Then I recalled something Ofra Wexler had said. About how Mrs. Chernick would not have had any boarders at all if she didn't have need of money. That had been over a decade ago, but judging by the exterior of the house, that need had persisted.
"I'd be happy to pay you for your time," I said. "It would only be right."
She wanted me to state a number, but I chose to be vague. "That depends on the information you give me. But let's say a lira is the minimum."
And just like magic, I was invited in.
Once inside, she became self-conscious, as though aware of the bleak impression her house, and she herself, gave. She touched her graying hair—short and slightly thinning on top—and used her hand to brush the seat of a timeworn armchair before inviting me to use it.
She needn't have bothered. Her hair was as good as it was going to get, and the living room was clean and orderly. Not that it changed the overall atmosphere.
The furnishings would have been old when Anna had first moved in here. There was an armchair, a low sofa, a dining table, and a hefty book cabinet laden with tomes with yellowing, cracked spines. The ceiling was low and the walls could have used a fresh coat of paint.
Two pictures hung on one wall. In the first, a young Mrs. Chernick in a simple wedding dress was standing beside a suited man with a weak chin and a receding hairline. Mr. Chernick, I assumed.
The second picture showed the same couple, at least ten years older. Mr. Chernick's hair had retreated further by then—as, it appeared, did his chin.
In neither of the pictures were either of them smiling.
"Can I get you anything?" she asked. "Some water perhaps?"
I realized by her wheedling tone that it was not self-consciousness that had prompted the shift in her manner, but avarice. Now that I had turned from a nuisance to a potential source of easily obtained income, I was accorded a measure of hospitality—designed to increase the payout she would receive from me.
I declined the water. She sat on the edge of the sofa, her knees touching.
I said, "In what year did Anna come to live here?"
"1935."
"How was the connection between you and her family made?"
"Through the school. I had been hosting students since the mid-twenties, shortly after my husband, God rest his soul, passed away. I received a letter from them, inquiring whether the room was available for the next school year. My then lodger was graduating, so it was."
"They paid in advance?"
"Of course. For the whole year."
"And they renewed each summer until graduation?"
"Yes. Three years in total."
"What did your services include?"
"I provided the room—" she motioned with her knobby chin to a closed door to my left "—three meals a day, and I also did her laundry. That was extra. Not every lodger I've had opted for that."
But Anna's family did even though they were supposedly of modest means.
"What did she bring with her when she arrived?"
Mrs. Chernick furrowed her brow, deepening her myriad wrinkles. "Two small suitcases, if I recall correctly."
"Matching suitcases?"
"I don't remember."
"What about her clothes? Were they new, expensive?"
"Just regular clothes. Dresses and skirts and shirts and shoes. Nothing that struck me as extravagant."
So Anna's family had come up with the money to send her to study in Tel Aviv, but had not laid out additional funds for new clothes. What this meant, if anything, was unclear to me.
"Can I see her room?"
"Sure," she said, rising to her feet. "Though you won't find anything of hers there. She hasn't lived here for fourteen years."
She opened the door and I peered inside. The room was a small square with one window equipped with worn curtains. There was a single bed with a metal headboard; a tall, narrow closet; a dresser with three drawers; and a small writing desk and an accompanying chair. There was very little open space.
I asked her if this was the same furniture that Anna had used, and she confirmed that it was, with one exception. "I changed the mattress eight years ago."
The closet door hung open, and inside I could see folded dresses and blouses and a nightgown hanging on a hanger. A woman's clothes. Not a teenager's.
"Your current lodger is not a student?"
"A recent immigrant. From Greece of all places. The last time I had a student here was before the war. With what happened to the Jews in Europe, the flow of foreign students to Gymnasia Herzliya has stopped." She gave a morose shake of her head—for those unfortunate Jews, I thought, but her next words proved me wrong. "It was better for me then. There were plenty of European Jewish families with money. Immigrants have very little. I had to cut my rent by thirty percent." She gave me a meaningful look, and it dawned on me that she was painting a picture of poverty and misery in an attempt to appeal to my heart so I would give her more money. I had to quell the urge to scream in her face that she was living like royalty in comparison to what I, and many others, had gone through in the camps.
Instead, I said, "These are hard days for everyone."
"True. But widows like me are especially stricken."
I told her I'd seen enough of the room, and we returned to our seats.
"How did you and Anna get along?" I asked.
"Fine. Just fine," she said after a brief hesitation, and it was obvious she was giving me the answer she thought would please me. If I wanted the truth from her, I would need to rattle her a bit.
I leaned forward sharply, pointed a finger at her, and injected a dose of menace into my voice. "You're lying to me, Mrs. Chernick. And I don't appreciate that one bit."
Seeing her stunned expression was quite enjoyable.
"You're not the first person I've talked to about Anna. I know more than you think. If you lie to me again, you'll get nothing from me. Understand?"
It took her a moment to answer, and when she did, her voice was small and meek, like that of a chastened child. "I understand."
"Good. Now, tell me the truth. Did you like Anna?"
"I did not."
"Tell me why."
"Because she was a nasty, undisciplined, immoral girl. Because she talked back to me. Because she didn't follow the rules of this house." Now she sounded more like herself, only angrier. She'd raised her voice, and the loose skin on her neck quivered as the words shot from her mouth.
"What made her immoral?"
"The way she dressed, always keeping a button open to show more of her skin than was proper. And how she walked, swinging her hips like a good girl never would. And the way she behaved around men."
"Men? You mean students from the school?"
"Them too, I imagine. But I mean older men. Married men."
"Which men?"
She made a general, all-encompassing gesture with her hand. "All sorts. The butcher, the milkman, a neighbor who used to live at the end of the street. And others as well."
"She had affairs with these men?"
"It wouldn't surprise me."
"Wouldn't surprise you? What does that mean?"
"It means that the way she would talk to them, always smiling suggestively and playing with her hair; and the way they looked back at her, like men do at loose women; and being who she was—what else could it be?"
"Did you ever see her kiss any of these men?" I asked.
She shook her head.
"Did she ever bring a man here?"
"Here? No. Never to this house. Never." She was vehement, as though the very idea was sacrilegious.
"Then you don't really know she had affairs, do you? Maybe she was merely flirtatious."
She looked at me, and a sly smile carved a crooked gap between her wizened lips. Something glinted there, and I saw that one of her teeth had been capped in gold.
"Why are you smiling, Mrs. Chernick?" I asked, when a minute passed without her speaking.