I had expected his apartment to match the rest of the building. It didn't. The walls were freshly painted, the floor clean. The kitchen, which opened to the right a couple of feet from the door, was about the size of mine and immaculate. No crumbs on the counters, no dirty dishes in the sink, no grime on the small window. We set the bags on the floor and he proceeded to unpack them. Bread and dry goods went into a cupboard; cheese, milk, and vegetables he put in the icebox. None of the food items were contraband. Either he was one of those rare souls who did not partake of the black market, or I had caught him on a good day. When the last of the food was in its place, he said, "I'm gonna have a beer. Want one?"

"Too early for me."

He shrugged and tugged out a bottle from the icebox. Condensation sparkled along the glass. He popped the cap, took a swig, smiled a small smile, and said, "I just got back from work, so this is like a nightcap. How about some water?" I nodded and he filled me a glass from the tap. "Let's go to the other room."

The other room wore a number of hats, just like mine on Hamaccabi Street. There was a small table for eating and writing; a made bed, with a nightstand next to it; a low sofa, which was slightly sagging in the middle, but otherwise looking in good repair; and a row of overturned wooden milk boxes arrayed against one wall and topped with cramped rows of books. A poor man's room, but one who took care of what he owned. Also a single man's room, as there was no sign of any woman or her touch anywhere.

A number of pictures hung on one wall. The first was a copy of the picture Mira had shown me. The second, of about the same period, showed a younger Michael Shamir grinning, a cigarette in one hand, a Sten machine gun in the other. The third had him shaking hands with Menachem Begin, the leader of the Irgun. The fourth, no older than a year, showed him in an IDF uniform, army hat jammed low on his head, leaning against an earth bank, rifle stock at his shoulder.

"Where did you fight?" I asked.

"A bunch of places. Jaffa, Jerusalem, the Galilee. Mostly against the Lebanese and Syrians. Were you in the war?"

"Yes. A bit in Jerusalem, during Operation Nachshon, and the rest of the time in the Negev."

He nodded appreciatively. "You boys did good work there. Gave the Egyptians a good licking."

"You guys in the north did not do so bad yourselves."

A shrug. "I wish we'd done better." Then he raised his bottle and added, "To old comrades."