The archivist reappeared, holding a single sheet of paper. "I thought I recognized the name and address. There was another child who survived. But I don't think she'll talk."

"Why not?" Gabriel asked.

"We have an annual conference here in Amsterdam that focuses on the children who were hidden during the Holocaust. Last year, I handled the registration." He held up the sheet of paper. "Lena Herzfeld attended the first session but left almost immediately."

"What happened?"

"When we asked her to write down her memories of the war for our archives, she became very agitated and angry. She said it had been a mistake to come. After that, we never saw her again."

"A reaction like that isn't uncommon," Gabriel said. "It took years for some survivors to talk about their experiences. And some never have."

"That's true," the archivist agreed. "But the hidden children are among the least understood victims of the Holocaust. Their experience has its own special tragedy. In most cases, they were handed over to complete strangers. Their parents were simply trying to save them, but what child can truly comprehend being left behind?"

"I understand," said Gabriel. "But it's important that I see her."

The archivist searched Gabriel's face and seemed to recognize something he had seen before. Then he smiled sadly and handed over the slip of paper.

"Don't tell her where you got the address. And be sure to treat her gently. She's fragile. They're all a bit fragile."

The archivist told Gabriel and Chiara everything else he knew. Lena Herzfeld had worked as a teacher in the Dutch state school system, had never married, and, as it turned out, lived just around the corner from her old family home. It was a small street with a leafy green park on one side and a terrace of gabled houses on the other. Hers was a narrow little house with a narrow black door at street level. Gabriel reached for the bell but hesitated. She became very agitated and angry...After that, we never saw her again. Perhaps it was better to leave her undisturbed, he thought. He knew from personal experience that coaxing memory from a survivor could be a bit like crossing a frozen lake. One wrong step and the entire surface could crack with disastrous results.

"What's wrong?" Chiara asked.

"I don't want to put her through it. Besides, she probably doesn't remember."

"She was nine when the Germans came. She remembers."

Gabriel made no movement. Chiara pressed the bell for him.

"Why did you do that?"

"She came to that conference for a reason. She wants to talk."

"Then why did she get so upset when they asked her about the war?"

"They probably didn't ask her the right way."

"And you think I can?"

"I know you can."

Chiara reached for the bell again but stopped at the sound of footfalls in the entrance hall. An exterior light came on, and the door retreated a few inches, revealing a small, spare woman dressed entirely in black. Her pewter-colored hair was carefully brushed, and her blue eyes appeared clear and alert. She regarded the two visitors curiously, then, sensing they were not Dutch, addressed them in flawless English.

"May I help you?"

"We're looking for Lena Herzfeld," said Gabriel.

"I'm Lena Herzfeld," she replied calmly.

"We were wondering whether we might speak with you."

"About?"

"Your father." Gabriel paused, then added, "And about the war."

She was silent for a moment. "My father has been dead for more than sixty years," she said firmly. "As for the war, there is nothing to discuss."

Gabriel shot a glance at Chiara, who ignored him and quietly asked, "Will you tell us about the painting, then?"

Lena Herzfeld seemed startled but quickly regained her composure. "What painting is that?"

"The Rembrandt your father owned before the war."

"I'm afraid you have me confused with someone else. My father never owned a Rembrandt."

"But that's not true," Gabriel interjected. "Your father did indeed own a Rembrandt. He purchased it from De Vries Fine Arts on the Herengracht in 1936. I have a copy of the bill of sale if you would like to see it."

"I have no wish to see it. Now if you'll excuse me, I—"

"Then will you at least have a look at this?"

Without waiting for an answer, Gabriel pressed a photograph of the painting into her hands. For several seconds, Lena Herzfeld's face betrayed no emotion other than mild curiosity. Then, bit by bit, the ice began to crack, and tears spilled down both cheeks.

"Do you remember it now, Miss Herzfeld?"

"It's been a very long time, but, yes, I remember." She brushed a tear from her cheek. "Where did you get this?"

"Perhaps it would be better if we spoke inside."

"How did you find me?" she asked fearfully, her gaze still fixed on the photograph. "Who betrayed me?"

Gabriel felt as if a stone had been laid over his heart.

"No one betrayed you, Miss Herzfeld," he said softly. "We're friends. You can trust us."

"I learned when I was a child to trust no one." She looked up from the photograph. "What do you want from me?"

"Only your memory."

"It was a long time ago."

"Someone died because of this painting, Miss Herzfeld."

"Yes," she said. "I know."

She returned the photograph to Gabriel's hand. For an instant, he feared he had pushed too far. Then the door opened a few inches wider and Lena Herzfeld stepped to one side.

Treat her gently, Gabriel reminded himself. She's fragile. They're all a bit fragile.

Gabriel knew the instant he entered Lena Herzfeld's house that she was suffering from a kind of madness. It was neat, orderly, and sterile, but a madness nonetheless. The first evidence of her disorder was the condition of her sitting room. Like most Dutch parlors, it had the compactness of a Vermeer. Yet through her industrious arrangement of the furnishings and careful choice of color—a glaring, clinical white—she had managed to avoid the impression of clutter or claustrophobia. There were no pieces of decorative glass, no bowls of hard candy, no mementos, and not a single photograph. It was as if Lena Herzfeld had been dropped into this place alone, without parentage, without ancestry, without a past. Her home was not truly a home, thought Gabriel, but a hospital ward into which she had checked herself for a permanent stay.

She insisted on making tea. It came, not surprisingly, in a white pot and was served in white cups. She insisted, too, that Gabriel and Chiara refer to her only as Lena. She explained that she had worked as a teacher at a state school and for thirty-seven years had been called only Miss Herzfeld by students and colleagues alike. Upon retirement, she had discovered that she wanted her given name back. Gabriel acceded to her wishes, though from time to time, out of courtesy or deference, he sought refuge behind the formality of her family name. When it came to identifying himself and the attractive young woman at his side, he decided it was not possible to reciprocate Lena Herzfeld's intimacy. And so he plucked an old alias from his pocket and concocted a hasty cover to go with it. Tonight he was Gideon Argov, employee of a small, privately funded organization that carried out investigations of financial and other property-related questions arising from the Holocaust. Given the sensitive nature of these investigations, and the security problems arising from them, it was not possible to go into greater detail.

"You're from Israel, Mr. Argov?"

"I was born there. I live mainly in Europe now."

"Where in Europe, Mr. Argov?"

"Given the nature of my work, my home is a suitcase."