Slowly, Mr. Yalom padded back into the living room and lowered himself onto a pillow resting on the floor. The old man hadn’t paid them much attention. Decker felt that if it had been up to the father, they wouldn’t have been granted an interview.

Tziril came back, holding a tray filled with four tea glasses resting in sterling cup holders. She went through the ritual pouring, setting down a glass on the floor for her husband. A few minutes of sipping and it seemed to Decker they were as comfortable as they were going to get. He took out his notepad. Tziril’s eyes went to the pad, then to Decker’s face.

She said in accented English, “What do you want to know?”

“You speak English,” Decker said.

Tziril nodded. “In gymnasium, we learn English almost as soon as we learn German. When we came to Israel…it was then Palestine…I say to my uncle, the British are in control, why cannot they speak English over here? But I learned Hebrew.”

“You speak well,” Decker said.

“You are kind,” Tziril answered. “In Europe, you must learn other languages because countries are so close.” She sat back in her chair. “Your wife…speaked…spoke…to me in Hebrew, so I answer her in Hebrew. But I remember my English a little.”

“Tell me if you have problems understanding my questions.”

Tziril nodded.

“And tell your husband he can talk, too.”

Moshe looked up and spoke in Hebrew. Decker glanced at Rina and waited.

“He said he has nothing to offer, but you have a lot of explaining to do.”

The old man spoke again. Tziril shushed him, but Rina translated anyway.

“He wants to know what’s holding up the body?”

“Don’t pay him attention,” Tziril said.

“No!” the old man replied. “You pay me attention!”

Decker said, “Tell him I’m sorry. We’re moving as quickly as we can but America has a terrible bureaucracy.”

Rina translated. The old man responded.

“He said it couldn’t possibly be as bad as Israel’s and even Israel has the decency to release a body for burial.”

Decker said, “Tell him I hope it’s soon.”

Moshe Yalom snorted and spoke under his breath. Rina couldn’t make out his words. It didn’t matter. Decker caught the essence by the tone of the voice.

He said, “Mrs. Yalom, I wish I spoke Hebrew. Then I could tell you in your language—your lashon—how sorry I am.”

Tziril’s eyes met his. She didn’t speak, she didn’t cry. Then she said, “Thank you for…” She shook her head and muttered in Hebrew. “I don’t know the word in English.”

“Sympathies,” Rina translated.

“Thank you for sympathies,” Tziril completed her sentence.

“They are heartfelt.” Decker put his hand to his chest. “Lev.”

“I understand,” Tziril said.