Tel Aviv, November 1, 1978

My dear, forgotten Dotty,

You are coming back into my life in the most ghastly way. Over there in Poland, where the fogs lie so heavy they sink into the water, you can't even dream of what I'm about to do to you. I am writing for the most selfish reasons. I often think I am lying wide-eyed in the dark, when in fact there is a light on in the room and Isaac is reading while my own eyes are shut. Still lying between the two of us in our bed is that third creature, but I tried my hand at a bit of cunning. It's difficult, because the space for battle is limited--there's Isaac's body. Avoiding the Arab's mouth, for months I inched across my husband's body from right to left. And just when I thought I had escaped the trap, I was ambushed on the other side of Isaac's body. Waiting for me there was the Arab's second mouth. Under the hair behind Isaac's ear I found another scar, and it was as though Abu Kabir Muawia had stuck his tongue between my teeth. Horrible! Now I'm trapped good and proper! Even if I do manage to escape one mouth, there is always the other one waiting for me on the other side of Isaac’s body. How can I possible think of Isaac? I can't caress him any more, out of fear that my mouth will touch the Saracen's. He has marked our lives. Could you think of having a child under such circumstances? The worst was the night before last. One of those Saracen kisses reminded me of our mother's kiss. I haven't thought of her for years, and now suddenly here she is to remind me of her. And with that vengeance! Let he who puts his shoes on not boast like he who takes them off, but how is one to stand it?

I asked Isaac openly whether the Egyptian was still alive. And what do you think he said? He's very much alive, and working in Cairo. He leaves behind his steps wherever he goes, like spit. I implore you, do something! You could save me from this intruder if only you would draw his lust away from me and to yourself, so Isaac and I could be saved. Don't forget that cursed name--Abu Kabir Muawia-- and let's the two of us divide it up: you take your left-handed Arab to bed in your room over there in Cracow, and I will try to hold on to Isaac. . . .