Yael placed a hand on her husband's shoulder, trying to calm him, but he shook her off. He rose to his feet, looking like he was about to take a swing at me. "I don't need to hear this. Not in my house, I don't. Get—"

"It was me," Yael said in a voice loud enough to still her husband. Her eyes met mine and didn't let go. "It was my decision not to take in more immigrants, not Moshe's."

"Why?"

She hesitated for a second before saying, "I got scared, all right? I worried that one night British troops would break down our door and arrest us, and then what would become of our son? Can you understand that?"

I stared at her. Her eyes were once again wet and in her temple a vein was pulsing wildly.

"This fear came upon you all of a sudden, just after you had Esther and Willie in your home?"

"Yes."

"It had nothing to do with Esther?"

"No. I swear that it didn't."

I would have liked to have been able to read her expression just then, but she buried her face in her hands and began sobbing. Moshe put a hand on her shoulder. "Get out," he told me. "Before I throw you out."

I did as he said.

Outside, three doors down from the Klinger home, a skinny woman in her late thirties was weeding her yard. When I passed by her house, she said, "Friend of the Klingers?"

"Yes," I replied, not wishing to explain my visit to her.

"Don't remember ever seeing you around here."

Ah, she was one of those. There was someone like her on every street. The nosy type who liked to know everything about everyone.

"First-time visit," I said, and was about to bid her good day and walk off when I thought of something. "You know them long?"

"Ever since they moved here," she said. "Nearly ten years."

"Sure about that? I thought they didn't live here that long."

"Sure I'm sure. My husband and I have been living here since August 1939. Moshe and Yael moved in a month after that, in September."

The month after the murders, I thought, recalling how Moshe had evaded telling me precisely when he and his wife had moved to Netanya from Haifa. Now I got to wondering why they'd chosen to move in the first place.

24

A handwritten schedule posted at the central bus terminal in Netanya informed me that the bus to Tel Aviv would be leaving in half an hour. I went in search of a phone and found one at a grocery store a few doors west of the terminal. The proprietor wanted money in advance. I paid him and rang Reuben's number. He picked up in the middle of the second ring.

"Where are you?" he asked.

"Netanya," I said.

"What are you doing there?"

"Interviewing a couple who knew the victims."

"Come up with anything?"