But this time he was too late.

Stutchnik had gone home, removed his boots by the door, stripped off his work clothes, and stepped into the shower. Hours later Rachel found him, seated on the floor of the shower stall, his back against the tiled wall. His eyes were open. His sinewy body had turned blue from the torrents of water that had poured on it since early morning. His face bore a look of peaceful repose, the look of someone who has wept at great length and now feels better at last.

Srulik delivered the eulogy at the graveside. The deceased, he said, was a humble man and a good friend, though never one to compromise his beliefs. He valued comradeship, yet never backed down on a matter of principle. To his last day, Srulik said, indeed, to his last hour, he remained at his post. He died as he had lived, in humility and purity of heart. All of us would always remember his gentle soul until our day came to join him. Rachel Stutchnik and her daughter cried. Etan, Udi, and a few other young men spaded earth into the open grave. Azariah, too, grabbed a spade and tried to help. Once the grave had been filled, the mourners continued to stand around it as if waiting for something else to be said. But no one spoke after Srulik. The only sound was the murmur of the cemetery pines, answering the sea breeze in the sea’s own language.

All day long, since his return from the hospital, Yolek sat in a deck chair under the fig tree near his porch. For hours on end, his arms resting limply on the sides of the chair, he would watch the magic of spring, as if for the first time in his life. On a small stool beside him lay a pile of newspapers and magazines, an open book, face down, a closed book, and his reading glasses. None of these seemed to hold any interest. Only the sights and the scents of springtime appeared to touch him. If a small boy in pursuit of a ball approached, Yolek would nod once or twice as if trying to puzzle out a difficult problem, only to pronounce, “A boy.” If Hava came bearing his medicine and a glass of water, he submitted. “Shoyn. Everything is fine now,” he would say. If the kibbutz secretary came to sit with him at dusk, to tell him of problems and solutions, Yolek would remark, “Really, Srulik, it’s simple.” Or, “Vus brennt?”