But I have no regrets. Nearly everything I ever did in my life has been done with a clear conscience. Then what troubles me? Perhaps a vague sense of not belonging. Of homesickness. Of a sorrow that has no address. In this odd place without rivers, without forests, without churchbells. Without all those things I loved. Nevertheless, I’m perfectly capable of drawing up the most coldly objective historical, ideological, and personal balance sheets, all three of which tell me the same thing—that there is no mistake. Every one of us here can take a modest measure of pride in what we’ve done, in our long, dogged struggle to create out of nothing this attractive village, even if it looks as if it had been built out of blocks by an intelligent child. And in our struggle to create a better society without shedding blood and with virtually no infringement on anyone’s personal freedom. Detached as I am, I approve of this achievement. We haven’t done a bad job. And to some extent we have truly made better people of ourselves.

But what do we really know about ourselves? Nothing. Now, on the verge of old age, I understand even less than I thought I understood when I was young. And I don’t believe anyone else understands anything any more than I do. Not the philosophers. Not the psychologists. Not even the heads of the kibbutz movement. When it comes to our own selves we know less than scientists do about the secrets of nature, or the beginnings of the cosmos, or the origins of life. Which is nothing at all.

One Saturday, when I happened to be on lunch duty with Rimona Lifshitz, she serving the food and I the drinks, I asked her out of sheer politeness whether she wasn’t finding it hard going and perhaps might need some help. To which she replied with her lovely, inscrutable smile that I shouldn’t feel sad because everything was looking up. Those words were almost like the touch of a warm hand. Some say she’s an unusual girl. Others think her phlegmatic or far worse. For my own part, ever since that Saturday, I have made it an unwritten rule to give her a little smile each time we meet. And now, early this morning, her Yonatan disappeared without a word, leaving me with the task of finding out where he is and deciding what should be done. Where and how to start looking for him? What does a man like myself, a fifty-nine-year-old confirmed bachelor who happens to have acquired from others a modicum of trust or even respect—what do I know about such things?

Nothing. Less than that. My ignorance is total.