Except for tea, crackers, and aspirin, I haven’t eaten all day. But my head is clear. Between me and the pages of this journal I might as well confess that I have increasingly been feeling an unfamiliar, almost physical joy. The very act of walking has become easier and more pleasurable. Decisions seem to make themselves. My first official day was by no means simple; yet I fail to see where I have made any mistakes. Whatever I did today I believe I did right.

Just where is Yonatan? Most likely still on the road. Nothing terrible, I’m sure, has happened. Soon we’ll hear from him. At this very minute the lines I cast today all the way from the Negev to Miami are being tightened.

Hava is sleeping in my bed in the next room. Two hours ago I had the doctor give her a shot and she went out like a baby. I’ll sleep on a mattress on the floor tonight. But I still don’t feel the least bit tired. I’ve put a record on the phonograph—softly, of course, so as not to disturb Hava—and I’m listening to an Albinoni sonata. All’s well with the world. The whole kibbutz is fast asleep except for the one lighted window I see from here. Whose can it be? Judging by the direction, most likely Bolognesi’s. No doubt he’s sitting up like me, muttering his charms and incantations.

When the Albinoni is over I’ll put on my coat, hat, and scarf and make the rounds of the kibbutz. I’ll look in on Yolek. I’ll drop by the office. I’ll even say good night to Bolognesi. The truth is, I just don’t feel like sleeping. My guiding principle, which I’ve stated more than once in these pages, is that there is already enough pain in this world and that we mustn’t do anything to add to it. Must even try, as far as such a thing is possible, to alleviate it. Stutchnik sometimes calls me the village priest. Well, the priest has been promoted to bishop. Yet he still has no intention of compromising with any of the cruelty, the insanity, the lies and suffering that people inflict on one another. Telling good from unadulterated evil is simple enough. The real difficulty, though, lies in telling the truly good from the seemingly good. Some powers appear in disguise. One must be alert.

It sometimes happens in the animal world, certain birds being an excellent example, that the migratory instinct splits off dangerously, even destructively, from the instinct of survival itself, so that the latter seemingly fragments into two elements, each threatening the very existence of the other. (Donald Griffin again.)

So be it.