Mira offered to make me some tea and started asking me about Operation Yoav and the day I was injured. I told her I had to get going. I needed to inform my client her son was dead.
At the door, Mira asked, "Is that all, then?"
Her question puzzled me. "What else is there?"
She licked her lips. "I thought…well, I just hoped—never mind, I suppose."
I thanked her for her time and left.
It was Sunday, the day of the week on which Henrietta was cleaning the house with a phone in it. I entered a café on Dizengoff Street that had a phone and dialed the number. She answered on the fifth ring.
"Hello," came her voice, tentative and brittle.
"Henrietta, it's Adam Lapid calling in with a report."
"Yes. Yes. Any news?" Her voice had undergone a metamorphosis. Now it was fuller, bolstered by hope.
My mouth opened to deliver the bad news, and in my mind I had already rehearsed what I would say, but no words came out. I could hear her breathing on the other end of the line, and I pictured her pressing the receiver to her ear, eager for the news that would make her life worthwhile again.
"Nothing yet, I'm afraid," I heard myself say. The words sounded strange, as if spoken with another man's voice. "But I'm still working on it."
"Oh. I see." Her disappointment was palpable, and I could scarcely imagine what her reaction would have been had I had the guts to tell her the truth. She also sounded confused, and I could well understand why. I'd told her I would call in two weeks, sooner if I found out anything. Then I had called sooner, but said I had nothing to report. I wished I'd never picked up the phone and wanted to get off the line as fast as possible.
"Anyway. That's what I called to say. I'll call again next week. I hope to have something by then."
I said goodbye and ended the call. Laying down the receiver, I felt like the world's biggest coward. Some hero you are, I thought.
I must have been staring into space, because the bartender snapped his fingers before my eyes. "You okay? Hey, mister, can you hear me?"
I blinked. "Yes. Just daydreaming."
"Yeah. That happens," he said, giving a friendly chuckle. "Hope you were someplace nice. And not so hot."
I forced a smile on my face and told him to get me a beer.
I took the beer to a vacant table and nursed it for the next ten minutes. What had I gained by lying to Henrietta? What good had it done? Her son was still dead, and I would still need to inform her of that fact. Only a quarter of the beer remained when the answer came to me. On some level, I must have known it from the moment I found myself unable to tell her the truth.
I went back to the phone and dialed a number from memory.
"Hello, Reuben," I said when the familiar, warm voice came over the line.
"Adam, how are you?"
I told him I was fine and inquired after himself, his wife, Gila, and his four children.
"Everyone's doing well. Both the goddess and the angels." He laughed at his own description of his wife and children. "You should drop by, the children would love to see you. It's been some time since you last saw them."
A couple of months, I thought, recalling the visit with excruciating clarity. I did not wish to tell Reuben how his children—his lovely, beautiful children—had reminded me of my own.
"Maybe soon," I said, knowing it was likely a lie. "The reason I called is I need a favor."
"If I can help, Adam, you know I will."
"It's about a case. A murder that happened ten years ago."
"Ten years ago? Does this have anything to do with that woman I referred to you?"
"Yes. I found her son."
"I see. I'm sorry to hear that, Adam. Dreadfully sorry. Did I do right when I gave her your name? I wasn't sure, but she seemed hell-bent on keeping on looking."
"Don't worry about it, Reuben. What's done is done. I want to have a look at the investigation report. Can you get it for me?"
"A case that old would have been archived. I'll ask for it and should have it by tomorrow. Unless it got misplaced over the years. I hope it wasn't."
Me too. Because if I don't get that file, I lied to Henrietta Ackerland for nothing.
"The victims' names are Esther and Erich Kantor," I said. "They died on August 26, 1939. The murders took place in Tel Aviv." I explained that the victims were living under false names because they had immigrated to Palestine illegally.
I heard scribbling on his end as he copied the details.
"I'll call the archive right now. If they find it, I'll have it by tomorrow afternoon."
"Thank you, Reuben. I'll come by tomorrow. Give my regards to Gila and the children."
I paid for the call and went back to what was left of my beer. It had gone stale. Like the murder case, most likely. A crime investigation was like that. It started out with plenty of fizz and bubbles, but they quickly evaporated. What was left was a whole lot of stale information that was largely worthless. When a beer got that way, it got poured down a drain. A case was simply put away, to be forgotten or misplaced. Dear God, I hoped it hadn't been misplaced. Because it was no longer forgotten. Because I knew why I had lied to Henrietta Ackerland, why I had refrained from telling her that her son was dead.
I wanted to find out who had killed him and Esther. I wanted it badly. Maybe, just maybe, if I brought the killer to justice, it would make Henrietta's pain bearable. Maybe she wouldn't crumble to dust when she learned the truth.
I didn't know whether I truly believed that. Maybe it was something I told myself to excuse my lying to her. Maybe I wanted to catch this killer for personal reasons. Because if there was one thing I hated more than anything, it was child killers.
I would never be able to bring the men who had killed my daughters to justice. I did not know their names, and no matter how many Nazis I killed, there would always be more who were involved in the wholesale murder machine that had claimed my daughters, along with so many others. Full vengeance was impossible.
But I might be able to avenge the death of Henrietta's son. And that was what I planned on doing.
11
The following morning, I descended from my apartment and walked west toward Tchernichovsky Street. In my hand was a brown paper bag containing the two western paperbacks I'd finished over the past week.
I turned north on Tchernichovsky and, shortly before the corner of Bograshov, encountered what was now a common sight in Tel Aviv. A long line of basket-wielding women snaked out of a grocery store and halfway down the block. In the store window hung a handwritten sign proclaiming the arrival of fresh eggs that very morning. The number of eggs was not specified. I wondered how many of these women would go home empty-handed. More than a few, I bet.
I turned west on Bograshov, marching toward the sea. The morning sun was at my back and cast my shadow in front of me. A couple of blocks past the turn to the Trumpeldor Cemetery, between a women's clothing store and an insurance agency, was Zion Books. A bell tinkled as I pushed open the door and stepped inside.
The interior smelled of old paper and dry leather. Books were haphazardly stacked on shelves lining two walls, on narrow tables along the front window, and on the counter. Behind said counter sat a narrow-shouldered scholarly man in his fifties, reading a hardback through a pair of very thick glasses. He lifted his eyes at the sound of the bell and, seeing me, set his book aside. He smiled a delicate little smile, but one that spoke of true delight.
"Adam, nice to see you. I was just thinking of you."
"What brought me to mind?" I asked, crossing over to the counter and extending my hand.
The man shook it. His palm was dry and his handshake limp. His strength lay not in his body, but in his mind. His name was Erwin Goldberg, and books were his passion and business. He owned Zion Books and, he once told me in a tone utterly devoid of bragging, he had read over ten thousand books over the course of his lifetime. I would have doubted any other man who made such a claim, but I did not doubt Erwin Goldberg.