Her voice was steady, firm, commanding, but her eyes were tired, her body a little stooped, her face sorrowful. Meir-she's called Golda by everyone in Israel-beckoned us to the couch, trying to make us feel at home. The ubiquitous Israeli coffee and cakes were laid out. Her son, Menachem, and his wife and children, who live next door, were also there to greet us. “Come in, come in,” she urged, waving us toward a simply furnished living room. The door to the house opened and Golda Meir, the former Prime Minister of Israel, stood there in a plain green‐and‐white striped summer dress and heavy white oxford shoes. One looked us over, the other announced us on the phone and then unlocked the little gate. The car turned into a quiet side street and stormed in front of a small, unpretentious house enclosed by a wire fence and guarded by two men in a sentry box. We drove to a suburban neighborhood about 10 minutes away from Tel Aviv, an area lush with huge red poinciana, brilliant in the blaze of the sun.
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