Uncle Rick had come to Israel to find his past.

As a child, he’d fled Nazi Germany, along with his older brother, fleeing to Boston, where the boys grew up with extended family.

The boys’ parents, hoteliers, were supposed to join the boys by next year’s Passover. But they never did. Like many in the Holocaust, their whereabouts remained a mystery. And my uncle had always been nagged by that uncertainty.

His wife’s death from cancer had put the fear of time in him, and shortly after retiring from the IRS, he decided to visit Israel. His intention was to visit Jerusalem’s Yad Vashem Holocaust Museum to see if it had any records of his family. After 78 years, he was hoping to finally find closure.

And that was it. That was his sole purpose in coming to Israel. The trip had nothing to do with religion. Uncle Rick was an atheist. Nor did it have anything to do with ideology. Unlike many American Jews, Uncle Rick cared nothing about Israel.

“I don’t care about Israel,” Uncle Rick said, swatting derisively and then gunning the gas, pushing the Kia rental car to its limits.

(Originally, I’d been concerned about Uncle Rick driving in Israel, given the aggressiveness of Middle Eastern motorists. But as he weaved through the chaotic Jerusalem traffic, honking, and barreling forth at a frenetic, Formula 1 pace, I began to be more concerned for the Israelis. Perhaps Boston really was the only place with more aggressive drivers than the Middle East.)

“I only care about what’s good for America,” Uncle Rick continued, much to the chagrin of Tony, his son, the religious Jew, in the passenger seat. Tony, as usual, kept his trap shut and sat stewing, shaking his head. As he shook his head, so intensely, too, I wondered how Tony kept that tiny coaster of a yarmulke on his big bald noggin. I couldn’t see a clip or tape or anything.

Cousin Tony, who’d made Aliyah four years prior, had been a corporate lawyer and had had something of a nervous breakdown/religious awakening following an acrimonious divorce. Now he spent his days teaching English at an all-boys religious school near Tel Aviv. Although he was making a fraction of his hotshot lawyer salary, what Uncle Rick deemed a “pittance,” to hear Tony tell it, he’d never been happier.

Uncle Rick might have meant what he said about Israel. Or maybe he didn’t. It was impossible to tell, really, much of the time because Rick simply loved to argue. He enjoyed provoking oral confrontations. And he especially enjoyed arguing the opposite side, playing the devil’s advocate.

It was part of his demeanor. To be confrontational, to be loud. His volume, when talking, was always at shouting level. And on the phone, he’d be screaming.

“Rick grew up in a cramped apartment in Boston. He shared a small bedroom with his brother and three cousins. Back in those days, if you didn’t talk loudly, no one would pay attention,” my mother used to say. Like most everyone else, my mother found Uncle Rick difficult and would grit her teeth, holding her tongue as Uncle Rick launched into an occasional misogynistic rant. Then she’d roll her eyes later when he’d argue in favor of women’s rights and feminism.

I was concerned that Uncle Rick would say or do something crazy in Israel. That he’d insult someone or something, cause an international incident. Maybe start a war. That he’d get deported. But, contrary to my fears, Uncle Rick fit right into Israel. In no time at all, he was adapting to the environment, eating falafel, and talking with his hands and starting arguments with perfect strangers. He even entered random debates in Hebrew, although he couldn’t speak the language.