“You shouldn’t have done that,” she cried, sharply. “They might take the law into their own hands!”
David shrugged. “Frankly,” he said, “I wouldn’t mind much. He is not a very agreeable creature. And if he has done only half of what they say he has… well… Anyway, you will have your turn with him tonight. At the moment he is very cocksure and proud and protests that he is a Swiss citizen; he thinks that we cannot prove our suspicions true… When he sees you, however!” He sighed and drained his glass.
“Where is he?” she asked.
“We have a small lock-up of our own — part of the old Turkish prison. By Ben Yahmi, you know the place…
They set off to walk to their destination a little before eleven. As she did her hair in the mirror, Grete wondered to herself: “How will he see me after all this time?” She stared into her own face with eager anxiety. She would wear no make-up for this interview, she decided; but her thoughts were in a complete turmoil. Indeed, ideas tumbled and spilled about at the edge of her mind; she found herself muttering and whispering as she combed her hair and slipped into her black trench-coat.
“What will he have to tell me about the child?” she asked herself, and her heart nearly stopped beating as the thought struck her. She gritted her teeth and drank a final glass of whisky before venturing into the street with David. During these hours of tense activity, they had both forgotten their own personal relationship completely — save for an unstated but ever-present sense of collaboration with no reserves. He sensed something of her anxiety, and out of tact began to talk about other things — about the UNO vote for example, which was expected any day, and which might at last enable Israel to rise like a phoenix from the ashes of past hopes and fears. His eyes flashed. But she listened abstractedly, hardly taking it in. She saw in her mind’s eye those greyish oyster eyes which had raised themselves to hers through the wooden screen of the Coptic Church for a moment. She shuddered and set her face.
The rain had stopped. Though it was not unduly late, there were few people about in the streets; they made their way to a street with old-fashioned Arab houses, barred and shuttered. In a dark doorway David stopped and tapped; after a long time a Judas opened in the door with a soft click, and they knew that they were being carefully studied by invisible eyes. Then the door swung slowly open onto an empty hall. They heard diminishing footsteps. David led the way, after carefully bolting the door behind them. They went up a long cold staircase; on every landing a diamond-shaped window cast a lozenge of yellow light on the musty stones. Finally, on the third floor, David tapped at a door, and a little man shot out from behind it like a jack-in-the-box; hardly looking at them, he handed David a huge iron key and waved his hand.
“Not more than an hour,” he said in a creaky voice.
They crept along a corridor and confronted a stout door of oak barred with metal. David opened it and entered the prisoner’s cell — a narrow and rectangular room. A man sat playing patience at a table in the centre, smoking a cigarette in a bone cigarette holder. For a moment it did not look to her like the same man at all. His rumpled bed in the corner of the room was covered in daily papers. Grete, waiting in the shadows beyond the sill, saw David advance into the cell. The only light came from a single dusty bulb which threw an erratic circle of light on the table with its single occupant. The man wore no collar or tie; a metal stud gleamed in the neckband of his shirt. He looked up at the noise of the key turning in the lock, and then turned back to his game with an air of weary insolence.
David said, “I have brought someone who thinks they may recognize you as Günther Schiller.”
The prisoner’s face tied itself into a knot of nerves. A pure vexation ravaged him. He shouted:
“I have told you, you are mistaken. Get me the Swiss consul. I am not Schiller, but Schmidt.” He repeated the name, making as if to bang the table with his fist, and quietly went on with his game.
David stood for a moment contemplating him and then turned to the shadows.
“You may come in,” he said. His voice sounded indifferent — as if this were to be another routine interrogation by yet another prosecutor. He himself passed Grete and she heard the heavy door clang behind her as he went out.
Günther could as yet see nothing; he sat for a moment with eyes screwed up, staring at the darkness outside his little circle of light. Then he gave a grunt and returned to his game. He did not even look up when he heard her slow and hesitant footstep. Grete advanced towards the white circle of light with a strange feeling of confusion, of fear and hatred and disorientation. She walked with a slow, a fatal tread, like a sleepwalker, like an avenging fury — with a slow drugged tread towards the light. Then she felt the whiteness splash all over her features. The prisoner looked up briefly — and was suddenly riveted to his chair. His mouth fell open. Silver drops of sweat started up on his scalp along the white hair. He stared at the white-faced woman advancing towards him with this slow ineluctable tread; she might, for all he knew, be some ghost, some hallucination brought upon him by fatigue and fear. He stared at her and quickly glanced round the cell without moving his head, as if he were looking for an escape route. But his head stayed quite still on his shoulders. Only his little pig’s eyes darted about in his skull. Even when she passed out of his range of vision he did not turn round — so like a phantom did she seem. She described a slow circle about him, without for a moment taking her eyes off his face. He licked his lips and stayed rooted to his chair; all his jauntiness, all his bluster had leaked away now, and left him sitting there like some object washed down to the mouth of a river by floods. At last he breathed her name in a whisper — “Grete,” and in the same moment she turned aside like a bird in mid-flight and swooped softly down upon the table. She placed her hands on the rough surface and stared into those expressionless oyster eyes. He put out a hand and touched her, as if to verify that she was not a ghost.
“You are still alive,” he said in a low voice, and gave a small harsh chuckle. “I wondered.”
“Do you know why I am here?” she said, and her voice trembled as she spoke. He looked at her and a small bitter smile played about his lips. His composure was coming back and, with it, anger. A pulse had begun to beat in his temple. The cigarette smoke curled slowly up between them, hanging in whorls in the white light. Somewhere a mosquito droned.
“To trick me,” he said. “To revenge yourself.”
“No,” she cried sharply, stung into fury by his expression and even more by such obtuseness — for he could not imagine for a moment the force of her central obsession. She clenched her fingers tightly and said:
“Günther, where is Otto? Where is he?” For a moment the poignant entreaty of her huge eyes seemed to afflict him — they were so deep and blue — so full of long-endured chagrin and despair. He looked hastily away, as if to recover his poise, and when once more he stared at her it was with a bitterly curled lip, a grimness, an obduracy of heart which was quite frightening to behold.
“Otto!” he said with contempt, and made as if to spit on the floor beside the table. “Why should I tell you where he is?”
“So he is still alive?” With a frenzied gesture she leaned forward and shook him, grabbing at his shirt. “You must tell me please, Günther. He is all I have to live for now.” With an indignant thrust of his shoulder and a sweeping backhanded blow, he shook himself free and drove her reeling back against the wall. He shouted suddenly:
“Why should I tell you anything? Otto! You will never see him again — that I promise you.” He stood panting, with the muscles flickering over his face. He stared at her with contempt. Then, with an untrembling hand, he picked up his cigarette holder and placed it between his teeth as he sat down. She stayed quite still, leaning against the wall and watching him with a strange mixture of disgust and hatred.