"I knew nothing about that. Nothing. I swear."
I believed him. A minute ago, I was ready to pound him. But now, seeing him all hunched up and miserable on that dingy bed in this shabby room, I mostly felt sorry for him.
"You were stupid, Meir. I told you he wasn't the sort of guy you could control. If I hadn't killed him, one of these days he would have killed you and taken over your operation, probably right after you taught him everything he needed to know."
He shook his head so hard sweat drops flew off his brow. "He told me we were going to be partners, that he would buy into the business."
"He had money? I thought he just got out of prison."
"He said he was going to get some soon. Right after he finished with you."
A planned robbery? Or did Ofra also promise him money to get rid of me?
"And you believed that? Meir, a guy as hard as Amiram will never be partners for long with someone as soft as you."
Meir shut his eyes and shuddered. He was sweating like crazy, but he also looked like he was freezing. He didn't protest, didn't claim a toughness he didn't possess. He knew I was right.
"You ever meet Ofra Wexler?" I asked.
"Sure. She and Amiram went together on and off. I just can't believe she'd do what the papers said she did. I always thought she was a good girl."
"When was the last time you saw her?"
"I don't know. Maybe eight years ago. Maybe nine."
"You're sure it was as long as that? Before 1946?"
"Yeah. Like I said, it was eight years at least. I didn't even know she and Amiram were still in touch."
I took a moment to process this, then decided it fit with what I'd read in Amiram Gadot's file. The last time Ofra's name was mentioned there was ten years ago, when she visited him in prison. Then Amiram spent five years behind bars, and shortly after his release, he killed Anna. Perhaps he and Ofra broke things off after that, so that now, in 1951, his feelings toward her were not enough to compel him to commit murder. She had to offer him money as well.
Meir had finally let go of the shirt. One end had fallen to the floor. The other still clung to one of his knees. His cheeks were red and wet and shiny, like a stained-glass window in a rainstorm.
"I'm so sorry, Adam. I know you must hate me. I deserve it. I'm just a coward. Just a stupid, worthless coward."
"Shut up," I said. "Don't talk for a minute." I just couldn't bear listening to his self-pity. Couldn't look at his pitiful face, with his glistening eyes and his nose leaking snot. I looked at my hands instead, the hands I'd planned on using to hurt Meir for letting his cousin ambush me. I just couldn't see myself using these hands to hurt the pathetic man sitting before me.
He wasn't a bad man, merely a weak one. I was angry at him, but I didn't hate him.
"Go wash your face," I said. "There's still some blood on it."
He went into the bathroom. There was no door, just a ratty curtain, and I heard him turn on the faucet and splash water on his face. He came back, wiping his hands on a small towel. Sitting back on the bed, he asked, "What now? What are you going to do with me?"
"Where's your wallet?" I asked.
"My wallet?"
"Yeah. Where is it?"
It was in the suitcase. Inside, I found fifty-three liras and change. I transferred fifty liras to my own wallet and tossed Meir's back into the suitcase. Meir didn't voice the slightest objection.
"You probably have more stashed away around here somewhere," I said, "but I'll settle for fifty. A partial compensation for the cut on my arm and my painting."
"Painting?"
"The painting your cousin destroyed," I said, my anger and voice rising in tandem. "The painting of my—" I managed to stop myself before I said the words wife and daughters. He wouldn't understand. I took and released a long breath and made my fists unclench as a stab of pain sliced through my soul. "Never mind. Just be thankful I don't toss this place for the rest of it. I figure you'll need your money till you get settled into your new line of work."
"What new line?" he asked.
"Whatever you choose. You're done with smuggling." I paused, taking the edge off my voice. "Look, Meir, you're not cut out for this business. You're too soft. A man like you can get away with selling a little sugar on the side or a few chocolate bars out of his apartment, but you've gotten too big. You'll attract predators, like your cousin, and you won't be able to protect your operation. You'll end up dead. Take my advice: Get out of it now before you join your cousin in whatever lies beyond."
He didn't argue. He just started crying fresh tears and nodded. "Thank you, Adam. I appreciate it."
"So you're out?" I asked.
He wiped his face. "Yes. Yes, I'm out. Are we good?"
"No," I said. "But we're not bad either."
I left him there, with his split lip and lighter wallet and the chance of a fresh start. I was pretty sure he would take it, and I felt good that I'd given it to him.
39
The loss of my painting weighed on me heavily. Four days after Ofra's suicide, I went in search of the old man who'd sold it to me. Maybe I could get him to paint me a new one.
When I'd bought it, the old man had been sitting on a small stool near Masaryk Square, a slew of his paintings arrayed on the sidewalk before him. But when I got there, a little after nine in the morning, I found the sidewalk empty of both man and art. Asking around the shops in the area, I learned the old man hadn't been seen for weeks. None of the shopkeepers knew his name or where he lived or where he might have gone. One of them stated proudly that he'd told the old man to clear off. "His dirty little paintings were annoying to look at, and he took up too much of the sidewalk. It was hurting my business."
I toured the northern part of the city in search of him, my desperation mounting as the hours passed. By the time I gave up and started toward home, my feet were aching and the skin on my face and the back of my neck felt sunburned. It was almost three o'clock.
I was plodding down King George Street when I came upon a lively gathering of men and women and children outside the three-story building that stood at number 38.
Like all Tel Avivians, I knew that building. It was Metzudat Ze'ev—Ze'ev's fortress—the headquarters of Menachem Begin's Herut party, named after Ze'ev Jabotinsky, the father of Revisionist Zionism.
A ten-year-old boy stuck a flier into my hand. It showed an unflattering caricature of David Ben-Gurion, underlined by a pithy exhortation to bring his failed leadership to an end by voting for Herut.
I folded the flier, slid it in my pocket, and continued walking—only to be stopped two seconds later by a voice calling my name.
Turning, I saw her. Varda Navon.
She was dressed as simply as in our previous encounter. White dress with black trim, brown shoes, a bag slung over one shoulder. She held a stack of fliers. More Herut propaganda.
"Hello, Adam," she said, with a small smile. "Nice to see you again."
"You too, Varda. I had no idea you were a Herutnik."
"I hope that doesn't make you think badly of me."
"Not at all, I assure you."
Her smile widened, but soon her expression became serious. "I keep thinking about our conversation, how wrong I was. I still can't believe it, you know, what Ofra did."
"By all accounts, she was a very good actress. She fooled everybody."
"Yes, she did. The papers didn't say, but I suppose it wasn't really the police who solved the case, but you."
"Unlike theater actors, I don't enjoy the spotlight," I said.
She nodded understanding. "I know it's wrong of me, but I can't help feeling a little sorry for Ofra. The way they treated her was wrong. They humiliated her. That must have torn her apart from the inside."
"You mean Eliezer Dattner and Nahum Ornstein did," I said, a little harshly. "Anna never humiliated anyone."