It was a warm, sunny morning in Rehovot. The sky was c1ear as it always
is in June. As I walked to the Institute that morning, too many cars
were passing by, too many people were hurrying onto the Institute's
grounds. No one was smiling, acquaintances were recognized by a slight
nod of the head. When I turned the corner, a few people already had
gathered on the lawn in front of the Jacob Ziskind building. This number
was to swell to thousands before the service was over. We were to be
joined by the President of Israel, its first Prime Minister, many
members of the cabinet, and other great, near-great, working colleagues,
and residents of the town. The purpose of all this activity was written
on everyone's face, and underlined by the casket that lay in the rotunda
of the building. His wife was sitting there, his children, his brother,
his students both past and present. One could hear the silence of the
participants. I stood inside for a while, overlooking the rotunda. A
long line of mourners filed by, offering their sympathies to the family.
Suddenly a woman, dressed in black, fell to her knees in front 9f Rina,
sobbing. It was the wife of the Japanese Ambassador to Israel. I moved
to join the crowd outside. People were standing on the lawn, gingerly
trying to avoid stepping on a flower.