THE PATH OF RENUNCIATION

41

The white dove cooed on the windowsill so loudly that Yakir heard it from the bedroom. Jumping up, he pulled on a wrinkled red shirt and glanced out the window. The gray morning foreshadowed the same chilly day as the day before, which meant that dressage in the fields was out of the question.

A disturbed, damp shutter creaked for a long time, and there was a smell of freshly cut grass and fumes—garbage was being burned outside the fence for the second day. Carefully taking the bird, Yakir removed a thin silver tube from his cold paw and, returning the dove to the windowsill, whispered affectionately:

- Well, dear, thank you - did not disappoint. Fly home!

The small handwriting, so ornate that even skilled scribes could envy, was well known. From whom the news came, it became clear immediately. Pigeons, sent only by Ali-Nari, were knocking at Yakir's bedroom window. As children, they often wrote to each other - this was their entertainment in an endless routine of gossip and secr