It had always been Amy’s story. As far back as she could remember, when she was six or seven or eight, her father, Hans, had told it to her when he tucked her in at night. He had told it at family gatherings, at dinner parties in their Park Avenue apartment, at his B’nai Brith meetings. Amy came to realize that her father told the story because he wanted her to understand her origins and her history – and also his. After all, what proud Zionist – even one who’d left Israel for America – wouldn’t want to brag that Golda Meir used to braid his daughter’s hair?
Even though there were things in the story Amy remembered, or thought she did, she was never entirely certain how much of the story was true, and how much Hans had invented. Still, as she grew up, she told the story to her friends, and then to her boyfriends. And why not? Even if there were embellishments – more, she knew, with each telling and retelling — it was an exciting story. It fit perfectly with Amy’s striking Levantine beauty – her olive skin, her dark hair, her deep brown eyes. The story defined Amy as not only one of the prettiest and smartest girls in the class, but also the most interesting, the most exotic. She learned that her story was guaranteed to liven up a dull party or a dull date. And she knew that the story explained why...
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