The closet had two sections. On the right were shelves, where I stored my few shirts, pants, socks, and underwear. On the left was a bar with three hangers dangling from it, two of which were taken by jackets, the third by nothing at all. At the bottom of the left section I had stacked a few sheets, pillowcases, and a winter blanket. These I removed, setting them on the floor. Then I lifted the false bottom I had installed at the foot of the closet and set it aside. Beneath it I had hidden a wooden box, a foot long and half that across, with a tarnished metal clasp. I took out this box and placed it beside me on the bed. I undid the clasp, lifted the lid, and gazed at what lay within.

Immediately, I felt myself grow calmer. A feeling not unlike satisfaction filled my chest. A grim satisfaction it was, but I could not recall the last time I had experienced any other kind.

For in the box, neatly arranged, were my souvenirs from Germany, mementos of the months I had spent in that wretched country in 1946 and 1947 after I had recovered from my time at Auschwitz and Buchenwald and until I arrived in Israel in September 1947. A good time it was, a healing time. A time I wished could have lasted longer than it did.

The first item I took out of the box was a Luger pistol. It was wrapped in a black cloth. I unwrapped the gun and hefted it in my hand. Black and deadly, smelling of gun oil. I had cleaned and oiled it two days before. I possessed two full magazines for the pistol, as well as a pouch holding several dozen loose shells. One of the magazines was lodged in the butt of the gun, ready for firing. The intoxicating sense of power holding the Luger gave me could only be appreciated by those who had experienced true powerlessness.

The gun had belonged to an SS officer whom I had met in a bar in Hamburg in late 1946. A few beers had loosened his tongue, and he had bragged about what he had done to Jews in Ukraine as the German army swept eastward toward Russia. Later that night, I broke into his home, finding him alone in his bed. A smile curled my lips as I recalled his look of astonishment when, a moment before I killed him, I'd revealed that I was a Jew.

I set the gun on the bed, reached into the box, and took out a switchblade hunting knife with a swastika stenciled on its pearl handle. I had taken the knife from another Nazi officer, this one in Munich, after I had shot him in the back of the head.