Boston 1997.

A mother of three boys in an endless after-divorce-fight that took an Hollywoodian dimensions, and in a desperate need for some answers, I call Katy who lives in Etna, Main, hence "The Witch". A telephone conversation. All she knows is my first name. She can't see me and make conjunctions as to who I am. She knows nothing of my circumstances past or present and I say nothing. I let her tell me whatever she wants. There was nothing in what she said that was useful to me: she said I must take my car to the garage because the breaks are not functioning. There was nothing wrong with the breaks. It was a rented car. Kate insisted that she sees the breaks' lights blinking red! And also my back. What's wrong with my back? she asks – Nothing. Once again she insisted that I am in terrible pain from my lower back. I wasn't.

A week or so later I drove my boys to summer camp. I exchanged the rented car with a big Jeep, uploaded the sleeping begs – 2 for each, the daffodil begs, the boys onto the Jeep and off we went. 3 minutes into the high way the breaks' light blinked red…

After I dropped the boys at their camp and brought our belonging down to NY, I talked to my friend in Boston: a letter has arrived just after I left – from the lawyers in Israel. I asked her to open it and read it to me. Its 3 dry sentences advised me that I will no longer receive child support payments. (Letting me know this in advance was about the most decent thing my ex-husband did.) I must have had a shock and held my breath or something similar. An excruciating shot of pain run through my back and stayed there for days.

A few years later, sitting in my living room in Jerusalem with a friend, we were discussing the paradox of experience and the worth or relevance of knowledge gained in hindsight. We both felt that we live life blind folded. I told her about my witch from Main and she suggested that we call her, but this time – with a specific question. Mine was: I want to write the biography of my grandfather. I have no training in historical research. How should I go about it? Katy told me to "start with the book he wrote about the family history." But he didn't. "Well, maybe not him but one of your forefathers wrote the history of the family. It's a big book. Not a usual size. Bown… kind of camel color. Partly leather bound…" I shrugged my shoulders. I didn't know what she was talking about. The book was 60 cm away from me.

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