I smiled grimly. "I have no intention of killing myself. I don't intend to give the bastards the satisfaction."
"The bastards?"
"The Germans and the Austrians and the rest of them. If I kill myself because of what they did to me or my family, even if I do it today or next year or ten years from now, it will be another small victory for them."
"Doesn't seem like a sufficient reason for living," Greta said.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that being alive should be about other things, like work and family and friends and happiness. Is it enough to live just to spite the Germans?"
I looked at her steadily. "When you don't have any of those other things, spiting the Germans will have to do."
A deep silence fell between us. Out on the street, a string of laughing boys chased each other. The sun had drawn back, so that the part of the café in which we were seated became gloomier. Greta sat staring at her hands, which enveloped her glass. I began to wonder whether, despite my blustering talk, Greta had a point. Was I really that different from Yosef Kaplon? We were both alone in the world, had no family, and bore the scars of memory and loss. We even came from the same country and had shared a barracks. Could I ever reach a low enough point that death would seem preferable to living?
I pushed the thought away and said, "The problem is that I'm not sure how to go about it. When I investigate something, I do it like a policeman. It's the way I think. Here this sort of thinking doesn't apply. There is no crime, no means, motive, and opportunity. I am not looking for enemies or scorned lovers or envious business rivals or any of the regular perpetrators of murder."
"Well, why don't you pretend?"
"What do you mean?"
"Investigate this suicide like you would a murder. Treat it like a regular crime. Take the same steps you would in a murder investigation. Ask the same questions, follow leads as you would otherwise do. Could you do that?"
I thought for a moment. Would it work? The tension slowly fading from my body gave me the answer.
"All right," I said. "That's what I'll do."
Greta and I went on talking of this and that for a while. Business was the same as usual, and there was talk that food rationing would be eased soon. If so, she might expand her menu. I solemnly swore that I would sample any new dish she introduced.
She told me of her daughter, Rivkah, who lived in America, and of the last letter she'd received from her. Rivkah was pregnant with her first child, and this only increased Greta's intense desire for her daughter to return to Israel. But life was good in America, there was more money to be made, a higher quality of life, and no threat of imminent war. "How I want to see her, to be with her when she delivers," Greta said before sighing and adding, "but I can't imagine leaving here."
"Rita could take care of the café for you for a few weeks," I said. Rita was a young woman who helped Greta around the café two, three times a week. What I didn't say was that it wouldn't be the same without Greta to greet me at the door.
"It's not that."
"Perhaps you're afraid you would not wish to come back."
Her smile was fleeting. "Perhaps I am. But I would come back even if I wished to stay away. For this is home."
Just as I was about to leave, Greta snapped her fingers and tapped her forehead, as if to make sure her brain was still where it was supposed to be.
"With all the excitement of your little hunger episode, I nearly forgot—a man was here looking for you earlier today."
"A man? What did he want?"
"To see you. He wouldn't say what for. He asked when you'd be back and I told him I didn't know."
"Did he leave a name?" I asked.
"Yitzhak. I asked him what his last name was, but he said you'd know who he was."
"Black hair, blue eyes, fair skin, two inches shorter than me?"
"Yes," Greta said. "Though I couldn't swear on the height."
I gave her a comforting smile. "That's all right. Did he say when he'd be back?"
"No. He said he'd find you. He's not trouble, is he?"
I told her what might or might not be the truth. "No. He's not trouble."
By the time we finished talking and I stepped out onto Allenby Street, the sun had descended close to the sea. The tops of the buildings on the western side of the street were tinged with fire. I walked slowly up Allenby Street as it curled gently to the northwest. My belly was heavy with the excess food I'd eaten and my steps were slow. But I felt better, as if I'd been wandering lost and now had a destination. I paused at the doorway of a shoe store and lit a cigarette.
An image of my mother flitted before my eyes. I was seeing her the way she looked when I was a child, seven or eight years old. She had beautiful auburn hair, and she'd worn it in a long braid. She was scrubbing a pot, singing to me in a slightly off-key voice. This was how I was hearing it as an adult, but as a child it was the most beautiful voice I knew.
I rubbed my face. Everyone was reminding me of my mother—Kaplon with his tragic tale of loss and guilt, Milosh with his goulash, Greta with her concern and straightforward common sense. I did not want to think of my mother. I'd been lucky this time. My mind had served me a pleasant memory. Next time it might not be so lenient.
The bald man who ran the shoe store was giving me an odd look. I had loitered by his door long enough for my cigarette to burn itself down to my fingers. I let it drop to the pavement and crushed out the stub. I walked all the way to Magen David Square. Outside of the Vitman ice-cream parlor, a group of teenagers were having scoops of vanilla and chocolate and pistachio, chattering and laughing, looking like they didn't own a single bad memory between them. I checked my watch and saw that I was a few minutes early for the seven-thirty show at the Allenby Cinema. The Street with No Name was showing.
The seats were made of wood that was hard on the back and buttocks. They also creaked loudly with the slightest movement of any of the moviegoers. The floor of the theater was bare stone, and teenagers had gotten in the habit of rolling bottles down the aisles from their habitual position in the topmost rows. The movies were translated, but some of the patrons still had trouble reading Hebrew, so a family member would translate the Hebrew subtitles into Polish or French or Arabic or any of a dozen other languages. Despite the constant swell of chaotic noise, the movie hall was nearly full. I found a seat near the rear close to where a group of teenagers were doing their best to be loud and annoying.
I liked the noise, even though it made hearing the dialog a challenge. There was something alive about all that racket.
The movie was about an FBI agent trying to infiltrate a crime gang. Lost in thought, I paid little attention as the movie wound its way toward a climactic finish. My mind was focused on Yosef Kaplon. Tomorrow I would begin looking at his case in a different way, as I would at any crime. This was no longer a job for a client. Now it was a personal project, something I was pursuing for myself.
I left the theater and made my way toward my apartment on Hamaccabi Street. The heat had broken and the stars shown like jewels in the cloudless sky. Couples strolled hand in hand. Teenagers sat atop low brick fences, smoking and playing cards by the glow of a streetlight. I could hear radios and gramophones playing in a variety of styles from open windows.
I slowly climbed the stairs to my third-floor apartment. I slipped my key in the lock, pushed the door open, and entered, swinging it shut behind me.
It was then that I felt the cool circle of steel as a gun was jammed into the back of my neck.