His guests would sit on the floor, hanging on his every word, only rarely interrupting to ask for a clarification. There was no way, the pretty girls would whisper to one another, absolutely no way to persuade him to move to better quarters. Here is where he was put that first night, and here is where he is going to stay. The man has absolutely no material wants. Sometimes, late at night, we wake and hear as in a dream the chords of his guitar. Between sessions, one of these barefoot girls would volunteer to make coffee for all of those assembled. With a generous smile he would thank her. Later, the visitors would take their leave, and a new group would arrive, some from afar, for inspiration, guidance, or simply to bask in his presence. He would exhort them all to prepare for a protracted struggle. He would preach the need for perseverance. He would reject out of hand all political gimmicks and tactical adventures.

Of course, he would make deadly enemies. He would take them on in the newspapers, compassionately yet ironically citing Spinoza or some other celebrated thinker, as required. His tone would be forgiving, as if the Old Guard consisted not of angry ancients but of hot-headed Young Turks, whose attacks on him he so pitied that he would not stoop to rub salt into their bruised and battered pride.

One day, perhaps even by next summer, Prime Minister Eshkol would inquire of his inner circle about this eighth wonder of the world. Why not bring the lad to see me so that I can size him up myself? When Azariah was invited to Eshkol’s office, the secretary would allot him ten minutes. Half an hour later, Eshkol would order her to hold the calls. He would be sitting in his chair not uttering a word, overwhelmed by Azariah’s analysis of the nation’s affairs. From time to time he would dare to pose a question, jotting down the answers in pencil on little scraps of paper. The hours would go by. Evening would descend outside the windows, yet Eshkol would refrain from turning on the lights, so rapt would he be in the revelations of Azariah’s monastic years. Finally, he would rise from his seat, lay his hands on Azariah’s shoulders, and say, “Yingele, from now on you’re staying with me. Consider yourself nationalized. As of seven o’clock tomorrow morning, your place will be here at my side, in that room over there that can be reached only through my private office so you’ll be on tap whenever I need you. But for now, what I’d like to ask is your opinion of Nasser’s true intentions and how we can rally our nation’s youth around the flag.”