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the carpet.
    And so, I tightened my fingers round my pencil sharpener, turned and ran straight for home, because I wasn't empty-handed any more.

All Is Lost

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"
We'll never set foot..." In which I resolve to climb the Mountains of Moab and gaze upon the Himalayas, receive a surprising invitation (and determine not to open my hand, not as long as I shall live):
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    Father asked softly:
    "Do you know what time it is?"
    "Late," I said sadly. And gripped my pencil sharpener harder.
    "The time is now seven thirty-six," Father pointed out. He stood, blocking the doorway, and nodded his head many times, as if he had reached that sad but inevitable conclusion there and then. He added: "We have already eaten."
    "I'm sorry," I muttered, in a very small voice.
    "We have not only eaten. We have washed up the dishes," revealed Father, quietly. There was another silence. I knew very well what was to follow. My heart beat and beat.
    "And just where has his lordship been all this time? And just where is his bicycle?"
    "My bicycle?" I said, dismayed. And the blood rushed from my face.
    "The bicycle," repeated Father patiently, stressing each syllable precisely. "The bicycle."
    "My bicycle," I muttered after him, stressing each syllable exactly as he did. "My bicycle. Yes, It's at my friend's house. I left it with one of my friends." And my lips went on whispering of their own accord, "Until tomorrow."
    "Is that so?" returned Father sympathetically, as if he shared my suffering wholeheartedly and was about to offer me some plain but sound advice. "Perhaps I might be permitted to know the name and title of this honored friend?"
    "That," I said, "that, I am unable to reveal."
    "No?"
    "No."
    "Under no circumstance?"
    "Under no circumstance."
    It was now, I knew, he'd let fly with the first slap, I shrank right back, as if I was trying to bury my head between my shoulders, my whole body inside my shoes, shut my eyes and gripped my pencil sharpener with all my might, I took three or four breaths and waited. But no slap came. I opened my eyes and blinked. Father stood there, looking sorrowful, as if he was waiting for the performance to be over. At last he said,
    "Just one more question. If his lordship will kindly permit."
    "What?" my lips whispered by themselves.
    "Perhaps I might be allowed to see what his excellency is concealing in his right hand?"
    "Not possible," I whispered. But suddenly even the soles of my feet felt cold.
    "Even this is not possible?"
    "I can't, Daddy."
    "His highness is showing us no favor today," Father summed up, sadly. Yet, despite everything, condescended to keep on pressing me: "For my benefit. And yours. For both our benefits."
    "I can't."
    "You will show me, you stupid child," roared Father. At that moment, my stomach began to hurt me dreadfully.
    "I've got a tummy-ache," I said.
    "First you're going to show me what you've got in your hand."
    "Afterwards," I begged.
    "All right," said Father, in a different tone of voice. And repeated suddenly, "All right. That's enough." And moved out of the doorway. I looked up at him, hoping above hope that he was going to forgive me after all. And in that very moment came the first of the slaps.
    And the second. And afterwards the third. But, by then, I'd ducked out of the way of his hand and run outside into the street, running as hard as I could, bent low from sheer fright, just like Goel's dog when he ran away from me. I was in tears almost; in the process of making the dreadful decision: that I would shake the dust of that house from my feet for ever. And not just of the house; of the whole neighborhood, of Jerusalem. Now, at this moment, I'd set out on a journey from which I'd never return. Not for ever and ever.
    So my journey began; but, instead of heading directly for Africa, as I'd planned earlier, I turned east, towards Geula Street, in the direction of Mea Shearim; from there I'd cross the Kidron Valley and follow the Mount of Olives road into the Judean