"After two months or so," she said, "the letters began tapering off. Finally they ceased completely."
"You never met again in person?"
She shook her head.
I turned to Moshe. "How about you? Did you ever see Esther after she and Willie left your house?"
He said that he didn't.
"Did Esther have any visitors during her and Willie's stay with you?"
"Only Mira Roth and Michael Shamir," said Yael. "He came over—I think it was twice—and brought Esther their new papers. He never stayed long. Mira came more often and stayed longer."
"She and Esther got along? They were friendly?"
"Yes. They seemed to like each other a lot."
I drummed on my thigh with two fingers, wondering what to say next. I wanted to ask more about Mira and Esther's relationship, but couldn't think of a way of doing so without it seeming odd.
I cast my eyes over my hosts. Moshe reclined with his legs wide apart, one arm draped over the back of the sofa. Yael sat close to the edge of the seat, knees pressed together, hands folded in her lap. There was some tension in her body, I noticed, while her husband appeared completely relaxed. Perhaps it was as he'd said, that his wife was closer to Esther and Willie than he was. By what she told me, that was indeed the case. Maybe she simply cared more than he did whether their killer was brought to justice.
I hated to admit it, but it seemed that my trip to Netanya had been a wasted one. I could think of nothing more to ask either of the Klingers. Wait a minute, that wasn't entirely accurate. I did have one more thing I wanted to know.
"Why did you stop sheltering immigrants after Esther and Willie left?"
I hadn't meant anything by the question, but apparently it had touched a sore spot. Husband and wife blinked in unison. They exchanged weighty glances. Moshe lowered the arm he had draped over the sofa's back. He no longer looked relaxed.
"Who told you that?" he asked.
"Michael Shamir."
Moshe grimaced, and I had a good idea why. Like Mira, he idealized Michael Shamir, and he hated the fact that his idol was aware that not only had he refrained from fighting the British, but that he had also closed his door to needy Jewish immigrants.
"I still gave money to the Irgun," he offered lamely.
"That's not quite the same thing, is it?"
He didn't like that one bit. He sat forward, eyes flaring, and pointed a finger at me.
"I did plenty, all right? Plenty. More than most people. Probably more than you. Were you part of the resistance? What did you do to get the British out?"
"Nothing," I said, "but I did fight in the War of Independence and took two bullets in the process. Where did you fight during the war?"
Moshe's face was red. He almost spat out his words at me. "What are you implying, that I was a coward? That I was not committed? Damn you, is that what you're saying?"
"I was just wondering," I said, already regretting provoking him. I needed information from him and his wife, not to triumph in some contest of who did more for Israel and the Jewish people. From his reaction, I knew that Moshe had never fired a gun at the enemy, let alone was fired at. There were many men like him, fit and healthy men in their prime who'd managed to weasel out of proper military service. The war might have ended sooner if not for men like him. But the war was over, and I gained nothing by shaming Moshe in front of his wife.
Yael placed a hand on her husband's shoulder, trying to calm him, but he shook her off. He rose to his feet, looking like he was about to take a swing at me. "I don't need to hear this. Not in my house, I don't. Get—"
"It was me," Yael said in a voice loud enough to still her husband. Her eyes met mine and didn't let go. "It was my decision not to take in more immigrants, not Moshe's."
"Why?"
She hesitated for a second before saying, "I got scared, all right? I worried that one night British troops would break down our door and arrest us, and then what would become of our son? Can you understand that?"
I stared at her. Her eyes were once again wet and in her temple a vein was pulsing wildly.
"This fear came upon you all of a sudden, just after you had Esther and Willie in your home?"
"Yes."
"It had nothing to do with Esther?"
"No. I swear that it didn't."
I would have liked to have been able to read her expression just then, but she buried her face in her hands and began sobbing. Moshe put a hand on her shoulder. "Get out," he told me. "Before I throw you out."
I did as he said.
Outside, three doors down from the Klinger home, a skinny woman in her late thirties was weeding her yard. When I passed by her house, she said, "Friend of the Klingers?"
"Yes," I replied, not wishing to explain my visit to her.
"Don't remember ever seeing you around here."
Ah, she was one of those. There was someone like her on every street. The nosy type who liked to know everything about everyone.
"First-time visit," I said, and was about to bid her good day and walk off when I thought of something. "You know them long?"
