When I had that picture taken and bought the bust, I didn't know that a night would come when a man seated in my drawing room would look at them and make a remark which would cause darkness to swallow up all the patches of light. My glance wandered, then settled upon the color t.v. set opposite the bookcase. On top of the console stood a black frame, in which a high military medal was displayed. My husband had received it a few weeks ago in recognition of his meritorious services to his profession. But it was another moment of just a brief while ago that was still frozen in my ears. In that moment the voice of my husband's closest friend had reached me through the open windows of the drawing room. The voice had asked, "Hey buddy, what's with this photograph of a door with bars?" My husband explained to him how it had been the prison of that ancient philosopher who had waited there thirty days and thirty nights for his cup of poison. That best friend had burst into laughter. "How marvelous of your wife! What an arrangement in contrast: on one side, a picture of that man's prison, and on the other, the medal you received!" "Shh! Not so loud," my husband had said. "She'll hit the ceiling if she hears that." "You talk as if she doesn't know anything about your job," the whisky-soaked voice had rejoined. "No, she really doesn't." "But she was at the ceremony where you got the medal." "Yes, she was. But she doesn't know the story behind the award. Nor does she know what my official duties are." That had been the voice of the man who was dearer to me than life itself. The conversation had continued. They congratulated my husband, praised him for successfully organizing the destruction of that movement which had been so close to my heart. I could see the medal in its frame and also the face of the man who had received it. Was he the same with whom I had discussed history and literature for hours—who loved the arts—who adored books— whose favorite subject was the philosophy of history? Was it indeed the voice of the same man? My legs buckled under me. I sat down on the floor. The voices continued to reach me. Were they human voices, or growls of wolves? They mentioned names and discussed people—1 had personally known many of them. In literary gatherings and private parties I had talked with those people for hours. I had gone with them to some horrifying places—wretched homes and destitute people, a life beyond the imagination of the cities. But they used to live there like everyone else. Then I had gone overseas for higher education, and near the end of that trip I met the man who was now my husband. He 70