He didn’t like words and didn’t trust them. And so he prepared for the talk with Rimona slowly, deliberately, seeking to anticipate tears, arguments, pleas, accusations. But the more he thought about it, the fewer justifications he could find. Until he was left with none. Not even one.

He had to give Rimona the bold truth. The bold truth might even be expressed in a single sentence. “I can’t give in any more,” or perhaps just “I’m late.”

But Rimona was sure to ask, “Giving in to whom?” or, “Late for what?” What was he going to say then? She might even burst into tears or gasp, “Yoni, you’re out of your mind!” To which he knew he could only mumble, “Sorry,” or, “Well, that’s that,” only to have her turn his parents and the whole kibbutz against him.

Look, Rimona, it’s not something that can be said in words. Maybe it’s like your Magic of Chad. Not the magic of Chad. There’s no magic there. Or anywhere. What I mean is, I don’t have a choice, and my back’s against the wall, as they say. So, I’m going.

Yonatan picked an evening several days off. If she started accusing or pleading, he would simply clam up.

All the while, like a member of an underground on the eve of an uprising, he was careful to go about his usual business. At the crack of dawn, he would be out on the porch in his underwear, climbing into his work clothes, conducting a sleepy battle with the laces of his boots—hating the laughing one—wrapping himself in his shabby old battle jacket and heading for the tractor shed. When it rained, he would cover his head and shoulders with a sack and run cursing all the way to the shed. For a couple of minutes he would do push-ups on the filthy concrete floor before checking the oil, fuel, and water in the old gray Ferguson, and try to get its coughing, reluctant engine to turn over so he could take Udi and their crew of teenage girls out to the groves. Gathered around the tin shed to receive their clippers, the girls had dimly brought to Yonatan’s mind some half-forgotten tale of reprobate nuns who had run away from their cloister to consort with a woodsman living in a hut.

Yonatan rarely spoke while working. Once, though, handing the sports section to Udi during a break, he remarked, “All right, if that’s what you want: the bills of lading are yours this year, but keep me in the picture all the same.”