Not to mention the fact that if I turned him in, it would make it harder for Mira to exact her revenge. If I became convinced Davidson was the killer, of course.
"What if he comes after you again?" she said. "A man like that, he doesn't forget easily."
"He's not going to blindside me twice, I promise you that. If he tries, I'll be ready for him." But to be on the safe side, I decided that I would be armed until this case was done.
She gestured at the knife on the table. "What do you want to do with this?"
"Throw it out with the trash."
"With pleasure. Can you get home all right?"
I assured her that I could. She did not seem convinced. To Michael she said, "Can you walk him?"
He asked me where I lived and glanced at his watch when I told him. "I'm already late for my shift, but I can walk you to the corner of Allenby and Tchernichovsky."
"That's close enough," I said.
I squeezed Greta's hand and told her again that I was sorry for bloodying her floor. She told me to hush about that and to come by tomorrow so she could see I was all right. To Michael she said, "Thank you for stepping in when you did. Most men wouldn't have."
He seemed embarrassed by her gratitude, assured her it was nothing, and nodded with a smile at her offer of a free meal whenever he wanted.
Outside, he tossed the remnants of his cigarette into the road. I got the crumpled pack out of my pocket, got two cigarettes out, and offered him one. At the corner of Allenby and Brenner I said, "I owe you one, Michael."
He blew out some smoke. "Forget about it, okay?"
"Okay. I will. In about five minutes. But while I still remember it, know that I owe you one."
After a few more steps I said, "What'd you think about Davidson?"
Michael snorted. "Sleazy. Full of himself. Not as tough as he looks, and not half as tough as he thinks he is. But don't make the mistake of assuming he's too banged up to cause you trouble. He likely has friends who are just as vicious."
"Don't worry. I won't be taken by surprise again. But what I meant was, do you think he might be my man?"
He considered it and shrugged. "I'm not a detective."
"A part of me hopes it's him."
"Why?"
Because then he would absolutely merit killing, I thought. What I said was, "Because he's the best lead I've got."
We passed the turn to King George Street, the road angling northwest.
I said, "You miss your wife, Michael?"
He jerked his head to look at me, surprised.
"Sorry," I said, "I didn't mean—"
"It's all right," he said.
"It's just that I'm also a widower. Five years now. I miss her like mad."
He drew in some smoke, held it in for a beat, and let it out. When he spoke, his voice was thick with smoke and sorrow. "I know what you mean."
There was that sense of affinity again, the feeling that this man and I were very similar. I suddenly realized how long it had been since I had a friend I could talk to openly, without reservation, without fearing that I would be misunderstood or judged. Not even Greta or Reuben knew all my secrets. But maybe Michael could.
"She died in Europe," I said. "In Auschwitz. I feel guilty, that I should have protected her more."
"From the Germans?"
"Yes."
"Was there something you could have done? Could you have resisted?"
I didn't want to answer because the truth was unbearable and shameful. "No. Nothing. But I still can't shake the guilt over what happened to her, over what happened to my children."
"Your children are also dead?" he asked, and I could only nod in response, as my throat had closed up. "I'm sorry," he said. "I know what you mean about guilt." But otherwise he remained silent, offering no platitudes or hollow words of encouragement. There was no pity in his eyes, and he made no effort to affect an expression of commiseration. I was grateful for that. Too many Israelis, those who had lived in Israel while the Nazis strove to eradicate the Jews of Europe, did not know how to act around survivors such as I. The discomfort we aroused in them was palpable. They sought to ease their consciences by trying too hard to ease our pain. I liked that Michael did not try to make me feel better. He probably knew all too well that there was no way to do that. The loss of his wife would have taught him that some wounds cannot be salved by mere words or sympathy.
At the corner of Allenby and Tchernichovsky, we said our goodbyes. We shook hands, and for a second I thought of suggesting I'd walk him to the Reading Power Station. But I was dead tired and ached all over. I needed to get in bed.
"Let's meet at Greta's one of these evenings. You can claim your free meal."
"I'd like that," he said. "She seems like a good woman."
"She is, and her food is excellent. Tell you what, I'll give you a number where you can reach me. Just let me know when you plan to stop by." I recited the number at Levinson Drugstore and he repeated it back to me. We shook hands again and he walked off. I watched him for a few seconds, then turned to Hamaccabi Street.
At home, I peeled off my clothes and let them drop to the floor. In the bathroom mirror, I examined my torso. Beside my two bullet wound scars, there were patches of discolored skin where Davidson had kicked me. My lower back was abraded from being dragged across the pavement. I turned on the shower, standing under the hot jet for five minutes, letting the water sluice off the sweat from my skin and the tension from my body, but took care not to let any of it touch the plasters on my head.
After drying myself, I crawled into bed, leaving all the windows open. My mind started to drift, but it didn't get far. In less than ten seconds I was asleep.
27
It took me all morning to find her.
I woke up after nine, groaning as I rolled out of bed, my body aching and sore in multiple places. I stumbled into the shower, and this time let steaming water run over my head. The water loosened the plasters and stung the broken skin behind my ear. Gently, I peeled off the bandages and prodded the side of my head. A tender lump the size of an olive had blossomed behind my ear. I was happy to find that the wound was already scabbing over. A second lump, smaller and less sensitive to the touch, had grown on the back of my head where it had hit the door Davidson had flung me against. My torso looked like a few canisters of fresh paint had been upended over it.
Despite the pain, I was feeling refreshed and alert. I could not recall the last time I had slept so deeply, but it had been years ago.
I closed all the shutters, then retrieved my box of souvenirs from its hiding place and took out the Luger. I doubted Davidson was in any shape to attack me again today, but I was taking no chances. I got dressed, stuck the Luger in my waistband, and put on my light jacket to hide it from sight.
I made some toast and coffee, consumed both quickly, and discovered I was still hungry. I toasted two more pieces of bread and carried them with me as I left my apartment. I munched on the toast as I made my way north toward Ussishkin Street, where Shulamit Hendleman had lived when Alon Davidson was her lover.
She wasn't living there any longer. In fact, she hadn't lived there for about nine years. I learned this from one of her neighbors, who also informed me that the Hendlemans had gotten a divorce at about the same time. "She was involved with another man," the neighbor told me, shaking her head at the tragedy of a broken marriage. "Cheated on her husband. And Ethan is such a nice man. That's Dr. Hendleman. Imagine, she's married to a doctor and she goes behind his back. Foolish woman."