He thought of the kibbutzniks’ eyes following his entrance into the dining room, of the old pioneers, their faces brown as mahogany even in the dead of winter, of the young men, so bulky and slow-moving that some of them seemed like drowsy wrestlers, and of the young women, whispering to each other, no doubt about him, as they watched him come in—buxom, golden girls who, for all their simple dress, brimmed with a saucy femininity that suggested a knowledge of things you never dream of.

Azariah longed to get to know all these people right away, to talk to them, to win their hearts, to arouse their strongest emotions; to slip past their defenses and touch their private lives as profoundly as he could. If only he could skip over the awkwardness of the first few days and step right into the middle of things. He wanted to let them all know that now that he had arrived their life would never be the same. Perhaps he would give guitar recitals in the dining room that would stir the weariest heart among them. Then he would share the ideas he had suffered so hard to arrive at during his long years of solitude, his very own thoughts about justice, politics, love, art, and the meaning of life. He would make these people admire him, love him, for his passionate inner strength. Around him would gather the young ones whose spirits had been dulled by their humdrum lives and the toll of hard physical work. He would give lectures that would rekindle their enthusiasm. He would found a discussion club. He would write articles for their newsletter. He would astonish even Yolek with his historical insights into the Ben-Gurion era. His arguments would carry the day in every debate.

Before long, all would know that a rare soul had come to live among them. They would begin coming to him with their problems and with requests for his opinions. In their dimly lit bedrooms, they would talk about him in hushed tones. An uncanny fellow, they would say. And the loneliness in his eyes! the young women would add. They would choose him to represent their kibbutz. He would appear at movement conferences where he would blaze new trails and demolish old shibboleths. Oh, how he would astound them with the revolutionary power of his thought! His words would batter down the breastworks, as strangers he never had met would be discussing him in a hundred different places. At first they would say: You know who we mean, that new fellow who got up at the last conference and gave it to them but good in four brilliant minutes that they’ll never forget. After a while it would be: Azariah? He’s the latest discovery, a rising new star; we’re sure to hear more of him.