Over the cemetery walls I could see the second- and third-floor apartments on surrounding streets—Pinsker, Hovevei Tsiyon, Trumpeldor, and the bottom end of Tverya Street. From those windows and balconies, one had a clear view of the cemetery. But at night, with the grounds unlit, with all these tall and irregular shapes protruding and casting weird shadows, it would be difficult to make anything out. And the murder scene itself, walled as it was on three sides, would be screened from view. Especially since it was located near the western edge of the cemetery, so that its open side—the eastern—was far from any neighbor's roving eye.
The killer had chosen the murder spot well, suggesting forethought rather than a spur-of-the-moment eruption of murderous fury. This was what Meltzer had known I'd conclude the moment I visited the crime scene.
Had the killer known Anna? Had he scouted her neighborhood and passed by the cemetery in the process? Had he wandered inside, treading between these memorials of life and death, searching for the best place to slake his depraved thirst? Had he stood where I now did and pictured in his mind how he would do it? How it would feel to bring Anna here, to this spot, where he could have his way with her?
Or had he been a stranger to her? Had he simply lain in wait for a young, attractive woman to defile, and Anna had had the misfortune of catching his eye?
The latter option was unwelcome. Because if that were the case, then my chances of catching the murderer were close to nil. Which was why I decided to work on the assumption, at least for the time being, that Anna had known her killer.
Which made me think of Isser Rotner.
He certainly could have done it. He knew where Anna lived. He might have known of her plans for that night. Hell, he might have learned of them from her own lips.
And, of course, there was the matter of the false alibi.
But what was his motive? If he and Anna were lovers, why would he try to rape her? And why kill her?
Maybe she had broken off their affair. He was the sort of man who would not take such a rejection kindly. Or maybe she had threatened to expose his infidelity to Dahlia, and he decided to shut her up.
And then he persuaded his wife to lie on his behalf. To help him get away with the brutal slaughter of a young woman.
At that moment, I was struck by the acute wrongness of the crime that had been committed here, in this tranquil island of remembrance. A cemetery is a holy place. Which is why the defacing of headstones, or the smashing of them, enrages the soul. But little desecrates a place more than murder does.
So in a way, the killer had sinned not merely against Anna, but also against all those who slumbered here for all eternity, as well as those who were left behind to grieve over them.
All of a sudden, I felt the weight of all these stones, and the lives they commemorated, press upon me so tightly that my breath grew short and labored. Or perhaps it was the memory of other lives, and other deaths, those that were not recorded on any headstone, that was crushing me like a mountain of sorrow. All those millions who were turned to dust and ashes, or who were buried in huge mass graves without a word of prayer said for them—those whose names were lost forever.
Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath and let it out in a long, guttural sigh. For a few seconds, I felt hot and dizzy, tremulous on my feet. The mundane noises of the city grew faint and distant, as though I had been removed to another place and time.
And then, after a minute or maybe much more, the disconcerting sensation passed. My legs were steady once again. My ears resumed their normal function. My breath ran easy and unencumbered.
I opened my eyes and took another look at the murder scene. If my visit here had brought me any closer to catching the killer, I would only know this later on. For now, it seemed that there was nothing more for me to do here.
Or perhaps there was.
Scouring the earth between the closely laid headstones, I quickly found what I was looking for. With my bounty clutched in one fist, I again climbed the five stairs that led to the tombstone upon which a young actress was found dead.
And on this tombstone I laid three stones, according to Jewish custom. The first for Mayor Dizengoff; the second for his wife, Zina; and the third, smooth and small and alabaster white, for Anna Hartman.
17
It was coming up on six by the time I emerged from the main gate of the cemetery. It was still light, the sun low in the western sky, and still hot, though not as much as before.
I rubbed a dry hand over my face, getting a powerful whiff of stone dust as my palm swept over my nose. The same palm that had touched Mayor and Mrs. Dizengoff's headstone, with Anna's blood absorbed into it.
I had been to the place where Anna had died. Now I wanted to visit the place where she'd lived. It was in the northern section of Hovevei Tsiyon Street, a third-floor apartment that looked out onto the cemetery across the road. Standing at the foot of the building, I was struck by the chilling realization that every time she stepped onto her balcony, Anna had gazed upon the scene of her future violent death, without ever knowing it. This I confirmed a few minutes later, as I was invited into the apartment by the couple who now lived there, and shown onto the balcony. From there I gazed down at the forest of headstones below. As I suspected, the Dizengoffs' headstone was hidden from view by the walls of their burial plot.
The current residents had lived in the apartment for three years and had never heard of Anna. The apartment had been empty when they moved in. Nothing of Anna remained there.
I went through the building, knocking on doors, talking to whoever answered. Not everyone was home, and not all those who were had lived in the building when Anna did. One neighbor said Anna had been friendly and well mannered but claimed to know next to nothing about her. Another said she'd seen her on stage a few times, and when she'd complimented Anna on one of her performances, Anna had been gracious but did not invite further conversation. Neither of them recalled seeing Anna in the company of a man or remembered anyone visiting her apartment.
Mr. Bayefsky, an elderly neighbor with a thick Russian accent and eyes the color of storm clouds, said he had been heartbroken when Anna died.
"She was a lovely girl. Just lovely. Kind, sweet, generous. A couple of months before her death, I was hospitalized for two weeks, and I had no one to care for darling Cleo here." Cleo raised her furry head at the mention of her name, gazed at me with sleepy eyes, and lowered her head back onto her paws. She was draped over Bayefsky's lap.
"Cleo's the only family I have," Bayefsky said, "and I worried about her well-being more than I did about my own, ill though I was. None of the other neighbors agreed to care for her—each had their own inventive excuse—but Anna agreed instantly and with evident joy. She fed her, walked her, played with her, made sure she had everything she needed. And each day, she came to visit me at the hospital to tell me how Cleo was doing. I cannot tell you how much that meant to me, Mr. Lapid. I believe it played a big part in my swift recovery."
He laid a liver-spotted hand on the dog's white fur and stroked it with the tenderness of a mother's touch.
"When I came home, I offered to pay Anna for her trouble, but she adamantly refused. She said it had been her pleasure, that Cleo was great company, and said something about maybe getting a dog herself. And maybe she would have if she hadn't been killed. I wish to God you'll catch whoever did it."