The basement itself was warm, dry, and well kept. Firewood and racks of wine bottles stood against two walls, some tools and an old shotgun hung from a third, and the abandoned pieces of luggage were ranged along a fourth, each with its owner’s name written on it in large letters. As they pushed the trunk into place the old German stood looking at it thoughtfully, and Molkho realized that he wished to know what was in it. A not unreasonable request, he decided, miming that he didn’t have the key and that the lock would have to be pried off. At once the old man brought a flashlight and pliers, and they set to work, wrenching off the lock, opening the trunk, and rummaging through its contents, which predictably contained nothing but clothes and a few boxes of Israel sanitary napkins, whose square Hebrew lettering here, beneath the surface of Berlin, made Molkho feel suddenly homesick. Satisfied, the old German replaced the lock so expertly that no one could see it had been tampered with, and they climbed back up to the kitchen and went off together to wash. Once more the proprietor urged Molkho to join the family for dinner, and this time he agreed, thinking of the steaming Schwemmele he had been so curious to taste.
He was seated at the head of the table, by the grandmother. Why hadn’t he gone to the opera, everyone wanted to know. And so, in an English that was translated into German, he told them about his little Russian and her adventures in East Berlin, while they listened in astonishment, incredulous that anyone might wish to return to a place all wanted to flee from—indeed, briefly even suspecting him of being a secret agent, perhaps of having attempted to smuggle the legal adviser into East Germany too. Molkho turned red. Oh no, he laughed awkwardly, this was strictly a one-time affair. But why? they demanded. I believe she has a lover there, he told them, thinking of the first plausible excuse. There was no way of getting him out, so she decided to go back. Aha, they nodded, understanding at last, though still finding it hard to accept.
WHO WOULD HAVE BELIEVED two trips to Berlin in one year? Molkho asked himself, strapping himself into his El Al seat on the Saturday night flight from Munich. There was a full moon, and the sky was so clear that the captain kept directing the passengers to look at some magic sight below. Once his dinner tray was removed above the already snowy Alps, Molkho took out a sheet of paper and itemized his expenses, which fell far short of the eight hundred dollars given him. I must have forgotten some meals in Vienna or on the train to Berlin, he thought distractedly; this couldn’t be all I spent on her. At last he tore up the paper. His mother-in-law was unlikely to ask for an accounting, and even if she did, he could always add a service charge. Despite her condition, he looked forward to seeing her. He rose and strolled about the plane, searching the passengers for a familiar face, peering into the stewards’ quarters, and going to the bathroom, where he dabbed himself with some lotion left in a bottle on the sink. Over the Aegean he conversed with a fellow passenger about the latter’s aromatic cigar, which a stewardess, much to Molkho’s sorrow, had insisted he put out. When the man offered him one to take home, Molkho hesitated and then stuck it in his pocket. He had given up tobacco years ago, he said, but he would smoke the cigar at home and remember its generous bestower.
Standing in line at passport control, he caught sight of his daughter on the other side of the barrier and felt his heart skip a beat, for something must have happened for her to get permission to proceed beyond the arrival gate. “It’s Grandma,” she wept, throwing her arms around him. “She’s in a bad way, she keeps losing consciousness.” He clung to her in silence. “We’ve got to hurry if you want to speak to her,” said Enat. “She’s been so worried about you.” He hugged her hard and asked about her two brothers. “They’re fine,” she replied.
It was 10 P.M. when they emerged from the terminal into the cool, crisp air. One hand gripping his suitcase and the other resting on Enat, he let her relate the events of the past week. His mother-in-law, it seemed, feeling rather guilty for sending him off to Europe, had come straight back from the airport to make lunch for the high school boy, who was alone, and had slipped and broken her arm on the garden stairs, where she lay painfully in the cold until a neighbor happened by and called a taxi to bring her back to her home. That was on Monday, but the children heard nothing until Wednesday, when her Russian friend called to tell them she had pneumonia. On Thursday she was moved to the fifth-floor medical ward, where her condition was serious. “Now you see,” Molkho said, “why your mother and I made her enter a home. We were thinking of emergencies like this.”
Enat asked her father to drive. “Why don’t you,” he said, admiring the ease with which she handled the car. They reached Haifa before midnight and drove straight to the home. The night guard recognized them and opened the big glass door, and Molkho’s daughter guided him across the lobby and into the elevator to the fifth floor, where the nurse on duty rose deferentially to greet them. “This is my father,” said Enat in low tones. The nurse shook his hand warmly. “How was your flight, Mr. Molkho?” she inquired. “It was fine,” he replied, “very smooth.” “But you must be exhausted,” she said worriedly. “Not at all,” Molkho smiled. “I’m still on European time, and it’s an hour earlier there. How are things here?” The nurse shook a despairing head and led them to a dimly lit room in which, softly etched in the moonlight, Omri was dozing by the window. Gently Molkho went over and put his hand on him. The poor kids, he grieved, afraid to glance at the large bed, though he already knew everything, for Death, his old friend from last autumn, was waiting here in the room. They still aren’t over their mother and now this. It’s just a matter of hours.
She lay there gauntly with her broken left arm in a cast and her wiry hair in disarray on the pillow, so small and nakedly frail that it gave him a start. Her eyelids fluttered and she breathed with difficulty. Suddenly Death was real again, eliding the year that had passed. Enat took her grandmother’s hand. “Here’s Dad,” she said. The old woman opened her eyes. But did they see him? Molkho leaned over her. No, they didn’t know who he was. Their clever gleam was gone forever.
BUT HE WISHED to give her an accounting. He had carried out his mission against all odds, and he wanted her to know it. After all, she had been worried about him, and if he hadn’t lived up to her secret hopes for him and her friend’s daughter, it wasn’t for lack of good intentions. Yet, though Death was still waiting in the wings, this was no time to talk about his trip, for he knew from her fluttering eyes and labored breath that, her lips moving slightly, she was engaged in a more primal dialogue with herself.