"I hope I'm not shocking you."
"Not at all, I assure you."
"That's good. Anyway, one morning, when we were both working together, I could just tell that she'd been with someone. I begged her to tell me who it was, but she kept denying it, saying I was imagining things. I didn't relent, peppered her with questions, and when finally I asked her, 'Is he married?' figuring that's why she wasn't spilling it, Moria lost her temper. She said, 'Can't you get it through your thick head, Anat? There is no man.' And then she turned red and wouldn't meet my eyes, which told me I was right, that there was a man. But she was so angry that I was scared to ask her any more about it."
"Do you have any idea whatsoever who this man is?"
"No. But I think I was right: I think he's married; otherwise she wouldn't have erupted at me like that."
"Could it be someone from the hospital?"
"I suppose it's possible. But I have no clue who it might be."
"Do you know what Moria wrote in her suicide note?"
She hugged herself, as though to smother a shiver. "Yes. I can't get it out of my head. It's so grim. Poor Moria, I wish she'd opened up to me instead of... I would have helped her. Naomi and I both would have."
"Do you think this man, this lover, could be the person Moria mentioned in her note?"
Anat's face turned to steel. For the first time, she did not look soft. She pulled my handkerchief so tightly between her hands that it ripped. "If he is," she said, looking right at me without blinking, "and if I ever find out his name, I'll kill him myself."
Before I left, I asked Anat Schlesinger two more questions. First, whether she had a key to Moria's apartment; and second, if she'd been to her apartment since Moria's passing. She answered no to both questions. If she was lying, she hid it better than Naomi Hecht had.
It had stopped raining by the time I stepped out of Anat's building. The air was still and frigid and crisp. The cloud cover had thinned, revealing a lustrous half-moon. The road glistened under its light.
I considered going back to the hospital to look for Dr. Leitner, but it was already evening, and I doubted he'd be there. I headed back to Jaffa Street instead, lost in thought, and turned east with no particular destination in mind.
I walked on until I reached Allenby Square, where I stopped and gazed at the cement wall that bisected the square like an ugly ridged scar. The wall marked the City Line. Beyond it was East Jerusalem, under Jordanian control. The purpose of the wall was less to prevent incursions than to protect Israeli passersby from Jordanian snipers manning the walls of the Old City.
On one edge of the square, on the Israeli side, stood a building housing Berkley's Bank and Jerusalem City Hall. The building carried the marks of bullets and shrapnel from Israel's War of Independence. On the opposite edge crouched Hotel Fast. Formerly owned by Germans, and at one point housing the consulate of Nazi Germany, it was now home to indigent Jewish immigrants. A victory of sorts, I supposed, though the building's German name remained in common use.
IDF positions bristled on the rooftops of several surrounding buildings. Soldiers moved about in the gloom, rifles slung across their backs. Here, by the wall, with the City Line manifested so starkly, one could smell war hanging in the air like an evil promise. It was a terrible smell—of fire, smoke, and burning flesh.
I turned back westward, away from the wall and what it signified. My head cleared a little, and I began searching for a telephone. I needed to call Tel Aviv again.
I passed one drugstore and a couple of small cafés that had no telephone. Finally, I found a public one, dumped a few coins into it, and gave the operator a number in Tel Aviv.
A man answered and asked me my business. I gave him a name. "I need to talk to him. It's urgent."
"Hold on," the man said. "I'll see if he's still around."
I waited, muttering, "Be there, you nosy bastard. Just be there."
"Hello?" a familiar voice said after a minute. "This is Shmuel Birnbaum."
I let out a breath. "Good evening, Shmuel. It's Adam."
"Adam! Please tell me you're not calling from prison."
"No such luck."
"That's a relief. Because springing you out is an experience I do not look forward to repeating."
"I'll do my best to steer clear of trouble so as not to strain your benevolence."
"That would be wise since contrary to popular opinion, my benevolence is not unbounded. Where are you calling from?"
"Jerusalem."
"Ah. How are things in the capital?"
"Cold and wet and miserable. I suppose you heard the news."
"Indeed, I have." His voice was even, betraying no hint of satisfaction in the government's triumph.
"Are you happy? Celebrating?"
A resigned exhalation. "Is that why you called, Adam? To repeat our argument?"
"No."
"I'm relieved. Because last time we had it, I nearly drove off a cliff, which is what you and your buddies were on the verge of doing to Israel two nights ago. But I'll answer your question anyway, and I do hope it will sink in. I am not happy about this decision. Neither is Ben-Gurion or the ministers or anyone else. You don't have to rejoice in doing what's smart and necessary. You just need to do it. That's the difference between being a responsible statesman and a destructive rabble-rouser. Now pray tell, why did you call me?"
"I need to ask you a question. It's about Baruch Gafni's wife."
Birnbaum was silent. In the background on his end, I could hear people talking, typewriter keys clicking.
"Are you there, Shmuel?"
