“I understand you,” Menkovitz broke in. “Don’t break your teeth. Sit.” The old man took the chair behind his desk and motioned Yalom and Decker to two office chairs.

Decker sat. “Thank you.”

Menkovitz said, “Moshe tells me you are mishtarah—police, nachon? So what news have you to make an embittered old man feel better.”

Decker said, “I’m very sorry for your loss.”

Menkovitz’s eyes narrowed and homed in on Decker. “So tell me, Mr. Policeman, what the hell do you know about loss?”

“Not much.”

“That’s right, not much! You are just like all spoiled Americans led by a draft-dodging president. You know nothing of loss because you don’t know what is dear. Because America is the land of plenty and everything’s cheap. Even life.”

“Not to me,” Decker said. “That’s why I’m here.”

“That’s why you here?” Menkovitz gave him a dubious look. “You here because someone pays for you. A free holiday.”

“I’m here on business,” Decker said, calmly. “Your daughter’s death.”

“That’s what you say,” Menkovitz said. “You lie through your teeth.”

Decker was silent.

Menkovitz rubbed his face. “When do you ship my Dalia back to me so I can give her decent burial?”

“I’m doing the best I can,” Decker said.

“It’s not very good.”

“You’re right.” Decker leaned forward. “It’s not very good. The whole thing stinks and again, I’m sorry. I know that doesn’t mean much, but it is the truth. I have four kids of my own and there isn’t a day that goes by when I don’t worry about them.”

Menkovitz was silent, then he sighed and rubbed his eyes. “I come to Palestine, I fight in ’48 and I fight in ’56. In ’67, I’m too old, they give me civil duty—haggah. I watch streets as Jordanian soldiers pour into the city like a mabul. You know what is mabul?”

“Flood,” Decker said.

“Right. Like flood, they come into the city,” Menkovitz said.

“Much soldiers,” Yalom agreed. “Like mabul.”

“You were scared, Moshe?” Menkovitz asked.

“Lo,” Yalom stated curtly. “After Treblinka…” He waved his hand in the air.

Menkovitz said, “I was not scared. I am a fighter. But this…” He lowered his head. “I have no more fighter, Mr. Policeman. I just want my daughter home so we can bury her on our land. That is all.”

Decker had no other answer except silence. Then he said. “We’re on the same side, Mr. Menkovitz. Help me.”

Menkovitz stared at Decker, then said, “You want some tea? I do. Moshe, rotzeh teh?”

“Betach,” Yalom answered back.