And then back to my room again, where, like a faithful wife, my accustomed solitude waited. Have a seat, Srulik. You had a hard day today, didn’t you? Come, let’s light the electric heater and put on some water for tea. And slip on that nice old sweater of yours over your pajama top. And let Brahms play for us. And light the desk lamp. Rather than feel sorry for ourselves, though, we have written this report.

This entry has certainly dragged on. It’s after midnight, and tomorrow won’t be any easier. I’ll wash up and lie down to read until I fall asleep. Bone up some more on my ornithology. In German, English, and Hebrew I’ve been learning all about the birds, another subject I understand next to nothing about. Good night. Let’s see what a new day brings.

Thursday, March 3, 1966, 4:30 p.m.

No news. No Yonatan.

The phone was manned in shifts all through the night. Chupka called. Sometime today he will try to drop by to see me.

Yolek is feeling worse. The doctor came to give him a shot and recommended hospitalization, at least long enough to give him a thorough checkup. Yolek thundered, banged his fist on the desk, and drove everyone out of the room.

My official position gave me the courage to go to him despite the general rout. He was seated regally in his armchair, holding an unlit cigarette that he was studying shrewdly, comparing its ends.

“Srulik,” he said. “I don’t like the looks of this.”

“You shouldn’t smoke,” I replied. “And you must listen to the doctor.”

“Out of the question,” he said calmly. “I’m not budging from here until we hear something.”

“Maybe we’re making a mistake,” I said hesitantly. “Maybe we should call in the police after all?”

He took his time answering. A sphinxlike smile played briefly over his face.

“The police,” he said at last, lifting his left eyebrow, “means the press. And the press means a scandal. The boy has his pride. By wounding it we may cut off his line of retreat. No, I’m against it. We’ll wait it out. Srulik?”

“Yes.”

“What do you think?”

“That we should do so. Right now.”

“Eh?”

“I think we should inform the police. And not wait a moment longer.”

“Go ahead. You’re the secretary,” said Yolek, taking a long puff from his unlit cigarette. “You have the right to make your own mistakes. What did you tell Hava?”

“About what?”

“About Azariah. And, by the way, why hasn’t he come to see me?”

“From what I’ve heard, he was up all night. Hava hasn’t approached me about Azariah at all. Neither has Rimona. As far as I know, she went to work today in the laundry.”

“Tomorrow’s Friday, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”