I asked Mrs. Hersch if she knew where Magda Abramo had gone and when she would be back. She told me she didn't know, but I had the sense that she was lying. She did not invite me to wait for Magda Abramo inside her apartment. I decided to walk a bit and try again later.
I walked about a kilometer north, to the southern end of Mishkenot Sha'ananim, the first Jewish neighborhood to be built outside the walls of Old Jerusalem, then cut east to Mount Zion. From there I gazed north upon Old Jerusalem. I saw the Temple Mount, the dome of Al-Aqsa Mosque, and church spires reaching toward the heavens. Jordanian troops patrolled the walls of the old city. Along the armistice line that divided Jerusalem, more soldiers manned ugly guard posts and barricades made of stone blocks and spools of barbed wire. Mount Zion was the closest vantage point in West Jerusalem to the Temple Mount, the holiest site in Judaism. A number of bearded men wearing yarmulkes and prayer shawls stood praying toward it. Jews were barred from visiting the Temple Mount or the Wailing Wall, both of which were in Jordanian-occupied East Jerusalem, so it was there, on Mount Zion, that the worshipful gathered to express their devotion. A tense quiet now existed in Jerusalem, and there were rumors of peace talks between Israel and Jordan. But to me Jerusalem did not seem like a city on the cusp of peace. The quiet seemed fragile, ready to break into violence at any moment.
Two cigarettes and thirty minutes later I went back to Emek Refaim Street. I met Magda Abramo as she was entering her building.
She was five six, slim but not scrawny, with lustrous brown hair that fell to her shoulders. Her light-gray, intelligent eyes were puffy and somewhat red at the edges. Her face was drawn and there were bags under her eyes. Despite her exhaustion and grief, she was attractive, with rosy lips, clear pale skin that stretched over high cheekbones, a delicate chin, and a long, graceful neck. I guessed her age at twenty-three or thereabouts, though at first glance, her weariness added five years to her features. Her dress was light green. It flared at the bottom two inches above her ankles, captured the shape of her hips, and was tucked in at her waist. She had on a simple wedding band and unobtrusive earrings.
I recognized her by the baby stroller she was wearily pushing. The baby was wailing, oblivious to its mother's entreaties for him to be quiet. I could tell by her despairing tone that this had been going on for a while.
Over the baby's crying, I managed to tell her that I was there to see her. I showed her the letter.
"You're Yosef Kaplon?" she asked.
"No. I was a friend of his. I actually came here to talk to your husband about him. Could we talk for a few minutes? I can explain it better if we sit and talk."
If she hadn't been so tired, I doubt she would have agreed so readily. I helped her carry the stroller to the second floor and asked myself how she could manage to lift it by herself every day.
Inside her apartment, she took the baby in her arms and rocked him. He kept on crying.
"I'm sorry," she said. "David has a fever. I was just at the doctor. He told me I have nothing to worry about, that all babies have fevers. My baby has red spots all over his body, and he tells me it's normal."
"It's true," I said, remembering the same thing happening with my daughters. "As long as the fever doesn't last beyond three days, you probably have nothing to worry about."
She gave me an incredulous look.
"I've seen it before," I said. "The doctor knows what he's talking about."
"You have children?" she asked, and before I could answer, she thrust the baby into my arms and went to the kitchen, calling over her shoulder, "You know about babies, so hold him for a moment. I'll get him a bottle."
I stood there awkwardly with the baby in my arms. He gazed up at me with deep-blue eyes and reached up in a grabbing motion toward my nose. There was a brown padded sofa and I sat on it, cradling the baby closer to me. He was as hot as a fireplace, and his arms and face were splotched with red spots. Without thinking, I began singing a Hungarian lullaby that I used to sing to my daughters. To my surprise, the baby's sobs rapidly subsided and he fell quiet.
"Thank God." I looked up and saw Magda Abramo standing at the entrance to the kitchen, a bottle in her hand. "He's been crying almost nonstop since he woke up. The poor thing. Nothing I did would soothe him. You have a way with babies."
"Not really," I said. "Just luck."
Magda set the bottle on the arm of the sofa and reached for her baby. He began to wail once more. She twisted her lips. "Here." She handed me the bottle. "You try it."
The bottle was warm and nearly full with milk. I was about to decline, feeling awkward once more, but the baby—had she said his name was David?—spotted the bottle in my hand and began whimpering with need. So I inclined his head, brought the bottle to his lips, and he began to suck greedily.
She watched us for a moment. "Amazing. I don't know if I should be offended. He seems to like you better than he does me these days."
He can sense your pain, I thought. I said, "I take it that these past few days have been rough."
Her lower lip quivered; her eyes glittered with tears. "Yes. The most awful days in my life. First my husband, and now David with his fever—are you sure it's normal?"
I smiled and nodded. "He's sick, but it's normal for babies his age. And he still has his appetite. It's a good sign."
She nodded and a weight seemed to lift off her shoulders. She drew in a deep breath and slowly let it out. She was terrified. It was easy to see why. First she lost a husband; then her baby got sick and feverish. She was probably afraid he was about to die on her too. I had managed to dispel some of her fear, but it would be weeks if not months, well after David's fever broke, that her fear for him would finally subside.
She went to the kitchen and I heard a pot being filled with water. She returned, frowning. "What did you say your name was?"
"Adam Lapid."
"And here I let a strange man enter my apartment and then I shove my baby into his arms. I must be losing my mind."
"You can have him back, Mrs. Abramo," I said.
"No. He seems comfortable with you. And call me Magda."
David was sucking the last dregs of milk from the bottle. His eyelids were heavy, only a slit of blue visible between them. The nipple of the bottle slipped from his mouth with a nearly inaudible pop and he fell asleep in my arms, a bead of milk dotting his baby-pink lower lip. Suddenly I had a clear memory of a similar moment with my daughter Sasha. Late 1940 it was, and the Nazi storm hadn't arrived in Hungary yet. I had sat with her all night, as a fever tormented her. My eyes moistened with the memory and it became difficult to breathe. I cleared my throat and blinked my eyes a few times, wondering if Magda Abramo had spotted my anguish.
I rose from the sofa and thrust the baby at her. "He's asleep," I said, looking away from him and her.
She took him from me and went to another room. I gazed around the large living room. Apart from the sofa I had sat on, there was a couch, a rectangular dining table with three chairs, and a two-level coffee table, which rested on a thin rug patterned with horses, deer, rabbits, and birds in flight. A sliding door to my right opened on a wide balcony, letting in a wide swathe of sunlight and a faint whisper of cool Jerusalem breeze. To my left, the room opened on a hallway that led to what I assumed was a bedroom, or perhaps two of them. Straight ahead, through a doorless opening, I caught view of a kitchen sink and a wedge of counter on either side of it. A picture of a beaming Magda in a wedding dress hung on the wall above the dining table. The man beside her—Meir Abramo—had dark hair, a prominent nose, thin lips, and a smile that seemed eager to touch both his ears. There was a drunken sort of happiness in that picture. A now dead happiness.