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only regarding his mother, but her as well. But after four days in Jerusalem, she decided to elude his control and go down to Tel Aviv without his knowledge.
    When she entered the gleaming lobby of the facility she was told her mother was at a concert. At first she stood by the closed door and listened to an amateur string trio, then grew impatient, silently opened the door and stood in the back of a small, dark hall, where perhaps twenty elderly residents were concentrating on their friends, a violinist, a violist and a cellist in a wheelchair, who played a trio by Schubert, missing more than a few notes as they fiddled vigorously together. The musicians noticed as she entered, and it seemed that her stately presence made them slightly anxious, but her mother, tranquilly enjoying the musical bonus of assisted living, did not yet see her.
    Finally, she too noticed the extra woman standing in the back, and urgently wished to join her, but Noga signaled her to wait, and sat down so as not to offend the musicians.
    At the end of the concert her mother introduced her to one of the old women.
    â€œThis is my daughter, a musician, but she lives in Holland . . .”
    The visitor liked her mother’s experimental one-room apartment, which though located on the street level was attached to a private patch of ground, with flowers and bushes abutting a grassy lawn. The furniture was modest but new, and the bathroom was spanking clean.
    â€œWould you believe, Noga,” said her mother, “that I as a tenant have to water the flowers?”
    â€œAnd you don’t like that?”
    â€œThe watering I like, but not the obligation. In Mekor Baruch nobody has flowers anymore.”
    â€œDon’t exaggerate.”
    â€œAnd besides,” sighed her mother, “if Abba could have imagined that after he died I’d end up in Tel Aviv, he wouldn’t have left the world so peacefully.”
    â€œBut you’re not in Tel Aviv, you’re in assisted living.”
    â€œAssisted in what?”
    â€œIn tolerating Tel Aviv.”
    Her mother laughed. “In the six days I’ve been here, some nice old women have befriended me, one of them from Jerusalem, who remembers me from kindergarten and insists I haven’t changed a bit, not my looks or my mind.”
    â€œSo you already have a good friend.”
    â€œYes, it’s easy to make friends here, but to create a solid connection you have to provide stories of illness and other misfortunes. So many amazing stories here about exotic maladies, so vividly described you imagine catching them right then and there.”
    â€œAnd you don’t have a disease you can spread in return?”
    â€œNone, my child. You know I’m healthy. Also, Abba’s death was so easy and simple, people are jealous.”
    â€œThen talk about family problems.”
    â€œWe don’t have any. We were always a normal and stable family.”
    â€œNormal?” Noga laughed. “What about me?”
    â€œWhat about you?”
    â€œA woman no longer young, whose husband left her because she refused to have children.”
    â€œIf you refused, what’s the problem? If you were unable, I could look for sympathy or pity. I’m not going to turn you into a problem to satisfy some old lady here.”
    â€œThen at least provoke a little anger at me.”
    â€œWhy anger at you? If the experiment succeeds and I move here permanently, what will I gain from other people’s anger at you? Your father didn’t get angry, and he didn’t allow us to get angry either. ‘We have to honor Noga’s wishes,’ he said. ‘Childbirth can have complications, even cause death.’”
    â€œEven death? That’s what he said?”
    â€œHe not only said it, he thought it.”
    â€œGood Abba, he couldn’t think of another way to justify what I did.”
    â€œThat’s how he tried to explain it.”
    â€œI