“I’m not here to negotiate, Mr. Seewald,” I said. “But I do have a message to convey. Please tell Mr. Trotsky that the secretary of Kibbutz Granot has the following to say to Yonatan Lifshitz should he turn up in Miami. As far as we’re concerned, he’s free to do whatever he wants and go wherever he wants. We don’t want him back in chains, but he must get in touch with his parents at once. And if he decides not to return, he must give his wife her freedom. You can also inform Mr. Trotsky that if he tries keeping anything back from us, or pressuring Yonatan, or any other monkey business, this kibbutz will fight him all the way. And what is more, we shall win. Please tell him exactly what I’ve said.”

Without waiting for an answer or offering to shake hands, I hurried back to the Lifshitzes. Somehow, with a strength that one discovers only in emergencies, Hava had single-handedly dragged Yolek to the couch and then run out to get the doctor. Yolek’s face had turned blue. His hands were pressed against his chest. Scraps from the papers he had torn still clung to his robe. I brought him a drink of water. His agony had not diminished his savage will-power, however, for he warned in a whisper, “If you made some deal with him, I’ll make you live to regret it.”

“Calm down. I didn’t make any deals. And don’t try to talk now. The doctor must be on his way.”

“She’s a madwoman,” he gasped. “It’s all her fault. She made Yonatan into what he is. He’s just like her.”

“Shut up, Yolek!” I said, shocked to hear myself talk to him like that.

His pain evidently grew worse, for he groaned from the depths. I took his hand in my own and held it, for the first time in my life, until the doctor arrived, followed by Rachel Stutchnik and Hava.