That hope was dashed now. This man, whom I had begun to think of as a friend, as a brother of sorts, was lost to me. And his loss was like a gaping wound in the center of my body.
I inhaled deeply, taking a moment to collect myself. "My first thought was that Judah was dead. There are pictures of Talia on the walls of your apartment, but none of your son. You also didn't mention him when I spoke of my daughters. Perhaps his memory was too painful for you, I thought. Perhaps that was why you had removed all traces of him from your home."
I paused, waited for him to say something, but he remained silent. His eyes, narrowed in their permanent squint, were aimed at a point on the floor between us.
"I searched for Judah's grave. First in Nahalat Yitzhak, then in the cemeteries in Kiryat Shaul and Trumpeldor Street. When I didn't find it, I asked a policeman friend of mine to locate Judah for me. He did. Judah Shamir lives in Kibbutz Sarid in the Jezreel Valley with his aunt—your sister, Malka. I talked to her yesterday morning."
Michael lifted his gaze. His eyes settled on mine. I held my breath, but still he said nothing. He lowered his head once more. Sunlight from the window bathed his hair, and I spotted a few gray strands among the black.
I said, "Malka told me how one day, ten years ago, you suddenly showed up on her doorstep with your baby boy in your arms. You thrust him at her and asked her to care for him. You couldn't because your wife had just died and because of your work for the Irgun. Your sister also told me that before that day, she and you had not spoken for two years. You had a big fight over politics. Malka is a socialist. She did not like her brother joining the Irgun. So you broke off all contact with each other. But she still loved you, and she agreed to take care of your son. Malka said you've never visited him. Not even once in ten years. She also told me that Talia killed herself. Malka didn't know how or why. I found out later that Talia had slashed her wrists in your old apartment on Dizengoff ."
I paused and wet my dry lips. I had come to the heart of the matter. This was the secret axis around which this whole sad business revolved.
"Mira Roth once told me you had sacrificed your family for the Irgun. I thought she meant that Talia had died in the line of duty, but that wasn't it. What Mira meant was that you had given your son away so you could dedicate yourself fully to the Irgun. Only she got it wrong, didn't she? I talked to some of your old neighbors. One of them was positive that your son had brown eyes. According to your sister, the boy she's been raising as her nephew these past ten years has blue eyes. Sometimes, a baby's eyes change color from blue to brown, but it's never the other way around. That boy up there in Kibbutz Sarid is not your son. He's Willie Ackerland."
Terrible truths often have weight to them. I felt that weight then, pressing on me from all sides. Michael seemed to feel it too. He hunched his shoulders further, as if he were being squeezed into a smaller space.
"And Judah is the dead baby the police found in Esther's apartment. I know you killed Esther. Did you also kill Judah?"
His head whipped up. His eyes sparked. "No. Of course not. How could you think that?"
"What else am I supposed to think?"
His voice vibrated with emotion. "I never would have killed my son. Not my son."
"So tell me what happened."
It took him less than a second to start. The confession had been there, ready in his mind. It tumbled out like an avalanche.
"I never should have taken Talia on that damn prison raid," Michael said. "She wasn't cut out for that sort of thing. Talia was a delicate woman, sensitive. But we needed the extra gun, and she pleaded with me to let her take part in the operation. I never could deny her anything." He swallowed hard and cleared his throat. The latter didn't help. When he continued, his voice was hoarse, half choked. "Talia didn't get hurt that night, not physically. Emotionally, though, she was a wreck. The sight of blood, of death, scarred her psyche. She started having nightmares, lost her appetite, became too thin. The only thing that kept her going, that gave her any happiness, was Judah. He was the joy of her life. Of our lives. I knew that as long as Talia had him, she would be all right, and that one day she would be her old self again."
Michael paused. The skin on his face was stretched tight across the underlying bone, jaw muscles flexing. He cleared his throat again.
"That evening, August 26, 1939, I'd put Judah to sleep in his crib. Talia and I had dinner and listened to the radio for a while. It was a good evening. I had a few days to myself between assignments. Later, I went to check on Judah. He was…he'd stopped breathing. He was dead."
A tear dribbled out of his left eye. He wiped it away hastily.
