It’s evening now and raining again. Only a handful of people seem to have gone to the dining hall to hear a guest lecturer discuss Yemenite folklore. And still no word from Yonatan. The police chewed me out roundly this morning for taking so long to get in touch with them. They’re already on the case but have nothing to report thus far. Chupka was here too. He listened carefully to what I told him, drank two cups of black coffee with Udi Shneour, said no more than nine or ten words at the most, made no promises, and departed. This afternoon we received a telegram from Miami. Mr. Trotsky intends to come as soon as possible, perhaps even by next week.

I also had a peculiar conversation with Rimona. When I asked her whether, when Yonatan came home safe and sound, she didn’t think that Azariah would be best off living by himself, she replied, “But I have room for them both. And they both love and so do I.” Did she understand the possible consequences? She smiled. “Consequences?”

I was at a total loss. Perhaps because of her beauty or simply because I’m not the right man for this office. For example, I couldn’t muster the will to drop in on Yolek today. I was told that the doctor found him slightly better and that Azariah spent a good deal of time there. Playing the guitar, philosophizing, arguing politics, and God knows what else. Certainly I don’t. Is that my job too, to know everything?

Besides, I’m sick with a high fever, chills, a cough, and a bad earache. Everything keeps swimming before my eyes. Hava has been taking care of me, insisting I stay in bed. “It won’t do that lousy Stutchnik any harm to have to run around for a few days in your place.” And on Sunday Trotsky will arrive. Or on Monday. Or never.

This evening I decided on my own to let Prime Minister Eshkol know that Yolek’s son has disappeared without a trace and that we’re worried about him. And now I’ll sign off because I’m hallucinating a bit. Every time I close my eyes I have nightmarish visions of Yonatan in dire peril. And we have done nothing.

Saturday, 12:00 midnight

Not a word from Yonatan, the police, or the redoubtable Chupka. Toward evening the Prime Minister talked to Yolek on the phone and promised to extend all possible help.

I spent the day in bed with a temperature of one-hundred-and-four and assorted aches and pains. This evening the general meeting of the kibbutz elected me, in absentia, to be the new secretary. Stutchnik brought the news and carried on and on about how I was praised to the skies. The vote was virtually unanimous.