"No. I don't suppose you have," I said, regretting having been so open with her.

Her gaze was equal parts pity, horror, and morbid curiosity. It made me shrink on the inside. "They're lash marks, aren't they?" she asked.

They were. The ugly legacy of a whipping I'd received from a sadistic guard in Auschwitz. I couldn't say how many times he'd lashed me, I'd lost consciousness during the whipping itself, and the scars crisscrossed and overrode each other, making counting impossible.

I averted my gaze from Rona's inquisitive face. "I'm tired. I don't feel like talking anymore."

"Oh," she said, and I could imagine her cheeks reddening. "Of course. You should rest. Shall I bring you some food?"

My appetite had gone, but in my mind I was back in Auschwitz, where appetite had nothing to do with eating, so I said, "Yes. Thank you, Rona."

She left, returning a short while later with a tray bearing food and pills for the pain. She helped me sit again, propping me up with pillows. She dawdled after setting up my meal. "I'm sorry if my questions upset you, Mr. Lapid."

"That's all right, Rona," I said, swallowing the pills and then picking up my fork. "You did nothing wrong. And please, call me Adam."

She nodded. "Is there anyone you wish me to call, Adam, tell them where you are? Family or friends?"

"No. There's no one."

She bit her lip, turned to leave, then stopped and said, "I'm so sorry for all you've been through, Adam."

I followed her eyes as they flicked in the direction of the fork in my left hand. No, she wasn't looking at the fork, but at my forearm. Currently covered by the sleeve of my hospital shirt, but earlier exposed to her gaze.

She'd seen it. My number tattoo. And it had told her a story without my needing to provide any input. As had the scars on my back.

My body was like one of the rune stones I'd read about, the ones in Scandinavia. In lines, etchings, and chisel marks, it told the violent chapters of my life, the suffering I'd experienced, my various pains and losses.

Rona was waiting for an answer, but I had none I wished to give her. She shifted her feet, put on a fragile smile, and finally, in a regretful, chastised voice, said, "Eat now. I'll ask Dr. Aboulker to come see you a little later."

Then she was gone, and I was alone once more.

To the empty space where she had stood, I said, "Don't be sorry, Rona. I was lucky there, too."

The doctor came in about a half hour after Rona returned to clear the dishes. He introduced himself as Dr. Aboulker. A short, olive-skinned man in a rumpled white coat, he had a tired face and gentle eyes behind black-rimmed eyeglasses. He examined my pupils, listened to my heart and lungs, and stuck a thermometer in my mouth and noted my temperature on a chart. He asked, "How are you feeling, Mr. Lapid?"

"Like hell."

That made him smile. "Rona told me she brought you some pills. Did you take them?"

"Yes. And they help, but I still hurt."

"With your injuries, that's hardly surprising, I'm afraid. We can give you something stronger later if the pain keeps you from sleeping."

"All right. Now I want you to tell me my condition, Doctor. Be straight with me. Let's start with my nose. Is it broken?"

"Yes," he said simply, evidently willing to give me the information I wanted the way I wanted it. "I set it, and it will look better once the swelling goes down. Probably flatter than before, but not by much."

Another permanent mark of suffering, but I could live with it. "My ribs?" I asked.

"Three are broken. A couple more are cracked. It's a wonder neither of your lungs got punctured. We wouldn't be having this conversation if they had. How badly does it hurt to breathe?"

"Pretty badly. I have to remember to take shallow breaths. Not so easy to do when you need to breathe through your mouth."

He nodded. "Once the swelling in your nose goes down, it will get easier. But your ribs will take a few weeks to mend. Until they do, you'd be wise to avoid any exertion, anything that accelerates your breathing."

"I'll do my best," I said, then told him I was pissing blood. He did not seem overly distressed, which relieved me.

"That's the result of trauma to your kidneys. I checked you out earlier and found no signs of serious internal injuries or bleeding, but we'll keep you here for a few days, maybe a week, and monitor you to make sure you're all right."

"Okay. Thank you."

"You also have a fever, which is likely due to infection. We've given you medication to combat that, and it's not as bad as it was yesterday. Other than all that, you've got bruises and abrasions on your legs, arms, hips, and buttocks. Don't ask me how many; there are a lot. Painful, I'm sure, but nothing that won't heal on its own with time. Does your head hurt?"

"Yes."

"How about your eyesight? Is it clear? Any double vision?" He nodded in satisfaction when I told him I was seeing fine. "Any dizziness?"

"I had some before."

"Hmmm. That's not good. You may have a concussion. We'll monitor that as well. I hope you don't have any appointments scheduled for the next few days, Mr. Lapid."

"My social calendar is clear, Doctor."

He chuckled. "One less thing to worry about, then. Well, I'll be going now, but I'll check on you later. Oh, there's a police officer waiting in the hall. He wants to talk to you about the attack. Do you feel up to it? Can I send him in?"

"Yes. Thank you, Doctor."

He smiled again and said, "I suppose it doesn't feel that way now, Mr. Lapid, but it could have ended much worse for you. I hope the police catch whoever did this."

Dr. Aboulker departed, and for a few seconds the door to the hallway remained empty. Then a shadow fell across it, and a second later a policeman entered the room. My heart plummeted when I saw who it was.

Inspector Kulaski.

He strode into the room with a determined step. His back was straight, his uniform as immaculate as in our previous encounter. His cap was tucked under his left arm. His shoes clacked a foreboding rhythm on the floor.

My pulse had jumped at the sight of him; my breathing grew faster. My ribs sent flashes of pain throughout my midsection.

As we locked eyes, his upper lip curled. He stole a quick glance at the other beds in the room as he approached. Of the three in total, only two were currently occupied: mine and the one closest to the door. Its elderly occupant was snoring in his sleep, as he seemed to do without cease.

When Kulaski reached my bed, he stood for a few long seconds, looming over me. He had given himself a very close shave that morning, I noticed. The skin on his throat was pink where the razor had pressed too firmly in its passage, as though in his fastidiousness, the inspector had attempted to not merely shear off the offending hairs, but to pull them out by their roots.

A chair stood by the wall, and Kulaski drew it up and sat. He looked around for a place to set his cap and finally put it beside my right ankle, at the foot of my bed, as though laying claim to it. Then he smiled, and if I weren't already cold because of my fever, I would have shivered.

"I understand you had a bit of trouble the other night, Mr. Lapid," he said, his manner remote and official.

I looked at him and everything connected. Kulaski's presence in my hospital room, the fact that my attackers hadn't made off with my wallet or money, the savagery of the attack. The motive hadn't been money, and my attackers weren't thieves. The picture was clear now. Clear and terrible.

"I heard you were assaulted," he said after a few seconds of silence. There was a gleam in his eyes. He was enjoying seeing me all battered up and sick.