I nodded, chastising myself for not seeing it earlier.
"And Anna?" I said. "How did her murder come about?"
"I was waiting for the right opportunity," she said. "I kept my eyes and ears open. Then, one evening, I heard Anna and Isser plan a rendezvous for that very night."
"How did you hear their conversation?"
"They were on stage," she said. "They thought they were alone; everyone else had left. I stood in the wings and eavesdropped. They didn't see me."
Just like that old cleaning lady had eavesdropped on my first conversation with Rotner.
"They arranged to meet at half past midnight in Trumpeldor Cemetery," Varda said, "at the grave of Mayor Dizengoff. I didn't know why they chose that particular grave until I got there. When I saw it, I realized it resembled a bed. Sick, isn't it?"
Not as sick as you, I thought.
"So you waited there?" I said.
"Yes. I hid behind Max Nordau's mausoleum. Then Anna arrived, right on time. I waited a couple of minutes just in case someone saw her enter the cemetery. And then I stabbed her with my knife."
She said all this in a cold, flat voice, as though she were describing the carving of a chicken, the filleting of a fish, and not the slaying of a human being.
"Weren't you worried about Isser? He could have seen you."
Her smile was broad and full of satisfaction. "I made sure he was delayed."
"How?"
"I punctured one of his tires. I figured it would take him at least ten minutes to change it. I considered waiting to kill him, too, but that might have made the police take a very close look at anyone who worked for the theater, and I didn't want that. I wasn't in a hurry. I could wait for another opportunity."
Now I knew why Rotner had tossed and turned in his sleep that night. He had come to Trumpeldor Cemetery. He had seen Anna's body. The sight of her had given him nightmares.
It was also the reason he got Dahlia to lie for him. He needed an alibi because he had been there, at the scene of the crime, shortly after the murder had taken place.
"You crazy bitch," Rotner growled, and Varda retaliated by pressing the knife into his skin, drawing a slender line of blood across his throat.
"Don't be ungrateful," Varda said. "Without me, you would have kept on playing second fiddle to Eliezer, and to Dahlia, for the rest of your life."
Rotner said nothing, but his wide, rapidly blinking stare conveyed all the horror and bafflement that gripped him. He wasn't guilty of the murders. He didn't know the true cause of Dahlia's injury. But that didn't mean he was wholly innocent.
"For a while," I said, "I didn't know why the killings stopped for five years. But now I think I do. It's because of your son, isn't it?"
The corners of Varda's mouth drooped. Her throat worked, as though she were swallowing a lump of grief. "When Mickey was born, my love for him overwhelmed my hatred for all those who'd wronged me. I lost my desire for vengeance. But Mickey was sickly from the day he was born. He died when he was four years old. And when he did, the old hatred returned, more powerful than ever, and I knew I had to see this through."
"What did we ever do to you?" Rotner asked, the blood dripping from his neck staining his shirt collar.
"You don't even know," Varda said. "It meant everything to me, but nothing to you."
Rotner obviously didn't understand, so I explained it to him.
"December 20, 1938. Shoresh Theater put on a production of Twelfth Night. Dahlia was to play Viola, but she came down with a sore throat. So someone had to fill in for her."
"I studied that play," Varda said, "and how Dahlia acted, so hard that I knew not only every line, but every gesture, every expression, as well. At first Anna was supposed to play Viola, but when I showed Dahlia how well I knew the part, she decided to give me a chance."
"But it didn't turn out so well, did it?" I said.
Varda's mouth twisted as though she'd tasted something rotten. "The second I stepped on stage, everything fell to pieces. The lights, the audience, it all made me feel like I was suffocating. All the lines I had worked so hard to learn by heart fluttered away like frightened birds, leaving only a scattering of feathers. My body trembled; my stomach flip-flopped. I stumbled about as though blind; I stammered; I spoke lines that belonged to later acts. And finally, when the enormity of the catastrophe hit me, I vomited on stage, in front of hundreds of people."
"It was your first time on stage," I said. "You shouldn't have been given the main role. That was Dahlia's mistake. But it wasn't her only, nor biggest one, was it?"
Varda shook her head slightly, and I noticed that her eyes sparkled with moisture. Her pain was still fresh despite being twelve years of age.
"After I threw up, the curtain was lowered and I was pulled unceremoniously off stage. The stage was cleaned up, and the play was started anew, this time with Anna playing Viola. I sat in my small room, weeping uncontrollably, knowing my dreams had gone up in flames. And after the play ended, that's when it happened."
"Dahlia tore into you," I said.
"Her and nearly everyone else. Everyone except Haggai Geller. He was the only one who didn't feel the need to kick me when I was down. I think it was because he was often the target of such attacks. He knew how it felt. Only it had never been as vicious, as cruel, and as hurtful as what I was put through."
"I can imagine," I said. Varda's pain was so raw, so vibrant and powerful, that I couldn't help but sympathize with her.
Varda looked at me. "No, Adam, I sincerely doubt you can. Afterward, after they had flayed my spirit, Dahlia made it clear that I would never be allowed to act on stage again. She said I should be grateful that I still had my job. I could make the clothes, but I could never wear them."
"So you decided to pay them back."
"I decided to show them how well I could act. I would play the meek, humble seamstress, working in the shadow of their glamor. But every once in a while, I would emerge from that shadow, and I would bring death with me. Because if I couldn't act, then they wouldn't either."
"Which is why you let Dahlia live," I said, "after you ran her over."
Rotner gasped. Now he understood. He let out a groan and started weeping.
Varda tugged on his hair and spoke through gritted teeth. "Stop it, you faker. Don't pretend to care about her. If you did, you wouldn't have cheated on her with every woman who came along." To me, she said, "I meant to kill her, but I think I did even better. Dahlia's life was the theater. The fact that she still breathes means nothing. She is already dead. Every day is torment for her. Not because she is handicapped or suffers pain, but because she cannot act. That is a fate worse than death for her."
"That was also clever of you, how you got the car," I said.
"You know about that, too?"
I nodded. "I spoke to Baruch Ehrlich, the owner of the car. I asked him if he had been a customer of your husband's garage when Dahlia was run over, and he said he was. What did you do, make a copy of his key?"
"Yes. I don't know how to pick a lock, so that's how I did it. I had driven that car before. I felt comfortable in it. It had very good acceleration. It was perfect for the job." Her grin raised goosebumps on my arms. "Hitting Dahlia with the car, seeing her fly through the air like a rag doll, was the most exhilarating moment of my life. I dream about it sometimes, you know, and when I do, I always wake up smiling."
"Was there no chance of forgiveness?" I asked.
"Forgiveness?" Varda's chin notched upward. "Forgiveness for whom?"
"For Anna. Haggai Geller told me she apologized to you, just as she had to him, for joining in with the others."
"She did, but it was too late. The damage was done. She had to pay, too."
An ocean of melancholy swept over me, drenching me with invisible tears. Inside, I wept for Anna. All alone in the world from a young age, exploited and abused by older men, desperate to realize her acting dreams, to belong and to find a place in the world where she could be happy, even while knowing she was forever damaged.