The name had emerged from her mouth in a gasp. We stared at each other in silence. Mira shifted her feet. She seemed surprised at having blurted out the name, but she was nowhere near as surprised as I was.

"You remember her. Do you know where she is?" I asked, feeling my heartbeat accelerate.

Just then came a squeak from behind her back. Mira turned to see that Paula had inched open the door to eavesdrop on our conversation. The faces of the other three women were pressed to the front window, peering at us without a trace of embarrassment.

Mira huffed, went to the door, and wordlessly closed it in Paula's face. Paula stuck her tongue out at Mira through the glass door, then flashed a mischievous smile. Mira did not smile back.

She turned back to me, frowning. "Adam Lapid. Where do I know that name from?"

The old uncomfortable feeling resurfaced, just as it did each time my wartime exploits were brought up. But maybe this time something good would come out of it. What better way to impress an Irgun member than with tales of wartime bravery?

"I was injured during the war. Operation Yoav. The story got some press."

"Ah. Now I remember. I heard about you on the radio. What you did was truly heroic."

I said nothing. She gazed at me and there was something in her eyes that had not been there before. Respect. Appreciation. Perhaps even admiration.

"You're a private investigator, is that what you said?"

"Yes."

She chewed her lower lip, mulling something over. Then she said, "I have to finish doing Carmella's hair. It should take me ten minutes. I don't want to talk about it here—not in front of them. I live close by, on the corner of Frishman and Sirkin. See you there in fifteen minutes."

With that, she turned on her heel and reentered the hair salon.

9

When I was a child, I believed in miracles. I suppose all children do. Just like they believe in magic and monsters. Then, as I grew older and got acquainted with the reality of life, my belief waned. But it never disappeared entirely.

Until Auschwitz.

Now I no longer believed in miracles. But as I walked the few hundred meters from the hair salon to Mira Roth's home, and during the ten minutes I waited outside her building for her to arrive, I considered the possibility that my faith in miracles was about to be rekindled.

Because Mira knew Esther Grunewald and Willie Ackerland. They had been on that ship. In a few minutes I would know whether, by some fluke or miracle, they were still alive today.

"So," I said, "where are Esther Grunewald and Willie Ackerland?"