Scratching my jaw, I leaned back in my seat and pondered this new fact. It could mean nothing. I wouldn't know till I had a chance to see the Klingers.

"Anything else you can tell me that might help with my investigation?"

He considered, taking a long pull from his bottle. He set it on the floor between his feet and shook his head. "I don't think so. Like I said, I only saw her and the baby a couple of times."

I nodded. I could think of nothing more to ask him. Maybe that bit about the Klingers would lead to something and maybe it wouldn't. Other than that, my talk with Michael Shamir was a bust. I got to my feet.

"Thanks for your time. I'll be off now."

He rose. "Say, weren't you in the papers a year or so back? Something about Operation Yoav?"

I was surprised when the discomfort that usually arose when I was asked about the day of my injury did not materialize. Perhaps because this man was also a warrior. Perhaps because of the matter-of-fact manner in which he had presented his question.

"Yes." I didn't elaborate.

He slapped me on the shoulder. "Nice work." That was the extent of his commendation. I liked that. No platitudes or flowery praise, just a crisp acknowledgment of a job well done, which was how I saw my actions in the war.

At the door, I stopped and offered him my hand. His grip was firm and warm. With his other hand he gestured at my forearm.

"You were there, in the Nazi camps?"

"Yes," I said.

"I understand it was terrible. I'm glad you survived."

It was an odd thing to say, but he seemed completely sincere when he said it. Still, I couldn't think of a proper reply. What should I have said? Thank you?

"I met a camp survivor during the war," he went on. "A French Jew. One night before a big battle in the Galilee, he started telling me what he went through during the war in Europe, how the Germans put him and his family on a train to Poland, to a concentration camp. All his family was dead, he was the only one left. Once he started talking, he didn't stop. Not for a second all through that night. Neither of us got any sleep. I think he felt compelled to tell his life's story because he was worried about the upcoming battle, worried that if he got killed, there would be no one who would know his story or that he had ever existed."

"What was his name?"

"Pierre. Pierre Levi."

"What happened to him?"

Michael Shamir pointed to his neck. "The next day he caught a bullet right here. Died on the spot."

17