Varda looked taken aback by my tone. "You're right. I shouldn't have said that. I don't know what I was thinking."
Right then, a powerfully built man with hair the color and texture of iron came to stand by Varda's side. He had a peasant's face and uncompromising brown eyes. His height was around five ten.
"This is Shaul," Varda said, "my husband. Shaul, this is Adam Lapid."
We shook hands. He had a calloused palm and a grip like steel.
"Are you on our side, Mr. Lapid?" Shaul Navon asked, in a voice that matched his hair and grip.
"Your side?"
"Are you planning to vote for Herut?"
"I haven't made up my mind yet."
"Surely by now you know who is best for Israel."
Varda laid a hand on his arm. "Shaul, please."
I said, "With so many people swearing it's them, it can be a bit hard to decide who is right."
His upper lip twitched. He squared his shoulders. "Did you fight the British, Mr. Lapid?"
"No, I—"
"Neither did most of Mapai's supporters. Except for a brief time, all they did was try to appease them, while we in the Irgun fought and bled and died to kick the occupiers out of our land. When our leader, Menachem Begin, was hiding under an assumed identity to evade capture by the British police, Ben-Gurion was living out in the open, never risking a hair on his balding head. Surely, we have earned the people's trust, don't you agree?"
Varda made another attempt to quiet her husband, but he said, "In a minute, Varda. I'm interested in what Mr. Lapid has to say."
Varda seemed embarrassed by her husband's aggressive fervor, and I gave her a smile indicating that it was all right.
"I was about to say, Mr. Navon, that I only arrived in Israel in late 1947, so I did not have much of a chance to do my part against the British. But I did fight in the War of Independence."
"In what arena?"
I told him. I didn't get into the episode that earned me a medal and culminated in my picture in the paper, but it was still clear that I had risked my life for my country.
Shaul Navon was nodding his head, satisfied by my answer, but he stopped cold when I said, "And in the war, Mr. Navon, I fought alongside socialists from the kibbutzim, members of Hagannah, and former fighters of the Irgun such as yourself. I lost comrades that belonged to all three groups. That made the distinction between a Jew of one political persuasion and another a little vaguer."
His lower lip jutted out like the barrel of a gun out of a foxhole, but he had no comeback. He settled for saying, "Perhaps you'll do us the honor of attending our rally tonight, Mr. Lapid. Begin himself will be speaking."
"Perhaps I will," I said.
He gave a quick nod, murmured something about having to talk to a friend of his, and said, "Are you coming, Varda?"
"In a few minutes, Shaul," she said. "You go ahead."
He nodded again, bid me a stiff farewell, and left Varda and me alone.
She said, "I apologize, Adam. Shaul can get a bit worked up whenever politics are discussed."
"Don't worry about it, Varda," I said. "This election is making everyone a little edgy." I told her about the altercation that had taken place at Greta's Café.
She laughed a little. "It's good to know the Left isn't fighting only against us, but also among themselves. Not that it will do us much good, I fear. Mapai will probably win again and Ben Gurion will remain as prime minister."
I thought she was right, but didn't see the point of saying so. Instead, I asked her how the theater was doing.
"Oh, it's been hectic since Ofra died. A full house every night and people clamoring for more shows."
"All the publicity must have helped."
"No doubt. It's terrible, given the circumstances, but undeniable."
"I find it astounding that the actors are capable of carrying on as though nothing has happened."
"That's what actors do, Adam. They set their moods and personal lives aside each time they get on stage."
"I suppose it helps that the theater's financial troubles may soon be over."
She made a maybe gesture with her head. "Mostly I think it's the audience. We haven't seen such enthusiasm in years, not since Dahlia was run over."
It took a second before her words fully registered. I stared at her as a terrible feeling wormed its way into my gut. "What did you say?"
"What? When?"
"Just now. About Dahlia. I thought she was injured in a car accident."
"Well, she was."
"I mean, I thought she had been in a car that had smashed into another vehicle or into a tree or fallen into a ditch or..." I was getting breathless, and I had to stop talking in order to suck in some air, my lungs straining painfully, as though unable to fill. My legs felt rubbery, and I groped for support, found a nearby tree, and braced myself against it. "She was run over?"
Varda nodded slowly, frowning, her eyes on my face. She looked bewildered or maybe just concerned for my well-being.
"She was run over by a car?" I said, struggling with the information, needing it to be confirmed a second time.
Varda nodded again. She reached out and touched my arm. "Adam, what—"
"Was it a hit-and-run? The driver was never caught, was he?"
Varda looked at me for a long moment, then shook her head. "No, I don't think he was."
I shut my eyes as a wave of nausea hit me like a sledgehammer to the belly. It took all I had to keep my stomach from emptying out on the sidewalk. "I was wrong," I mumbled, the words barely audible over the irregular thumping of heartbeats in my ears. "So wrong."
"About what?"
"Everything," I said, answering her question though the words were meant for no one but myself.
With effort, I pushed myself off the tree, rocked a little, then found my equilibrium and began trudging away, ignoring Varda calling my name. I didn't want to talk to her. I didn't want to explain myself.
In my brain a storm was raging, thoughts bouncing around the interior of my skull like ricocheting bullets. I could feel them pinging against bone.
And flashing before my eyes was a single image. Ofra Wexler's lifeless green eyes staring up into the blue Tel Aviv sky.
40
I headed north on King George, then turned east on Dizengoff. There, from a small café, I called her apartment.
The phone rang twenty times before I gave up. Either she was not home, or she wasn't answering her phone. The former possibility was remote. What it did say, however, with near certainty, was that her husband was out.
I continued east, then cut north on Chen Boulevard. I knocked on her door, waited, and, when no one answered, tried the handle.
The door opened. The entry hallway was dark, the competing pictures of Dahlia and her husband like patches of shadow on the walls.
Before stepping inside, I called out her name. No answer, but I thought I heard a rustling sound from deeper in the apartment.
I found her in the living room, sitting like a statue of an old woman on her sofa, wearing a black long-sleeved dress that was wrong for the season. All the curtains were drawn, the room murky, the air hot and thick and stale. On the coffee table was a china teapot and a cup on a saucer. The cup was full, but no steam rose from the liquid. Untouched, it had gone cold.
"Mr. Lapid, this is unexpected. I distinctly recall telling you I did not wish to see you for a few more days."
It was Dahlia who had spoken, but if I hadn't been in the same room with her, I would have doubted her identity. Her voice was unrecognizable. It sounded stifled, small, and defeated—not like her at all.
"I remember. But I needed to see you right away."
"Money trouble?" She let out a single, raspy cough. "Can't wait a few days to get your bonus?"