"Things?"
"War. You've been to war, haven't you? Either here or in Europe. You're acquainted with death. I don't know why I'm sure of that, but I am. Maybe because I and most of the people I work with are acquainted with it as well."
"Aren't most people acquainted with death?"
"I suppose they are. But there are degrees of familiarity. I think yours is pretty high."
"What does that have to do with Moria?"
"Nothing. It just means that there's a greater chance you won't take what I'm about to tell you the wrong way."
"Which is?"
"That the reason I wasn't sure Moria would be able to handle being a nurse for long is that she cared far too much."
"About her patients?"
"Yes."
"Aren't nurses supposed to care about their patients?"
"They are. Of course they are. But too much caring is dangerous. You must understand, Mr. Lapid, there's no escape from suffering and death in a hospital. Not even with the best medicine, the finest doctors and nurses. It can be hard to take, especially here in the Pediatric Ward."
As if to underscore her point, the pitiful mewling wail of a small girl burst from somewhere down the hall. The sound made me flinch, triggering a vivid memory of my eldest daughter after she sprained her ankle.
"Awful, isn't it?" Paula asked, and for a second I thought she could read my mind, see my pain, that she was referring to my having lost my daughters. "Children shouldn't fall prey to harsh illnesses, yet they do. And some of them don't get better. No matter how hard you try to heal them, they wither away and die. It's impossible not to connect to them, the sweet poor things. But if you don't keep some distance, they'll break your heart. And I believe a heart can take only so much breaking."
"Moria didn't keep her distance?"
"I'm not sure she knew how. It was as if they were her children, that she was their mother, not their nurse. She would often stay after her shift, reading to the children, talking to them for hours. I cautioned her about it a couple of times, told her she would ruin herself, and she would listen attentively enough but then carry on as before."
"Sounds like she was a terrific nurse."
"Was she? The children loved her, that's for sure. But we need nurses who'll last for years. I'm not sure Moria would have. Because every time one of the children died, or ended up paralyzed, or something of that kind, it was as if Moria went into mourning."
Which fitted with what Lillian Shukrun had told me about Moria crying over her son's grave, and how she was the only nurse to attend his funeral.
"You think she might have killed herself due to the strain she was under?" I asked. "All that mourning?" Not that I seriously considered the possibility, given the suicide note.
"Before, it wouldn't have crossed my mind. Now, who can say for sure?"
"Did you spot any change to Moria's mood in the days and weeks before she died?"
"Not more than the rest of us."
"What do you mean?"
"We were all shaken by what had happened to Dr. Shapira." Paula noticed my bafflement and added, "I see you're not as informed as I initially thought."
"Apparently not. Who's Dr. Shapira? What happened to him?"
"He was a doctor here in the ward," Paula said. "He was murdered."
"How was Dr. Shapira killed?" I asked.
"He was robbed," Paula said. "The robber shot him."
"When did it happen? Where?"
"The night of November 28. He was on his way home from the hospital. He was killed on the street."
Moria died on December 6, I thought. Just eight days later.
"Was anyone arrested?" I asked.
"I'm afraid not."
"Do the police have any suspects?"
"I don't think so. There's been nothing in the papers."
Which likely indicated that the police had made little progress in the investigation.
"And you're sure he was really killed in a robbery? Maybe he was shot for another reason."
Her frown disappeared, replaced by a fearful, wide-eyed stare. My question had scared her.
I hastened to put on a reassuring smile. "Please forget I said that, Paula. I used to be a police detective once upon a time. I was trained to doubt everything. I'm sure the police have it right."
