"What happened to your arm?" Greta asked.
I had noticed it this morning when I awoke. Blood had pooled under the skin of my left forearm where Max had punched me the previous night. An ugly purplish lump had formed. At its center, raised like an offering to a vengeful god, was my number tattoo.
"I ran into a little trouble last night at Rachel Weiss's place."
"What sort of trouble?"
"Let's just say that it was a lesson in the importance of not being arrogant," I told her with a wry smile.
Greta did not smile back. "Are you injured?"
"Apart from this ugly thing, no. It doesn't hurt, just looks bad."
"So it all worked out with Rachel?"
"Yes. I solved her problem."
I took a bite of toast and helped it on its way down with some coffee.
"Was that all?" Greta began saying, uncommonly tentative. "I mean, what did you think of Rachel?"
I smiled faintly. Greta was always on the lookout for a woman to dispel part of my loneliness.
"It's not in the cards, Greta. No suitability, I'm afraid."
"I see," she said softly, clearly disappointed.
I shrugged. "The important thing is I did a good job and got paid for it. I'm not looking for romance."
Greta seemed about to say something, but thought better of it. The other customer called for more beer. She went to tend to him. I returned to beating myself at chess.
7
An uneventful weekend passed. I finished one western and started another, tore through a stack of newspapers, and watched Burt Lancaster woo Yvonne De Carlo in Criss Cross at Allenby Cinema. In between, I used the money I had liberated from Yuri's wallet to replenish my supply of black-market sardines, eggs and sausages; sat on a bench in Dizengoff Square, watching pigeons peck nonchalantly at hunks of white bread that prisoners at Auschwitz would have killed for; smoked an inordinate number of cigarettes; and cleaned and oiled my Luger. I slept fitfully and awoke with the shadowy dream remnants of lost family, blank-eyed muselmänner, and dead-eyed guards, wafting in the stifling air of my enclosed apartment like smoke from a crematorium.
On Sunday, July 10, three days after my talk with Shmuel Birnbaum, I strode to the corner of Hamaccabi and King George and entered Levinson Drugstore. The store was run by Zelig and Rivka Levinson, who kept it as clean as an operating room. By the spotless front window, on a small waist-high table, stood a bulky telephone attached to a meter. The meter kept track of how much you owed for each call, taking into account duration and distance. Since nearly none of my neighbors, nor I, had a private telephone in our apartments—hardly anyone in Israel did—the drugstore telephone got plenty of use. I had to wait for five minutes while a neighbor of mine lectured her daughter in Haifa on the proper way of raising her grandchildren.
When she'd finished, I rang the offices of Davar and asked to speak with Shmuel Birnbaum.
"Good morning, Adam," he said when he came on the line, sounding chipper. "How was your weekend? Beat anyone up?"
The snapping of Yuri's fingers under my heel sounded in my ears, followed closely by an image of Max's bloodied face as he lay unconscious on Rachel Weiss's floor.
"Not on the weekend, no. Last time I knocked someone out was Wednesday night."
Birnbaum said nothing. I had shocked him into silence. Scratching sounds came over the line. Birnbaum rubbing his jaw? I rummaged in my pocket for a cigarette and stuck it between my lips. A woman cleared her throat. I turned and saw the stern face of Mrs. Levinson frowning at me from behind the counter. She gave a single shake of her head. I returned the cigarette to the pack.
"Got anything for me, Shmuel?"
"Yes," he said, regaining his voice. "And I have to say my curiosity is piqued. I'm looking forward to you telling me what this is all about. Got a pencil handy?"
I took out my notebook and pencil and told him to go on.
"The only ship that fits the timeframe you gave me is the Salonika. It set sail from the port of Piraeus, Greece, on March 2, 1939. Forty maapilim were said to be on board."
Maapilim was the term used for illegal Jewish immigrants to Mandatory Palestine. Illegal in the eyes of the British authorities who had administered the Mandate of Palestine from 1920 until 1948, when Israel was reborn. Since the 1930s, when Great Britain reneged on its promise of establishing a Jewish national home in Palestine and began severely restricting the number of Jews it allowed to immigrate there, Zionist organizations started smuggling Jews in, mostly by sea. Thousands of Jews currently living in Israel were maapilim.
"You're not certain about the number?"
"No," Birnbaum said. "There is no official number nor a passenger list. But that was the number given at the time. What the papers reported at the time, anyway. But what is more interesting is what happened to the Salonika and to the people it was carrying."
He paused, as if savoring his possession of information he knew I craved. It was like a scoop, and he lived for scoops.
"Come on, Shmuel. Spit it out."
"On the morning of March 5, while it was in the process of disembarking passengers somewhere north of Netanya, the Salonika was spotted by a British patrol ship. The British opened fire. A short battle ensued. Fourteen of the passengers died, as did two crew members. Ten maapilim were captured and taken into custody."
"And the rest?"
"Taken to safe houses around the country, I imagine. Lived here ever since."
"Who was in charge of the ship?"
"The Irgun. Which explains what happened next. Those meshuganahs were always gung ho."
The Irgun had been a right-wing Jewish militant group that fought to expel the British from Palestine and so bring about the establishment of a Jewish state there. Their methods included bombings, kidnappings, and assassinations of British personnel and soldiers. In addition, they had also striven to bring in as many Jews as they could to Palestine, regardless of British immigration quotas.
"What happened?"
"The Irgun stormed the prison where the British kept the ten captured maapilim. It was a fiasco. Six more died, though they did manage to get the other four out. They also killed five British guards."
Six dead for four liberated. Not a good trade.
"It was no great honor to be part of that raid, you can imagine," Birnbaum continued. "So it's no surprise I only managed to uncover the name of one of the Irgun members involved."
"What's his name?" I asked.
"It's a she. Mira Roth."
I wrote down the name as well as the phone number and address where she worked.
"Thank you, Shmuel," I said.
"Just remember our deal. I'm counting on a very big story from you."
I told him I would do my best and rang off. Luckily, no one was waiting to use the phone. I dialed the number Birnbaum had given me.
Female chatter and laughter in the background. A woman's voice said hello. I asked to speak with Mira Roth. She was called to the phone.
"Mira speaking. Who is this?" Her voice was strong and deep and laced with smoke. A confident voice.
"Miss Roth, my name is Adam Lapid. I'm calling for information regarding a ship, the Salonika. I—"
"Who gave you my number? How did you get my name?" She was agitated. Her voice rose somewhat in pitch.
"From Shmuel Birnbaum. You may know the name. He writes for Davar—"