"You sure? How about a glass of water?" She leaned closer and added in a murmur, "You look like you could use it."
"No, thank you," I said, but the words came out in a croak. My mouth was as dry as an old grave, as hopelessness itself. I tried and failed to work saliva into it, involuntarily swallowing, hurting the inside of my throat as though I had swallowed a piece of rough tree bark. "Yes," I managed to say. "Please."
When she brought me the water, I downed the whole glass in a single swallow. "Thank you," I told her.
"It's a terrible thing." She shook her head and sighed. "A terrible thing."
I didn't answer. What answer was there to give?
She sighed again, a what-can-you-do sort of sigh, and in that small, defeated exhalation I heard the awful acceptance of the fact that life would proceed, that we would all be dragged, kicking and screaming or indifferent or in a sort of simmering resentment—it didn't really matter how—to the following moments and days and so on, pulled by our daily duties and obligations and the necessities of life. "Can I get you anything else?" she said.
"No. Just the check."
Out on the street, people hurried past, huddled into their coats. A wicked wind flapped coattails around, ripped umbrellas from cold hands, scattered paper and debris in all directions.
Conjured by the weather, and no doubt prodded by the recent news, a seven-year-old memory I thought I'd managed to suppress clawed up from the dark depths of my mind, and instantly my entire body felt as though it were encased in ice.
It was December 1944, and I was in Auschwitz, standing in roll call as heavy, relentless snow plummeted upon me and the other miserable creatures who were my fellow prisoners.
My clothes were tattered rags, my body depleted of fat, and the wind had fangs like that of a hunger-crazed tiger. It bit and tore at my wasted flesh through my prisoner's uniform, leaching the very life out of me. And I couldn't even wrap my arms around myself for warmth. I had to stand there, at attention, or risk getting shot by the guards.
And now, in Jerusalem, I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk with the rain beating on my coat and hat, shivering all over in recollection. I clenched my jaw to silence my chattering teeth, but in my memory, my teeth of seven years ago continued their clicking stutter.
The die had been cast. Israel would negotiate with Germany. A deal would be struck. A devil's bargain. Money for blood. I wanted to scream, scream "No!" like Naomi Hecht had done at the sight of Moria's dead body. But I bottled the scream inside, my stomach convulsing with its toxic pressure.
It was done. No shouting or yelling or protest would undo it. I'd done all that and failed—and in the attempt perhaps contributed to an outcome opposite the one I desired. I had to focus on what I could do, on what was in my power. My case. The search for the person in Moria's suicide note. That, I could influence. There, my efforts might bear fruit.
I hurried east, pausing at Zion Square, where I cast a gloomy glance at the balcony from which Menachem Begin had delivered his moving oration. It was empty now.
A clutch of people was milling about the entrance to Zion Cinema. Others were streaming in and out of Schwartz Department Store. Business as usual. Life moving on.
I moved on as well. The rain hardened to sleet that bounced like shrapnel on my shoulders and head. My shoes crunched on tiny pellets of ice, and with a shudder I imagined that I was walking on fragments of bone.
I crossed Jaffa Street again, this time heading northeast, and entered Hasollel Street. On the corner opposite the offices of the Jerusalem Post, where in February 1948 an Arab car bomb had killed three people, I turned right and soon found myself outside a nondescript building on Heleni Hamalka Street. Here, according to Naomi Hecht, was where Anat Schlesinger lived.
It was a nicer building than the one Moria had chosen for herself. Four stories tall and dotted with tiny half-circular balconies with wrought-iron railings, all empty in this weather. I climbed the stairs to the third floor and knocked on the door of apartment 8.
The woman who opened it looked nothing like Naomi Hecht. Short, buxom, and red-haired, Anat Schlesinger was all curves and soft womanhood. Not a hard edge in sight. She possessed one of those sweet, pretty faces on which a smile looks more natural than a frown. She was smiling now, questioningly, as she said in a pleasant, lilting voice, "Hello, can I help you?"
I gave her my name and said I'd like to talk to her about Moria Gafni.
The smile gave way to bafflement. "Moria?"
I nodded. "I'm a private investigator. Moria's father hired me. He wants to know why she did what she did. Can I come in? It won't take long."
Anat Schlesinger looked me up and down, hesitant. I understood her concern. I was a strange man in wet clothes, and I was on an odd mission.
"I'm not sure—"
"Naomi Hecht gave me your address," I said.
"Oh." The worry cleared from her face. "You've spoken to Naomi?"
"Less than an hour ago," I said, putting on what I hoped was a confidence-inspiring smile, trying to banish the memory of Naomi Hecht in such a hurry to get away from me that she had neglected to put on her coat before stepping out into the cold. "She told me quite a bit about Moria, but I know you were her close friend, too, so it's important that I speak with you as well."
"Well, yes, of course. Please come in."
Inside, it was warm and homey. A heating stove gurgled in a corner of the cozy living room. White curtains were pulled back from windows that showed a patch of cloud cover and the shingled rooftop of the building across the road. Anat Schlesinger led me to a comfortable sofa and asked if I wanted some tea. I shook my head. "I'm fine. Thank you."
"I'm sorry, but we're fresh out of coffee, or I would offer you some."
"That's all right. I had some earlier." I thought of Naomi Hecht playing with her wedding ring as she lied to me. Why had she lied to me? "Who's we?" I asked.
"Huh?"
"You said, 'We're out of coffee.'"
She smiled. "I meant my roommates and I."
"How many of you live here?"
"Three. We used to be four, with two girls sharing one of the rooms, but thank God, that's no longer the case. Three's crowded enough, believe me."
"I do."
"Don't get me wrong, I like it here a lot. It's a nice apartment. Better than my previous one by far. I was lucky to find it."
"How long have you been living here?"
"Two years."
"Since around the same time Moria moved into her apartment on Amos Street, right?" I said, recalling what Lillian and Daniel Shukrun had told me.
"In the same month, actually. Which brings up a painful memory."
"Why painful?"
"Because of Moria," she said, the corners of her mouth tucking down. "Since we were both looking at the time, I suggested we look together, become roommates. Such good friends, what could be better?"
"Why didn't you?"
"Moria wouldn't. No matter how much I tried to cajole her. And trust me, I can be quite the cajoler." She laughed, both in humor and wistfulness.
"Did she say why?"
"She said she wanted to live by herself. No roommates. She worked very hard to convince me that it wasn't personal, which took some doing, but not all that much, because why wouldn't she want me as a roommate?"
"I can't see a reason."
