For a long while, the only sounds were the rain, the hum of the engine, and the rapid swipe of the windshield wipers. Then we left the mountains and began the long flat ride across the plains toward Tel Aviv. The rain let up, and the sun pierced the cloud cover. Shafts of golden light beamed down on the countryside, giving it a fresh, wholesome sheen. Blankets of weeds and wild grass and squat thorny bushes bent and dipped in the wind. Rainwater streamed through meandering channels in rich muddy soil. Vibrant colors swayed and swirled on the horizon like a rainbow trying to piece itself together.
It was a beautiful country. A country I had bled and nearly died for. A country I loved. I wasn't sure how I'd feel about it if it took money from Germany.
I said, "How do you know they'll pay? The Germans, I mean."
"They'll pay," said Birnbaum.
"How can you be sure? Germany owed money after the First World War and never paid it. Why should it be different this time?"
"Ben-Gurion believes Konrad Adenauer, the West German chancellor, is sincere in his willingness to pay reparations."
"And if he changes his mind?"
Birnbaum threw me a look that suggested he'd gotten tired of me. "Then Begin and you and the rest of the rabble who stormed the Knesset yesterday will have the pleasure of reminding us of our mistake till the end of time."
With that, a curtain of silence descended between us. Silence and something more: an apartness, a rift, a chasm. Similar to the one that now split the part of Israel that supported the government's position from the part that opposed it.
I was surprised to realize how sad this made me. The nature of my relationship with Birnbaum was one I had never bothered to define. We weren't friends. We met or spoke rarely, and only when one of us desired something of the other. I, information related to whatever case I was working on; he, a potential story to write about in his column.
On two past cases, I had availed myself of his contacts and the bottomless reservoir of information stored within his bald head. On both occasions, I had provided him with an exciting story in return. Twice he had resisted his natural inclinations and agreed to keep my name out of the paper, though he couldn't understand my desire for anonymity.
I liked his wit and intelligence, and I respected his curiosity and relentless hunger for stories, despite being a victim of said hunger. During Operation Yoav, in the War of Independence, I had stormed an Egyptian position and taken two bullets in the process. While I lay unconscious in the hospital, Birnbaum had sneaked into my room, armed with a camera.
When I discovered that my face had adorned the pages of Davar, I had sought Birnbaum out and introduced his jaw to my fist. He'd thought he was doing me a service by publicizing my heroism and could not fathom my reaction. Most people would have killed to be extolled in his column.
Birnbaum could have reported me to the police. Instead, he took his beating with dignity, recognizing that he'd overstepped the mark, yet never regretting it. He considered a punch a good price to pay for a juicy story.
He also developed a keen interest in me. He learned that I'd been in Auschwitz and heard rumors of what I'd done in Germany in the aftermath of the war. He tried to persuade me to tell him my story but took it in good stride when I refused.
He was a good man. Despite being dead wrong about negotiations with Germany. I wanted to bridge the gulf that now gaped between us.
"Thank you for talking to the deputy commissioner," I said, thinking that some gratitude might do the trick. "I didn't know you had that kind of pull."
"I don't," he said without taking his eyes off the road. "Not for something as serious as assaulting a police officer."
We were almost in Tel Aviv by now. The low, misaligned skyline of the first Hebrew city reached pitifully for the heavens like stubby baby fingers pursuing a fleeting dream.
"Then how come you were waiting for me outside the jail?" I asked.
"I wasn't the one who spoke with the deputy commissioner, but I am the one who got you out. I hope I won't regret it."
"I don't understand."
"An acquaintance of mine spoke with me yesterday. He asked if I could recommend a private detective. Someone trustworthy. Foolishly, I thought of you. I telephoned that café you spend so much time in, to see if you were available, but the proprietress told me you'd gone to Jerusalem for the demonstration. I telephoned again this morning, and she told me you hadn't come in, though you said you would. She was worried about you. By that time, I'd heard of the assault on the Knesset. I made some calls and learned you'd been arrested, and why. Then I made what may turn out to be one of the most ill-advised decisions of my life: I decided to help you go free."
"How?"
"My acquaintance is the one with the pull. I told him of your predicament and asked him to intercede on your behalf. It wasn't easy to persuade him. When he heard that you'd beaten a policeman, he wanted nothing to do with you. But I vouched for your character, told him he wouldn't find a better detective, and called in a favor he owed me." He gave me a glance of steaming disapproval. "You now owe me a favor, Adam. And don't you dare forget it."
"All right, I won't," I said. "But who is this man? How does he have such influence?"
"His name is Baruch Gafni. Is the name familiar to you?"
I shook my head. "Never heard of him."
Birnbaum sighed, disappointed with my ignorance. "Gafni is not only a wealthy man, with factories and businesses in various spots in Israel, he is also a council member of Tel Aviv. Some believe he has a shot at being the next mayor."
"Let me guess: he's a member of Mapai."
"Indeed he is."
"So Gafni has influence in the ruling party, and the deputy commissioner knows this. He also knows that it would be Mapai who'll pick the next commissioner, so when Gafni calls to ask a favor, the deputy commissioner goes along with it. Is that about right?"
"To your infinite fortune, yes."
"What does Gafni want with me? Why does he need a detective?"
"I'll leave it to him to tell you. But if I had to guess, I'd say it has something to do with his daughter."
"What about her?"
Birnbaum's expression was grave. "She's dead."
Birnbaum parked before a wide three-story building with tall windows and no balconies.
"Do try not to mess this up, Adam," he said, in the weary tone of a disillusioned father who expects very little from his son. "You're not off the hook yet. A single phone call and you're liable to find yourself back behind bars."
In the loving care of Inspector Kulaski, I thought, my insides knotting.
