Amos Oz's first book—beautifully repackaged—is a disturbing and moving collection of short stories about kibbutz life. Each of the eight stories in this volume grips the reader from the first line. Each conveys the tension and intensity of feeling in the founding period of Israel, a brand-new state with an age-old history. Some are love stories, more are hate stories, and frequently the two urges intertwine. Amos Oz's first book—beautifully repackaged—is a disturbing and moving collection of short stories about kibbutz life. Each of the eight stories in this volume grips the reader from the first line. Each conveys the tension and intensity of feeling in the founding period of Israel, a brand-new state with an age-old history. Some are love stories, more are hate stories, and frequently the two urges intertwine. Amos Oz was born in Jerusalem in 1939. He is the author of numerous works of fiction and nonfiction, including his acclaimed memoir A Tale of Love and Darkness , which was an international bestseller and a recipient of the National Jewish Book Award. AMOS OZ (1939–2018) was born in Jerusalem. He was the recipient of the Prix Femina, the Frankfurt Peace Prize, the Goethe Prize, the Primo Levi Prize, and the National Jewish Book Award, among other international honors. His work, including A Tale of Love and Darkness and In the Land of Israel , has been translated into forty-four languages.  NICHOLAS DE LANGE is a professor at the University of Cambridge and a renowned translator. He has translated Amos Oz’s work since the 1960s. Where the Jackals Howl And Other Stories By Amos Oz, Nicholas de Lange and Philip Simpson Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company Copyright © 1980 Amos Oz and Am Oved Publishers Ltd. All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-0-547-74718-7 Contents Title Page, Contents, Copyright, Dedication, Where the Jackals Howl, Nomad and Viper, The Way of the Wind, Before His Time, The Trappist Monastery, Strange Fire, A Hollow Stone, Upon This Evil Earth, About the Author, Connect with HMH, CHAPTER 1 Where the Jackals Howl 1 At last the heat wave abated. A blast of wind from the sea pierced the massive density of the khamsin, opening up cracks to let in the cold. First came light, hesitant breezes, and the tops of the cypresses shuddered lasciviously, as if a current had passed through them, rising from the roots and shaking the trunk. Toward evening the wind freshened from the west. The khamsin fled eastward, from the coastal plain to the Judean hills and from the Judean hills to the rift of Jericho, from there to the deserts of the scorpion that lie to the east of Jordan. It seemed that we had seen the last khamsin. Autumn was drawing near. Yelling stridently, the children of the kibbutz came streaming out onto the lawns. Their parents carried deck chairs from the verandas to the gardens. "It is the exception that proves the rule," Sashka is fond of saying. This time it was Sashka who made himself the exception, sitting alone in his room and adding a new chapter to his book about problems facing the kibbutz in times of change. Sashka is one of the founders of our kibbutz and an active, prominent member. Squarely built, florid and bespectacled, with a handsome and sensitive face and an expression of fatherly assurance. A man of bustling energy. So fresh was the evening breeze passing through the room that he was obliged to lay a heavy ashtray on a pile of rebellious papers. A spirited straightforwardness animated him, giving a trim edge to his sentences. Changing times, said Sashka to himself, changing times require changing ideas. Above all, let us not mark time, let us not turn back upon ourselves, let us be vigorous and alert. The walls of the houses, the tin roofs of the huts, the stack of steel pipes beside the smithy, all began to exhale the heat accumulated in them during the days of the khamsin. Galila, daughter of Sashka and Tanya, stood under the cold shower, her hands clasped behind her neck, her elbows pushed back. It was dark in the shower room. Even the blond hair lying wet and heavy on her shoulders looked dark. If there was a big mirror here, I could stand in front of it and look myself over. Slowly, calmly. Like watching the sea wind that's blowing outside. But the cubicle was small, like a square cell, and there was no big mirror, nor could there have been. So her movements were hasty and irritable. Impatiently she dried herself and put on clean clothes. What does Matityahu Damkov want of me? He asked me to go to his room after supper. When we were children we used to love watching him and his horses. But to waste the evening in some sweaty bachelor's room, that's asking too much. True, he did promise to give me some paints from abroad. On the other hand, the evening is short and we don't have any other free time. We are working girls. How awkward and confused Matityahu Damkov looked when he stopped me