I hang my head before you. Nolo contendere. We may be old men, Eshkol; we may have had our fill of being spat at and insulted; we may have committed every sin in the book; but he—I mean my son Yonatan—is no scoundrel. You have my word on that. I’ll even swear to it on the Bible, if you like. The boy is no scoundrel. Far from it. He won’t disappoint you. He won’t try to take you for a ride or stab you in the back. It was you who once said to me, “After all, a man is only a man—and even that only rarely.” Well, than, take the boy and you will not live to regret it. A man may be made out of him yet. He still hasn’t been totally ruined by the ill wind that’s decimated his generation.

It’s nighttime now, my dear friend and old rival, and the storm is still howling outside. The elements themselves have conspired to bring the grim tidings to us. And Death is breathing down our necks. We who gave the pillars of the earth a good shaking are now being hush-a-byed like babes. The incorruptible usher has come toward us down the aisle. Already he’s tapping our shoulder and requesting us, politely but firmly, to tiptoe out of the hall without much fuss. Well, then, it’s time to go. Not on tiptoe, though. On the contrary, let’s walk out proudly and with our heads held high—as high, that is, as your corpulent, and my decrepit, body will permit. We have nothing to be ashamed of, you and I, who in the course of our lives accomplished one or two worthwhile things that our ancestors never dreamed of. You know that’s the truth as well as I.