And then my neighbor bent over and I heard a click, as if something that had been glued was freed.
We shut off the faucets. Darkness fell. You could have not died, I said in my heart to Menahem. Soon I'll go to Singer's store, as if years hadn't passed, as if my new neighbor didn't exist, I'll buy margarine, white bread, eggs, herring, and Mr. Giladi will be there with the smile full of a national secret on his face. And Singer will say to me: How are you today, Mr. Henkin, and I'll tell him everything's fine, Mr. Singer, oh these long summers…
My neighbor who remained mute and indifferent looked at me, I averted my face and went in my house, there wasn't even any point parting properly. My wife was standing in the kitchen washing dishes, she said, You stroked your little garden, Henkin? I told her, Don't start with me, Hasha, and she said, Masha, and I said to her, Hasha Masha. When we met on the road from Tiberias to Tsemakh her name was Masha, later on her friend Sarakh changed her name to Hasha. Now when I call her Hasha she says Masha, and when I call her Masha she says Hasha, so I call her Hasha Masha. You've got to know when to get into the grave and shut your eyes, she said, you're hurt, Henkin, what happened to you?