"Oh." And in that single syllable was confusion, bewilderment, and pain. I shut my eyes. Nothing was said for a moment. In the background, a radio was playing a jaunty duet of two male singers. Then Mira said, "When will I see you? Tomorrow?"
"I don't know. I don't think so. I'm not sure how long this will take."
"You sound strange, Adam. What's wrong? What is this thing you need to do?"
She sounded distraught now. Almost frantic. I gripped the receiver so hard it was a wonder it didn't crack. What could I tell her? I wasn't sure what was going on myself. All I had were questions, and a sense of impending…not doom, but a horrific enlightenment.
"I can't talk about it yet. I'll explain when I can. Sorry about tonight."
I said goodbye and hung up. I stood there for a while, gazing into space or into myself, not moving, until a man in work clothes asked if I was through with the phone. I ordered a beer and drank it without tasting it. Then, when the beer was done and the telephone was once again free, I got up and started making calls.
Four days later, a little after nine in the morning, I entered the building with the stained facade and climbed the dusty staircase to his door. I had the Luger with me, though it did little to boost my sense of confidence. We were not evenly matched, he and I, in the art of dispensing violence. If it came to a fight, I would have to be either very fast or very lucky.
I tensed upon hearing the scrape of the key turning in the lock on the other side of the door, but he greeted me with nothing but a weary smile. He had on a blue shirt and dark brown pants and black socks, but no shoes. A bottle of beer dangled from his hand. No weapons in sight.
"Adam," he said, "good morning."
"Got a few minutes, Michael? There's something I'd like to discuss with you."
Michael Shamir nodded, still smiling. As he did on my earlier visit to his apartment, he said, "Better come in, then."
I trailed him inside, shutting the door behind me.
He said, "I just started on this bottle. Want one? Oh, I remember, it's too early for you, isn't it?"
"Afraid so."
As last time, his living room/bedroom was neat, spotless, and unassuming—like a monk's cell. A fitting room for its occupant. The only sign that this warrior monk had once had a life outside of his vocation were the pictures of his wife. I stared at them for a few seconds while Michael lowered himself onto the middle of his old sofa. I remained standing.
Michael said, "Well, if you change your mind…" and took a swig from the bottle.
His tone was light, but it sounded forced. He looked tired, like he hadn't slept in days. The lines on his forehead ran deeper, and bags had gathered like storm clouds under his eyes. I waited till he had swallowed the beer in his mouth before speaking.
"I know it was you, Michael," I said.
His face showed no reaction. He didn't deny it or ask me what I meant. For a good thirty seconds, he said nothing at all. If I didn't know better, I might have believed he hadn't heard a word I said. He took a quick sip and rolled the bottle between his hands before setting it down on the floor between his feet. Again I tensed, my hand close to the Luger stuck in my waistband, but Michael stayed seated, elbows on knees, shoulders slightly hunched. His expression was difficult to read, but there was no surprise in it. Nor anger.
He said, "First time we met, after you left, I said to myself: 'A man like that, who's survived what he's survived—he's no ordinary man. If anyone can discover the truth, it is he.'" His eyes found mine. They were hard eyes, but they did not look cruel. The eyes of a man who's killed, yes, but not the eyes of a murderer. "What gave me away?"
"The flowers."
"Flowers," he said, drawing out the word like he was rolling it on his tongue, exploring the taste it evoked.
"The flowers you left on the grave," I said.
He gave an almost imperceptible nod. "What made you think I was the one who left them?"
"I happened to glance to one side and saw Talia's grave. I read the inscription. It was then that I learned she hadn't died during the prison raid like I'd originally thought, but a few days after the murders of Esther and Willie. I also learned that you had a son. Judah. A good name."
His mouth twitched into a shadow of a smile. "Judah Maccabee. The ultimate Jewish warrior."
"Like you."
Michael shrugged, the smile gone from his lips. "I did my part, as best I could." Like me, he was uncomfortable with being praised for his prowess in war.
All of a sudden, I was awash in grief. I had kept it at bay over these past few days, even as my disjointed suspicions coalesced into a harsh, incontrovertible truth. I had clung to a desperate hope that Michael would deny his guilt, that he would somehow convince me he was not a murderer.
