Oh, yes, one last thing. Whether it’s the brandy or the smoke from the lamp that’s addled my brain, I have an idea. A proposition for you. Because you too must be passing a dreadful night in Jerusalem. And you too must be having trouble sleeping. Well, then, listen here. If there really is anything to this business of a world to come, and if it is, as our forefathers believed, a world of pure delight, how about agreeing to be my roommate? That is, if you think you could put up with me. The two of us might ask to share a tent together. We’ll rise early every morning for work. We’ll ask for and receive a little plot of rocky ground to clear and dig wells in and we’ll plant grape vines, hoe irrigation courses, and fetch water in tin cans on donkeyback. And we’ll quarrel no more, you and I. On the contrary. Every evening we’ll light a candle or two in our tent and have a heart-to-heart talk. Whenever we disagree, we’ll thrash it out between us, and when we’ve had enough of that, you’ll play the harmonica and I’ll sit down in my undershirt to compose a political tract. From time to time I’ll ask your advice, and, even if I don’t always take it, you’ll bear with me. Maybe we’ll find some heavenly terrace from which, at dusk, we can look down on this land. The two of us standing there barefoot in the breeze, keeping watch over our children. Who knows? Perhaps we’ll even manage to wield some influence, to organize, manipulate, or wheedle the authorities into granting a reprieve, a commutation of sentence, a softening of the decree.

Because that decree is quite horribly grim. God forgive me for saying such a thing—my hand rebels against writing it—but you, Eshkol, know as well as I do that it’s true. Or have I simply taken leave of my senses? I’ve been so ravaged by physical pain, and you too, if I’m not mistaken, have not been in the best of health. Take good, good care of yourself, then, and be strong.

Your
Yolek

He put down his pen and for a moment sat lost in thought. On his old face, by the waning light of the lamp, entrenched lines of irony, of love, of kindness, of suffering, of anger, and of cunning fought with one another to gain the upper hand.

Suddenly he changed his mind. Carefully tearing the pages of his letter from his writing pad, he fastened them with a paper clip and placed them at the far end of his desk. Then, reaching for the pen and beginning again, he wrote:

Dear Eshkol,

I need to ask for your help in a strictly private matter concerning my son. Can I meet with you sometime soon to discuss it in person?