“But.” he added, “I cannot retire without telling you of a man who came to me some time ago from the native soil; one who came, not driven forth, but of his own free will, with horny hand, bronzed face and sturdy figure. In him I saw the success of the Zionist movement. For I took him as a messenger who told that our aspirations are not dreams.”

Trapped, despairing, anxious. They don’t stop. They won’t ever stop, not even years from now. Every night, in fits and starts. Tossing and turning. Abrasive linens around paralyzed limbs. Cold clutches, grappling with shadows of the past, allusions to forgotten, unexplored locales.