"Davar? No Irgun member would ever read that rag. Not with the way it vilified us over the years and still does today. It's the party paper of Mapai. It's pure leftist propaganda."

Of course. I could have smacked myself for not figuring this out for myself. Like all Israelis, I was well aware of the intense enmity between Mapai, the left-wing ruling party of Israel headed by David Ben-Gurion, and the right-wing Herut party led by former Irgun leader Menachem Begin. This enmity had its roots in the 1930s and '40s, when Zionists strove to establish a Jewish state in the Land of Israel. Despite sharing the same overall goal, the divergent politics and tactics of the two factions had led to tragic consequences, including internecine fighting and bloodshed. Even now, with the Irgun disbanded, its fighters absorbed into the Israeli Defense Forces, and its commanders turned to politicians, the hatred between Mapai and Herut burned blinding hot.

This blindness had led Mira, and perhaps other members of the Irgun who knew Esther Grunewald by her true name, to not see a particular newspaper ad. If they had, I would not have become involved in the case, and the terrible duty of informing Henrietta Ackerland that her son was dead would not have fallen to me.

"And the murderer?" I asked. "What happened to him?"

"He was never caught," Mira said.

10

I asked Mira a few more questions about the murders, but she had little information.

"Newspaper reports at the time were vague on the details, but I know both Esther and Willie were killed with a knife. Rumor was the scene was pretty gruesome." She had no idea what the police investigation had uncovered, nor whether there had been any suspects.

Mira offered to make me some tea and started asking me about Operation Yoav and the day I was injured. I told her I had to get going. I needed to inform my client her son was dead.

At the door, Mira asked, "Is that all, then?"

Her question puzzled me. "What else is there?"

She licked her lips. "I thought…well, I just hoped—never mind, I suppose."

I thanked her for her time and left.

It was Sunday, the day of the week on which Henrietta was cleaning the house with a phone in it. I entered a café on Dizengoff Street that had a phone and dialed the number. She answered on the fifth ring.

"Hello," came her voice, tentative and brittle.

"Henrietta, it's Adam Lapid calling in with a report."

"Yes. Yes. Any news?" Her voice had undergone a metamorphosis. Now it was fuller, bolstered by hope.