Ten Years Gone
(Adam Lapid Mysteries #1)
by Jonathan Dunsky
To my mother and father
Books by Jonathan Dunsky
Ten Years Gone
The Dead Sister
The Auschwitz Violinist
A Debt of Death
The Unlucky Woman (short story)
The Payback Girl
1
The nightmare tore me out of sleep before dawn.
I opened my eyes, but all I could see were fragments of the dream. Snow flurries floating in the freezing Polish air. Uniformed men with evil faces and cruel laughs. Guard dogs straining at their leashes, foaming at the mouth. A huddled mass of frightened, disoriented humanity on the train platform.
With me among them.
What brought me out of the nightmare and into the present was the heat.
July in Tel Aviv was murder, with blazing temperatures and stifling humidity. Nighttime brought only minor relief. It was a favorite topic to grumble about among Tel Avivians.
As hot as it was outside, my room was even hotter. And stuffier. Which was to be expected, I supposed, since I slept with all my windows closed.
I was probably the only person in Tel Aviv to do so.
Or maybe I wasn't. After all, I wasn't the only person with nightmares. Maybe other people were also worried their screams would wake up the neighbors.
Faint echoes of my scream still reverberated in the dark room. My jaw hurt, a sure indication I'd been clenching my teeth during my sleep. I blinked twice, consciously slowing my breathing, until all I could hear was the deep silence of the enclosed room, and all I could see was the darkness around me.
Groaning, I rolled to a sitting position, lowering my feet to the cool floor tiles. Working my jaw from side to side, I stood, stepped over to the window, and pulled it open.
Night air flowed inside, chilling the sweat on my skin. I looked three stories down to Hamaccabi Street below. No people were about. No cars were moving. Somewhere a night bird hooted. Across the street, a baby howled for its mother. The number tattooed on my left forearm itched, and I absently scratched it. I tapped a cigarette out of the half-empty pack on my nightstand, struck a match against the sill, and lit up.
By the time I crushed out the stub of my cigarette, dawn was beginning to paint the sky gray. The nightmare was gone, but it had left its mark. The memories were there, just below consciousness, trying to dig through like burrowing beasts and infest my mind. I had to work hard to keep them away, where they couldn't hurt me.
And I was tired. Dead tired.
Too many fractured nights. Too many nightmares.
I glanced at my bed, at the sheet I had dampened with the sweat of my night terror, at the thin blanket I had twisted around me. I needed sleep badly, but I feared the nightmare would return. There was only one way to keep it at bay, but it wasn't possible tonight.
And I needed my sleep.
With a sigh, I closed the window, got into bed, and pulled the thin blanket over me.
I shut my eyes and waited for the nightmare to reappear.
"Adam Lapid?"
I looked up from my chessboard at the woman who had said my name.
She was a small woman. Five foot five and thinner than she had any business being. Lackluster blond hair pulled back from a high forehead. A faded yellow dress that had been made with a fuller woman in mind. She held her bag in front of her pelvis, worrying the handle with both hands. I recalled that my mother used to hold her bag like that sometimes.
It was half past four and I was seated at my regular table in Greta's Café. Greta's was a homey café located near the center of Allenby Street, on the block between Brenner and Balfour Streets. Bar and kitchen on the left. A dozen small round tables scattered about the rest of the square space. Above, a lazy ceiling fan rattled with each slow revolution, but did little to dispel the heat. Some of Greta's other customers groused about the rattling, but I hardly noticed it anymore. I frequented Greta's nearly every day. It was more than a place to eat and drink. It was a second home to me.
"Yes," I said and gestured to the chair on the other side of my table. The thin woman lowered herself onto it, setting her bag in her lap. "And you are?"
"My name is Henrietta Ackerland," she said in the tentative Hebrew common to those speaking a new language. She had a pronounced German accent, and for a moment I was about to suggest we conduct our conversation in that misbegotten language. The impulse died fast. Her accent was grating enough as it was.
"Want some coffee?" I asked. "Greta makes the best coffee in Tel Aviv."
Henrietta began shaking her head, but changed her mind when I told her I was buying. Greta had been watching us from her post behind the bar. I raised two fingers in her direction.
While we waited for the coffee, I examined Henrietta Ackerland more closely. She had been beautiful once, but time and circumstances had changed that. Dark bags bulged beneath her washed-out blue eyes. Her lips were thin and colorless. Deep lines ran across her forehead and shallow ones webbed at the corners of her eyes. The lines of someone who did more frowning than smiling.
She was frowning now, two parallel lines etched between her eyebrows. Desperation was weighing heavily on her, crushing her soul. She fixed her tired gaze on me.
"I understand you're a private investigator," she said.
Among other things, I thought. "That's right."
"And you used to be a policeman. A police detective."
"You're well informed."
She said nothing, but the question was clear in her eyes. Why aren't you a policeman any longer?
I hated this part. I did not relish sharing my history. Or explaining my present. But clients needed to be reassured that you could do the job.
"I was a detective with the Hungarian police before the war in Europe. After the war, I came here."
And in between? Well, I couldn't see how that was any of Henrietta Ackerland's business. Nor was it relevant to my abilities as an investigator. Neither was my decision not to become a policeman in Israel.
Thankfully, Greta chose that moment to come over with the coffee, sparing me more of my potential client's questions regarding my past or present. Leaving, she gave me a look that said, Be careful with this one, she's fragile. Greta had a good eye for people. And a good heart for them, too.
Henrietta took a careful sip from her cup, closed her eyes, and nodded appreciatively.
"See?" I said. "I told you it was good."
She gave me a smile that died within one breath of being born. Those smile lines would not be getting deeper any time soon.
I drank from my own cup. "Where did you get my name?"
"From a policeman. Reuben Tzanani. He told me I should see you."
Good old Reuben.
"And you want to hire me?" I said.
"Yes. My son. I want you to find my son."
"He's missing? How long?"
"Ten years."
I raised both eyebrows. "How's that?"
"The last time I saw my son, Willie, was on February 27, 1939. Ten years ago."
Ten years and four months, actually. It was now July 6, 1949.
"And the police couldn't help you?"
"The first officer I spoke with told me it was pointless, that too much time has passed. The second one told me that since the last time I saw Willie was outside the borders of Israel, he couldn't help me. I could see in his eyes that he thought I was a bad mother." There was a sharp edge to her tone, as if this were the greatest insult she had ever suffered. "The third policeman I saw was Reuben Tzanani. He told me you might be able to help."