"I didn't think you'd want to see me. I know you were angry with me. I saw how you looked at me when Ben-Gurion was speaking on the radio."
"I wasn't angry with you. I was angry with Ben-Gurion for saying such nasty things about you." She drew a deep breath. "I shouldn't have let you leave so agitated. I'm sorry, Adam."
I told her no apology was warranted. I felt foolish for assuming the worst had happened between us. Despite my fever, despite the pain, I felt happy, optimistic. I thought I'd lost Greta, and now I knew I hadn't.
"Well," she said, "first things first..." She returned to the kitchen, ran the faucet, and emerged with a glass of water. "Drink," she commanded, and I obeyed.
Back in the kitchen, she puttered about for a time, let out a triumphant exclamation, and a minute later appeared with a bowl partly filled with corn. "It turns out you weren't completely out of food after all. I found this one small can wedged behind a couple of empty tins. I put some salt on it, so it shouldn't be too bad. Eat!"
I ate. At first, my stomach seemed on the point of rebellion, but gradually it settled, and my hunger resurged. Greta supervised me quietly, nodding in satisfaction as I emptied the bowl to the last kernel. Then she refilled my glass and told me to take my medicine.
She said, "How are you feeling? And don't try to sugarcoat it. I promise I won't call a doctor even if you're at death's door."
I knew she wasn't serious about the last part, but that she was serious about the first.
"Pretty lousy," I said.
"Will you tell me what happened?"
I nodded, yawning, my eyes and head heavy. "Later, okay? I wasn't lying about it being a long story, and all I want to do is sleep."
"All right. But not in those clothes. And you should shower first. To put it delicately, you don't smell like a bouquet of roses."
I grumbled, claimed I was too tired to undress, but Greta was adamant. "I'll help you."
She pulled off my shoes and socks, then helped me out of my trousers, coat, and shirt. She gasped when she saw the bruises on my legs and abdomen. The largest and freshest was on my side, where Kulaski had hit me. It looked like a deep lake where hardly any light pierces the surface. I could tell Greta wanted to ask me about it, but she restrained her curiosity, respecting my desire to postpone the telling until later.
She helped me to the bathroom, me in my underwear, made sure hot water was coming out of the showerhead, and then left me alone. I managed to get fully naked by myself.
After the shower, with a towel around my waist, I shuffled back into the room that served as bedroom, dining room, and living room. There I discovered that Greta had changed the bedding and was in the process of examining my clothes.
"There's blood on them," she remarked.
"All mine, I'm afraid."
She nodded, running a critical eye over my bruised torso. "I wish I could say the shower improved your appearance, but I won't lie. At least you smell better."
"Did I smell like fear before?"
"What?"
"Never mind," I said. Greta had laid out underwear on the bed, and, with her back turned, I got into them and under the blanket.
"The gun's under the pillow," Greta said. "In a novel I once read, that's where the protagonist kept it."
I smiled sleepily, my eyes shutting of their own accord. "Books can teach you the oddest things."
She moved closer. She laid her hand once more on my forehead and said, "Sleep, Adam. Everything will be fine, I promise."
I awoke, groggy, to the sound of a lock unlatching. Greta pushed the door open, face flushed. She was laden with bags. Seeing that I was awake, she showed me her cargo: one bag contained bread and vegetables; the other held a whole chicken.
"How'd you get it?" I asked, meaning the chicken. You couldn't get a whole bird legally, and even on the black market, it was hard to come by.
"I have my sources."
"It must have been expensive."
"It wasn't cheap."
"I'll reimburse you."
"That's not necessary, Adam."
"I insist. There's money in my wallet."
"I tell you what: why don't I put it on your tab? That way you'll feel obligated to recover so you can pay me back."
With that, she ambled into the kitchen. End of argument. I drifted off again.
When I awoke next, the mouthwatering scent of chicken soup was thick around me. It took me a second to realize what this meant: my sense of smell had returned; the swelling in my nose must have gone down.
Greta was humming to herself in the kitchen, accompanied by the sound of running water and the tinkle of cutlery. I pushed off the blanket and cautiously shifted to a sitting position. I waited for dizziness to strike and felt a burst of confidence when it didn't. I should have known better. When I tried to stand, it leaped on me, as though from ambush, forcing me back on the bed. Greta must have heard me because she appeared from the kitchen.
"What's wrong?"
"I'm dizzy. Don't worry. I'm actually feeling better."
"You don't look it." She came over, felt my forehead and tut-tutted. "Still hot. The soup is almost ready. I also put a new block of ice in your icebox and stocked it with vegetables, cheese, butter, and milk."
