under-construction, this merest blueprint of a country, with no grandparents, no ancestral homes, no religion, no rebellion, no Wanderjahre of their own? With not a single heirloom—not a chest of drawers, not a gold watch, not even a single old book. Growing in a place that was hardly a hamlet, in tents and shacks, amid pale young saplings. Just a fence and searchlights, howling jackals and distant shots. What got into you, Yonatan?
How little good I was able to do today. And even that just by groping in the dark. Perhaps I managed to soothe a soul or two. And take a few steps I thought were called for. And all on my own because there’s no one here to consult with. Stutchnik is a nice fellow. More or less a friend. Warmhearted, demonstrative, but unruly. Just the way he was when I first met him in the youth movement forty years ago. He is stubborn and opinionated, incapable of listening. I have never heard him admit to being wrong. Not once. Even in the most picayune matter. One time he wouldn’t speak to me for half a year because I proved to him with a map that Denmark isn’t a Benelux country. Six months later he sent a note to inform me my atlas was “badly out-of-date.” And yet in the end he decided to make up and brought me a lambskin rug for the foot of my bed.
As for my good friend Yolek, far be it from me to judge his contribution to the nation or to the kibbutz movement. Who am I to say? His enemies accuse him of talking like a prophet but carrying on like a small-time politician. To which his supporters reply, “Oh, he’s cagey, all right, but the man has imagination and vision!”
(In passing, let me remark that I personally can do without either imagination or vision. I have lived my life here to the music of a marching band, as if death had already been abolished, old age eradicated, suffering and loneliness ridden out on a rail, and the whole universe nothing but a giant arena for political and ideological quarrels. In short, imagination and vision are not my cup of tea. Long ago I gave up on ever getting Yolek and his fellow travelers to show a little compassion. Not uncritical compassion, to be sure. There has to be a limit. But compassion nonetheless. Because we all need it. And because without it, vision and imagination begin to turn cannibalistic. Which is why I’m determined to try to be compassionate as secretary of this kibbutz. And not cause unnecessary pain. Indeed, if I may insert another theological aside, of all the commandments in the Bible, of all our latter-day commandments—kibbutz-movement, national, socialist—the only one that still matters to me is the one against pain. No rubbing salt into wounds. Thou shalt not cause pain. Not to oneself either.) So much for that.
And now back to the events of the day. It was a clear morning. A cold blue sky. Not even as a boy in Europe have I seen such a glorious sight. It makes one feel slightly intoxicated and happy to be alive. Reading the headlines this morning about troop concentrations in the north, I had the childish fantasy of setting out for Damascus and convincing the Syrians to chuck this futile nonsense, to sit down with us in the sunshine to settle our problems once and for all.
Instead, of course, I went to the office and pored over the slipshod bills of lading that Udi Shneour stuck into my mailbox last night. From seven to nine I tried making some sense out of the bills and the chaos that’s overtaken the citrus groves. After which I had intended to answer some of the mail that had been mounting on Yolek’s desk. The more urgent letters, because I’m always perfectly content to put off till tomorrow what needn’t be done today in the hope it will either take care of itself or go away. Officially, of course, since I’m not even in office yet, there’s no need to rush.
At nine or nine-fifteen, a grim-faced Hava Lifshitz burst into the office. In a hostile, schoolmarmish voice she exclaimed, “Have you no sense of shame?”
I put down my pencil, pushed up my reading glasses, wished her good morning, and invited her to sit in my chair. (A few days ago someone walked off with the only other chair and never bothered to return it.)
No, she would not sit down. She simply could not grasp, she said, how anyone could be so insensitive, although nothing surprised her any more. She had come to demand that I do something, or, as she put it, that “you make this your business right now!”
“Excuse me,” I said, “but exactly what is it that I’m supposed to make my business right now?”
“Srulik,” she snapped, as if my name were a dirty word, “would you tell me whether you’re a complete numbskull or just pretending to be one? Or is this simply your sick sense of humor?”
“That could be,” I said. “Anything is possible. But I can’t give you an answer until I know what the question is. And I suggest that you consider sitting down after all.”
“Do you really mean to tell me you know nothing about what’s happened? That you’ve seen no evil and heard no evil? That while the whole kibbutz has been talking about nothing else, Your Royal Highness has been spending his morning on the dark side of the moon?”
The two of us were staring at each other across the desk. I couldn’t suppress a slight smile.
“Something terrible has happened,” said Hava.
I apologized at once. I explained to her that I truly had no idea what she was talking about. The fact is that for the past several years I’ve been skipping breakfast in the dining hall and getting by until lunch with tea, crackers, and yogurt in my office. Was anything, God forbid, wrong with Yolek?
“He’s next!” said Hava, bubbling with venom. “Troubles always come in pairs. But this time it’s Yoni.”
“Hava,” I said, “I’m not clairvoyant. Please try to tell me exactly what happened.”
With a sudden, jerky motion, as if she were about to scatter my papers or slap my face, she collapsed into the chair I had offered her, shielding her eyes with one hand.
“I don’t get it,” she whispered. “You’ve got to have the heart of a murderer to treat me like this.”
I couldn’t understand who was the murderer—her husband, her son, or me—or why I put my hand on her shoulder and called her softly by name.
“Srulik,” she said, looking up at me, “will you help?”
“Of course I will,” I said. And though, for many years now, physical contact with anyone has been difficult for me, I left my hand where it was. I may even have touched her hair. I wouldn’t swear to it, but I think I did.
Yoni had left home sometime during the night, Hava said. He might have taken a gun with him. That feeble-minded wife of his had remembered this morning that he had been talking about traveling abroad. “But no one knows better than I do that you can’t trust a word that demented child says. Whatever he may have been planning, it would take an imbecile to assume that he left with no passport or money, only with his gun and army uniform. Srulik, you know you’re the only one here I can talk to. The rest of them are all just petty, narrow-minded, and selfish. Deep down, they’re thrilled to bits because they know this will be the end of Yolek. They’ve been out to get him for years. I’ve come to you because you’re a decent man, if no genius. A mensch, not a monster. He might as well have murdered his father with his own hands. Yolek will never survive this. He’s in bed with pains in his chest, having trouble breathing. Blaming himself for everything. And that moron Rimona, who took in that filthy little murderer to destroy Yoni, says to me in cold blood, ‘He left because he wasn’t happy. He said that he would and he did. I don’t know where he went. Maybe he’ll come back when he feels better.’ I should have slapped her face then and there. I didn’t say a word to that skunk, that diabolic smut pusher who probably knows everything. Oh, I’ll bet he does and is laughing up his sleeve and won’t tell us a thing. Srulik, I want you to go right this minute and make him tell you where Yoni is. And don’t be squeamish! Take a pistol if you have to. What are you waiting for? For God’s sake, Srulik, the last thing I need now is a cup of coffee and a speech. You know I’m made out of iron. All I’m asking is for you to go right now and do what has to be done. You can leave me here. I’ll be fine. Just go!”
The water, however, had already boiled, and I went ahead and made the coffee whether she wanted it or not. Urging her to remain in the office and rest in my chair, I excused myself, put on my hat and coat, and went out to look for Rimona. On my way I stopped at the infirmary and asked the nurse to look in on Yolek and stay with him until I arrived. People kept stopping me to give advice, ask for the latest news, or spout all kinds of wild stories. I told them all that I was sorry but I had no time. Except for Paula Levin, whom I asked to check up on Hava and keep everyone else out of the office.
I tried my best to set my thoughts in order. The trouble was, I hadn’t the foggiest idea where to begin. Of course, I had already heard some of the gossip about young Gitlin, who was said to have moved in with Rimona and Yoni. All kinds of insinuations, snickers, salacious innuendos. Until now I hadn’t felt any need to take a stand on the matter. A society that prides itself on living by enlightened ideals must restrain itself—or at least so I think—from intruding into anyone’s personal life. What goes on between a man and his wife, or between friends of whatever sex, is a strictly private affair in my opinion and deserves a Keep Out sign. And now along comes Hava insisting that “something terrible” has happened. Who’s to say? Certainly not I. Anything having to do with sex, or the emotions, or the connection between the two, is terra incognita to me.
Once, as a boy in Leipzig, I fell in love with a dreamy high-school girl, but she much preferred a young tennis star—of the type then popularly called a “blond beast”—who was also a great fan of Hitler’s. I pined away for a while but managed to get over it. Around that time, one morning at five o’clock, the family maid stepped into my room and into my bed. Not long after I joined a Zionist pioneering group in Poland and came to Palestine. Once here, some twenty-five years ago, I fell in love with P. In fact, I may still be in love with her in my fashion, but I’ve never let her know. Now she has four grandchildren to her credit, and I’m a confirmed bachelor. Of my few casual, awkward, acutely embarrassing sexual liaisons the less said the better. Sorry, unaesthetic affairs all of them, and instantly regretted. The whole business, as far as I can see, involves a great deal of pain and human degradation in exchange for a very few moments of pleasure—keen pleasure, I’ll admit, but far too brief and meaningless to be worth the effort. Of course, it’s only fair to point out that my experience is too limited to generalize, but I will allow myself one observation here. Built into this world is an irremediable erotic injustice so great that it makes a mockery of all our attempts to construct a better society. This is not to say that we mustn’t set our sights beyond it and keep trying, only that we should do so without any grand illusions. On the contrary, as modestly, cautiously, and unpretentiously as we can. But now I’d better turn over the record, because this is most definitely a night for Brahms and still more Brahms.
And what comes next? Oh yes. Rimona, once I found her, remembered that when she got back last night from serving refreshments to the members of the Jewish philosophy group (“When was that?” “Late.” “Yes, but when?” “About three-quarters of the way through the rain”), she found the two of them awake. A little tired though. Kind to each other, “like two little boys who have fought and made up.” They were kind to her too. And then went to bed. As did she. (Whether they were kind to each other after that as well, I didn’t try to guess. What do I know?)
“And when did Yoni leave?”
“In the night.”
“Yes, but when?”
“Late. When he had to.”
I asked her what had happened in the morning. Azariah woke up. He thought he’d heard shooting. He wakes up often thinking he hears shooting. Sometimes she thinks she hears, too. When they saw that Yoni was gone, he began to run all over.
“Who did?”
“Zaro. Yoni wouldn’t have. Yoni takes his time. He never runs.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Yoni is tired.”
In short, Azariah dashed to the tractor shed, and to the dining hall, all over. And what did Rimona do while he was running? She checked to see what Yoni had taken and what he had left behind. He took what he always did when he gets called by his army unit in the middle of the night. Because sometimes that’s when they come for him. Why then was she so sure that the army hadn’t called for him last night too? I couldn’t get a straight answer, only “This time it was different.”
What did she do then? She sat and waited. Then she dressed, and made the bed, and cleaned the room. And didn’t go to work in the laundry. And gave Tia her breakfast. And waited some more. What was she waiting for? She was waiting for it to be seven-fifteen. Why seven-fifteen? Because that’s when Hava and Yolek get up. And that’s when she went to tell them that Yonatan had left in the night. And that they shouldn’t be upset.
And then what happened? Nothing. Nothing? Nothing. Hava was upset. And what did Yolek say? What did he do? He hid his face in his hands and sat quietly in his chair. And Hava stopped talking too and looked quietly out the window. That’s when Rimona left quietly and went to look for Zaro.
“Rimona,” I said. “I want to ask you something. Please try to concentrate before you answer me. Because it’s important. Do you have any guess where Yoni might be now?”
“He’s gone.”
“He certainly is. But where?”
“To look for something.”
“To look for something?”
A brief silence, followed by a smile, a calm, autumnal smile, as if to say the two of us knew things other people have never dreamed of. I smiled back at her and said, “Rimona. Please. This is serious.”
“I’m thinking,” she said.
“What are you thinking?”
“That he left because he said he would.”
“But left for where? Why?”
“To wander,” she said. “Perhaps.”
In the early 1940’s the kibbutz had made an arrangement with a pair of dentists, a husband and wife, Dr. Fogel and Dr. Fogel. They had recently arrived from Poland and offered to treat us at lower rates. The two of them never learned any Hebrew. Anyone who had a dental problem made a trip to their poorly equipped clinic in town. Until the wife was killed in an accident and the husband contracted a fatal disease. In return for a fixed annuity, we agreed to take their only child into the kibbutz. A sweet, self-absorbed little girl, very neat and orderly, although a bit slow and withdrawn. When she reached draft age, Yonatan Lifshitz married her. Every cabinet minister and party leader attended their wedding, and not a few members of the Knesset. Afterwards she began to work in the laundry. And became pregnant. And apparently something went wrong. Now and then people talked about her. I tried not to listen. What does a man like me have to do with gossip. Or with pretty girls. Or with anyone’s psyche.
“Rimona,” I said. “One more question. And this time you needn’t answer, because it’s of a personal nature. Did Yoni suffer from, or complain about, or seem hurt in any way by … your ties with Azariah Gitlin?”
She paused. “But they like to.”
“Like to what?”
“Suffer.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t understand. Who likes to suffer?”
“These people. Not everyone. Some do. Hunters who spear antelopes do.”
“I’m afraid this is beyond me. Who likes to suffer?”
“Yoni. And Zaro. And my father too. And Bach. And Yolek as well. Lots of them.” Then her strange smile reappeared, and she added, “Not you.”
“All right. Let it be. But what do you suggest we do now?”
“Whatever has to be done.”
“Like what?”
She couldn’t answer.
“Should we wait?”
“Wait.”
“Or should we look for him?”
“Look for him. Because Yoni sometimes likes danger.”
“Rimona. I need a straight answer. Should we wait or should we look for him?”
“Look and wait.”
One last thing: Did she need anything? Any help from the kibbutz? The question seemed to confuse her. Any help? Oh, yes. Perhaps I could see to it that Zaro wasn’t picked on, though he always asked for it. Just not make him leave. He’s good.
“Tell me, Rimona, where are you going right now?”
“To see if he’s had breakfast. And to make sure that he does, because all morning long he’s been looking for Yoni. He even went to Sheikh Dahr, but he’ll be back soon. Then, I don’t know. Maybe to the laundry. Maybe not.”
I finally found Azariah sitting by himself in the empty recreation hall. I must have given him a start. He was sorry, but he simply couldn’t go to work in the tractor shed today. I had his word of honor that tomorrow and the next day he would work overtime to make up for it. He had already looked everywhere on the kibbutz, in all the orchards, as far as the ruins of Sheikh Dahr, but no trace. Now he wanted to die because he was to blame for everything. “Srulik, maybe you should get Little Shimon, he’s in charge of exterminating stray dogs around here, and that’s what should be done with me. Only you have to let me find Yoni first. I’m the only one who can. And lots more. Just give me a second chance, and you’ll see what I can do for this kibbutz.”
There was a panicky glint in his green eyes, which refused to meet mine, and frightened lines at the corners of his mouth. Yoni, he promised, would be back by this evening. Or, at the latest, by tomorrow or the day after. Or sometime soon. His intuition, which had never failed him, told him so. There were only two things that Yonatan had been missing. One was love. The other was purpose. Some Jewish ideal, if one might still put it that way, because something had died inside him. Unlike himself, Azariah, who had resolved to devote his life to the kibbutz, to society, to the country.
And what exactly was he doing alone in the recreation hall? He was trying, I might as well know, to put together a statement. Or a poem. A strong one. Something with the power to console and to rekindle the flame. (By the way, he really is a good guitarist. That much I’ve discovered at our rehearsals.)
“Azariah,” I said. “Listen, please. If you really want to help, there’s something I’d like you to do for me. First, calm down. It would make life easier for all of us if you tried not to be so emotional. And second, I’d like you to spend the day at the switchboard. I want you to make sure that the line is free as much of the time as possible. Someone may try to get in touch.”
“Srulik, excuse me for saying so, but I feel I must tell you that I appreciate you greatly. Not appreciate. That’s a ridiculous word. On the contrary, I respect you and wish I could be like you. In control of myself. While I agree with practically everything Spinoza ever said, I haven’t been very good at living up to it. I keep catching myself all the time in the ugliest lies. Not ugly really. Unnecessary and low. Lying only to impress, though in the end I achieve the opposite. Yet I want you to know I’m working on myself. Little by little I’m changing. You’ll see. And when Yoni comes back—”
“Azariah, please. We can discuss all this some other time. Right now I’m in a hurry.”
“Of course. Excuse me. I just wanted you to know that, how should I put it, I’m entirely at your service. And at the kibbutz’s. Twenty-four hours a day. I may be a fink. I definitely am. But I’m not a parasite or a leech. And I am going to marry her.”
“You’re what?”
“Because that’s what Yoni wanted, I swear. And if it will make Yolek happy, because he’s been like a father to me, and Hava, and the rest of the kibbutz, then that’s what I’ll do, marry Rimona. And now I’m off to tend to the switchboard. To keep the line free day and night. Srulik?”
“Yes. What?”
“They don’t come any better than you, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
Azariah spoke these last words with his back to me and set off on a run. Yoni, Udi, Etan, and that whole crew strike me as a strange tribe. They will never accept Azariah, and yet he isn’t strange to me. In fact, he seems almost intimately familiar, yet he doesn’t have a chance of fitting in. I never did believe a Jew could really and truly assimilate. That’s what turned me into a Zionist.
After I returned to the office, I finally managed to get through to Yonatan’s army unit. No, there had not been a call-up last night. They knew nothing about it, and since when was such a thing a fit subject for a telephone conversation anyway? As a special favor, however, they were willing to promise me that Yonatan Lifshitz was not on the base. Of that the young female soldier at the other end of the line was “one-hundred-and-one-percent sure.” They were all one big family there, and she knew everyone who came and went. I thanked her but persisted: could I possibly talk with an officer called Chupka? (Rimona had recalled that this was the name of Yonatan’s C.O.) I was asked to hang on but was then cut off. I dialed again, battling all the gremlins at different exchanges along the way, until finally I got the same young clerk. Chupka, I was now told, had left the base that morning. To go where? Hang on for a second, will you? And again I was cut off. And again I fought back with the patience that I’ve learned from a lifetime of playing the flute. And again I got the same girl, who this time, in a fit of pique, demanded to know just who I thought I was and who had authorized me to ask such questions. Without batting an eyelash, I immediately fired off three lies. That I was Yonatan’s father. That my name was Yisra’el Lifshitz. And that said Yisra’el Lifshitz was still a member of the Knesset. Whether out of respect for Yisra’el or the Knesset, she finally consented to reveal the dark secret. Chupka was on his way, already in, or on his way back from, Acre, where he had gone to attend the circumcision of the son of one of his soldiers, whose name she gave me.
Right away I dialed Grossmann in Acre. (An old friend from my days in Leipzig, who works for the electric company.) An hour later he called back. Chupka was taking a nap, apparently at his sister’s home in Kibbutz Ein-Hamifratz.
Two-and-a-half hours had already passed in the Great Phone War. I would have missed lunch if Stutchnik’s wife, Rachel, hadn’t been considerate enough to bring me a covered plate from the dining hall. I ate the meat croquettes, squash, and rice without ever once putting down the receiver.
At a quarter-to-two, I managed to get through to the office at Ein-Hamifratz. It was not until about four o’clock, however, that I got hold of Chupka himself. He said he hadn’t a clue where Yonatan might be and promised that if “it turns out to be serious,” I could count on him and his men to find their missing friend even if he was “on the far side of Bab Allah.” I asked whether he thought Yonatan might do something rash.
“Let me think,” he replied in a hoarse, fatigued voice. After a brief silence he declared, “Why ask me? Anybody is liable to do something rash.” (Incidentally, he couldn’t be more right.) In the end we agreed to keep in touch.
All the while I was playing detective on the phone, Udi Shneour and Etan R. were, at my request, combing those surroundings of the kibbutz that were too muddy to be negotiable by jeep. With no results. Then, once more at my prompting, Etan took Tia around on a leash to try to pick up a scent. Also without results.
I couldn’t make up my mind whether it was necessary or desirable to call in the police at this point. The reasons for doing so were obvious. The reason against it was that if the whole affair turned out to be nothing but a lark, Yonatan would most likely be angry that we had involved the law.
By five o’clock I had finally decided I would talk to Yolek after all. Earlier in the day I had suggested to Hava that she call any friends or relations with whom Yonatan might be staying. She took this task upon herself with a look of genteel revulsion, leaving me with the feeling that, even though nothing else could be expected from an incompetent like me, any measures I had taken so far were perfectly brainless. Her only insistent request was that I place a transatlantic call to Benya Trotsky in Miami. This seemed to me rather pointless, but I agreed without disclosing my true feelings.
Thirty-nine years have gone by since my first encounter with Yolek Lifshitz. There was something offhandedly domineering about him that made me feel like an underling. He was a cautious, keen-witted man with not a youthful bone in his body even then, when we were all very young—as if he had come into this world as a fully formed adult. To this day I feel intimidated by his presence. It was he, incidentally, who first taught me how to harness a horse.
Frankly, I had expected him to go straight into his mea culpa routine, but he didn’t. Assertively absorbed in his cigarette and staring at the ceiling, he thanked me for what I had done, the expression of his face reminding me of the times I had seen him faced with a critical political decision, his nostrils flaring, his huge, profligate nose eloquent with a profound contempt. He talked sparingly and unemotionally, as if his mind were made up to take some dramatic, irrevocable step. Like a general or head of state who has just pronounced the secret code word for crossing some fatal Rubicon still undisclosed to his entourage and who now sits waiting, exuding something that might be called serenity were it not for the chain smoking.
“Yolek,” I said. “I want you to know that we’re all behind you. The whole kibbutz.”
“That’s good,” said Yolek. “Thank you. I can really sense it.”
“And that we’re doing all we can.”
“Of course you are. I never doubted that.”
“We’ve combed the area. We’ve contacted the army too. And made a discreet check of friends and relations. So far, no results.”
“Well done. And I’m glad you put off going to the police. Srulik?”
“Yes.”
“Some tea? Or a little brandy?”
“No, thank you.”
“By the way, that boy needs to be watched and kept out of harm’s way. He’s in bad shape.”
“Who is?”
“Azariah. You mustn’t let him out of your sight. He’s a precious young man who may be meant for great things. He needs to be watched around the clock because he blames himself for all this, and there’s no telling what he may do. As far as Hava is concerned, do whatever seems best. I’ll keep out of it.”
“Meaning?”
“That she’ll play this to the hilt. She will insist that Azariah move back to his room, and most likely that he leave the kibbutz altogether.”
“What should I say to her?”
“I think that you’re a great fellow, Srulik, and a first-rate bookkeeper to boot, but some questions are better not asked. Why don’t you just consider it for a while. Yoni, I’m sorry to say, is a damn fool, but he isn’t a scoundrel. And not just another dumb yokel either.”
I apologized at once. Yolek made a weary gesture and assured me that he bore no hard feelings. He too thought we should get in touch with Trotsky to see if he had had a role in the affair, but that this needed to be done prudently, perhaps even indirectly. We were, after all, dealing with a pathological liar, an international crook who would stop at nothing. It might perhaps be worth putting out feelers in America. Not that there weren’t advantages to a more straightforward approach.
I had to confess to not knowing what he was talking about.
Yolek, however, simply made a face and let drop some remark of Nietzsche’s about begetting children and giving hostages to fortune.
I rose to go. My hand was on the doorknob when his cracked but commanding voice overtook me. He was almost glad that the weather was good. It would be too horrible to imagine Yoni wandering about in a drenching thunderstorm. The damn fool! Perhaps he was holed up right now in some old ruin or dinky gas station, no different from when he was a boy, full of self-pity and feeling angry at the world. Should he suddenly decide to return, we would have to play the whole thing down to spare his tender soul. It was a nasty business. But one way or another, whether from America or a gas station, the boy was sure to come back. True enough, we would have to get him out of the kibbutz for a year or two. Perhaps to study somewhere, or to work for the movement, or to engage in anything that would allow him to feel he was doing his own glorious thing. If he insisted on going overseas, we would find him something overseas. The boy was a spoiled brat with a head full of worms, but then the whole lot of them were soft in the brain. I myself—I trust you to keep this a secret—I had already decided to accommodate him because I saw how miserable he was. I even wrote to Eshkol. But where did we go wrong, Srulik? How did we ever manage to raise such a collection of halfwits?
All the while I kept thinking Scyths, Huns, Tatars, etcetera, and left with the promise that I would drop by again as soon as I could.
Does he love the boy? Detest him? Both? Want to mold him according to his will? Found a dynasty with him like some Hasidic rabbi? I understand nothing. Nothing at all. There is a poem of Bialik’s in which he asks what love is. If Bialik didn’t know, how should I?
Once more let me make a more or less theological observation. About fathers and sons. Any father and any son. King David and Absalom. Abraham and Isaac. Jacob, Joseph, and his brothers. Each, as it were, trying to make of himself a fulminating Jehovah. Complete with thunder and lightning. Hailing fire and brimstone.
Not that I have the slightest notion of who young Yonatan Lifshitz really is. Yet writing these words I feel a sudden concern for him. That he may be at the end of his rope. Maybe I was mad not to have gone to the police immediately. A human life could be at stake. Or perhaps we should simply sit tight. A young man wants time out to be by himself. It’s his right. He’s not a child, after all. Or is he? I don’t know.
I will say this much, quite honestly. More than once, at some intense moment of loneliness in my own life, whether sorting eggs into cardboard trays for hours on end in the chicken run, or sitting on my little porch of a summer evening and listening to the families enjoying themselves on the grass, or lying awake until morning in my creaky bed while the jackals howl in Sheikh Dahr, or seeing the moon appear in my window like some drunken, beet-faced stormtrooper, more than once I’ve thought what Utopian bliss it would be to pick up and take to the road. To start a new life, anywhere, either by myself or with P. Leaving everything behind me, for good.
So why these pangs of conscience? What moral reason or obligation can there be to turn loose the police or his army-scout friends on Yonatan? On the contrary, if he felt he had to go, why not let him go in peace? It’s his life. And, incidentally, I see nothing at all wrong in Azariah’s marrying Rimona. Why shouldn’t he? Just because of the lethal hatred of that hard woman, or the public image of an old tyrant? Are the two of them sufficient reason for me to launch a manhunt? To force the bird back into its cage?
And while I’m at it, being secretary of this kibbutz is simply not for me. Let them ask my good friend Stutchnik. Or Yashek. Or bring Yolek back by popular demand. I, in any case, am the wrong choice. It’s all a mistake.
At seven this evening, I arranged for the telephone to be manned through the night. Etan, Azariah, Yashek, and Udi agreed to take three-hour shifts until seven in the morning, when I’ll be back in the office to decide what to do next. At eight-thirty I went back to my room, showered, and took my medicine. At nine-fifteen I was urgently called to the office. Miami on the line at last.
“Yes, this is his personal assistant speaking. Mr. Trotsky is out of town. I’m sorry, but he cannot be reached. Can I take a message?”
I tried to phrase it as carefully as I could. I am calling from Israel. I am the acting secretary of Kibbutz Granot. A young man named Yonatan Lifshitz may contact, or may already have contacted, Mr. Trotsky. He is the son of old friends of his. If Mr. Trotsky hears from him, could he please get in touch with us right away. We would be most grateful.
And then back to my room again, where, like a faithful wife, my accustomed solitude waited. Have a seat, Srulik. You had a hard day today, didn’t you? Come, let’s light the electric heater and put on some water for tea. And slip on that nice old sweater of yours over your pajama top. And let Brahms play for us. And light the desk lamp. Rather than feel sorry for ourselves, though, we have written this report.
This entry has certainly dragged on. It’s after midnight, and tomorrow won’t be any easier. I’ll wash up and lie down to read until I fall asleep. Bone up some more on my ornithology. In German, English, and Hebrew I’ve been learning all about the birds, another subject I understand next to nothing about. Good night. Let’s see what a new day brings.
Thursday, March 3, 1966, 4:30 p.m.
No news. No Yonatan.
The phone was manned in shifts all through the night. Chupka called. Sometime today he will try to drop by to see me.
Yolek is feeling worse. The doctor came to give him a shot and recommended hospitalization, at least long enough to give him a thorough checkup. Yolek thundered, banged his fist on the desk, and drove everyone out of the room.
My official position gave me the courage to go to him despite the general rout. He was seated regally in his armchair, holding an unlit cigarette that he was studying shrewdly, comparing its ends.
“Srulik,” he said. “I don’t like the looks of this.”
“You shouldn’t smoke,” I replied. “And you must listen to the doctor.”
“Out of the question,” he said calmly. “I’m not budging from here until we hear something.”
“Maybe we’re making a mistake,” I said hesitantly. “Maybe we should call in the police after all?”
He took his time answering. A sphinxlike smile played briefly over his face.
“The police,” he said at last, lifting his left eyebrow, “means the press. And the press means a scandal. The boy has his pride. By wounding it we may cut off his line of retreat. No, I’m against it. We’ll wait it out. Srulik?”
“Yes.”
“What do you think?”
“That we should do so. Right now.”
“Eh?”
“I think we should inform the police. And not wait a moment longer.”
“Go ahead. You’re the secretary,” said Yolek, taking a long puff from his unlit cigarette. “You have the right to make your own mistakes. What did you tell Hava?”
“About what?”
“About Azariah. And, by the way, why hasn’t he come to see me?”
“From what I’ve heard, he was up all night. Hava hasn’t approached me about Azariah at all. Neither has Rimona. As far as I know, she went to work today in the laundry.”
“Tomorrow’s Friday, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Why don’t you inform the police tomorrow. Not today. Tomorrow. After forty-eight hours, I believe there’s even a procedure for tracking missing persons. There’s been no word from Trotsky?”
“Nothing yet.”
“Of course not. I never thought there would be. Between us, I have my own suspicions. You must promise not to breathe a word of this. Is that clear?”
I said nothing.
“Hava’s behind the whole mess. In cahoots with that Trotsky. I won’t spell it out any further. It’s her way of getting back at me.”
“Yolek,” I said. “Believe me, when it comes to human emotions I don’t understand a thing, but that theory strikes me as implausible.”
“A genius you never were, Srulik, but still the very soul of decency. Do me the favor of forgetting what I just said. All of it. Would you like some tea? A little brandy? No?”
I thanked him but urged him once again to go to the hospital as the doctor had advised.
Craftily, like a degenerate old philanderer, he suddenly winked at me with a lewd smile. “On Sunday, if Yoni still hasn’t turned up, I’m going to go get him. The doctor be damned! Listen to me, Srulik. None of what I’m going to tell you is to leave these four walls. I’m flying there on Sunday. I’ve already booked a seat. And I’ll bring him back. They’re not going to get away with this. And don’t try to talk me out of it.”
“But I don’t understand,” I said. “Where are you flying on Sunday?”
“Not a genius is an understatement. All right, I’m going to America. By myself. Without telling Hava or anyone else.”
“But Yolek, you can’t be serious.”
“But I can. And I am. And my health is not a topic for discussion. So don’t argue. It’s pointless. I wish to be left alone now, Srulik, and remember to keep your mouth shut.”
After lunch I returned to my room. I seem to be coming down with the grippe. And so I’ve got into bed in my long underwear and put on a Bach fugue. And written a few more pages in this journal. On Saturday night I will be officially elected secretary of the kibbutz unless I have the gumption to announce that I’m not a candidate. Determination has never been a trait of mine, though, and people will think badly of me. So we’ll have to wait and see. Could it possibly be that I’m the only sane person in all of this? Father, son, mother, Azariah, even my precious Rimona, to say nothing of Stutchnik—there’s something strange about every one of them. True enough, a genius I never was. Twice this morning I picked up the office phone to call the police, and once even dialed the number, but changed my mind both times. I’ll put it off until tomorrow after all.
Meanwhile I have read a suggestive passage in Donald Griffin’s Bird Migration, from which I quote the following lines:
Many species of birds begin their spring migration when the weather is still very different from that prevailing in their nesting areas. Species that winter in tropical islands, for example, where climatic conditions are highly stable, must leave such regions by a given date if they are to spend the short-lived summer in the far north.
And this as well:
Whatever informs a bird in a tropical rain forest in South America that the moment has come to fly north if it is to arrive in the Canadian tundra just in time for the spring thaw?
I’ve copied out these lines because, absurd as it may seem, if even a great man like Yolek can allow himself to believe in the most crackpot hypothesis, why shouldn’t I try out my own modest powers of divination, no matter how wild the hunch?
Roughly an hour-and-a-half ago, at about twenty after two, while I was lying in bed, reading Griffin, there was a knock on my door. Before I could answer it, the door burst open. It was Hava. She had to have a serious talk with me. At once. This minute.
That she found me in my long underwear, a tattered woolen scarf wrapped around my throat, looking like a refugee from the underworld, didn’t faze her one bit or make her feel the least need to apologize. She marched across the room in a huff and sat down on my unkempt bed. I fled to the bathroom, locked the door, and dressed hurriedly before emerging.
An obviously aging woman, her hair braided in a circle around her head, a Polish severity about her, a wispy mustache above lips perpetually pursed, righteous to her fingertips but determined to be tolerant as a matter of principle, having no choice but to put up with the despicable weaknesses of others.
How, I asked, might I be of help? She would try, she said, to control herself. She would not even begin to tell me what she really thought. Now all she wanted from me was to act. If I didn’t want to be haunted all my life by what was about to happen to Yolek, whose state was far worse than I thought, I had better get that sewer rat out of here this very day. Every extra hour was a knife in her back and in Yolek’s sick heart. Not just because of the publicity—why, any moment the hyenas from the press might arrive—but because Yoni must on no account find that creature here when he returned. Didn’t I realize what was going on? Was I an imbecile like the rest of them? That little turd was living as merrily as you please in Yoni’s room, and even sleeping in his bed. Who in the world would put up with such a sick scene? Not even cannibals in the jungle. And I was supposed to be secretary of the kibbutz. Well, that was what always happened when little men try stepping into shoes too big for them. But never mind. I would pay for it dearly, with interest. For what I had put Yoni through and for whatever happened to Yolek. Either I made up for at least part of the harm I had done by giving that worthless bum the heave-ho, or I would never hear the last of it from her. Today! The doctor, by the way, had expressly said that he was afraid it was the heart this time. She wanted me to know she could see right through my manipulations. At least I might stop playing the village saint. Because she had never misjudged a person yet. And she hoped that I didn’t expect her to believe that I had really done all I could to get in touch with America. What kind of monster was I, lying here in bed like a country squire and snoozing away the afternoon? At which point she rose and stood facing me, taut and breathless, as if declining with stoic fortitude to strike back at her enemies.
“Hava,” I said. “You’re not being fair.”
“Then throw him out of here!” she snapped, her eyes flashing. “This very minute!”
With a gesture of offended gentility, she turned to go.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “You’ll have to give me time to think about it. I do promise, though, to talk to Rimona and the young man. I think he can be persuaded to return to the barber’s shack. But first we must concentrate on Yoni. There’s reason to believe he’ll come back soon. You have my solemn pledge that once he’s safely home I’ll convene a meeting of the family life committee. If it decides that action needs to be taken, I won’t hesitate to do so. Hava. Please.”
“I want to di-i-i-e-e!” she suddenly wailed in the shrill, piercing voice of a spoiled child who has been crushingly humiliated. “Srulik, I just want to die.”
“Hava,” I said. “Do try to calm down. You know we’re all behind you. The whole kibbutz. Believe me, I’ve been doing, and will continue to do, everything in my power.”
“I know,” she sobbed, her face hidden in a white handkerchief. “I know you’re a dear. And I’m just a horrid old witch gone completely out of her senses. I hope you’ll forgive me, Srulik, though I’ve no right to ask after all my insults. I just want you to know I feel ashamed and want to die. Could I please have a glass of water?”
And after drinking it, she began again. “Srulik, tell me the whole truth. I’m tough as nails. I can take it. Tell me what you think. Is Yonatan alive? Yes or no?”
“Yes,” I said quietly, with uncharacteristic firmness, “he’s alive and well. He’s been unhappy lately and just decided to go away and be by himself for a while. I’ve often thought of doing the same thing. And so have you. We all have.”
She lifted her streaming face to me. “In this whole madhouse you’re the only one who remained human. I want you to know I’ll never forget it. That there was one feeling person among all those murderers and I attacked him like a beast and called him the most awful names.”
“Hava,” I said. “Don’t be angry with me for saying that you need to rest a bit. There’s already enough pain in the world. Let’s try to keep as calm as we can.”
“From now on,” she said, like a mollified child, “I swear I’ll do everything you tell me. I’m going to go back home right now and rest. You’re my good angel. But I still don’t think he should be living at Yoni’s. And sleeping in his bed. It’s indecent.”
“You may be right about that,” I said. “I think you are, but there’s reason to believe he won’t refuse to move back to his old room. After that we’ll see. And Hava, if Yolek isn’t feeling well, please let me know right away. Try to convince him to take the doctor’s advice.”
“But I’m not speaking to him any more. He’s a murderer, Srulik. Are you asking me to throw myself into a murderer’s arms?”
Once Hava was gone, I forced myself to spoon up half a container of yogurt and take an aspirin. I wrapped myself in my coat and went to look for Azariah Gitlin. I found him sitting at the switchboard. He was still so distraught that after sleeping for less than two hours he had got up and run back to his post.
He cringed when I walked in and hurried to offer me a cigarette—in fact, a whole pack, because he had another in his pocket. I had to remind him I didn’t smoke.
“A thousand apologies, Comrade Srulik. Cigarettes are the most revolting poison. I beg your pardon. ‘Stepan gave Alyosha his most precious stones; Alyosha got mad and broke Stepan’s bones.’ In Russian, Stepan actually gave Alyosha his silver spoon, but I changed it to stones to maintain the rhyme. I’m ashamed of myself, Comrade Srulik, for causing you all this trouble. Yonatan’s the only friend I ever had in the whole world. But his going away—I mean this trip of his—I had absolutely nothing to do with it. Whatever you all may be thinking is the exact opposite of the truth. Because I want you to know, Comrade Srulik, that it was Yonatan who invited me into his home. It’s as simple as that. You can even announce it at the next general meeting. He wanted someone to be there. He even showed me where he kept all his tools so I could replace him. Just as you’ve replaced Yolek. There’s no embarassment like a bad comparison, as the saying goes, but you’re all making the mistake that Spinoza called the confusion of cause and effect. Yoni didn’t decide to go away because I moved in. He had me move in because he had decided to go away. It’s a perfect example of mistaking the effect for the cause. Are you, Comrade Srulik, an admirer of Spinoza?”
“Of course I am,” I said. “But let’s leave Spinoza for less troubled times. Meanwhile, let me ask you a question and perhaps a favor too.”
“Of course, Comrade Srulik. Anything you say. Your wish is my command.”
“Azariah, if only to spare certain people a lot of heartache, would you agree to move back to the barber’s shack until all this blows over?”
A cunning light flared and went out in his green eyes. “But she’s my woman now. Not his. I mean in principle.”
“Azariah, I’m asking for a favor. It’s only for the time being. I’m sure you know the state of Yolek’s health.”
“Are you trying to say I’m to blame for that too?”
“No, not exactly. Maybe in part.”
“For Yolek?” exclaimed Azariah with impudent glee, like a prisoner who has slipped a pair of handcuffs on his jailer’s wrists. “Get this, Comrade Srulik, because I have news for you. Yolek himself sent me a message just ten minutes ago to come see him this evening to have a little chat—and to bring my guitar. Yashek even told me that the brandy bottle would be out. Besides, Comrade Srulik, the only fair thing to do would be to ask Yoni if I have to leave his house. And since that’s impossible, why not ask Rimona? You’re in for a big surprise. The way I see it, you have every right to ask me to leave the kibbutz altogether. Whenever you like. Go right ahead. But no one can ask me to leave my woman. That’s against the law.”
I’d like once more to set down for the record what I wrote yesterday and the day before and will no doubt write again tomorrow. I don’t understand a thing. It’s all a closed book to me.
It’s ten o’clock now. Etan R. is on duty at the switchboard. Azariah and Rimona have gone to visit Yolek. Maybe Azariah is giving a recital there. Anything is possible in this world. Still no sign of Yoni. Tomorrow we’ll call the police and ask Chupka and his scouts to start looking for our prodigal son.
Hava Lifshitz is with me now. She has made us both tea and brought some honey for my throat. She’s sitting on my bed and listening to the music. Brahms again. It’s been ages since a woman was in my room at such an hour. I shall quote another passage from Griffin:
During a long flight, therefore, enormous quantities of body fat are consumed, just as they are on a cold winter night when a small bird is likely to burn most of its fatty tissue simply to maintain its body temperature until morning.
Meaning? Enough for tonight. I’ll stop here.
Friday, March 4, 1966
It’s evening now and raining again. Only a handful of people seem to have gone to the dining hall to hear a guest lecturer discuss Yemenite folklore. And still no word from Yonatan. The police chewed me out roundly this morning for taking so long to get in touch with them. They’re already on the case but have nothing to report thus far. Chupka was here too. He listened carefully to what I told him, drank two cups of black coffee with Udi Shneour, said no more than nine or ten words at the most, made no promises, and departed. This afternoon we received a telegram from Miami. Mr. Trotsky intends to come as soon as possible, perhaps even by next week.
I also had a peculiar conversation with Rimona. When I asked her whether, when Yonatan came home safe and sound, she didn’t think that Azariah would be best off living by himself, she replied, “But I have room for them both. And they both love and so do I.” Did she understand the possible consequences? She smiled. “Consequences?”
I was at a total loss. Perhaps because of her beauty or simply because I’m not the right man for this office. For example, I couldn’t muster the will to drop in on Yolek today. I was told that the doctor found him slightly better and that Azariah spent a good deal of time there. Playing the guitar, philosophizing, arguing politics, and God knows what else. Certainly I don’t. Is that my job too, to know everything?
Besides, I’m sick with a high fever, chills, a cough, and a bad earache. Everything keeps swimming before my eyes. Hava has been taking care of me, insisting I stay in bed. “It won’t do that lousy Stutchnik any harm to have to run around for a few days in your place.” And on Sunday Trotsky will arrive. Or on Monday. Or never.
This evening I decided on my own to let Prime Minister Eshkol know that Yolek’s son has disappeared without a trace and that we’re worried about him. And now I’ll sign off because I’m hallucinating a bit. Every time I close my eyes I have nightmarish visions of Yonatan in dire peril. And we have done nothing.
Saturday, 12:00 midnight
Not a word from Yonatan, the police, or the redoubtable Chupka. Toward evening the Prime Minister talked to Yolek on the phone and promised to extend all possible help.
I spent the day in bed with a temperature of one-hundred-and-four and assorted aches and pains. This evening the general meeting of the kibbutz elected me, in absentia, to be the new secretary. Stutchnik brought the news and carried on and on about how I was praised to the skies. The vote was virtually unanimous.
Hava has almost nothing to say. She knows about the telegram from Miami, as does Yolek, but neither mentions it. I don’t think they’ve spoken to each other since yesterday. Stutchnik told me that Rimona and young Gitlin are taking good care of Yolek. And Hava sat up with me all night. My Florence Nightingale. I am wiped out. In my mind I keep seeing Yonatan wandering about, but something tells me that he’s all right. I don’t know what makes me feel so sure. I also don’t know why I told her, my pen poised above this page, that Rimona might be pregnant and that either one of them could be the father. Have I gone out of my mind? The secretary of the kibbutz. I couldn’t have made a worse blunder. My fever is way up again. Perhaps I shouldn’t go on with this report tonight. I don’t trust myself. Everything seems so complicated.