Birnbaum waved a hand dismissively. "Unavailable for comment. When has that ever stopped an enterprising reporter from publishing a story? Especially one as good as yours. You stormed an Egyptian gun position single-handedly and so allowed the rest of your platoon to score a major victory. And you nearly lost your life in the process. How could I resist printing a story like that? It would have been unprofessional. I don't know what you're complaining about. I made you out to be a hero, didn't I? Not that it was hard. Reporting the truth never is. You should have thanked me, you stupid bastard, but what do you do instead? Punch me in the jaw, that's what."

"You deserved it. You crept into my room without permission and took a picture of me in my hospital bed. The nurse later told me she had to chase you out."

Birnbaum's face broke into a wide smile. He had a doughy face spattered with freckles across his cheeks and nose. His eyes were light brown and made larger by horn-rimmed glasses. Seeing him smile, I noticed he had nice teeth. I almost felt bad for nearly knocking some of them out.

But I did not regret hitting him, because he did have it coming. He had no right to take that picture, and I did not enjoy the publicity his article had garnered me. I liked my privacy and solitude. I felt uncomfortable being called a hero. There were so many others, alive and dead, who deserved the honor more than I did, but never got it.

"She chased me with a broom," he reminisced. "I know you saw some hard fighting against the Egyptians and Jordanians, Adam, but that nurse could have taken on an entire battalion with that broom. What a woman! Ah, here it is."

The morose-faced proprietor of Café Tamar came to the table and set a bowl of soup before Shmuel. Steam whispered up from the bowl in delicate gray curls. The earthy smell of cooked beans wafted about the table.

"Want some bean soup?" the proprietor asked me, in a tone that suggested he couldn't care less what my answer would be.

I told him I didn't. He left without a word or change of facial expression.

"You sure about the soup?" Birnbaum asked. "It's really quite good."

"I'm sure."

"Suit yourself." He spooned some soup into his mouth, swallowed, and sighed contentedly. "Six days a week, about this hour, I come here and have this soup. Even when it's hot enough outside to fry eggs on the hood of a car. It's not much, I grant you, but in these times it's a luxury. Better than going hungry."

"I'm sure it is."

Birnbaum turned somber. "You would know, wouldn't you? You were there, in Auschwitz, and you survived. If you ever feel like telling your story, Adam, I'll be happy to write it."

"Don't hold your breath, Shmuel."