A strangled, hopeless, keening voice deep in my head howled, I've lost them again. I felt my eyes grow wet, but now was not the time for tears. The cops wouldn't understand.
Still, my face must have shown something, because Inspector Bartov asked, "You all right, Mr. Lapid?"
"Yeah," I said, struggling to control my voice. "I just really loved this painting."
Someone came with a stretcher and carted the body away. Outside my door, a few of my neighbors had congregated. The police were blocking their view of the apartment. Bartov ordered them to go home. He asked me to come to the station the next day to write up a formal statement, then offered me a ride to the hospital. A young doctor with sharp features and sure fingers prodded my pummeled flank and stated he did not believe I'd sustained any permanent internal injuries. Then he stitched up my wound, told me not to strain myself, and said my arm should be back to normal in a week or two.
32
It was after nine by the time I got home from the hospital. There was blood on my floor and it was stinking up my apartment. I threw open the windows and washed the floor till not a speck remained. Then I cleaned myself up as best I could, taking care to keep my bandages dry.
I sat on the edge of my bed and considered my day. I'd been lucky. Luckier than I deserved. If Amiram had opted to use his pistol instead of a knife, I'd be dead right now. He had wanted to kill me quietly, and that was the only reason I was still alive.
But I wasn't out of the woods yet. I still had the killer to contend with. And now, when the attack I'd invited on myself occurred, I couldn't simply defend myself. One act of self-defense was acceptable. Two in the space of a few days would raise the eyebrow of every policeman in Tel Aviv. Surviving whatever came next just became much more difficult.
I slept on my punctured mattress with my knife under my pillow. My sleep was usually beset by nightmares of Auschwitz and my family, but on days on which I struck a blow or spilled blood, I was given a reprieve. I tried not to think why this happened. I suspected the answer would not be to my liking. That night, I slept like the dead who often tormented my dreams.
In the morning, I went to Levinson Drugstore, thanked the Levinsons for their help the previous day, and assured them my arm was all right. Then I found a café on King George where no one knew me and made some calls, trying to locate Meir Gadot. I didn't find him.
I went to the police station on Yehuda Halevi Street. I sat down with Inspector Bartov, dictated and signed my statement, and was told the case was as good as closed. Only paperwork remained to be done. That and Amiram Gadot's burial.
"Scum like that," Bartov said, "they should just dump him in a pit and not waste money on a headstone."
I thought there were already too many Jews buried in unmarked graves, enough to fill the world end to end, but kept my opinion to myself.
After finishing with the inspector, I went upstairs to Reuben Tzanani's office. He leaped from his chair the second he saw me and rounded his overburdened desk.
"Adam, I just heard what happened. Are you all right? How's your arm?"
"I'm okay, Reuben. The doctor said I'll be as good as new in no time."
He peered worriedly at my face, as though distrustful of my answer and attempting to divine my true condition. I would have bet he wore the same expression whenever one of his children scraped a knee or came down with a fever.
"Sit down, sit down," he said. "I'll go get you some coffee. You want some coffee?"
I smiled. "I'm all right, Reuben. Truly. You know me, I've been hurt worse before."
He did know, of course, he had seen me on the brink of death, but this reminder did not seem to allay his concern one bit. Even when I did as he had bidden and sat down, he continued to hover about, a frown creasing his otherwise smooth forehead.
"You're making me nervous, Reuben," I said.
He threw up his hands and leaned against the desk. "I'm sorry. I know I worry too much. I'm glad that you're okay."
"That makes two of us."
"I understand it's a clear case of self-defense. You won't be charged with anything."
"That's what I was led to believe."
"I wonder what made him pick your apartment to rob."
"Probably random chance. We'll never know," I said, then changed the subject so I wouldn't have to lie to him further. "By any chance, did you get the information I asked you for?"
"The dates on which those three men died? Yes, I have it right here." He plucked a sheet of paper off his desk and handed it to me. Birnbaum's memory proved accurate. Eliezer Dattner had died on July 10, 1939; Nahum Ornstein on April 24, 1940; and Emil Polisar on May 25, 1948. I copied the dates into my notebook, one to a line, writing Anna's date of death, May 28, 1946, in its proper place between Ornstein and Polisar. I looked at the four lines I had scribbled and never felt surer that I wasn't imagining things. Meltzer was wrong. Birnbaum too. Two of the men whose names were now scrawled in my notebook, if not all three of them, had been murdered. And at that moment the killer was likely plotting how to add my name to the list of victims. But that didn't mean I should sit idly by and wait. Being prey never appealed to me. Hunter is a role that suits me much better.
"Did you manage to get any of the files?" I asked.
"Give me a minute," Reuben said, "I'll call downstairs and see if they arrived." After he hung up, he said, "Just one file so far, I'm afraid. Sit tight, I'll run down and get it."
It took him three minutes to return. When he did, he had two files tucked under his arm and a mug clutched in his other hand. He handed me the mug with a sheepish smile. "I figured you could use some coffee, even if you're sure you're okay."
I smiled in gratitude and took a sip. The coffee was of the rationed chicory variety. To add insult to injury, it had been boiled to within an inch of its life. But someone had loaded it with sugar, probably confiscated in a police raid, and that made it halfway decent.
"I thought you said there was just one file," I said, placing the mug on an unoccupied corner of Reuben's desk.
"The other one is of your uninvited visitor. I thought you might want to take a look, see who he was."
I didn't. Amiram Gadot was of absolutely no interest to me anymore. But I thought Reuben might be taken aback if I put it as bluntly as that.
"Maybe later, Reuben," I said. "Let me see the other file first."
The file was of Eliezer Dattner's shooting. Inside were a dozen pictures and a similar number of pages, some printed and others written in either pencil or pen. All of the writing was in English, a reminder of who ruled this land in 1939. The officer in charge was probably back in Britain if the Second World War hadn't claimed him.
The report stated that Eliezer Dattner had been shot three times in the chest at very close range. One of the bullets had found his heart. That would have killed him almost instantly.
Dattner's wallet was found on the body. That bolstered my belief that the nature of the killing was other than it seemed. For if the shooter was indeed an Arab, why would he take the time to shove a political pamphlet in Dattner's mouth and not bother to rifle through the dead man's pockets for loot?
Meltzer would suggest something had scared the shooter away—an approaching vehicle, perhaps—but I was through trying to convince everyone else I was right. I would see this through alone, my way.
"Ugly fellow," I heard Reuben mutter, and I glanced up from my reading to see him in his chair, perusing Amiram's file. I didn't respond, just continued reading.
There was a picture of the pamphlet. Red Arabic letters that meant nothing to me. A translation was included. The text exhorted all Jews to leave the Holy Land of Palestine immediately, threatening those who ignored this warning with a bloodbath. All this in the name of Allah and his Prophet. The pamphlet also called upon all Arabs to rise up, to slaughter the Jews and claim all of Palestine for the Arab Nation. No one who read this pamphlet would doubt that Eliezer Dattner was shot by an Arab. The British officer in charge of the investigation certainly was of that opinion.