He sighed. “I don’t know what he does, okay? But I got the impression that whatever it is, it’s not one hundred percent kosher.”
“You mean he’s a criminal?”
He twisted his lips as though he didn’t like the sound of the word. “In this day and age, who isn’t? This bag of sugar I sold you makes criminals of you and me both.”
“But you think he’s involved in something more serious than that, don’t you?”
Again Alphon hesitated. Finally he nodded.
“What makes you think that? Something he said, something he did? What, he wears clothes he shouldn’t be able to afford? He acts like a tough guy?”
“No. Nothing like that. I told you, Nathan’s a nice guy, and I could be all wrong about him. But what happened was that on the same day I told him to go see Mrs. Wasserman, he invited me to join him and some friends of his at a card game. I went, and one of them had a face that looked like it belonged on a most wanted poster. You know the kind I mean?”
I nodded.
“So that’s the only time I went.” He rubbed his mustache again. “Which was probably smart, since I lost four liras that night.”
“So it’s a regular thing, the card game?”
“That’s what Nathan said. A weekly game. Every Thursday.”
Today was Wednesday, January 3, 1951. Tomorrow, then. I had a lead on where Nathan Frankel would be tomorrow.
I asked him where the card game was held and he gave me an address in Jaffa, close to the port. Then I asked him to describe Frankel to me.
What I heard was all good. The man I was after was shorter than me by five or six inches and, according to Alphon, did not possess a formidable physique. Not the sort of person who could punch holes through you, or absorb hit after hit without going down. Of course, these assumptions could prove catastrophically wrong. Experience had taught me that looks could be deceiving and that a small man with a scrapper’s attitude and the willingness to fight dirty might prove to be more than a match for someone twice his size. And, of course, put a knife or a gun in the hand of any man and size ceases to matter all that much. But, playing the percentages, I was still gratified to learn I was not about to face off with a giant.
I got some money out of my pocket and handed it to Alphon. “Thank you, Zalman. You’ve been most helpful.”
I took the pencils, notebook, and bag of sugar, and was turning toward the door when he spoke.
“You’re not going to tell Nathan I told you where to find him, are you?”
“No, I won’t. You have my word.”
He let out some air.
“And if he happens to drop by today or tomorrow,” I said, “be sure not to mention me.”
He smiled a nervous smile. “That you can count on.” The smile gave way to a frown. “You sure you’re not a cop?”
I nodded with a grin. “Not anymore I’m not.”
5
The following night, after an uneventful day and dinner at Greta’s Café, I went home to prepare for my potential encounter with Nathan Frankel.
My home was a third-floor one-bedroom apartment on Hamaccabi Street that had a kitchen, bathroom, and balcony that were little larger than alcoves. The one room served as bedroom, living room, and dining room. The furniture was well-used and mismatched and had come from diverse sources. One chair I’d found dumped in an alley, the other I bought from a restaurant that was going out of business. The nightstand and reading lamp were given me by a former client in lieu of cash payment.
The bed was in the apartment when I moved in. According to my landlord, four previous tenants had slept and dreamed and perhaps loved in it. The condition of the mattress lent credence to his claim—it was lumpy in places and excessively soft in others—and some of the springs creaked like an old man’s joints when I shifted on the sheets. I wasn’t complaining, though. Compared to other places I’d slept in, that bed was fit for a king.
I’d purchased the closet from an Arab in Jaffa. He had lugged it all the way to Hamaccabi Street on a donkey cart and together we hauled it up the stairs to the third floor and into my apartment. He’d lost a son fighting against us Jews in Israel’s War of Independence, and he asked me where I’d fought in the war. A look of relief passed over his face when he learned I’d not been involved in any fighting in Jaffa. I suppose the money he got from me felt less tainted that way.
Most of the closet was empty. I only made use of two of the five shelves, and the hanging rod had just four hangers dangling from it. Below the rod, on the floor of the closet, lay my spare sheets, pillow cases, and summer blanket. Beneath these, under a false bottom I’d constructed myself, I kept my most valuable possessions.
They lay in a wooden box with a metal clasp and I never brought them out without first closing the shutters across my windows and balcony door so no one would be able to peek inside and see what I had hidden.
I proceeded to do so now, plunging the room into pitch darkness. I flicked on the light switch and the overhead bare bulb came to life, casting its yellowish illumination over the room. I put my linen on the floor, set the false bottom aside, and drew out the box. I placed it on my lap and opened it.
Most of the items the box contained I had brought with me from Germany. These I’d taken from the Nazi officers and officials I killed after I’d recovered from my time in Auschwitz and Buchenwald. Among them were a Luger pistol and ammunition, a finely crafted folding hunting knife with a swastika stamped into its handle, and a slim stack of foreign currency that I had taken as loot.
Since my arrival in Israel in 1947, my original cash hoard had dwindled considerably. A few months ago, however, while working on a case, I had the occasion to add seven hundred dollars to my stash. Some of the American money had since gone to buy real coffee, butter, sardines, and other rationed items that were sold for steep prices by vendors such as Zalman Alphon. A further hundred I’d taken with me the day before to exchange with Mrs. Wasserman.
I was far from well-off, but I had enough to get by for a while, even if nothing new came in. I lived alone, and I had learned the hard way how to make do with little, so my expenses were low.
The only thing I spent real money on was the food I purchased on the black market. I had a weakness for food—in terms of both quality and quantity. I had known starvation, and I had eaten my share of rotten, rancid, foul food. Experience had taught me that having the latter was better than suffering the former. It also explained why I had trouble discarding anything edible and why I was willing to part with a good deal of money to have something better than the very basic and meager rations the government allotted each citizen. My attitude toward food troubled me at times, but I’d come to accept it as something that was simply part of the man Auschwitz had made of me.
My possessions were few. I owned two pairs of shoes; four shirts; three pairs of pants; enough socks, underwear, and undershirts to fill half a shelf in the closet; two hats; a pair of gloves; two jackets; and one coat. None of the clothes were the sort tailors would be falling over themselves to claim as their handiwork.
My kitchen cupboards housed four plates; two soup bowls; two cups; three glasses, two tall and one short; a frying pan; and a pair of cooking pots, one of which was missing a handle. I also owned a large metal sieve, but I couldn’t remember the last time I’d made use of it.
The cutlery in the drawer beneath the sink came from numerous sets of unknown origin and some of it was speckled with stains that I had failed to scrub off. The icebox squatted in a corner of the kitchen like an old, immovable rock; and like the rock that Moses was said to have struck with his staff, it leaked water, though not so much for me to get too bothered about it.