I rubbed the side of my jaw. "Can I get something to eat first? And some coffee?"

She nodded, and I withdrew to my table at the rear, but not before I looped an arm over the counter to grab the chessboard and box of pieces Greta kept there for me.

At my table, I set up the board—white pieces on my side, black on the opposite—a matter of convention, nothing more, for I played both colors. This was a habit I'd picked up after the Second World War, though its origin lay squarely in it.

I wasn't a good player, but that wasn't the reason I chose myself as an opponent. It wasn't victory I craved, but a few minutes of idle mental time, and a bout of lightning chess against myself was the best way I knew to achieve that.

Two dozen or so moves into the game, Greta appeared with the coffee and a plate bearing a large sandwich and a scattering of vegetables.

"Is that blood on your collar?" she asked, setting down the dishes.

"Yes." I nudged the chessboard aside and tugged the plate closer.

"Yours?"

"Probably. At least part of it."

She clucked her tongue, then smiled indulgently like a mother at a reckless child who'd skirted disaster for the umpteenth time. "Enjoy your meal, Adam." She left me with the food. Glorious Greta, she was curious as hell, but she would give me all the time I needed.

The coffee was as wonderful as always, the vegetables crisp and fresh, the sandwich simple yet filling. With each swallow, I could feel my tiredness abate and my anger recede further. Once I'd finished eating, I resumed my game. Black won decisively.

Greta cleared the dishes, then sat down across from me.

"So tell me," she said. "Just how awful was it?"

"It wasn't pretty. What have you heard?"

"That Begin threatened to overthrow the government."

"That's not true," I said, perhaps too quickly.

"That he called Ben-Gurion a tyrant, that he suggested citizens stop paying taxes, that he swore he and his men would make any sacrifice to stop Israel from negotiating with Germany."

I wished I could deny it, but Begin had said all that.

"That he said this would be a war to the death."

I kneaded the back of my neck, where knots had started to form. "Yes. He did say that."

"That he ordered his followers to storm the Knesset."

I shook my head, glad for the opportunity to balance the scales a little. "No. He never gave such an order. He asked us to appeal to the policemen as Jews to not raise their hands against us. To tell them we were fighting for the nation's honor. He never said we should fight them. That was an unplanned eruption of emotion."

Greta looked at me for a long moment, and I imagined that she was thinking much the same as I was, that Begin was well aware of his oratory skills, that he could sense the crowd's agitation, that he knew, or should have known, what acts his speech would inspire.

Greta said, "I heard on the radio that King George Street looked like a battlefield, that hundreds of people got hurt."

"That sounds about right."

"And that some of them were injured pretty badly."

I thought of the unconscious policeman I had been wrongly accused of beating. "Some of them, yes. There were ambulances. Plenty of them."

Greta's expression was closed to me. Like the door to your home after someone changed the locks without you knowing. "You took part in the fighting?"

"Yes," I said, not shying from her gaze. "I didn't plan to. I went to Jerusalem to demonstrate, to express my opinion, not to fight anyone. But somehow I ended up near the Knesset, trying to push past the cops to get inside."

"To do what?"

A jolt of panic flared in my stomach, surged up my chest, and curled around my neck like a garrote. Of all people, I needed Greta to understand, to not judge me too harshly.

"To get the Knesset to vote against the government's plan to negotiate with Germany," I said, my voice coming out choked and squeaky. I added in a rush, "They can't do that, Greta. They just can't. It's wrong, a sin. It's an insult to the dead. To my... to my..."

I couldn't continue. My lungs felt cramped, my airways clogged. It was difficult to draw breath. Hot tears pricked my eyes, a million tiny burning needles.

Greta reached over and grabbed both my hands in hers, enveloping them like warm gloves. "I know, Adam. You don't have to say it."

I lowered my head and bit back a cry, my eyes overflowing. Greta released my hands, and I heard her chair scrape across the floor. Then she was beside me, hands on my shoulders, and I knew she'd positioned her body so as to block me from view of the other patrons. The scents of cooking oil, salt, margarine, and coffee wafted off her. The comforting smells of a homey kitchen.

I dried my face with my hands, the salt of my tears stinging the small cuts from yesterday's battle. I looked up at her. "I wasn't trying to overthrow the government, Greta, but to save Israel's soul. You understand, right?"

She nodded, her strong fingers pressing into my shoulders, ten firm anchors keeping me from drifting into uncharted waters.

"I know why you did it, Adam. Why you felt compelled to do it. But I so wish you chose another way." She patted my shoulders. "Why don't you go wash your face? I'll bring you another coffee, and you can play another game."

When I returned to my table, face clean and dry, I found that Greta had already refilled my cup. She was at the other end of the café, chatting with a customer. I sipped some coffee and drew the chessboard toward me. I moved the pieces around as fast as I could, no time for thought or strategy, just instinct. Black won again.

I sat back and looked around the café. Six other patrons other than myself. Five men and one woman. The woman laughed at something her companion said. At another table, one of the other men was busily scribbling in a notebook. Two of the others were talking in Yiddish, each armed with a cigarette. Greta served them coffee, and one of them said something that made her wag her finger at him.

A man entered the café, one of the regulars, a Russian guy who worked as a bank teller. He called to Greta, "Turn on the radio. They say Ben-Gurion's going to give an address."

Bulky and encased in weathered wood, the radio monopolized a shelf on the wall behind the serving counter. An ancient contraption, it had come into Greta's possession as a result of her softheartedness. A customer who was down on his luck had given it to her in lieu of settling his tab. I'd advised Greta against the exchange, pointing out that a radio of such vintage could be had for half the outstanding debt. But Greta had accepted, on the grounds that to refuse would hurt the man's feelings, which was more important than money, especially given the fact that he'd frequented the café for many years.

"Did you at least check it's working properly?" I'd asked.

"He assured me it does," Greta had replied.

And the radio had worked properly. For five whole days. After this brief grace period, it began showing its age by supplying an incessant hiss as an accompaniment to all broadcasts. Sometimes the hiss was loud like a snake sibilating in your ear; at other times, it was but an indistinct susurration, like a gaggle of distant busybodies sharing gossip. In either case, it was irritating to the point that the radio saw gradually less and less use. These days, it was turned on only when one of the patrons requested it, and usually not for very long.

Greta shook her head, suggesting in her mild tone that perhaps it would be better to read about Ben-Gurion's address in tomorrow's papers. She pointed out that the radio's performance deteriorated on cloudy days.

But another patron seconded the first's request, and soon the woman and her companion voiced their support as well. Surrendering to their will, Greta turned one of the large knobs on the radio's front, and the crackle of static burst from the speaker as the machine roused itself to life.

Then came the all-familiar hiss, and over it, and only somewhat more pleasant, the nasal, strident voice of David Ben-Gurion, prime minister of Israel, with his Polish accent and distinct clipped enunciation. It was not the voice of a statesman, not the tone of the founder of a country. But then Ben-Gurion had none of the outward characteristics of a leader. With his five-foot-one frame, his bald dome of a head fringed by unruly hedges of white hair, his sausage of a nose and near invisible lips, Ben-Gurion had the appearance of a hapless grandfather rather than the man who, against all odds, had led his tiny nation to military triumph and renewed independence.

His was an elusive, hard-to-define charisma. He did not have Begin's eloquence, nor his gushing fervor. He was not blessed with the good looks of some of his young generals. He did not possess the easy charm of a socialite. He dressed simply, his tastes were humble, and he always looked unkempt, even in a suit and tie. Yet, despite all these shortcomings, Ben-Gurion had been the foremost leader of the Jewish Yishuv during the British Mandate of Palestine, and as prime minister, his domination of Israeli politics was near complete.

"Yesterday," Ben-Gurion said, "a nefarious hand was raised against the sovereignty of the Knesset. An attempt was made to destroy Israeli democracy. It was proclaimed that Israeli policy would not be decided by the people's representatives, but by men of the fist and the political murder."