He didn't look at me when he said this. Rather, his eyes were directed at the wallet he'd placed on the table. My wallet. The one I'd noticed was missing the previous night. The one I'd guessed was in the hands of the police. The one from which he now extracted my identification papers. He glanced at them as though seeing them for the first time, then flicked his eyes at my face. They were knowing eyes, the sort some interrogators learn to cultivate. The kind of eyes guilty men wilt before.
"Yes," I said. "That's me."
"Your address?"
I told him, and he jotted it down in a small notebook and set his pen beside it. I noticed that the inspector's nails were clipped very short.
"You know why you're here?" he asked.
"In this room?"
"In this jail."
"I took part in the anti-reparations demonstration yesterday."
"That's not the reason. Thousands of citizens took part in that demonstration. Nearly all of them spent the night at home. You're here because you assaulted a police officer. You broke his nose and knocked him unconscious. He had to be hospitalized."
"I was trying to help him."
He arched a thin eyebrow. "You thought his teeth were crooked and were trying to straighten them for him? You knocked three of them out, you know."
"That wasn't me," I said, and told him about the man who had punched the fallen policeman and how I had made him stop.
Kulaski's lips twitched in the weary amusement of a man who had heard it all before. "That's a nice story. Only it doesn't fit the facts. Another officer saw you in the act."
"Is he the cop who kicked me in the head?"
"He's the one who arrested you. How he did it is immaterial."
"He made a mistake."
"He saw you with his own eyes."
"The wounded cop was lying on the ground, bleeding. I crouched next to him to see what his condition was. The policeman who arrested me must have thought I was the one who hit his colleague."
Kulaski gave me a look that suggested he was actually considering my version of events. After a moment, he said, "But that wasn't you, you say. You actually scared that guy away, didn't you? You saved that policeman from greater harm." The inspector's tone was studiously neutral. He was good. A worthy interrogator knows that sometimes you need to show the suspect that you might end up buying his story. It will loosen his lips and likely lead him to incriminate himself further.
"That's right," I said.
Kulaski picked up his pen and held it poised over his notebook. More acting. "You can describe the assailant, then?"
"Can't the wounded policeman describe him?"
"His memory is a bit hazy, what with being hit numerous times in the head. So, can you describe the assailant or not?"
I could. In detail, in fact. A sketch artist would have been able to paint an accurate portrait of him based on my recollection. Accurate enough that the man would be easily identifiable and at high risk of being brought up on serious charges.
"No," I said. "I'm afraid not." For I did not wish for that man to be tried and imprisoned. In all likelihood, he was a good man. A regular citizen driven mad by memories of his dead loved ones and his deep shock at the possibility of negotiations with Germany. Just like I had been.
Kulaski leaned back, tilting his head a tick to the left. He regarded me with what looked like genuine puzzlement. I knew well the reason for it. I had surprised him. He had expected me to deliver a made-up description of a nonexistent assailant. To attempt to send the police on a wild-goose chase. He would have written everything down, pretending to believe me and encouraging me to be as specific as possible. Then he would have questioned me repeatedly on my description until I had stumbled, forgotten what lies I had told him and uttered some inconsistency. Once I did, he would have used that slip to hammer me as a liar, make me see the futility of further denial, and extract a confession out of me. Not that he needed one with a policeman bearing witness to my guilt, but nothing beat a confession.
I knew what he planned on doing. I had used the same technique myself when I'd worked as a police detective in Hungary before the war. Before the world went mad and my life was upended and scraped hollow.
Recovering from his surprise, Kulaski lowered his eyes to his notebook before raising them back to me.
"Things will go easier for you, Adam, if you tell me the truth." His voice was as soft as a petal now, and he used my first name. Adopting a friendlier, more intimate attitude, inviting confidence. Another technique I had used to great effect.
"That's what I've been doing, Inspector."
He shook his head as though saddened by my obstinacy. Then his face hardened again.
"You know the penalty for assaulting a police officer?"
I shook my head.
"You're looking at more than ten years in prison. Hard time."
"I didn't do it."
"So you keep saying. But my witness says otherwise."
"Ask him if he actually saw me hit his colleague, or if he just assumed I did."
Kulaski pressed his lips. A trio of small lines curlicued at the center of his forehead. I was proving to be a harder nut to crack than he had anticipated.
Then it was his turn to surprise me: "Mr. Lapid, are you a member of Herut?"
"Why? Is that a crime?"
