She nodded and took another drag. "We first met when we were teenagers. We went to high school together, to Gymnasia Herzliya."
"How did Anna come to study there?"
"Her parents sent her over from Czechoslovakia. She was not the only foreign student in school. Before the Second World War, lots of foreign Jewish families enrolled their children there. Gymnasia Herzliya was known throughout the Jewish world. The first high school in the Land of Israel in which all lessons were conducted in Hebrew. And it had, and has, a well-deserved reputation for excellence. I had a wonderful time there."
"And Anna?"
"Anna fit right in. She'd learned to speak Hebrew back in Prague. I recall her saying that her mother taught her. Naturally, she wasn't totally fluent when she started school, but within a couple of months, she sounded just like the rest of us. She even managed to get rid of her accent. And she was beautiful and vivacious. She became very popular."
"Where did she live?"
"On Kfar Saba Street, in Neve Tzedek. Her parents rented a room for her in Mrs. Chernick's house. She's a widow, and she would always have a student staying with her."
"Did they get along?"
Ofra made a face and tapped loose ash into an oval ashtray. "About as well as fire and water. Mrs. Chernick was stuffy, old-fashioned, and strict. Anna was the exact opposite. You would think that a fifteen-year-old girl would find it hard to live apart from her parents—I know I would have—but she relished her independence. I think that living on her own in Tel Aviv felt like a big adventure to her, like she was a young heroine in a novel."
"Or a play," I said.
Ofra nodded. "Or a play."
"Did Anna and Mrs. Chernick—what's her first name, by the way?"
Ofra frowned, then let out a small "Huh," before saying, "Funny, but I don't know. I don't think I ever knew. I imagine that Anna knew, but we just called her Mrs. Chernick."
"That's fine," I said. "Did she and Anna ever fight?"
"Oh, yes. They would have fiery quarrels. Anna would tell me about them at school the next day. Mrs. Chernick wanted things a very certain way, and Anna rebelled against her restrictions. I don't blame Anna one bit for their not getting along. Mrs. Chernick was a very unpleasant woman. She looked at you like there was something dirty about you. I visited Anna at her house just once and that was enough."
"What sort of restrictions did she impose?"
"A curfew for one. And meals were to be eaten at specific times or not at all. And Anna had to keep her room spiffy clean before she went out. Mrs. Chernick also complained if Anna wore clothes she considered to be immodest or went out with her hair loose. One flare-up they had was when Mrs. Chernick caught Anna smoking in her room. She didn't allow smoking in her house."
"How old was Anna then?"
"Fifteen, sixteen. I can see you think that's way too young for a girl to smoke."
I did, but I saw no point in confirming or denying it. "I'm surprised Mrs. Chernick didn't kick her out."
"She needed the money, I suppose. Otherwise, I doubt she would have had any boarders at all, the old shrew."
I stifled a smile. There was something sweet about the fact that Ofra still held a grudge against Mrs. Chernick over the widow's mistreatment of Anna, even though more than a decade had passed since their school years.
Of course, her perception of what had transpired between Anna and her landlady might have been colored by their friendship. I made a mental note to pay Mrs. Chernick a visit and get her side of the story. She might let me see a side of Anna that no one else would.
"Was Anna's family well-off?" I asked.
Ofra shook her head slowly. "I don't think so. Anna's father worked in a glass factory; her mother was a housewife and schoolteacher. I doubt they had a lot of money."
"In that case, how could they afford to send her here and pay for her schooling and rent?"
Ofra pondered the question and then spread her hands, palms up. "No idea. But maybe I got the wrong impression. Maybe they did have money. Is that important to your investigation?"
"I don't know," I said, thinking that it probably wasn't. "I'm just gathering facts, trying to learn all I can about Anna. Did she have any siblings?"
"One brother, two years her elder. There had also been a younger sister, but she died in infancy. Her parents and brother were all killed during the war."
"Did her brother also attend Gymnasia Herzliya?"
"No."
"Any idea why Anna's parents would send her to study in Tel Aviv and not him?"
A ruminative line appeared between her thin eyebrows. "Hmmm. I must admit the question never even crossed my mind. I suppose there could be all sorts of reasons, couldn't there?"
She was right about that. Maybe Anna's brother was ill. Or maybe he had an apprenticeship of some sort in Prague. Or maybe Anna was the smarter of the two. Or maybe her brother simply refused to go. Still, it was a question without an answer, so I tucked it away in a corner of my mind for later review.
"What sort of student was she?" I asked.
Ofra waggled her hand. "So-so. Anna was bright, but she never made much of an effort with her studies. The only thing in school she was enthusiastic about was the drama club."
"The drama club? What's that?"
"A theater group of students. We used to get together, read scripts, and act out scenes. Anna and I joined together. It was a small group, and not too many students stuck around for long. It's hard work—memorizing scenes, rehearsing, and so on. And there's no test or grade at the end to validate your effort. Nothing apart from a few mediocre productions we put on, all with very low attendance. Most teenagers prefer hanging out in the sun or on the beach."
"But not Anna," I said. "And not you, either."
"No," she agreed, and a wistful expression painted itself on her face, making her look both sadder and younger. "We both loved it. Becoming different people for a time, there's magic in that. It appealed to us both."
"Who ran the club?"
"Menashe Klausner."
"Is he an actor?"
She took a final pull on her cigarette and mashed it out. "He sure wished he was, heard he tried for several theaters over the years, including ours, but never got past the auditions. He taught literature. Probably still does." From her tone I got the impression she did not like Klausner much.
"How many students were in it?"
"Ten, twelve, fifteen. The number kept changing as some students joined while others quit. Like I said, most people at that age have more exciting pastimes. And even among those who stuck it out for a while, there were only a few who were serious about it."
"Like Anna?"
"Yes. She was very passionate about the drama club, too much even."
"Why do you say that?"
"Just that she took it too seriously. Like it was a real theater, and we were already real actresses."
"So she knew early on that she wanted to be a professional actress?"
"She wanted it more than anything. And soon after graduation, Shoresh Theater was holding auditions, so we went."
"And you both got hired?"
"Yes."
"Just the two of you?"
"No, there were three of us. Anna, myself, and a boy named Haggai Geller."
"Haggai Geller?" The name was unfamiliar to me. It wasn't mentioned in the police report. "He's no longer with the theater, is he?"
"No. He was with us for only two years. He joined the British Army in 1940, I think, and went off to fight in the war."
"Did he make it back?"
"Yes. I think he works for the city. At least that's what I heard."
"Why didn't he rejoin the theater?"
"I don't know. But it wouldn't surprise me if he tried and was told to get lost. Truth is, Haggai was a mediocre actor at best. He would constantly get berated for this or that inadequacy. I'm surprised he lasted the two years."