Back in the administration office by the entrance, I found the same clerk still peering at the Mishna over his glasses.

I asked him whether they kept a list of all those buried in the cemetery.

"Yes," he said, laying his book on the desk. "By year."

"I'm looking for the grave of Judah Shamir. He died somewhere between 1939 and today."

"You don't know exactly when?"

"No. But I know it was after August 1939."

"Very well," he said, though I could tell he found my request odd.

From an open cabinet, he hauled out a stack of large brown ledgers and piled them on top of other papers on his desk.

"Let's see," he said. "Here's 1939."

He flipped open the ledger and ran his finger along the list of names, finding none named Judah Shamir. 1940 through 1943 yielded nothing as well. In April 1944, he found a listing for a man named Elisha Shamir, sixty-five, and raised his eyes to mine, as if hoping I'd be willing to compromise on that person.

"Not the one I'm looking for," I said. "Mine is Judah Shamir, and he couldn't have been older than twelve."

"Hmmm," he said, and lowered his eyes to the ledger.

Fifteen minutes later, he slammed the cover of the 1949 ledger. "No Judah Shamir is buried here."

"Are those ledgers accurate?" I asked, though I anticipated what his answer would be.

"One hundred percent. I log every burial myself. Perhaps this Judah Shamir is buried in another cemetery in the area."

I asked him for a list of cemeteries and he drew one up for me. I thanked him and left.

Back in Tel Aviv, I rang the hair salon from a café. Mira picked up herself. The joy in her voice when she recognized mine was like a cold stab deep in my belly.

"I can't make it tonight," I said, coming off brusque and businesslike, though I hadn't intended to be so.

"What? Why?"

"Something came up. Something important I need to take care of."

"Oh." And in that single syllable was confusion, bewilderment, and pain. I shut my eyes. Nothing was said for a moment. In the background, a radio was playing a jaunty duet of two male singers. Then Mira said, "When will I see you? Tomorrow?"

"I don't know. I don't think so. I'm not sure how long this will take." I'm not sure whether you'd want to see me again in a few days' time.

"You sound strange, Adam. What's wrong? What is this thing you need to do?"

She sounded distraught now. Almost frantic. I gripped the receiver so hard it was a wonder it didn't crack. What could I tell her? I wasn't sure what was going on myself. All I had were questions, and a sense of impending…not doom, but a horrific enlightenment.

"I can't talk about it yet. I'll explain when I can. Sorry about tonight."