“Sha, sha,” Yolek muttered in Yiddish. “Why do the heathen rage? There’s no need to get so excited. Ben-Gurion may be up to his old tricks again, but we’re not going to let them faze us.” He soon dozed off, his heavy hands on his paunch, his mouth slightly agape. The circlet of gray hair around his bald head, which in this magical light suggested a saint’s halo, ruffled in the breeze. Although the pigeons kept at their tirade, the shrewd, ugly man with the face of a beadle or a sad, clever court Jew had lost at last his ironic look, wary with the age-old caution of his race. Yolek was at peace.

“He’s out like a light, our Yolek,” laughed Srulik the music man as he passed by in his blue sabbath shirt and neatly pressed khaki pants, a ball belonging to the neighbors’ children in one hand. Hava could not stand that unctuous German accent of his, that impertinently intimate smile. Look who’s shooting off his big mouth, thought she. Just who does he think he is?

“Let him sleep,” she bristled. “At least one day a week let him sleep in peace. Even the head guard in a loony bin gets a day off now and then. He stays up nights worrying about all of you, so why not let him rest now?”

“By all means, by all means!” laughed Srulik, who, whatever Hava might think, was a warmhearted man. “Let the Guardian of Israel sleep all he wants.”

“Very funny!” snapped Hava. She was standing by the clothesline, hanging up flannel pajamas, linens, a nightgown, and some heavy sweaters. “I just want you to know that you’re taking years off his life, all of you. And when he’s gone, you’ll put out a memorial booklet saying that Yolek Lifshitz never knew what it meant to be tired. Well, never mind. I’m not complaining. I stopped complaining long ago. I just want you to know what you’ve done. All of you!”

“Really, now,” replied Srulik with a patience born of affection, “it’s a sin to be so cross on a morning like this, Hava’ke. Just look at the light! Just smell the air! If only I dared, I’d pick a flower to give you.”

“Very funny,” said Hava.

Srulik made a motion as if to toss her the ball, smiled, almost winked, thought better of it, and went his way. Bitterly, Hava watched him go, her eyes like an owl’s blinded by a beam of bright light. To herself she said, “Shoyn.” Fine.