The Dead Sister

I chuckled. "He wanted to. And more than once. And who knows, he might not have used his fists, not if he had a knife in his pocket."

Greta looked horrified. "Don't joke about such things, Adam. Haven't we had enough blood spilled in this country already?"

Enough to fill the Mediterranean, I thought. And we were far from done. Of that, I was sure. But I kept my predictions to myself. Instead I said, "Don't worry. He wouldn't have attacked me. For one thing, he wants me to do something for him. For another, had he attacked me, he would have been thrown in jail. And he needs to be free for at least a while longer."

"Why is that?"

Because he wanted to be ready when I found out who killed his sister, I thought. He couldn't kill him if he himself was locked up.

I said, "Because when I accomplish what he hired me to do, he wants to be able to act on it as soon as possible."

"Do you really think he had a knife on him?"

"Can't say for sure, but I don't think so. He's the sort of man who only carries a weapon when he intends to use it."

"When I saw him enter," Greta said, "I didn't know whether to be scared or not. At first glance he looks harmless, but that scar…" She gave a shudder.

"Just a few drops of that blood we were talking about. But just because it's ugly does not mean that he hates having it. He said he got it while fighting us in the war. I think it gives him a good deal of pride. Like a medal or a badge of honor."

"You men with your honor," Greta said, shaking her head.

I smiled, but only for a moment, as I recalled what the besmirching of honor could mean for the women in Ahmed Jamalka's culture. And for the men too.

Greta gave me a thoughtful look. "Your face just went two shades darker in the blink of an eye. This isn't a usual job he hired you for, is it?"

"For now I'm not entirely sure what it is. But usual, it isn't. As for the client, you shouldn't be scared of him. He is angry and he doesn't like us Jews very much, but he's reserving his anger for someone other than you or me."

"I hope you're right," she said, "and I feel sorry for that someone, whoever he may be."

We were silent for a bit, and then she said, "You know, he stopped by me on his way out and paid for the coffee you two drank."

"I saw him hand you money and guessed as much."

"I told him there was no need, that it was taken care of, but he insisted."

"His pride again. He doesn't want to owe a Jew anything. Not even the price of a cup of coffee." I looked at her. "Well, at least you got paid."

"Yes, I suppose that's right. Maybe you should have him over every day."

I first started frequenting Greta's Café in January 1949. It was shortly after I was released from the hospital, where I'd spent a shade over a month recuperating from two bullet wounds I had taken fighting the Egyptian Army in Israel's War of Independence. We became close, Greta and I, especially after I helped her get rid of some self-appointed tough guy who was trying to get her to pay him protection money.

Once he went away, no longer looking or sounding tough, Greta and I came to an understanding. In lieu of payment, I would get to eat and drink at her café for free. I didn't drink or eat much, so I wasn't abusing the privilege, and she felt safer just having me around. So I got my second home, and she got me as a permanent fixture. It was a nice setup.

"I doubt if we'll be seeing him anytime soon," I said. "You will have to make do with me, I'm afraid."

Greta let out a long, laborious sigh. "Well, that's all right. As a Jew, I'm used to making do with what little is available."

We exchanged smiles. She said I would have to excuse her and went to serve coffee to a florid-faced customer who was beckoning her from the other side of the room.

I took the cigarette Ahmed Jamalka had given me, fired it up, and inhaled the rich smoke deep into my mouth and chest. I held the smoke in as long as I could before I vented it out in a thick, aromatic stream of black and gray. I set up the chess pieces on the board and swiveled it around so that I was now facing white. One more quick game to go along with this fine cigarette, and then I'd start working on finding out who had killed Maryam Jamalka.

4

I exited Greta's and turned south on Allenby. I smoked a cigarette as I walked, and wished I hadn't. The cheap tobacco erased all traces of the quality cigarette Ahmed Jamalka had given me.

I crossed Rothschild Boulevard and took a right to Yehuda Halevi Street. I followed the road west. I had finished my smoke by the time I got to the three-story building that stood at number 6. The blue and white flag of Israel was lazily blowing in the faint breeze on its roof, and a wide rectangular sign over the entrance proclaimed the building to be a police station of the Tel Aviv district.

I climbed the stairs to the second floor, took a right past some open offices, and found the one occupied by Reuben Tzanani. He was inside, with his back to me, arranging files and folders in a gray metal filing cabinet.

I stood in the doorway, watching him for a moment. Reuben was a short man, five foot four with shoes on, with a frame that was slight and narrow. His unimpressive physique gave a false impression. Reuben was as tough as they come, and me being alive was testament to that.

The previous October, he and I fought side by side against the Egyptian Army during Operation Yoav in the south of Israel. It was a series of harsh and bitter battles and skirmishes, and during one of them, I'd taken two bullets to the torso. Despite my being nearly a foot taller and forty pounds heavier, Reuben had hoisted me on his back and carried me for over a kilometer to the rear, where I'd received the emergency care that kept me from dying that day.

For what he'd done, Reuben received a small citation and a nickname. In our unit he became known as "Ant" for his ability to carry more than his body weight for long distances.

For my injury, and for certain actions I had taken earlier in that battle, I was lauded as a war hero, awarded a medal, and given the rank of sergeant. Reuben was far more deserving of accolades and promotions than I, but it never seemed to bother him any.

Finished with his files, he pushed the drawer closed, grimacing when it squeaked.

"You should oil that," I said. "Use some of the oil from all the Yemenite food you eat. It might taste better."

He turned and grinned at me.

Reuben had a grin so wide it seemed on the verge of splitting his face in two. It lit up a room, or a military encampment, better than a lamp or a blazing campfire. His features were small and well-shaped. A short nose, rounded cheeks, a tall, smooth forehead. His head was crowned with tight, black curls.

"Better than the dry food you Hungarians eat," he said, taking his chair. "That's why you need to drink so much and why you look so pale."

I smiled and sat across from him.

This exchange of jabs and insults regarding the food each of us had grown up with was something we had been doing since shortly after we met. Reuben took great pride in Yemenite food and found it humorous that I had trouble handling some of the spicier dishes he enjoyed. For my part, my praise for Hungarian cuisine was feigned. I had to admit that there was little contest. Yemenite food was far superior to Hungarian.

I asked him how his wife, Gila, and his children were, and he beamed when he spoke of them. He had four children and they were all fine and healthy. He told me a little about each, and from the sound of it, he wouldn't have minded having a fifth in the near future. We talked a little about how things were slowly improving now that the war was officially over, and he spoke with great emotion about the thousands of Yemenite Jews that were arriving by the week to Israel. Apparently, there were many distant relatives of his among them.