Levy carried his big black umbrella as he walked east along the shoulder of the highway. He was alone, there weren’t many cars, and he walked with his back to the oncoming traffic and felt fairly safe. Dworkin said the river was called Wading River and it was perfect. He kept going. On one side he saw a clam stand, shut up, abandoned, gray and peeling. It was depressing and he looked up past the edge of his umbrella at the sky, hoping for some comfort. The sky was gray and he kept going. After a while gravel filled his shoes and mud caked the bottom of his trousers. Ahead to the east it was getting dark and he looked behind him at the last of the light. He had a flashlight with him, but it got dark too fast. He knew he’d never find the place. That was all right too. He didn’t want to find it.

“What’s the matter?” Luria had said in Yiddish, “only Adam is real? Only your children count?”

Levy had said, “I loved your grandson.”

“Then prove it!” Luria cried and Levy had jumped out of his chair and grabbed big Isaac by the front of his jacket. He wished for an extra foot to lift this . . . this bulvan‡‡‡ into the air so his feet dangled and kicked like a corpse on the end of a rope. He hated Isaac Luria that minute.

“Prove what? That I loved the boy, that I love you? How many times do I prove it to you?” He’d actually managed to shake the monster Luria and he pushed him, and Luria sat down hard. The other men were quiet and Levy said in Yiddish, facing the wall, not them, “My son was everything to me. I thought we were safe in Brooklyn, I thought we were safe here.” He shrugged. “Nu, my father thought we were safe in Dabrowa, and who could count how many grand­fathers, uncles, cousins thought they and us . . . were safe in one place or the other.”

He looked at Luria. “More killing makes us safe?”

Luria had covered his eyes with one hand. “Yes,” he’d said.