Her lower lip began trembling. It was odd to see, unexpected, far removed from her customary controlled firmness. When she spoke, her voice was husky with emotion, more than any she'd shown thus far. "That Moria was in a great deal of distress, that she was suffering terribly."
"Do you know what she was referring to, or whom?"
She shook her head, spreading both hands, palms up, in a show of resigned frustration. "I've thought about it over and over, probably a million times or more. I simply don't know. I feel that I should, but I don't."
Guilt, I thought, that insidious beast. I knew it well, my unwanted companion in the seven years that had passed since the end of the war in Europe.
"Tell me about that day," I said.
She took a deep breath, looked at her hands, then back up at me. "What do you want me to tell you?"
"Let's start by why you went to Moria's apartment."
"She didn't show up for her shift. That was unlike her. I don't think she missed a shift in two years. So I went to check on her."
"You had a key?"
"Yes."
"How come?"
"Moria gave it to me, in case she lost hers."
"You live close by?"
"A few minutes' walk. On the corner of Malachi and Zeharia."
"Okay. You unlocked the door, went inside, and then?"
"She hadn't been dead long. There was hardly any smell. I went into the living room and saw the note right away. It was—"
"Wait! The note was in the living room? Not in the bedroom?"
"In the living room. On the floor under the table. It was odd because everything else was so neat."
"The police report said the note was found on the bed."
"That's because of me. I read the note, understood what it was, and rushed into the bedroom with it in my hand. I saw the pill bottles. I saw Moria. I could tell she was dead at a glance."
"What did you do then?"
"Screamed. I screamed, but I don't remember what."
It was the word "no." That was what Lillian Shukrun had heard. The most primal, animalistic word in existence. A word of denial, of rejection, of defiance and rebellion. A hopeless word on that particular day, as on many others.
"What then?"
"I hurried to the bed, dropping the note. I checked her pulse, even though I knew it was pointless. Then I went to call for help. One of the neighbors was standing in the doorway, looking scared. She'd probably heard me scream. She told me where I could find a telephone. I called the police, and that was that."
I remembered Lillian telling me that Naomi Hecht did not cry that day, but now her eyes were glistening. I watched as a single tear escaped from each of her eyes, as her thumb caught the left one quickly, swiping it away, and how the right continued its journey unimpeded down her cheek to the corner of her mouth. Only then, with the taste of salt on her lips, did she become aware of it, wiped her cheek with her fingers, and finished the job with her napkin.
She sat like that for a minute or so, her face buried in the napkin. Her shoulders shuddered, but her weeping was oddly silent, as though she were choking her sobs so deep in her body that not a whisper of them survived.
I gave her the time she needed, waited until she lowered the napkin, revealing a face that was flushed, eyes dry but reddened. Her brief storm of emotion had roiled through her, but it had passed. She was collected again.
I said, "You told me everything was neat."
"Yes. Moria had cleaned everything. I don't know why."
"Were the windows open or closed?"
She shut her eyes, drew a deep breath. "Closed. No, that's not right. The one by the table in the living room was open a little. I remember the cold air blowing in, chilling me as I read the note."
That's how the note got under the table, I thought. Moria had left it there before going into the bedroom to die, and the wind coming through the open window had blown it off the table and onto the floor.
"Why do you think she didn't name the person in the note?" I asked.
"I don't know."
I didn't either, and it had been bothering me ever since I first read the note in Gafni's office.
I stared across the table at Naomi Hecht. The color in her cheeks had faded to a flowery pink. Her mouth was open just the tiniest bit, and it made her lips fuller. She was glancing at her watch.
"I'm sorry," she said, "I didn't realize it was so late. I need to go."
To her husband, I thought. She needs to get home before her husband does.
"Wait," I said, feeling a small pang in my stomach, for there was still one matter we had to discuss. "Just a couple more questions, Mrs. Hecht."
