Then I got out my notebook, flipped to the page on which I had copied Moria's suicide note, and by the dim winter light and the red glow of my cigarette, I read her final message again.
I hate you for how you made me feel. I hate you for what you did to me. I hate you for what you made me do.
7
I could have done with a shower and a change of clothes, but I had eaten nothing since the measly breakfast the Jerusalem jail had provided, and my apartment offered little but the prospect of bare cupboard shelves and an empty icebox. I had neglected my shopping over the past week as the day of voting in the Knesset neared, and I'd found myself increasingly preoccupied, or perhaps dominated, by the larger issue at hand.
I was hungry, and I knew just the place where I could get something good to eat. Besides, Birnbaum had said Greta was worried about me, and I wanted to set her mind at ease.
By the time I got to Allenby Street, a fine, delicate rain had begun falling. I paused before a bulletin board rife with posters growing soggy and dark with the rain. Most of the posters decried the government's desire to negotiate with Germany. Some announced various protest events: an assembly of partisans, a march of communists, a gathering of Herut supporters. I wondered if the latter would be allowed to take place.
Half of the tables at Greta's Café were taken. Greta herself was seated behind the serving counter. Her eyes widened when she saw me, first with relief, then with concern. She rose to her feet. "Adam, what happened?"
She was wearing a thick woolen dress that loosely draped over her wide frame. Greta was a big woman, with a heavy bosom, thick arms, and a large head of salt-and-pepper curls. Her face was wide and lined, her hands wrinkled by years of washing dishes and preparing food. Her café was aptly named, for she was the heart and soul of her establishment. It was her character that made the café a sanctuary in the heart of Tel Aviv. My favorite place to be. I despised myself for causing her worry.
"I'm all right, Greta. Just a few bumps and scrapes."
"Were you at the Knesset yesterday?"
"Yes."
"Was it as bad as they say?"
I rubbed the side of my jaw. "Can I get something to eat first? And some coffee?"
She nodded, and I withdrew to my table at the rear, but not before I looped an arm over the counter to grab the chessboard and box of pieces Greta kept there for me.
At my table, I set up the board—white pieces on my side, black on the opposite—a matter of convention, nothing more, for I played both colors. This was a habit I'd picked up after the Second World War, though its origin lay squarely in it.
I wasn't a good player, but that wasn't the reason I chose myself as an opponent. It wasn't victory I craved, but a few minutes of idle mental time, and a bout of lightning chess against myself was the best way I knew to achieve that.
Two dozen or so moves into the game, Greta appeared with the coffee and a plate bearing a large sandwich and a scattering of vegetables.
"Is that blood on your collar?" she asked, setting down the dishes.
"Yes." I nudged the chessboard aside and tugged the plate closer.
"Yours?"
"Probably. At least part of it."
She clucked her tongue, then smiled indulgently like a mother at a reckless child who'd skirted disaster for the umpteenth time. "Enjoy your meal, Adam." She left me with the food. Glorious Greta, she was curious as hell, but she would give me all the time I needed.
The coffee was as wonderful as always, the vegetables crisp and fresh, the sandwich simple yet filling. With each swallow, I could feel my tiredness abate and my anger recede further. Once I'd finished eating, I resumed my game. Black won decisively.
Greta cleared the dishes, then sat down across from me.
"So tell me," she said. "Just how awful was it?"
"It wasn't pretty. What have you heard?"
"That Begin threatened to overthrow the government."
"That's not true," I said, perhaps too quickly.
"That he called Ben-Gurion a tyrant, that he suggested citizens stop paying taxes, that he swore he and his men would make any sacrifice to stop Israel from negotiating with Germany."
I wished I could deny it, but Begin had said all that.
"That he said this would be a war to the death."
I kneaded the back of my neck, where knots had started to form. "Yes. He did say that."
"That he ordered his followers to storm the Knesset."
I shook my head, glad for the opportunity to balance the scales a little. "No. He never gave such an order. He asked us to appeal to the policemen as Jews to not raise their hands against us. To tell them we were fighting for the nation's honor. He never said we should fight them. That was an unplanned eruption of emotion."
Greta looked at me for a long moment, and I imagined that she was thinking much the same as I was, that Begin was well aware of his oratory skills, that he could sense the crowd's agitation, that he knew, or should have known, what acts his speech would inspire.
Greta said, "I heard on the radio that King George Street looked like a battlefield, that hundreds of people got hurt."
"That sounds about right."
"And that some of them were injured pretty badly."
I thought of the unconscious policeman I had been wrongly accused of beating. "Some of them, yes. There were ambulances. Plenty of them."
Greta's expression was closed to me. Like the door to your home after someone changed the locks without you knowing. "You took part in the fighting?"
"Yes," I said, not shying from her gaze. "I didn't plan to. I went to Jerusalem to demonstrate, to express my opinion, not to fight anyone. But somehow I ended up near the Knesset, trying to push past the cops to get inside."
"To do what?"
A jolt of panic flared in my stomach, surged up my chest, and curled around my neck like a garrote. Of all people, I needed Greta to understand, to not judge me too harshly.
"To get the Knesset to vote against the government's plan to negotiate with Germany," I said, my voice coming out choked and squeaky. I added in a rush, "They can't do that, Greta. They just can't. It's wrong, a sin. It's an insult to the dead. To my... to my..."
I couldn't continue. My lungs felt cramped, my airways clogged. It was difficult to draw breath. Hot tears pricked my eyes, a million tiny burning needles.
Greta reached over and grabbed both my hands in hers, enveloping them like warm gloves. "I know, Adam. You don't have to say it."
I lowered my head and bit back a cry, my eyes overflowing. Greta released my hands, and I heard her chair scrape across the floor. Then she was beside me, hands on my shoulders, and I knew she'd positioned her body so as to block me from view of the other patrons. The scents of cooking oil, salt, margarine, and coffee wafted off her. The comforting smells of a homey kitchen.
I dried my face with my hands, the salt of my tears stinging the small cuts from yesterday's battle. I looked up at her. "I wasn't trying to overthrow the government, Greta, but to save Israel's soul. You understand, right?"
She nodded, her strong fingers pressing into my shoulders, ten firm anchors keeping me from drifting into uncharted waters.
"I know why you did it, Adam. Why you felt compelled to do it. But I so wish you chose another way." She patted my shoulders. "Why don't you go wash your face? I'll bring you another coffee, and you can play another game."
When I returned to my table, face clean and dry, I found that Greta had already refilled my cup. She was at the other end of the café, chatting with a customer. I sipped some coffee and drew the chessboard toward me. I moved the pieces around as fast as I could, no time for thought or strategy, just instinct. Black won again.