"This is a great story, Adam," he said, grinning widely as he perused the notes he'd taken of our conversation. "Perhaps the best of my career. They'll talk about this in the cafés on Dizengoff for weeks."

Birnbaum held onto Henrietta's hand for longer than he had any business to, and for a second it looked like he was about to bend over at the waist and kiss it. Instead, he gave her hand a gentle pat before releasing it, and, in a warm, compassionate voice I would not have believed he possessed, said, "I know it's not easy to talk about such hard times and experiences, Mrs. Ackerland. I appreciate you meeting with me today."

I left them so they could talk in private and took a table at the opposite end of the café, reading a western I had picked up from Goldberg's store earlier that day. They sat together for more than an hour, Henrietta doing most of the talking, Birnbaum scribbling feverishly in his notebook. Occasionally, they'd pause when Henrietta choked up or had to wipe away her tears. Finally, I saw them both rise from their chairs and shake hands again. I came over and asked Henrietta if she was all right. Her eyes were red and she looked exhausted, but she nodded and said that she was fine, happy. "Tomorrow I shall see my son. It's what I've been dreaming about for ten long, lonely years."

Outside, I hailed a passing taxi and held the backseat door open for her. She slipped inside, then leaned out and grabbed my arm. "Thank you, Adam. From the bottom of my heart, thank you."

"You're welcome," I said, uncomfortable with her gratitude, then swung the door shut and tapped twice on the roof for the driver to go.

Back inside Café Tamar, I found Birnbaum with a ruminative look in his eyes.

He said, "First impression, she looked so brittle I thought she might come apart at any second. Now I suspect that she's made of steel. An incredible woman. Utterly incredible."

"If I didn't know better, Shmuel, I might think you truly care about her."

Birnbaum draped his pudgy face in a hurt expression. "Is that what you think of me, Adam? That I am heartless?"

"On the contrary. I know you have a heart. But only for stories."

"How little you know me. It's true that I love finding and writing stories more than anything else, but I like people, too. Read my columns; you won't find one in which I was nasty to anyone. Not more than they absolutely deserved. Some of my colleagues make a sport out of eviscerating people in print. I don't. What I like most of all are stories that bring to light the indomitable human spirit, stories of triumph over adversity, stories of resilience and resurgence. Stories such as Henrietta Ackerland's. Stories such as yours, dear Adam."