"I do too," Nitza said, nodding a few times as though to convince herself.
Things must be going even worse for the theater than they appear, I thought.
I hesitated before asking my next question, but decided I could not avoid doing so. "Did either of you ever feel that Isser and Anna were more than just colleagues?"
The question had a peculiar effect on them. They both sat utterly still, wearing the same stunned expression on their faces, and then they exchanged their longest glance yet before Edith said, "No. No way. Never. Who put that idea in your head?"
The fervent way both were shaking their heads made me certain that while they might not have known for sure, they suspected it was true just the same.
And that, I decided, was as good a confirmation as I was ever likely to get.
21
I found a street bench in the shade of a cypress tree and sat smoking and thinking. I thought about the talk I'd just had with Edith and Nitza, and those I'd had with Anna's neighbors the previous evening. How none of them, even those who had made an effort to befriend her, had really known her.
Which made me wonder why. A woman who doesn't talk about herself may have something to hide. And secrets can be a reason for murder.
So I decided to change my plan and head to where I might learn more about Anna, her history, her earlier years.
The sprawling building at the northern tip of Herzl Street looked like a cross between a shrine and a medieval castle. One of the oldest buildings in Tel Aviv, and many would say the grandest, the Herzliya Hebrew Gymnasium—colloquially known as Gymnasia Herzliya—was a testament to the priorities of the city's founders. Education and the Hebrew language occupied the top of the list.
Crossing the well-maintained forecourt, with its cypresses and palm trees, and entering the building, I was enveloped by the happy, rapid-fire chatter of teenagers standing on the cusp of adulthood. Soon, these carefree boys and girls would exchange their clothes for olive-green uniforms. They would guard Israel's borders, fight its wars, and some would die defending it.
I found Menashe Klausner in an almost empty classroom, engaged in close conversation with a female student. A book lay open on her table, and he was leaning over it, pointing something out to her. She was fingering the end of one of her pigtails, moving her eyes back and forth between text and teacher. Standing in the doorway, with the clamor of the student-packed hallway behind me, I couldn't make out what they were saying.
A minute later, Klausner straightened, smiled down at his student, and patted her shoulder with a large hand. She rose, picked up her book and bag, and bid him goodbye in a sweet, girlish voice. I moved aside to let her pass and entered the classroom.
Klausner hadn't noticed me enter. He was gathering his papers from the teacher's desk and stuffing them in a leather briefcase with large metal clasps.
"Mr. Klausner?"
He raised his head and looked questioningly at me from under a pair of closely set, bushy eyebrows. "Yes. How may I help you?"
He was a big man, broad and thick-chested but soft looking, with a neck that was turning jowly and a forehead deeply creased with thought lines. His graying hair was receding in front but had recently been groomed. As had his thick mustache. I pegged his age at fifty-five. He wore black trousers and a short-sleeved white shirt with a wide collar. His clothes were neat and pressed, his shoes polished, his belt buckle gleamed. This man was no stranger to vanity.
"My name is Adam Lapid," I said. "I'd like to talk to you about a former student of yours. Anna Hartman."
His eyes went from me to the open doorway behind me and back again. I looked over my shoulder and saw no one, but I understood his concern.
"How about I close the door?" I said in a quiet voice. "That way, none of your students will overhear our conversation."
He nodded, and I went to shut the door. By the time I came back, he'd taken the chair behind the teacher's desk. He was gazing in the direction of the nearest arched window, looking pensive.
"Why are you here?" he asked, and I realized I hadn't told him what I did for a living.
"I'm a private investigator. I'm working to find out who killed Anna."
He looked at me, blinked a few times, and sat up straight. "After all this time? Isn't it a lost cause?"
"Older crimes than this one have been solved when new information came to light."
"There's new information? What new information?"
I sat on the edge of the nearest student table. "I can't discuss that, Mr. Klausner. Not at this stage of the investigation. What I was thinking is that you'd be able to help me know more about Anna, what she was like when she studied here."
"Why is that important? She died eight years after she graduated."
"You followed the case?"
"I read about it in the newspapers. I was deeply distraught by her death."
"When was the last time you saw her?"
He frowned in concentration, pushing a pair of rectangular glasses up the bridge of his prominent nose. "Not too long after graduation, the day she was hired by Shoresh Theater."
"She came to tell you about it?"
"Yes."
"So you and her were close?"
"She was a student of mine and participated in the drama club."
"Yes, I heard about that."
"You did? From whom?"
"Another of your former students. Ofra Wexler."
"Ah," he said. "Yes. She and Anna were classmates."
"I understand they were close friends at the time."
"Yes, I suppose they were."
"You don't sound too sure about it."
"I don't?" he said, looking a bit surprised. "There's no reason why I shouldn't. Those two were practically inseparable."
"No squabbles over boys?"
Klausner cleared his throat. "I wasn't privy to those sorts of discussions, Mr. Lapid."
"How about who got the bigger parts in your productions?"
"If there was any tension between the two girls, I didn't see it."
"Who did get the bigger parts? Anna or Ofra?"
He gave it some thought. "Anna did. Not all the time, but mostly."
"You made that call?"
"Yes. I was the one who decided which student played which part."
Which might be the reason why Ofra didn't like him, because he'd preferred Anna to her. Could the seeds of her envy and resentment have been sown so long ago? And had they finally bloomed to a blazing hatred five years ago and driven her to murder?
"Tell me about Anna," I said.
He shifted his big bulk in his seat. "What is there to say? She was a good student and a very nice girl."
"I understand she was dedicated to acting."
He nodded. "She worked very hard at it. Did not miss a single rehearsal. That's not common, Mr. Lapid. Most students who take part in the drama club are much less reliable."
"How long have you been running this club?"
"I started it in 1926."
"Twenty-five years, then?"
"Yes," Klausner said. "Well, apart from some years I taught in Haifa. Let's see, I was there for five years, so I've headed the drama club for twenty years in total." His chest swelled with evident pride.
"What made you move to Haifa?"
"I thought a change would do me good. But Haifa doesn't hold a candle to Tel Aviv. I was happy to return here."
I wondered why it had taken him five years to move back, but saw no reason to ask.
"Twenty years," I said, "that's a long time. Why do you do it?"
"A love of the theater. Second only to my love for teaching." He smiled a slow, self-satisfied smile, liking the picture he was presenting of himself. "If not for that, I'd be an actor. But a teacher is all I really ever wanted to be."