“No, kibbutzim don’t distribute official membership cards. Why, here’s Hava! Hava, I’d like you to meet Azriel Gitlin. He’s a young volunteer, a gift from heaven, who may save our tractor shed in the nick of time and whom I in my infinite wisdom nearly chucked right down the stairs. Hava, would you please hand me a pair of clean socks from the drawer? The boy is all wet and may soon be sick himself. After dinner we’ll invite him back here for another cup of tea and to talk about heaven and earth and all that’s betwixt and between. This lad is a wonder—a man not only with ideas in his head but also, if he is to be believed, a cracker jack mechanic. One has to search far and wide these days to find anybody his age who isn’t a hopeless Tatar.”

“Comrade Yolek …” Azariah began, as if about to launch into a fervent declaration, but he broke off and fell silent, for Hava had chosen at the very same moment to ask a question.

“Do you play the guitar?”

“A bit. I mean I play a lot. Would you like me to play something for you now?”