A Death in Jerusalem

I said, "I do love this country, you know? Even when it does things I detest."

"That's as good a definition of a patriot as I've ever heard," Birnbaum said with a wry smile. He parked near the entrance to the central bus station and laid a hand on my arm.

"I told you this the last time we spoke, Adam, and I'll say it again now: no matter how much money the Germans will give us, we shall never forgive and we shall never forget. Not your family, and not all the rest. And we won't let the world forget either."

My throat had constricted. I had to clear it to speak. "I hope you're right, Shmuel. I hope to God you're right."

He squeezed my forearm, his hand pressing my number tattoo through my sleeve. Then his lips crooked in a mischievous grin. "Are you sure you can't spare this poor little reporter a story with some meat on it?"

I laughed. "I'm afraid not. But I'm sure the Gafni case will give you much to write about."

"It sure will. In fact, I have already written a column about it. But I still need to edit it to make sure it's perfect." He held out a hand. "Have a good trip, Adam."

I shook his hand. "Thank you, Shmuel."

49

I knocked on her door. Her voice came through ragged and raw. "Who is it?"

"Adam Lapid."

Silence. Then: "Go away."

"Please, Mrs. Hecht, I'd like to talk to you. I'd like to apologize and explain."

"I don't want your apologies or explanations. Just leave me alone."

Pressing my hand flat to her door, a peculiar ache in my chest that had nothing to do with injured ribs, I said, "I was wrong and stupid, and I'm so very sorry. I know what you and Moria were to each other. I know why you lied to me."

A longer silence. Then: "Do you still think Moria killed herself because of me?"

This time, the silence was mine.

"Go away, Mr. Lapid." Her voice cut through the door and stabbed into my ears. "Go away and don't come back."

I walked away with hunched shoulders and a heavy heart. An odd weight pressed on and inside me. That was the end of something that had never started. Naomi Hecht was out of my life for good.

I headed to Amos Street and went into Moria's building. Voices sounded from the Shukrun apartment. Men and women talking in somber voices. Someone weeping. The shiva for Daniel Shukrun in its hardest stages—the manner of his death no doubt augmenting the family's shock and grief.

I didn't knock. I didn't think I'd be welcomed. Lillian had given me the address to the locksmithing store on the same day her husband killed Dr. Leitner. It wouldn't take much for her to deduce that I had something to do with the disaster that had befallen her.

There were no mailboxes in the lobby; the residents must have gotten their mail at a nearby post office, but I did not know where it was. I decided to go search for it when a woman entered the building. She was older than Lillian, but the similarity between the two left no room for doubt. They were sisters.

I verified this impression and asked if she might deliver something to her sister. "After the shiva," I said. "When things calm down a bit."

"Why not give it to her yourself?" she asked.

I said I'd rather not and handed her the envelope containing Gafni's bonus.

Before I could react, she tore the flap open and peered inside. Her eyebrows shot up. "What is this?"

"Something to help Lillian and Dina get back on their feet."

"But why?"

"I knew Daniel, and I owed him very much. Can I count on you to give this money to her?"

She bristled. "I won't be stealing it, if that's what you're worried about." She looked at the money again and shook her head. "It's too much."

And too little just the same, I thought. "She'll find good use for it, I'm sure."

"She'll want to know who gave this to her. What's your name?"

"My name's not important. Could you pretend your family collected this money for her?"

She nodded. There were tears in her eyes. "All right. I will. God bless you, whoever you are."

I ate at a small café on Malkei Yisrael Street. On the table to my right lay yesterday's edition of Davar. I picked it up and flicked to Birnbaum's column. He wrote about Israel's relationship with the United States. He really had a way with words, I thought as I finished reading and picked up the coffee cup, bringing it to my lips. All the editing he did paid off big.

I froze, my mouth full of hot coffee, my tongue stinging.

Editing. That single word resounded in my head like the tolling of a giant bell. What had Birnbaum told me? He'd said he needed to edit his column to make it perfect.

That memory conjured another. Anat Schlesinger telling me what Moria Gafni had been like as a student.

Feeling as though I’d been struck on the head by a lightning bolt, I gulped down the coffee in my mouth, grabbed my coat, and ran out of the café.

I sprinted up the stairs all the way to the third floor, the key to Moria’s apartment in my grip. I was so excited, I had to focus on steadying my hand to fit it into the lock.

I went straight to the bedroom, to the dresser. I couldn't remember which drawer it had been in, so I yanked all three open and went through them top to bottom.

It was in the third drawer. A simple notebook with a brown cover and half of its pages ripped out. I remembered that the first time I saw it, it had occurred to me that this notebook had the same paper as Moria's suicide note.

She rewrote each paper until every word was absolutely perfect, Anat Schlesinger had told me, and I hadn't given it a second's thought. Only now, my heart thudding and my fingertips sliding eagerly over the scratchy pages of Moria's notebook, did the significance sink in.

With shaky breath, I tore out the top page and held it to the light streaming through the window. "Yes!" I cried out, seeing what I'd hoped to see.

Then I got to work.

50

"I told you to leave me alone," Naomi Hecht shouted through her door.

I brought my face close to the wood. "Moria didn't do it because of you. I can prove it. Let me show you. Please open the door, Naomi."

Ten long seconds passed. Then the door swung open. "I think that was the first time you used my first name," Naomi said.

I pulled in a breath. Naomi looked very tired and very mournful yet also very beautiful. "You may be right. I'm not sure."

"I think it was," she said, frowning slightly. "But that's not so important, is it? You have something to show me, you said."

"Yes. I do."

"Come in, then."

In her living room, we sat together on the sofa. She wore a white dress reminiscent of her nurse's uniform, which was appropriate despite her having lost her job, given what I knew of her daily activities. I glanced at her wedding photo, my chest tight with sadness and shame now that I knew the truth.

I showed her the notebook. "I found this in Moria's bedroom. See? About half the pages are missing, torn out. I should have picked up on it the first time I saw it. I can't believe I missed it."

"Missed what? I don't understand."

"Look at these pages. They're the exact same type of paper as the one on which Moria wrote the note you found."

"And so?"

I related to her what Anat Schlesinger had told me of Moria the student. "I was sure you were the person Moria wrote about in her note because it included no name, and because Moria had arranged her death so that you would find her body. But the piece of paper you found that day wasn't her suicide note at all. It was merely a draft; one of many, I bet. Just like she did as a student, Moria rewrote her final message many times until it was perfect."

Naomi's eyes were bright hazel circles of astonishment. "Are you sure?"