Tel Aviv, August 21, 1967

Dear Dotty,

I have the feeling here that I'm gorging myself at the expense of others and fasting on my own. I write these lines knowing that you have already grown younger than me there in your Cracow. in that room of ours where it was always Friday, where they stuffed us with cinnamon as though we were apples. If you ever get this letter, you'll be older than me when you read it.

Isaac is better; he's laying in some hospital on the battlefield, but he's improving rapidly, and his handwriting shows it. He writes that he dreams of the "Cracow silence, three days long, twice heated over, and a little burned at the bottom." We'll be seeing each other soon, and I am afraid off that meeting, not only because of his injuries, of which I still know nothing, but also because we are all trees planted in our own shadows.

I'm glad that you, who do not love Isaac, have remained there, far away from us. Now it's easier for you and me to love each other.