"It soon might be."
"What do you mean?"
"Word is that the government is about to outlaw Herut following their attempted putsch yesterday."
"That wasn't a putsch," I said, my heat rising.
"No? What would you call it?"
"We simply wanted members of the Knesset to know how we felt before they voted."
"By throwing rocks? Smashing windows? Trying to break into the Knesset? By injuring cops?"
I fumbled for the right words, thrown off balance by the shift in the conversation. Because what had happened yesterday had rattled me just as much as it had those members of Knesset who had stepped out of Frumin House to gawk at the fighting.
Kulaski, sensing my discomfort, pressed his advantage. "What would you have done if you'd made it past the courageous cops who stood in your way, huh? Would you have burned down the Knesset, beaten the ministers, killed them?"
"No." My voice was shaking. I cleared my throat and repeated more firmly, "No."
But did I know this with certainty? I was sure I wouldn't have done any of those things, but could I say as much about the others? Could their grief and outrage have driven them to such acts? The very notion seemed outlandish, but things that had been unimaginable until recently were now a grim reality. A day ago, I would have scoffed at the idea that ordinary Israeli citizens, with me among them, would storm the Knesset and do battle with police officers. A few weeks ago, I would have reacted similarly to any suggestion that the Israeli government—my government—would contemplate negotiating with Germany over reparations.
But both these things had happened. So who could say what else might have occurred?
"Adam," Kulaski said, drawing my attention back to him. His tone was soft once more. "I can tell that you didn't plan to do what you did yesterday. I can see it in your eyes. It happened in the heat of the moment, didn't it? Any judge will understand that and take it into account. But you must tell the truth first. Otherwise, things will go very badly for you, and I'd hate to see that happen."
I looked at him. At his slate-gray eyes now slightly rounded in feigned concern. Yes, he was good. But he didn't quite manage to mask the contempt he held me in.
I thought of revealing that I'd once been a policeman myself, but I doubted it would yield any benefit. I also weighed the option of giving him the name of Reuben Tzanani, my longtime friend, who was a policeman in Tel Aviv, or the names of other cops with whom I'd come into contact since my arrival in Israel, but I didn't think it would do much good. Reuben would vouch for my character, but he was too low ranked for his opinion to carry much weight. As for the others... well, they might not find the notion of my striking a policeman in a fit of rage as far-fetched as I would have liked to believe.
"Just come clean, Adam," Kulaski said, leaning halfway across the table, his hands wide apart and turned up in a show of friendliness and openness. "Get it off your chest. You'll feel better, I promise. Be honest, and things will go easy for you. Just tell the truth, and you'll probably get probation."
I almost smiled. This was another trick. Designed to get me to confess. Done right to a credulous suspect, it was remarkably effective. I wondered how many innocent men got sent up because they fell for it, thinking they found an ally in their interrogator and deciding it would be easier to simply go along with his suggestion, not knowing they were setting themselves up for a hard fall.
"I'm not about to confess to something I didn't do," I said. "Yes, I protested yesterday, and I'm proud of it. It was the right thing to do. But I did not throw rocks at the Knesset, and I did not strike that policeman. I did my best to help him."
Kulaski shook his head and sighed, and it seemed he wasn't acting this time. He genuinely regretted my refusal to confess, though this was likely due to selfish considerations rather than concern for my welfare. No policeman likes working harder than he has to.
He shed all pretense then, his expression once more that of a drill sergeant. He planted an elbow on the table, pointing a finger at the center of my face. His voice was as tough and abrasive as rough stone. "You think you'll be able to get away with this? Weasel out somehow? Let me tell you something: You haven't got a prayer. No judge will believe your nonsense. You'll be locked up for years."
He didn't say these words so much as hurl them at me; and with them, spittle sprayed from his lips. A few drops landed on the table between us like the first explorative salvos of an artillery bombardment. A few more clung to his lips, though he didn't seem to notice. I thought I recognized the cause of his anger. Cops are a close-knit bunch. They stick by one another. Hurt a regular citizen, and you'll likely find yourself in some trouble. Hurt a cop, and you're inviting the fires of hell upon yourself.
"I didn't do it," I said. "Just talk to the arresting officer, will you? Ask him specifically what he saw. He'll tell you he never saw me hit that fallen cop."
I hoped that would be the end of it, at least for the time being. Kulaski would rise from his chair and go talk to the cop who arrested me, and I would be in the clear. At least for this particular offense.
But Kulaski didn't rise. He stayed in his chair and sneered at me. "I don't need to talk to him again, you idiot. I already have his written statement. You think he'll change it for you? After what you did? You were there. You took part in that attack on cops. And judging by your hands, you hit quite a few of them."
My knuckles. He was pointing at my bruised knuckles. Reflexively, I pulled my hands back and under the table. As guilty a gesture as I could have made.
"So I don't give one sliver of a damn if you're the one who punched that specific policeman," he said, his eyes blazing with fury. "It makes no difference to me. You're guilty one way or the other. You and all the rest of that rabble. If I could, I'd dump the lot of you in the darkest, dankest cell I could find and throw away the key. The others might get off easy, but I'm going to make sure you don't. You get it now?"
For a few seconds, I couldn't speak. I'd known I was in trouble the moment I woke up in the cell, but I hadn't imagined it would be as serious as this. Kulaski was right. The chances that the cop who arrested me would change his story on my behalf were minuscule, even if his memory supported my claims. Because cops have no mercy for someone who harms a fellow officer. I knew that from personal experience.
So yes, I got it then. I got it like a mallet blow to the back of the head. And I felt a cold stab of fear at the center of my stomach, digging and twisting deep inside me.
"So you got two choices," Kulaski said. "You sign a confession right now and save us all a lot of time and effort, and I won't ask the judge to give you the maximum sentence. Or you can keep on being stupid and stubborn, and I'll make sure you go away for as long as the law allows. And I'll pile on whatever additional charges I can. You'll be a grandfather by the time you get out."
"I don't have children," I mumbled, not really thinking about what I was saying.
"Good. So no one will visit you in prison."
I looked at him then. At his fevered cheeks and ferocious eyes. At his taut jaw and compressed mouth. And I knew that he meant every word. That he would see his threat through. This was more than professional ardor on his part. This was personal to him.
My mouth went bone dry, and my lips felt chapped. Panicked thoughts bounced inside my head, making it hard to construct a proper reply.
Sign the confession, a small, defeated, yet enticing voice inside my brain whispered. Just sign it, or you're as good as dead.
I tried to ignore it, but it kept on whispering like a thousand snakes, injecting venom into my mind.
Under my sleeve, my number tattoo began to itch. I didn't dare scratch it because my hands had started to tremble, and I didn't want Kulaski to see that. I dug my fingers into my thighs, but that didn't stop the tremors.
The idea of being locked up for years, of becoming a prisoner again, terrified me. Whatever prison they'd put me in would be a picnic compared to Auschwitz, but I would still be deprived of my freedom. I would still spend my days behind fences and barbed wire and have guards order me about. My heart stammered in my chest at the prospect.
Kulaski, with long years of experience, chose that moment to produce a folded piece of paper from his pocket, spread it on the table, and held out his pen.
"Sign it!" he said, with almost obscene satisfaction.
The paper had my name on it. Along with a bunch of other words. I didn't bother reading it all. I knew what it was. A confession. Already typed. All that was missing was my signature.
