As I stood there with the thunder of applause in my ears, I scrutinized him, attempting to see past the beard, past the makeup, past the smug grin and the blazing dark eyes, and straight into the depths of Isser Rotner's very soul.
I was trying to determine whether this man, this actor, had a few years ago played a different role, one for which he had never taken nor was given any credit.
I was trying to see whether Isser Rotner was a murderer.
2
Slowly, the audience filed out of the theater hall. With my fellow spectators pressing me on all sides, I wedged myself through the door that opened onto the second-floor landing and descended the stairs to the lobby. Once there, people began to disperse, and I no longer had the unpleasant sensation of warm bodies crowding me. Some people went straight to the exit, while others clustered about the lobby, chatting. I rummaged in my pocket for my cigarettes and had gotten them out when a voice called my name.
The voice was familiar. I recognized it even before I turned and saw its owner's face.
The face was freckled, round, and soft. Topping it was a bald scalp fringed with light-brown hair. A pair of discerning eyes, also light brown, gazed at me from behind horn-rimmed glasses.
"Good evening, Adam," Shmuel Birnbaum said. "Were you watching the play?"
"Yes, Shmuel. I was."
We shook hands. He smiled a small smile. I did not reciprocate. Despite the fact that over two and a half years had passed, I still had not forgiven him for the story he'd written about me in his column in Davar. The story recounted my final battle during the War of Independence, specifically how I had eliminated an Egyptian machine-gun position and nearly gotten killed in the process.
The story made me out to be a hero, but I did not enjoy the attention it got me. I resented even more the invasion of my privacy, which included Birnbaum sneaking into my hospital room and snapping a picture of me unconscious in my bed.
In truth, much of my negative opinion of Birnbaum had dissipated with time. He was a fine journalist and a good writer, and when he gave you his word, you could count on it. The problem was that he was always sniffing for a story, and I did not want him to point his nose in my direction. Especially not on this particular evening.
"I never knew you were a theater aficionado," he said.
"There's a great deal you don't know about me, Shmuel."
"A most lamentable fact, one which I aspire to change. You could help me. I still want to know more about what happened to you in Europe and what you did there, both during and after the war."
"You're very certain I have an interesting story to tell. You may be wrong."
"I'm never wrong about a story, Adam. I can always tell if there's one lurking about. And I've heard rumors about you. Very intriguing rumors."
"From whom?"
"I never reveal my sources, Adam."
"Why don't you just print these rumors, they being so intriguing and all?"
"I'm not the sort of journalist who would do such a thing. You should know that about me."
"I know you'll do anything for a story, even take a picture of a man in his hospital bed."
"Will that one transgression hang over my head forever?" Birnbaum smiled. "You misunderstand me, Adam. I don't have many qualms about how I get my stories, but they need to be real stories. Factual, not based solely on rumor, innuendo, or hearsay."
"I'm glad to know you have a high ethical standard."
"Joke all you want, but you know for a fact that I do."
Which was true. Birnbaum did not print lies if he could help it, nor did he derive pleasure from destroying people on the pages of his newspaper, which other reporters seemed to do for sport. He had also, on one occasion, upon my request, kept my name out of his column. So he was conscientious, as far as his job would allow. I had to give them that.
He said, "What did you think of the play?"
"It was good. The actors did a fine job, especially the lead."
"Yes. King Lear is tailor made for Isser Rotner. He does tragedies very well."
Maybe he does, I thought. But did he also create one in real life?
"You've seen him perform before?" I asked.
"Several times. This theater has been around for a while, you know."
I did know, but there was no benefit to him knowing that. "Oh?"
"Almost twenty years. I think they opened in 1933, or was it '34? I forget which."
"They must be doing well to last that long."
"You would think so, wouldn't you? But if they were, they would have their own exclusive venue and wouldn't have to share this one with the Philharmonic Orchestra. Even tonight there were more than a few empty seats. Truth is, they've had their share of bad luck over the years, and rumor has it that they're in dire financial straits."
"More rumors, Shmuel?"
"Yes, Adam. More rumors. But it's impossible to know for sure, especially since these rumors have been circulating for years."
"You never tried to find out for sure?"
"No. There's nothing interesting about theaters losing money. It's so common, it's boring." He looked around him at the lobby and the people milling about in it. He shook his head in wonderment. "Shakespeare in Hebrew. Who would have thought such a thing would ever come about, eh? This is certainly a glorious time we Jews are living in."
"What about Isser Rotner? What do you know about him?" I asked, and immediately regretted it when Birnbaum turned his eyes back on me, and I saw an inquisitive glint in them.
"Why do you ask?"
I feigned indifference. "Just wondering, that's all. I'm curious after having seen him perform."
Birnbaum's eyes stayed on my face, trying to divine whatever secrets I might be keeping. If only you knew, Shmuel, you'd be salivating all over the floor.
He licked his lips, and I could read the uncertainty on his face. He couldn't tell whether I was being truthful or not. This pleased me no end. Perhaps some acting skills had rubbed off on me during the play.
"Anything in particular you wish to know?" he asked.
I shook my head, knowing that any show of interest on my part would only inflame his suspicion. "Nothing, really. I was just making conversation."
"Hmmm. You're here by yourself, Adam?"
"Yes."
"Just felt like catching a play?"
"Something like that."
"You a fan of Shakespeare?"
I could have said yes, but then I might have been called upon to prove it. This I could not do since I knew next to nothing about the man or his work. So I said, "You're barking up the wrong tree, Shmuel. There's no story hiding among the branches."
"If you say so, Adam," he said, clearly unconvinced. "If you say so."
I lit a cigarette and offered him one. He took one whiff and shook his head.
"My wife wouldn't like that stench on my breath."
"She's here?"
"Yes. And her sister is, too. Which is why I'm here. She's decided to drop by for a visit. A ten-day-long visit."
"You don't sound too thrilled about it."
"Perhaps I would be if I enjoyed listening to two women gossip and chatter about the most inane topics imaginable well into the wee hours of the morning. I swear to God, until a week ago I never would have believed that two people could talk for an hour about nothing but different styles of dresses, but now I do."
I laughed. "Maybe you should write a column about it."
"Maybe I will. Who knows, it might prove very popular with my female readership." He sighed. "Anyway, living in a moshav in the Negev, my wife's sister doesn't get much of a chance to visit the theater. So every evening over the past week we've gone out to one show or another. I like the theater, always have. Early in my career, I even wrote theater reviews. But these days, seeing a play every night just wears me out. Not to mention the cost of the tickets."