So yes, I got it then. I got it like a mallet blow to the back of the head. And I felt a cold stab of fear at the center of my stomach, digging and twisting deep inside me.
"So you got two choices," Kulaski said. "You sign a confession right now and save us all a lot of time and effort, and I won't ask the judge to give you the maximum sentence. Or you can keep on being stupid and stubborn, and I'll make sure you go away for as long as the law allows. And I'll pile on whatever additional charges I can. You'll be a grandfather by the time you get out."
"I don't have children," I mumbled, not really thinking about what I was saying.
"Good. So no one will visit you in prison."
I looked at him then. At his fevered cheeks and ferocious eyes. At his taut jaw and compressed mouth. And I knew that he meant every word. That he would see his threat through. This was more than professional ardor on his part. This was personal to him.
My mouth went bone dry, and my lips felt chapped. Panicked thoughts bounced inside my head, making it hard to construct a proper reply.
Sign the confession, a small, defeated, yet enticing voice inside my brain whispered. Just sign it, or you're as good as dead.
I tried to ignore it, but it kept on whispering like a thousand snakes, injecting venom into my mind.
Under my sleeve, my number tattoo began to itch. I didn't dare scratch it because my hands had started to tremble, and I didn't want Kulaski to see that. I dug my fingers into my thighs, but that didn't stop the tremors.
The idea of being locked up for years, of becoming a prisoner again, terrified me. Whatever prison they'd put me in would be a picnic compared to Auschwitz, but I would still be deprived of my freedom. I would still spend my days behind fences and barbed wire and have guards order me about. My heart stammered in my chest at the prospect.
Kulaski, with long years of experience, chose that moment to produce a folded piece of paper from his pocket, spread it on the table, and held out his pen.
"Sign it!" he said, with almost obscene satisfaction.
The paper had my name on it. Along with a bunch of other words. I didn't bother reading it all. I knew what it was. A confession. Already typed. All that was missing was my signature.
I took the pen. I lowered my eyes to the paper. At the bottom was an empty space. Waiting just for me. A simple flourish of my hand and it would be done. Like a man with a noose around his neck kicking away the chair on which he stands.
For a moment I didn't move. Then I raised my eyes, looked squarely at Inspector Kulaski, and hurled the pen as hard as I could to my right.
It bounced against the wall, dropped to the floor, and rolled a couple of times. When it stopped, so, it seemed, did everything else. All movement, and all sound too. Neither Kulaski nor I shifted or even twitched. We simply stared at each other, eyes fixed as though with rivets, like two cowboys about to draw their guns and fire. The air in the interrogation room seemed to gain substance and weight with our silence. It pressed against me like damp clothes.
I was the one who broke the silence. "I'm not signing anything you give me. Don't bother trying to persuade me." I spoke with calm assurance, but it was a false front. I knew well the gloomy nature of my predicament. I was in a deep pit with slick walls and no toeholds, and I had no idea how I'd be able to climb out. Not with Kulaski standing above me, ready to shove me back down.
Kulaski shrugged, refolded the unsigned confession, tucked it in his pocket, and tapped the table with his hand. Then he smiled. A smile of wolfish anticipation. An eagerness for revenge. "Fine. We'll do it the hard way. I'm going to relish seeing you get the maximum sentence. And after the sentencing, I'll make sure they put you in the worst place possible."
"Cut it with the games," I said, still terrified but also angry and tired of his crap. My hands had stopped trembling and instead were now clamped into tight fists. "We both know you'd have done it anyway. You're a cruel son of a bitch, aren't you?"
Kulaski looked on the verge of exploding. He jerked his mouth open to reply, but a knock on the door forestalled him. "What is it?" he barked.
The door swung open, and a police officer stuck his head in. "Sorry to disturb you, Inspector, but there's a telephone call for you."
"Tell whoever it is I'll call them back."
"It's the deputy commissioner."
Kulaski frowned. He tapped the table again and stood, needlessly smoothing the front of his shirt. "I'll be back shortly," he told me. And to the officer: "Stay here. And don't talk to him."
He was gone no more than five minutes. When he returned, he brusquely ordered the officer to return to his post. Then he went to his chair, sat in it, and wouldn't meet my eyes. When he finally did, he said nothing for a long while, and his expression kept twitching, making it difficult to guess his emotions.
"Who are you really?"
"I'm Adam Lapid," I said, baffled by the question and the change in Kulaski's demeanor.
"I'm not talking about your name. I'm talking about who you know." He said it like an accusation.
I had no idea what he was talking about and said as much.
His slitted eyes made it clear he did not believe me. The corners of his mouth were pulled down at a resentful angle. He delivered his next words with obvious effort, as though every single one of them pained him. "It's your lucky day, it seems. You're free to go."
I didn't move, unsure if I'd heard him correctly. Was this another one of his tricks? Some devious ploy he'd orchestrated with the other officer? Had there really been a phone call? And why would the officer lie about the deputy commissioner being on the line?
Kulaski shouted, "Are you deaf? I told you you're free to go. So go on, get the hell out of here!"
Still uncertain, I pushed my chair back and stood. I paused for a second before reaching for my ID and wallet, thinking that this was the moment in which he'd pull the rug from under my feet and laugh in my face.
But he didn't. He stayed quiet as I picked up my papers and returned them to my wallet. Then I checked the money compartment. Six liras. Less than what I'd had the prior evening.
I said, "The officer who arrested me, did he give you your cut?"
"What cut?"
"Ten liras are missing from my wallet. Don't tell me you didn't get any."
His jaw tightened. "You'd better watch it, understand?" The threat had plenty of bark but no bite. For some mysterious reason, I was inviolate. At least for the time being. It gave me a frisson of satisfaction varnished with a delicious dash of juvenile recklessness.
Putting the wallet back in my pocket, I said, "I hope he threw some cigarettes your way, at least. The pack he took off me was more than half full."
Then I turned and went to the door. The cool handle was in my grip when he said, "This isn't over, Lapid. You mark my words."
I could tell by his face that he meant it as much as a man could mean anything. If the opportunity to harm me came his way, he would grab it with both hands. A trace of the fear I'd felt before wormed its way through my intestines. I did my best to not show it.
"So long, Inspector. It was an absolute joy talking to you."
And with that, I opened the door and stepped out of the room, leaving him alone with his unquenched thirst for my destruction.
4
Within ten minutes, I was at the gate. As I waited for the guards to open it, I gazed up the wall with its barbed-wire topping and beyond it at the dreary winter sky, and I wondered again how I came to be standing there, a few seconds from freedom.