You see before you the kibbutz of Metsudat Ram:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In the face of a foul world bent on doom,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Our valley, where the Jordan sings and splashes,

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

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

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

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

Eva.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ezra says:

"The water tastes sour."

Noga says:

"That's not my fault."

Ezra says:

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

Noga says:

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

"Let's go."

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

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

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

"Not all the time. Only sometimes."

"Give me an example. A sample."

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

"No, it's open."

"Is this the rope?"

"Yes, that's it."

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

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

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

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

"Well, then," says Ezra.

"Let's go now," says Noga.

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

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

"Yes."

"Get in."

"Ready."

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

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

"You'd better get out."

"Why not somewhere else?"

"Out with you."

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

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

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

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

It was the first of May when the rain fell.

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

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

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

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

Some said:

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

Others said:

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

But some said:

"It may be the last rain of spring."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hasia said:

"Don't exaggerate."

And Izia Gurevitch-Gilead:

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Put the book away."

Noga inquired if that was an order.

"Maybe. I want to talk to you."

"I thought you were going to attack me."

"I want to talk to you."

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

"I'm listening."

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

"Is that all?"

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

"Why? Don't you…"

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

"To be near me?"

"To fight here."

"Child."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Zechariah was banished because of the dogs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chilly night with arms of metal

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tomer shrugged his shoulders and said nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Don't I always?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Why, are you unhappy?"

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

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

"There are things…"

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

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

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

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

"Friendship?"

"Yes."

"Ezra?"

"I… yes. Ezra."

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

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

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

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

Blazing heat, down you beat

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tsvi Ramigolski, the secretary of the kibbutz, said:

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

Nina Goldring said:

"Let's hope it all goes smoothly."

Reuven Harish said:

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

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

"At last!"

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

Rami Rimon came home for the weekend on leave.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fruma glanced at his dusty boots and said:

"You've lost so much weight."

Rami drew on his cigarette and asked about her health.

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

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

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

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

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

Fruma eyed her son and exclaimed:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, son?"

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

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

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

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

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

The summer is at its height.

The school is closed. The children have been sent to help in the fields. Tractors rumble noisily to and fro. Every spare hand has been pressed into service. Time is short. We, too, are going. Be patient.

We shall leave Reuven Harish in peace. We know that he is going through a difficult period. We refer to his health, not to his family troubles. We judge physical infirmities indulgently. Gone are the days when we made a man like Alter Rominov work in the fields. Most of us are no longer young, and we know the terror of unexplained pains.

Reuven Harish had a pain in his chest, and the doctor ordered him to bed for a few days. He had two women to look after him. Bronka brought him his breakfast and lunch on a tray, and Noga brought him his supper. Noga also looked after Gai on the rare occasions when the little rascal showed up at his father's house. Relations between the two women, not surprisingly, were curt. Bronka might say, for instance:

"The bedclothes need changing."

Noga throws her a sidelong glance, and answers after a deliberate interval:

"Yes."

Bronka asks:

"Does he sleep well at night? If not, I've got some very good pills."

Noga says:

"I don't know. I don't ask him how he sleeps at night."

Bronka says:

"There are some boxes of grapes outside the kitchens. I'll go and fetch some."

Noga says:

"Thank you."

Bronka says:

"You don't have to thank me."

Noga asks with a calm, calculated smile:

"Why not?"

With eyes like hawks' we observe our neighbors' actions. Our judgments take effect in a hundred and one devious ways.

Let us eavesdrop, for example, on the conversations in the communal clothes store. Here the long hot hours crawl sluggishly on, hours of ironing and mending and sorting clothes. The cupboards are divided into compartments, family by family, like the cells in a honeycomb.

Einav Geva tells Nina Goldring what she has heard from Dafna Isarov. Nina Goldring tells Einav Geva what she has heard from Yitzhak Friedrich, the treasurer. Fruma Rominov tells Hasia Ramigolski, on the authority of Gerda Zohar, who heard from Bronka Berger, the original source: Reuven Harish is worn out and depressed. Because of his illness and also because of his daughter. Apropos of which, some say that Ezra Berger has written to his brother in Germany, the one called Zechariah, who changed his name to Siegfried, and hinted in his usual apothegmatic way at the new complication.

"And what about Siegfried?"

"Well, this Siegfried is a business partner of Eva's new husband. So Eva will find out about it all. As for Eva, there's a feeling going around that she'll come back to us. And then we'll see."

"They say her husband's bought her a car and hired her a chauffeur, and she lives like a lady in high society."

"Still, I think she'll come back. I don't believe she's happy there. Do you really think money and comfort are everything? No, money can't buy happiness," said Hasia Ramigolski, and Gerda Zohar was quick to agree with her.

"Meanwhile, Siegfried's on his way here. Bronka said he's coming to Israel to sign on artists for his cabaret. Anyway, Eva will find out about her daughter. If you ask me, it'll give her something to think about."

"Blood's thicker than water. And the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, as they say."

"There's a famous novel about an old man who was always running after young girls."

"You think there isn't enough material here for a novel already?"

"Anyway, now that things have taken this turn…"

"If you think about it, from one point of view you could say that Bronka's really Noga's stepmother. In that case, Ezra's her mother's husband, in other words, her father. But from the other point of view you could say that Reuven is Ezra's father-in-law. And in that case, Bronka is Reuven's… You don't follow? I'll explain again. Slowly. Look:"

"I'm not surprised at the children. Ezra's or Reuven's. You don't have to be a great psychologist to see that…."

"I'm surprised at Reuven not making the girl stop it. A real father would have…"

"Yes, but don't forget that his relations with the girl aren't easy."

"Oh, no. Definitely not. Not at all easy."

As soon as Fruma had left, Einav Geva said sweetly:

"About Fruma, I want to tell you, they say she's wild because Noga Harish dropped her little genius. Fruma won't ever forgive her for it."

At this Hasia Ramigolski rounded on Einav menacingly:

"It sounds to me, Einav, as if you're gloating. I don't approve of gloating over someone else's misfortunes."

"Heaven forbid. I wasn't gloating. I was simply stating a fact. Fruma won't forgive her. She doesn't know how to be friendly. Once we were working together at the baking oven. You can't imagine the kind of things I had to listen to. Don't ask me to repeat them. She was oozing malice from every pore. She told me, for instance, under the pretence of being friendly, that…"

"No, Einav. You're still young. You don't understand human nature. Fruma isn't malicious. Fruma is a woman who's suffered misfortunes. And one can understand her. And if you don't understand a person like that, if you can't understand, it's a sign that…"

"You're right, Hasia, you're quite right." Einav avoided the ambush that threatened to cut off her line of retreat. "I'm not disagreeing with you about that. All I'm saying is that there's no contradiction: a woman can be unfortunate and still be malicious."

Hasia rejected the offer of a cease-fire. She had another blow to deal, and a chance to secure much better terms of capitulation.

"You don't understand at all, my dear. But just wait a bit. You'll be a mother soon. I hope you aren't made to suffer. But if you are, you'll learn a few home truths. You'll realize, for instance, that Fruma is a wonderfully straightforward woman. Of course, you haven't had a chance to appreciate that yet. When you've had to face the disasters that Fruma's had to overcome…"

Einav put up a desperate struggle. Her voice took on a sing-song tone, as if she was trying to teach Hasia a fact of life.

"I'm telling you, Hasia, Fruma Rominov would be malicious even without the disasters. It's in her nature. I've heard what sort of a person she was before all those famous disasters. I've heard. It's in her nature, I tell you. And you can't change human nature. It's a waste of time talking about it. By the way, Hasia, that's a lovely blue shirt your Tsvi…"

No. Hasia was not one to allow her victim to escape from her clutches by an old trick like that. Hasia wasn't interested at the moment in Tsvi's shirts. She was interested in crushing once and for all the shallow arrogance of these young people who consider themselves to be experts in psychology.

"No, my dear. If you want to know what Fruma Rominov was like when she was younger, you ask me. Fruma may be a difficult person. But she's straightforward. And that's a very positive combination. Before you form opinions about people, Einav, my dear, you must understand a bit about psychology. Talking casually like that, excuse me for saying so, is a sign of immaturity. But I understand you. I understand what makes you think as you do. I see exactly why you can't be objective. I won't explain now. In a few years' time, perhaps. If you still remember this conversation, I'll remind you what you were like once, and we'll both smile. You know, when a person judges someone else, he's really judging himself, without realizing it. And you can see what he's really like."

Einav gave a last wriggle. "I didn't mean to say that Fruma was entirely negative. You don't have to be an expert in psychology to know that there's nobody who's entirely negative. There are various facets to everybody, including Fruma. All I wanted to…"

"You've changed your ground now. If you'd only thought before you started speaking, Einav, you wouldn't have said things you'd have to retract later. These trousers are only good for the garbage heap. That Grisha gets through working clothes like a youngster of twenty."

Einav, grateful for her conqueror's magnanimity, ventured cautiously:

"Have you heard what they've been saying lately, Hasia? About Grisha, I mean."

"I've heard something, not about him but about one of his daughters. You'd better watch out, Einav. They say your husband's made friends with one of the little Isarov girls. I heard that last week, after a basketball game, the little Isarov girl dried his back for him. If I were in your place, I'd have a word with my young man before the birds start chirruping. You should always stitch that kind of seam from the back. It's stronger that way, and it looks better too. That's right, unstitch it, don't be slovenly at your age, unstitch it and sew it again from the back."

She looks up at the starry sky. Old queen Stella. The princess. The clapper of the bell. Gypsies. Him.

"Drive to Tiberias. To your fishermen. With me. Now."

"Are you out of your mind, Turquoise? Get out. Why did you get in? It's almost morning."

"I wish you dead, Ezra. I wish you'd drop dead. Right now."

Ezra tugs at his cap. His face is twisted in an expression of stupefaction. His mouth is set firmly. He does not know yet. His grandson is struggling to be born. He does not know. Noga does not know what she is saying.

"Get moving, I said. I said drive to Tiberias. Right now."

And after a moment's pause:

"I wish I were dead. You don't understand anything anything anything. You're so thick, great bear. What you've done to me. You don't care you don't care about anything great rough sweaty bear what you've done to me."

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."

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."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

From Reuven Harish's last poem:

When far to West the crimson sun has set

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?

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.

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.