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hair and open shirts who captivated him. He used to see them at their meeting place not far from his parents’ apartment, staying up till the small hours, and he adored them, brewing tea for them and washing their tin cups. He was filled with admiration for the way they ignored the conventions of appearance and property, content to live in tents and fortify their bodies and minds with the dream of an independent state. He wanted to be like them.
    In his youth he worked in agriculture and construction anddeveloped a socialist world view. When he matured he dedicated himself to national objectives, acquired a style of leadership and became a popular speaker, aided by a powerful, far-reaching voice. His speeches, delivered in high-flown and even obscure Hebrew, were alive with Zionist fervour and as long as the road from Sinai to Jerusalem. Now he told me that he envisaged thousands of young people, successors of the pioneers he had known in his childhood, settling in the liberated territories and making the wilderness bloom.
    “ Yungerman ,” he said, borrowing a typical Yiddish word from his friend Eshkol, “let’s get down to business.” As he talked he took a big paperclip, straightened it and began to clean his fingernails. Then he tried without success to restore the wire to its former shape. “Listen here. I was really impressed by the position papers you prepared for me that time. And incidentally, you displayed considerable long-term understanding in the big debate with Professor Kishinevsky, I can see it quite clearly now. Altogether I think a fellow with your background should be in Intelligence, and now I find that you’re in the Armoured Division,” he said in passing. “Well, I’ve decided to take advantage of your capabilities and appoint you advisor on Arab affairs and put you in charge of our office in East Jerusalem.” Seeing my surprise, he went on, “Sometimes we dive for pearls, and then discover them right under our noses. You combine two qualities – you’re a child of the East who commands both Hebrew and Arabic, and you’re also a product of our kibbutz movement, and had the privilege of serving the founding fathers.” He sipped from his mug of coffee. “So set up an office in East Jerusalem, sniff around to see what’s happening there, meet their effendis, and provide me with your evaluations.”
    I stared at him in astonishment, trying to take in the idea of such an important position.
    “The Prime Minister has asked me to help him formulate policy regarding the Arab sector and the liberated territories, and you’re the right person to help me carry out this mission,” he concluded, throwing the spoiled paperclip into the waste-paper basket and picking up the phone: “Shula, can you come in and take dictation?” There and then he dictated my official appointment, told her to send it to all the relevant parties, and then put him in touch with the sector commander and the Mayor. “I want them to introduce you to the job without delay and…Shula,” he added, “ask the Ministry spokesman to issue a communiqué to the press and radio today.” He stood up – and my appointment was established, without my being consulted or even asked if I wanted it.
    “We’ll provide you with everything you need. Now, to work!” he urged me in a tone that reminded me of Shai Ophir’s satirical skits when we were on the outskirts of Gaza. He came up and put his arm around my shoulders.
    “I have a request to make, if I may,” I said.
    “I’m listening.”
    “I have an uncle, my father’s brother, who was one of the leaders of the Zionist underground in Baghdad. He’s been in prison there for twenty years, with the threat of being hanged at any moment. Maybe now we can save him? His name is Hizkel Imari. The Mossad are familiar with his case.”
    “Yes, yes, you told me about him. We tried at the time but without success. I promise you we’ll do whatever we can to rescue him,” he