I started with Nahum Ornstein. I read the file carefully. It didn't take very long; there wasn't a lot of material. It was deemed an accident from the get-go, so not a lot of paperwork was created. By the time I read the last page, I knew it had been a waste of time. Nothing in this file pointed to anyone, let alone Isser Rotner.
Next was Emil Polisar's file. It was only slightly thicker than Ornstein's but proved to be as disappointing. It started out well, like any normal investigation of a homicide by gunfire, but once the detective in charge learned that Polisar's pregnant wife, Brigitte, had been killed in an Egyptian air raid a week before, he came to the obvious conclusion. Suicide.
The evidence supported this. Polisar died from a single gunshot wound to the temple, and by the way the skin looked, it was clear the muzzle had either been pressed to his head or held a sliver of an inch from it. There was no sign of a struggle, and Polisar's wallet was found in his pocket. A revolver lay next to the corpse. The grip was covered with Polisar's fingerprints, and his alone.
There was no suicide note, but in this case, one was hardly required. Polisar had lost a wife and an unborn child. The reason for his suicide was clear. Case closed.
To bolster this conclusion, perhaps, a pair of stapled pages documenting the death of Brigitte Polisar had been tucked into the file. I'd set them aside when I'd begun reading about her husband's alleged suicide, sure that they contained nothing useful. But now, disappointed and frustrated and unsure of how to proceed, I picked them up, giving them a cursory glance.
So cursory, in fact, that I'd almost missed it, had carried on reading, and had to backtrack to find it again. The line on the page where another name was written. A person who had been in Brigitte Polisar's apartment when the air raid occurred. A person who had suffered but minor scratches when a segment of the roof collapsed, smashing Brigitte's skull and killing her.
I sat back, still holding the pages, feeling as though the world had tilted on its axis, settling on a new, unfamiliar angle from which everything looked and felt different than before.
My mind sprinted in a desperate attempt to make sense of this new information, to try to make it fit with everything else I'd learned since I first heard the name Anna Hartman.
It was a slippery path my mind had taken, and my thoughts kept skidding and sliding in a mess of confusion and disbelief. It couldn't be. But maybe it was.
And then I remembered something. Or, more accurately, two things—neither of which had seemed important at the time. Only now they made terrifying sense. The first I'd seen in one of the old issues of Davar Birnbaum had shown me. The second I'd heard from Dahlia's lips.
I picked up the phone with mounting excitement and called the offices of Davar. It took a few minutes before Birnbaum came on the line.
I told him what I needed.
"You have to tell me why," he said.
"Later, Shmuel."
"Patience has never been one of my virtues, Adam."
"Do this for me, Shmuel, and I'll give you the biggest story of your life."
That convinced him. I was about to hang up, but then another idea came to me. I asked Birnbaum to look up any articles mentioning the person who had been with Brigitte Polisar when she died.
"Look for anything related to Shoresh Theater," I said, "in 1938 or '39."
"I'm on it," Birnbaum said. "Call me in an hour."
It was eleven fifty-six. I decided not to stick around in Reuben's office. I was worried he'd see my face and know something big was going on, and I didn't want to answer any of his questions. I found a nearby café in which to pass the time.
While I waited, I made a telephone call, this one to the office of Baruch Ehrlich, the owner of the car used to run over Dahlia. I had just one question for him, and as I expected, his answer was yes.
Forty-five minutes later, my patience exhausted, I called Birnbaum again. He read me the front pages of the issues of Davar published over the three days following Nahum Ornstein's death. They confirmed my suspicions. Now I knew who had killed Anna and everyone else.
But I didn't know why. Not until Birnbaum gave me the other piece of information I'd asked him to dig up.
"Just one article," he said. "December 21, 1938. A review of a play that took place the evening prior. I wrote the review myself." He read it to me.
"Was it really as bad as that?" I asked.
"Worse, actually. I took pity on the poor soul."
Now I had my motive, too.
44
The garage was small. Two mechanics in greasy overalls were bent over an automobile with its hood up. One of them pointed toward the back when I asked if the owner was around.
I found Shaul Navon sitting behind his desk in an office the size of a ration card. He was munching on a sandwich. He smiled when he saw me, put the sandwich aside, wiped crumbs off his palms, and offered me his hand.
"Mr. Lapid, am I glad to see you."
"You are?" I said, shaking his hand, surprised by his warm reception.
"Sure. Varda told me you might be stopping by. I understand you're writing a play about the Irgun."
I am? I thought, confused. What was going on here?
"She said you'd be interested in learning more about the operations I took part in," Navon said, with evident pride.
"I am," I said, slowly recovering but still unsure of my footing, feeling like a chess piece being moved about the board by a player whose strategy I did not comprehend. "I was wondering if you were involved in three specific operations." I gave him the dates on which Dattner, Ornstein, and Anna were killed.
He began nodding as soon as he heard the first date. "Sure, I was in all three. You heard about them, huh?"
"Yeah," I said, still a little shaky from the unexpected direction this conversation had taken. "You were away from Tel Aviv during each of those operations, right?"
"That's right. The first operation took place in Haifa, the second in Jerusalem, and the last, the one in which we attacked an ammunition depot, was near Pardes Hanna. Why are you interested in those three?"
"I think they might make good scenes in the play," I said, hoping he'd fall for it, wondering what game Varda was playing.
"Ah, I understand. I'm not much of a fan of the theater, but living with Varda, I picked up a few things. What else do you want to know?"
"Actually," I said, "I was wondering if Varda was around. I went by her shop and it was closed."
"Varda closes up each day between twelve and three. Why do you need to see her?"
"I want to base a character on her. The wife of the Irgun fighter. Add a little romance, you know. The audience loves that."
"I see." He gave me a wink. "It needs a little spice to sell tickets."
"Precisely," I said. "Do you know where she is?" I'd already been to their apartment, which was one street over from the garage, but no one was home. I'd copied the addresses of the shop, apartment, and garage when I read Anna's file—which seemed like a very long time ago.
"She went to measure an outfit for one of the actors in the theater."
"Which actor?" I said, alarm bells beginning to ring.
"Leon Zilberman. You know him?"
"Yes." The bells tolled louder. "She went to his home?"
"I think so. Some last minute alteration."
"When did she go?"
"About an hour ago. You might still find her there."
A dark voice in my head told me I'd probably wouldn't, that this was part of the game, as well. I was about to head out, when my gaze landed on a framed picture hanging behind Navon's desk. It showed Shaul and Varda Navon, and between them a frail boy of three or four.