The bus dropped me off at Zion Square in the center of Netanya. Along the square and the many streets that branched from it were small shops selling a large assortment of goods. Outside the shops, on stools and chairs, sat shopkeepers drinking coffee from small glasses, chatting with each other in loud voices.

At a kiosk, I bought a bottle of soda and asked for directions. The directions proved accurate ten minutes later when I found myself looking at the home of Yael and Moshe Klinger. It was a medium-sized house, one story with red shingles and a white fence framing a well-tended courtyard. Flower beds bloomed under the windows, and mowed grass flanked the cobbled walkway that led from the street to the front door. There was something distinctly European about this small garden. Someone had put a lot of effort into cultivating it.

Taking in the scent of flowers and watered earth, I knocked on the door and waited. The pear-shaped woman who opened it had fiery red hair knotted at the back of her head and sensible brown eyes set in a square, freckled face. She wore a red apron over a white housedress and was clutching a wooden stirring spoon. Flour feathered her apron and more of it was smudged above her right eyebrow.

"You’ve got some flour there," I said, "over your eye."

She blinked and wiped her forehead with her palm, an action that served only to add more flour to her skin. She laughed when I told her so.

"I was baking," she explained unnecessarily, as the enticing smell of baking dough wafting from inside the house told the tale well enough. "I don't believe I know you."

I gave her my name and said I was there to see her and her husband, Moshe, and that I'd got their address from Mira Roth. This elicited a slight frown and a shifting of her feet. For a second, she seemed unsure of what she ought to do, but then she made up her mind and invited me in, telling me she was expecting her husband shortly.

She showed me to the living room, where I sat on a padded armchair next to which stood a tall Zenith radio. She excused herself, saying she needed to wash her hands. In the backyard, two girls, eight or nine, were playing with a white ball and a black puppy. The girls, I noticed, were identical twins. For a second, the image of my two daughters wavered before my eyes, and I felt my throat constrict.