Morning bells were indeed ringing out, on a lovely, rosy-cheeked winter’s day. The owl, the raven, and the bat were coming off the night shift at Sheikh Dahr. Foxes were heading home to hit the sack in their crannies, caves, or holes. The ghosts who ruled the ruin by night were beating a hasty retreat. A few last tatters of fog were being put to flight by the bracing cold wind. Sleep tight, little foxes. Sleep tight, dear owls. Sleep tight, sweet ghosts. Yonatan’s off to the races at last.

What qualm now kept him from taking one last glance at the place where he had been born and raised? At the commune his parents had built on a godforsaken rocky hill and turned into a demi-Eden snuggled by greenery and woods? Nearly all its members were asleep. Let them sleep. In kibbutzim everywhere, dear comrades were still in bed—virtuous housemothers, balding, good-natured organizers, middle-aged field hands, chicken growers, gardeners, shepherds, men and women from a thousand remote shtetls who had come here to turn all things upside down, themselves included, and build a new world. And elsewhere, too, all over this country. How gentle they all are when they sleep. Like my former wife, who was always gentle because she was never awake.

The best thing about sleep is that it allows everyone to be off by himself at last, a million miles away from all others, even the sleeper at his side. No committees to attend, no jobs to be done, no pressing calls to duty, no challenges to be met. The law that demands you love your neighbor is suspended. Everyone is secure in a world of his own. Those in need of love get just as much as they require. Those who need to be left alone are left alone. Those who deserve to be worried, regretful, or punished are punished and will toss for it. The oldest, most arthritic, hemorrhoid-ridden geezer with a stroke or two to his debit is free to be a young cavalier again or even momma’s little boy. Whoever craves pleasure is rewarded, and those who crave pain may suffer without ceasing. The sky’s the limit. If you want your past back, you can have it. If you long for a place you’ve already been or have never been able to visit, you’re transported in a trice, all expenses paid. If you’re frightened of death, you get it in small doses every night to build up your resistance. If you want a war, you get one de luxe. If you pine for the dead, just whistle, and they’ll appear.