Alan bristled with energy and wit. Tall, slender and thoroughly imbued with the speech and demeanor of the Brit that he was, he sported a well-groomed moustache that curled mischievously on each end. He puffed away on a Brebbia calabash pipe, a type favored by Sherlock Holmes. His sandy-colored hair was swept back from his forehead and cut just below the ears. If he had donned a stove-pipe hat, I would have imagined him a rakish character from a Dickens novel.

Aliza was quite the opposite. Barely five-feet tall and pleasingly plump; she wore an exotic caftan and spoke in a distinctive middle-eastern accent. Her henna-dyed hair was attractively gathered in a bun on top of her head. Her creased face was expressive with eyes that twinkled with interest and curiosity.

Our friendship lasted more than twenty years and over the course of that time I randomly recorded their stories. This amazing couple had not only witnessed, but participated in, some of the most pivotal moments in history. Just before Aliza died two years after Alan, at the age of ninety-seven and I promised I would write their story. So here it is, as told from Aliza’s point of view.