A letter from Trotsky arrived one day. It was not addressed to Yolek this time, but to the new secretary. He was sorry to say that he had still not heard from his son. In vain he had waited, but still refused to give up hope. And never would. Why should he? His only brother had vanished twenty years ago, yet he had not despaired of him either. All things were possible. Would Srulik agree on behalf of the kibbutz to accept a donation for the construction of a music room? Or perhaps a library or lecture hall? He beseeched the secretary not to turn him down. He was a lonely man, and no longer young. God only knew how many years he had left. And it was on Kibbutz Granot, in spite of everything, that he had spent the best days of his life and fathered his only child.

Srulik wrote back without delay: “Thank you for your offer. In two or three weeks I will bring it before our steering committee. I myself am in favor.”

Azariah had put away the kerosene heater in the storage space above the shower and taken down the electric fan, for spring had already given way to summer. On the top shelf of the bookcase he had neatly arranged all of Yonatan’s chess books. On the bottom shelf, in alphabetical order, he had arranged Rimona’s books on Africa.

At ten-thirty the double bed was turned down for sleep, Rimona sat in her easy chair, in a sleeveless blue summer house frock that revealed her pregnant state. Her hands lay in her lap. A subdued light in her eyes. What might she see among the folds of the brown curtain? Perhaps the forms of the music that issued from the record spinning on the turntable—not The Magic of Chad, not the Mississippi blues given her by Hava, but a Bach violin concerto. Azariah could scarcely take his eyes off her, the stomach swelling beneath her small breasts, the thin knees parted slightly under her blue frock, the blond hair falling on her shoulders, on the left one a bit more than the right. The radiance of her face enveloped her like a fragrance.