I went to Greta's for breakfast, read three or four newspapers cover to cover, and passed the time until lunch. I ate at my table, played some more chess, and overheard a heated debate between two of the other regulars about the war currently being waged in Korea. One was sure the Communists would prevail; the other bet on the Americans.
After lunch I called Reuben. He told me he had nothing yet, but he was still making calls. "I got other things to do besides this, you know," he said.
"I know."
I went to the library on Sheinkin Street, returned the Western I had finished earlier that day, and picked up another. I read some of it on a bench in the shade of a sycamore tree. Then I went back to my table at Greta's and played chess for another hour or so. A little after four I called Reuben again. "Anything?"
"Nothing yet."
I hung up. Grabbed a soda at a kiosk. Found another bench. Read some more. Found it hard to concentrate on the plot and figured it was my wandering mind's fault, not the book's. At four thirty on the dot I called Reuben again.
Again nothing.
"I don't think I'll have anything for you today, Adam. And tomorrow's Friday."
Which was a half day, since the Sabbath began on Friday afternoon. Which meant that I would have to wait till the beginning of the work week on Sunday to get an answer, if any.
"All right. Thanks for trying, Reuben."
I ended the call and cursed softly. Somewhere out there a killer roamed free. And I had no clue who or where he was, and the only idea I had was now on hold for three days.
14
Shimon picked me up outside of Greta's at eight. He was driving a gleaming maroon Ford Tudor. I got in.
"Is this your car?" I asked.
"It is for this weekend," he answered in a flat voice, and I laughed.
He drove as fluidly as other people walk or run. It was as if he anticipated what drivers around him—of which there were admittedly not many—would do. He never had to brake hard. He seemed in absolute control of the road. But he didn't drive complacently. He kept both hands on the wheel and his eyes straight ahead. He didn't talk much, either, but that was normal for Shimon.
Yitzhak was waiting for us at the corner of Ben Yehuda and Gordon. When Shimon stopped the car beside him, Yitzhak flicked the cigarette he had been smoking into the road and got in. Shimon drove north on Hayarkon Street, past the small Tel Aviv harbor on the left, crossed the Yarkon River, and kept on north until the lights of Tel Aviv were behind us and the paved roads gave way to hard gravel and sand. It was an untamed area where the sea breeze blew unfettered and wild shadows jumped when pierced by the car's headlights.
Shimon navigated the Ford through the dunes. We hit some uneven patches, and I held onto the door handle.
"Don't flip us over," Yitzhak said, and Shimon merely grunted in reply.
He wended his way through the sloping dunes, following some trail or pathway that only he could see. Knowing Shimon, he'd gone through this terrain in daylight and memorized various landmarks. Even when the car rocked and swayed on the rough ground, I was not worried.
Shimon brought the car to a stop between two tall dunes. I smelled the dry smell of beach sand and heard the whisper of soft waves petting the shore a few hundred meters to our left. Above us the stars looked brighter and closer in the sky than they did in Tel Aviv. Shimon kept the headlights on. They lighted the side of the northern dune. He went to the trunk of the car and pulled out three cardboard, man-shaped forms. He dropped two to the ground, telling each of us to pick one. We did. They were full-height shooting targets. We leaned the targets against the dune where it was illuminated by the headlights. We stuck the targets in the ground and piled a foot or so of sand at their bases so they'd remain steady.
"Where did you get these?" I asked.
"The British left them behind when they left," Shimon said.
Yitzhak started laughing and slapped his thigh. "This is just perfect."
The three targets were obviously intended to portray German soldiers. You could tell by the helmets they had on. Each helmet had a spike in its center, like the Germans used to wear in the First World War.
"The British were still using these in 1948?" I asked.
Shimon shrugged.
"Maybe that's why they didn't do so well when the Wehrmacht invaded France," Yitzhak said, still laughing. "They kept expecting to see men with spiked helmets and held their fire too long."
Shimon went back to the trunk, got two rolled towels out, and unrolled them on the ground. Inside were four handguns. I squatted down to look at them. Two of the guns were German Walther PPs, one was an American Colt 1911, and the last was an Italian Beretta. Shimon had brought a box of cartridges for each gun. He'd even thought to bring British Army-issued earplugs.
We took turns shooting each gun and made nice holes in all three targets. Yitzhak was the best shooter; Shimon was the worst. After a round of firing, I decided that the Colt wouldn't do. It was heftier than the other guns. It would be hard to carry and conceal. Shimon looked a bit disappointed with my decision—he shot best with the Colt, as it fitted his large hands better than the smaller guns—but he didn't argue. I decided on the Walther. It was German standard issue, which would make it the more common gun to be found in Germany. There was also a sweet sort of justice in using a German army gun, the kind used by the Nazis during the war, to now hunt them down.
Shimon simply nodded when I told him this was what we'd use and that he would have to get more ammunition and pieces. He said it would be no problem.
We ended up using all the bullets he'd brought and turned the three targets to shreds. As I fired into the cardboard images, I started to picture myself hunting Nazis in Germany, with these two men who never thought I was crazy or unstable because of what I'd been through. And I found myself relishing the prospect.
Friday morning at ten, I called Reuben again. He still had nothing for me. It would have to wait until Sunday.
I bought a newspaper. Read about a massive Communist attack on American forces in Korea and about labor disputes in Israel. I smiled at the foolishness of politicians as I read a report on how young mothers in Israel were circumventing the rationing system the government had established by acquiring additional food for their children on the black market or through barters, and how the minister in charge of rationing was trying to stop them. It was a battle I knew the mothers would win, as they would simply never give up. I sat at Greta's until she closed in the early afternoon. She was heading to Haifa to spend Friday evening with her sister.
I walked the streets of Tel Aviv, thinking of two dead musicians in their apartments; about Magda Abramo, beautiful in her grief; about the killer. I thought about Germany and what Feinstein had said about the war not being over. It sure wasn't for me. And it hadn't been over for Abramo and Kaplon. It wasn't over for Shimon and Yitzhak and many others.
I wanted the war to be over for me. That was partly why I was hesitant about going to Germany, where I would continue to wage it. But I also recalled one curious thing: when I hunted Nazis in Germany, I had no bad dreams, no attacks of the sudden Hunger, no flashes of bad memories. In a sense, I was at peace with myself, even when I was at war with others. I also knew that if I kept at it too long, I would make a mistake. I would end up dead. And then there would be no one to remember my father and mother and sisters and wife and daughters.