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That’s all. Nothing bad has happened. At the general meeting, I plan to propose the idea of three years’ mandatory work before college. Obviously you won’t support me but in your heart, you know very well that I’m right on this, too. At least don’t keep me from mobilizing a majority at the meeting. Drink your coffee; it’s getting cold.”
    Edna said, “Don’t go. Wait till the rain stops, Papa.” Then she said, “Don’t worry about me. I’m fine here.”
    Nahum decided not to respond at all. He ignored the coffee his daughter had brought him. He regretted having come. What had he actually wanted? To vanquish love? A fleeting glint of light from the lamp reflected off his glasses. Love suddenly seemed to him to be another of life’s obstacles; when you confront it, you have to duck your head and wait until it passes. In another minute, David Dagan would probably start a conversation about the government or the advantages of rain. The rare audacity that suffering can sometimes draw from the depths of mild people lent Nahum Asherov’s hoarse voice a harsh, bitter tone. “How could you?”
    He shot out of his chair and whipped out the advanced Arabic textbook from his worn coat, intending to slam it on the table hard enough to make the spoons rattle in their cups, but at the last minute he stopped and placed the book down gently as if taking care not to damage it, or the cups, or the oilcloth-covered table. As he groped his way toward the door, he turned around and saw his daughter standing there watching him with a sad expression, hugging her shoulders, and he saw his good friend sitting with his legs crossed, strong hands encircling a cup, his expression a mixture of compassion, forgiveness, and irony. Nahum thrust his head forward and strode toward the door as if he planned to butt it. Instead of slamming it when he went out, he closed it gently, as though afraid of hurting the door or the frame, pulled his cap down almost to his eyes, raised his coat collar, and walked along the wet path that led through a pine grove. His glasses instantly beaded with water. He buttoned the top of his coat and pressed his left hand against his chest as if the book were still tucked inside. And, meanwhile, outside it had grown dark.

 
     
     
     
Father

 
     
     
     
    S IXTEEN-YEAR-OLD MOSHE YASHAR , tall, thin, sad, and bespectacled, went to see his teacher David Dagan at the ten o’clock break and asked his permission to visit his father when school was over and he’d finished work. He planned to stay overnight with relatives in Or Yehuda and get up at four thirty the next morning to catch the first bus back to the kibbutz so he could be there before school began.
    David Dagan patted the boy’s shoulder and said warmly, “These visits to your relatives pull you away from us. And you’re almost one of us now.”
    Moshe said, “He’s my father.”
    David Dagan pondered this for a moment, nodded twice as if agreeing with himself, and asked, “So tell me, have you learned to swim yet?”
    The boy, gazing down at his sandals, said that he could swim a little. His teacher said, “And stop cutting your hair so short. With that stubble on your head, you look like a refugee. It’s time you had a decent head of hair like all the other boys.”
    After a brief hesitation, he added affectionately, “All right, go. But only if you come back tomorrow before the first lesson. And while you’re there, don’t forget that you’re one of us now.”
    Moshe Yashar was a boarder at our kibbutz. He was brought to us by a welfare worker: his mother died when he was seven and when his father fell ill, his Uncle Sami from Givat Olga took in the children. Several years later, when his uncle also became ill, the Welfare Office decided to split the children up and send them to various kibbutzim to live and attend school. Moshe came to Kibbutz Yekhat at the beginning of the school year wearing a plain white shirt without pockets,