Srulik smiled ever so faintly to himself, that secret, slightly melancholy, inscrutably Buddhalike smile arrived at so long ago.

“Azoy,” said Eshkol, the sharp, humorous look in his eyes belying the catnap he had just taken. “Of course you should feel sorry, Reb Yolek. And how you should! And I, quite honestly, should have whipped you to within an inch of your life long ago. So come on now, you bandit, how about the two of us cutting a deal? Suppose you cut out feeling so sorry for yourself and I cut out wanting to punch you in the nose, eh? Gemacht, Yolek? Can we shake on that?” In a different tone of voice, he added, “Stop being such a damn fool.”

Everyone laughed. In the ensuing silence, Srulik put on his suavest smile and suggested politely, “But why not? Azariah and I will move all the furniture aside and you two gentlemen can square off once and for all. Go to it! And take as long as you like!”

“Don’t listen to him,” Rimona said softly. “He was only joking.”

“You sweet girl!” roared Eshkol, pointing a pale, fat finger at her. “Don’t be afraid, krasavitsa. The two of us, I’m sorry to say, are just a pair of old con men who do all our fighting with our mouths. The days are long gone when I could deliver a decent uppercut. And, whatever he says, our friend Yolek here wouldn’t know how to apologize if his life depended on it. In this regard, by the way, he’s just like Ben-Gurion—that is, in excellent company. Thank you, I don’t take sugar. I drink mine plain.”