(In passing, let me remark that I personally can do without either imagination or vision. I have lived my life here to the music of a marching band, as if death had already been abolished, old age eradicated, suffering and loneliness ridden out on a rail, and the whole universe nothing but a giant arena for political and ideological quarrels. In short, imagination and vision are not my cup of tea. Long ago I gave up on ever getting Yolek and his fellow travelers to show a little compassion. Not uncritical compassion, to be sure. There has to be a limit. But compassion nonetheless. Because we all need it. And because without it, vision and imagination begin to turn cannibalistic. Which is why I’m determined to try to be compassionate as secretary of this kibbutz. And not cause unnecessary pain. Indeed, if I may insert another theological aside, of all the commandments in the Bible, of all our latter-day commandments—kibbutz-movement, national, socialist—the only one that still matters to me is the one against pain. No rubbing salt into wounds. Thou shalt not cause pain. Not to oneself either.) So much for that.

And now back to the events of the day. It was a clear morning. A cold blue sky. Not even as a boy in Europe have I seen such a glorious sight. It makes one feel slightly intoxicated and happy to be alive. Reading the headlines this morning about troop concentrations in the north, I had the childish fantasy of setting out for Damascus and convincing the Syrians to chuck this futile nonsense, to sit down with us in the sunshine to settle our problems once and for all.

Instead, of course, I went to the office and pored over the slipshod bills of lading that Udi Shneour stuck into my mailbox last night. From seven to nine I tried making some sense out of the bills and the chaos that’s overtaken the citrus groves. After which I had intended to answer some of the mail that had been mounting on Yolek’s desk. The more urgent letters, because I’m always perfectly content to put off till tomorrow what needn’t be done today in the hope it will either take care of itself or go away. Officially, of course, since I’m not even in office yet, there’s no need to rush.

At nine or nine-fifteen, a grim-faced Hava Lifshitz burst into the office. In a hostile, schoolmarmish voice she exclaimed, “Have you no sense of shame?”

I put down my pencil, pushed up my reading glasses, wished her good morning, and invited her to sit in my chair. (A few days ago someone walked off with the only other chair and never bothered to return it.)