"Davar!" Acid dripped over the line along with that single word. "You think I'm going to talk to anyone working for that rag? Don't ever call here again, you hear?"
She slammed the phone down so hard it hurt my ear. I was about to ring her again, but decided to obey her instructions. Besides, she never said anything about not coming to see her in person, did she?
8
The hair salon stood three doors west of the corner of Frishman and Dizengoff , flanked by a stationery store and a photography studio. Through the open door came a similar sound of female festivity to the one I'd heard when I called there earlier. Inside were five women. Two were seated in high chairs in front of mirrors, having their hair done, each attended by a hairdresser. The fifth woman occupied a chair at the opposite wall. She was either waiting her turn or simply enjoying the company of her friends.
My appearance in the doorway had an immediate effect on the merry quintet. Conversation abruptly ceased, and five pairs of eyes flicked my way. I got the distinct impression male visitors were rare in this bastion of womanhood.
"Can we help you with something?" said the older of the two hairdressers, a plump late-fortyish woman.
"I'm here to see Mira Roth," I said.
Four of the five pairs of eyes turned from me to the other hairdresser, a tall, slim woman in her late twenties with wavy russet hair. She blinked at me, not sure what to make of my visit.
"You been keeping secrets from us, Mira?" said one of the customers, a wide-faced brunette woman with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. "And what a handsome secret he is."
"Careful, Paula," said the first hairdresser. "Don't let your husband hear you talking like that."
Paula made a show of peering under her chair and checking each corner of the salon, calling, "Ephraim, Ephraim, are you here, dear?" She winked at me. "What do you know? It appears my husband is out of earshot."
The other women laughed. All except Mira Roth, who narrowly eyed me.
"So, Mira," Paula said, "you gonna introduce us to your handsome friend?"
"I have no idea who this man is," Mira said, her cheeks reddening.
"Oh?" Paula turned to me. "What's your name, dear?"
"Adam Lapid. I called earlier."
"Nice to meet you, Adam," Paula said, obviously the leader of this little group. "How nice of you to come calling on our darling Mira. I assure you you won't find a better girl, would he, ladies?"
"That's quite enough, Paula," Mira Roth said. The others chuckled. "And the same goes for the rest of you." Recovered from her momentary embarrassment, her voice had reacquired the same strength and authority I had detected in it over the phone. She crossed the salon in three forceful strides and, upon reaching me, planted a firm hand in the middle of my chest and pushed me out onto the sidewalk. She followed me out and shut the door to the salon. "I thought I made it clear I did not wish to speak to you or anyone from your lousy newspaper."
Her mouth was set in a hard line. Her amber eyes were narrowed to menacing slits. Her left hand was planted on her hip. I noticed she was clutching a pair of scissors in her right hand and that muscles bunched and twitched in her forearm, as if she were getting ready to plunge the scissors into my chest.
This was an Irgun member, I recalled. It was quite likely she had killed before. I hastened to defuse the situation.
"You misunderstood me, Miss Roth. I am not a reporter and I don't work for Davar. I'm a private investigator and all I want is to ask you a few questions about the Salonika."
"I don't want to talk about that. Not now, not ever. Go bother someone else."
"Please, it's very important."
"It's been ten years. What could be so important?"
"I'm working on a case. My client is a woman named Henrietta Ackerland. Ten years ago, she gave her baby boy for safekeeping to a passenger on your ship and—"
"Esther."
The name had emerged from her mouth in a gasp. We stared at each other in silence. Mira shifted her feet. She seemed surprised at having blurted out the name, but she was nowhere near as surprised as I was.
"You remember her. Do you know where she is?" I asked, feeling my heartbeat accelerate.
Just then came a squeak from behind her back. Mira turned to see that Paula had inched open the door to eavesdrop on our conversation. The faces of the other three women were pressed to the front window, peering at us without a trace of embarrassment.
Mira huffed, went to the door, and wordlessly closed it in Paula's face. Paula stuck her tongue out at Mira through the glass door, then flashed a mischievous smile. Mira did not smile back.
She turned back to me, frowning. "Adam Lapid. Where do I know that name from?"
The old uncomfortable feeling resurfaced, just as it did each time my wartime exploits were brought up. But maybe this time something good would come out of it. What better way to impress an Irgun member than with tales of wartime bravery?
"I was injured during the war. Operation Yoav. The story got some press."
"Ah. Now I remember. I heard about you on the radio. What you did was truly heroic."
I said nothing. She gazed at me and there was something in her eyes that had not been there before. Respect. Appreciation. Perhaps even admiration.
"You're a private investigator, is that what you said?"
"Yes."
She chewed her lower lip, mulling something over. Then she said, "I have to finish doing Carmella's hair. It should take me ten minutes. I don't want to talk about it here—not in front of them. I live close by, on the corner of Frishman and Sirkin. See you there in fifteen minutes."
With that, she turned on her heel and reentered the hair salon.
9
When I was a child, I believed in miracles. I suppose all children do. Just like they believe in magic and monsters. Then, as I grew older and got acquainted with the reality of life, my belief waned. But it never disappeared entirely.
Until Auschwitz.
Now I no longer believed in miracles. But as I walked the few hundred meters from the hair salon to Mira Roth's home, and during the ten minutes I waited outside her building for her to arrive, I considered the possibility that my faith in miracles was about to be rekindled.
Because Mira knew Esther Grunewald and Willie Ackerland. They had been on that ship. In a few minutes I would know whether, by some fluke or miracle, they were still alive today.
"So," I said, "where are Esther Grunewald and Willie Ackerland?"
I was seated on a sofa in Mira's living room. It was a nicer room than mine. Yellow curtains hung at the windows. Small potted cacti stood on a windowsill. Photographs of the Dead Sea, the ruined mountain fortress of Masada, and the Old City of Jerusalem adorned the walls. In the middle of a colorful rug squatted a low wooden table. Mira had taken a chair on the opposite side of it. She had not offered me anything to drink, and I would have declined had she done so. I desired nothing but answers, and I think she desired nothing but supplying them. I found myself literally at the edge of my seat, and my skin felt as if it were vibrating in anticipation.
"In Nahalat Yitzhak Cemetery," Mira said. Her tightly controlled expression and flat tone made it clear that this was a woman who had had much experience with death.
"Dead?" I asked, feeling foolish the instant the word left my lips. The vibration had faded, leaving a bleak void in its place.
A curt nod.
No miracle. In fact, it was worse than that. A mother parts with her only child to save him from the horrors of Nazi Germany. Against all odds that child and the woman who agreed to care for him make it to the shores of the Promised Land, only to be killed on the cusp of safety. Fury welled up inside me, followed by immense sadness. What sort of God allows for something as sacrilegious as that?