Noah Klieger sits in a small café in Tel Baruch, a modern quarter in the northeast of Tel Aviv. It is May 2017. He comes here nearly every day for breakfast; breakfast has been sacrosanct ever since the mornings, years ago, when he would wake up on his cot in Auschwitz from the recurring dream of twelve rolls and fresh coffee only to confront the same reality: a moldy piece of bread and a stinking soup made of frozen rutabaga.

He has lived in this quarter for the past twelve years, together with his third wife, Jacqueline. “I don’t…