"That's right," I said, remembering Mira telling me why she chose to bring Esther and Willie to the Klingers. "You have another child."
Right then, the front door flew open and into the living room burst a boy of eleven. His face was flushed, his left knee bloodied, and his shin marred by raw abrasions.
Yael bounded to her feet, her mouth open. "Oh, Dror, what happened?"
Dror Klinger affected nonchalance. "Nothing, Mom, just fell down playing. Hardly hurts at all."
"You come with me. We need to wash your knee and put some iodine on it."
He made a face, but went with his mother into the bathroom without argument. Moshe grinned. "She can't help but fuss over him. To her he's still a baby. I mean, it's not like a bloodied knee is such a big deal. It's part of growing up. Right, Adam?"
"Right," I said absently, thinking that Dror Klinger resembled neither of his parents. He was blond, slim like a beanstalk, with blue eyes and fair skin reddened by sun exposure.
"I tell her to stop worrying over him, that she'll spoil him, but she doesn't listen. Is your wife the worrying type?"
"I'm not married," I told him, eager to change the subject. "How long ago did you move here from Haifa?"
"Here? Oh, years ago. Why do you ask?"
"No particular reason." I noted that he hadn't answered my question, and also that his eyes had narrowed and that he was scrutinizing my face.
Yael and Dror emerged from the bathroom. The boy had a bandage on his knee and purple smears on his shin where his mother had slathered iodine.
"Maybe you should stay home the rest of the day," Yael said.
"But I want to play. The guys are waiting for me."
"Let him go, Yael," Moshe grumbled. "Go play with your friends, Dror."
The boy grabbed a few pieces of fruit and ran out the door, yelling a goodbye over his shoulder. His mother looked after him, her face a mask of worry. "I hope he doesn't fall again."
"Let the boy be, Yael. He'll be fine. Come now, sit down. Let's answer the rest of Adam's questions."
Yael gave her husband a sharp look, clearly not appreciating his commanding tone, but she wordlessly did as he said. He, in turn, seemed completely oblivious to her displeasure.
Moshe said, "It was two o'clock in the morning when the four of them arrived on our doorstep."
"By the four of them you mean Esther and Willie with Mira Roth and Michael Shamir?"
"You know Shamir?" Moshe asked, and when I confirmed that I did, he added in an admiring tone, "One of the best fighters the Irgun ever had. That the Jewish people ever had. I would have loved to have fought alongside him, but with a wife and baby at home, well…" He trailed off, rubbing his hands, his eyes not meeting mine. He radiated shame, which I felt was justified. His excuse was a weak one. Many of the soldiers in my unit had had families. Many had left widows and orphans behind.
"We did our part," Yael said, laying a comforting hand on his knee. He nodded twice and looked at me.
He said, "Michael and Mira told us about the prison raid, that it did not go well. They said our side suffered casualties, but that they managed to get away without the British following them. They left Esther and Willie with us and drove off."
"Who told you Esther wasn't Willie's real mother?"
"Mira did," Yael said. "At first she thought he might stay with us, at least until his mother came, but Esther insisted on keeping him."
"I understand she loved him very much."
"Yes," Yael said. "She did."
"How did you explain their presence to your neighbors?"
"We told them Esther was my cousin, visiting with her son. No one questioned our story."
"What was their stay with you like?"
"Good," Yael said. "Esther helped with the chores. It was nice having her around. And Willie was a lovely baby."
Moshe grinned. "Yael has a soft spot for babies."
Yael did not smile. "The house felt sort of empty when they left."
"Did you keep in touch after they moved to Tel Aviv?"
"At first, yes. Esther and I would write to each other."
"What did she write about?"
"Oh, just everyday stuff. How Willie was doing—she used the name Erich, of course, in case her letters fell into the wrong hands—her new job, her apartment, how life was like in Tel Aviv."
"Did she ever write about any men she might have met? Anyone whom she was seeing?"
"No," Yael said.
"What about Alon Davidson? She ever mention him?"
She frowned. "I don't think so. I don't remember."
I rubbed my forehead, exasperated. I had hoped that Esther would have felt comfortable sharing some intimate details of her life with Yael Klinger, considering that Yael knew her true identity. But apparently Esther had been a private, perhaps even secretive person in general, not just when told to be one by Mira.
"Do you still have her letters?" I asked, hoping against hope, and felt searing disappointment when Yael said she'd lost them when they moved to their new home. I was getting used to the feeling. A lot of facts and clues and memories get lost in ten years. Like ashes blown in all directions by a capricious wind.
