And by the way, to change and stick to the subject at one and the same time, a few days ago I noticed an odd item in the paper about an engineer named She’altiel ha-Palti. He supposedly sent you a memorandum about some revolutionary military rocket he claims to have invented. It may interest you to know that this She’altiel ha-Palti is none other than our old friend Shunya Plotkin, who was once a mounted guard in Nes Tsiyyona. One of the last Mohicans and no doubt as sick and weary at heart as you and me. Please, at least take the trouble to answer him kindly and in person. Who knows? Perhaps there really is something to his fantasies. Why not look into it? And don’t answer me with “Another lunatic is not exactly what I need at the moment.” Allow me to convey to you what I’ve learned from long experience. Whoever is not a partial lunatic is a total scoundrel. Simple as that. Either/or. And we certainly don’t need any more scoundrels, do we?

Well, it’s time to end this letter with comradely greetings. It’s still storming outside and dark as the ninth plague of Egypt, and my only light is this smoking, flickering lamp. It’s as if Death itself were pounding his fists on the window pane and refusing to put up with any more of my tricks or procrastination. I believe I’ll drink another little glass of brandy to the health of the Devil and, with your permission, go to bed. Please answer posthaste about my son. You can easily plant him in your garden. You must. And by the way, I beg you not to take personally what I said about you at the meeting in Tel Aviv. You are very dear to me. Especially when I think of the Tatars looking over your shoulder.