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Desert and thence to the Jordan crossing and thence to the Mountains of Moab, and on and on and on.
    Ever since I was in Class Three or Four, my imagination had been captured by the Himalayan mountains, those sublime ranges at the heart of Asia. "There," I'd once read in an encyclopedia, "there, among them, rears the highest mountain in the world, its peak as yet unsullied by the foot of man." And there too, among those remote mountains, roamed that mysterious creature, the Abominable Snowman, scouring godforsaken ravines for his prey. The very words filled me with dread and enchantment:
    Â 
ranges
roams
ravines
remote
sublime, unsullied,
eternal snows
and distant peaks.
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    And, above all, that marvellous word: Himalaya. On cold nights, lying beneath my warm winter blanket, I would repeat it over and over, in the deepest, most reverberant voice I could drag from the depths of my lungs. Hi—ma—la—ya.
    If I could only climb to the heights of the Moab Mountains, I would look east and see far away the snow-capped peaks that were the Himalayas, And then, I would leave the land of Moab and travel south through the Arabian Desert, across the Gate of Tears to the coast of the Horn of Africa. And I would penetrate the heart of the jungle to the source of the River Zambezi, in the land of Obangi-Shari. And there, all alone, I'd live a life that was wild and free.
    So, desperate, and burning with eagerness, I made my way east up Geula Street to the comer of Chancellor Street. But, when I reached Mr, Bialig's grocery, one thought overcame the rest; persistent, merciless, it repeated over and over. Crazy boy, crazy boy, crazy boy. Really you are crazy, stark raving mad, bad as Uncle Wetmark, maybe even worse; for all you know you'll grow up a
spekulant,
just like him. And what exactly did the word
spekulant
mean? I still did not know.
    And suddenly all the pain and humiliation seemed to well up inside me, until I could scarcely bear it. The darkness was complete now in Geula Street. Not the darkness of early evening, full of children's cries and mothers' scoldings; this was the chill and silent darkness of the night, better seen from indoors, from your bed, through a crack in the shutters. You did not want to be caught out in it alone. Very occasionally someone else came hurrying by. Mrs. Soskin recognised me and asked what was the matter. But I did not answer her a word. From time to time a British armoured car from the Schneller Barracks charged past at a mad gallop. I would seek out Sergeant Dunlop, walking his poodle in Haturim Street or Tahkemoni Street, I thought, and this rime I would give him information after all; I'd tell him it was Goel Germanski who painted that slogan against the High Commissioner. And then I would go to London and turn double agent. I'd kidnap the King of England and say to the English Government straight out; "Give us back the land of Israel and I'll give you back your King. Don't give, don't get." (And even this idea came from my Uncle Zemach.) There, sitting on the steps on Mr. Bialig's grocery, I rehearsed all the details of my plan. It was late now; the hour the heroes of the Underground emerged from their hiding places, while, around them, detectives and informers and tracker dogs lay in wait.
    I was on my own. Aldo had taken my bicycle away and made me sign a contract to say so. Goel had expropriated my marvellous railway and the tame wolf roamed the woods and forests without me. And I was never to set foot in my parents' house again, not for ever and for ever. Esthie hated me. The despicable Aldo had stolen my notebook full of poems and sold it to that hoodlum Goel.
    Then what was left? just the pencil sharpener, nothing else. And what could I get from a pencil sharpener; what good could it do me? None. All the same, I'd keep it for ever and ever. I swore an oath that I would keep it, that no power on earth would take it from my hand.
    So I sat at nine o'clock at night—or even