Ten Years Gone полностью

I crossed the street and made my way down to the deserted beach. With each step, my shoes sank deeper into the soft sand until I got to the firmer, wetter soil at the water's edge. Waves frothed white as they broke by my feet. The undulating water reflected the moon a million times over. I gazed upward. A billion sparkling stars speckled the clear night sky. I recalled nights at Auschwitz, where the only way I could see freedom was to look up into the heavens. In every other direction lay barracks, guard towers, barbed-wire fences, mud and frost and misery. And death.

Would the Adam Lapid that had lived before Auschwitz have broken Yuri's fingers? Maybe not. But that Adam would have been wrong. Just as Rachel was wrong. Because what I had done was necessary.

I wasn't cruel. I had my boundaries. Another man would not have thought twice before killing Yuri and Max. I'd taken a risk and nearly paid dearly for refusing to do so. Because I did not kill those who did not deserve it. I reserved death for the truly evil.

I lowered my eyes and stared seaward, at the shimmering expanse of shifting water, all the way to the black horizon. Beyond that horizon was Hungary, where I was born, where I had been a policeman, where I'd married and had children, where my father was buried. God, how I missed him. How I missed Deborah. How I missed them all.

But Hungary was not my home. Looking back at all that had happened, I knew it never had been.

A faraway sparkle caught my eye. A light was glinting in the far distance. Not a reflection of starlight on the water, but a man-made light. A boat.

Or a ship.

In an instant, my mind cleared of Rachel Weiss and her accusations, of Hungary and my dead family. Suddenly I knew with utter certainty the first step I would take in the Henrietta Ackerland case.

I smiled, feeling strangely buoyed. My eyes followed the glinting light till it vanished in the darkness. Then I turned and headed home.

Back at my apartment, I found the cup of tea I had made for myself earlier that evening. I hadn't touched it before I left. I took a sip. Cold, but sweet. Like revenge.

I got into bed and pulled the thin blanket over me. The room was warm but pleasant. I left all the windows open. Tonight there would be no nightmares, no screams. Tonight I would sleep like an innocent child.

Violent days were like that. They always ended with peaceful nights. I did not know why. And in those twilight moments between wakefulness and blissful sleep, I did not care either.

Shmuel Birnbaum did not look happy to see me.

I found him the next morning in Café Tamar on Sheinkin Street, a few blocks from the offices of Davar, the newspaper where he worked, the same newspaper where Henrietta Ackerland had posted an ad in the hopes that Esther Grunewald would see it. Davar was the party newspaper of Mapai, the left-wing ruling party of Israel, and the most widely read paper in the country. Shmuel Birnbaum was one of its most prominent reporters.

Seeing me approach, Birnbaum set down the paper he'd been reading and began rubbing his jaw. I made an effort to hide my smile. He made none to hide his scowl.

"Good morning, Shmuel. Can I sit with you?"

"If I say no, will you leave?"

I shook my head.

Birnbaum sighed. "Then pull up a chair, by all means. Make yourself at home."

I sat. Birnbaum folded his paper and put it on a vacant chair. He leaned back and ran a hand over his bald scalp, scratching the fringe of light brown hair at the back of his head. He gave me a long probing look.

"Something tells me you're not here to apologize."

"Apologize? For what?"

"For this," he said, pointing at his jaw. "You nearly broke it, you meshuganah. And loosened a couple of my teeth while you were at it. I was this close to losing them." He held up a thumb and forefinger close together. "And for what? For singing your praises in the newspaper."

"Without asking me for permission," I reminded him.

"I could have asked you a hundred times, but what good would it have done? You weren't in a position to answer."

"I was in the hospital. Unconscious."

Birnbaum waved a hand dismissively. "Unavailable for comment. When has that ever stopped an enterprising reporter from publishing a story? Especially one as good as yours. You stormed an Egyptian gun position single-handedly and so allowed the rest of your platoon to score a major victory. And you nearly lost your life in the process. How could I resist printing a story like that? It would have been unprofessional. I don't know what you're complaining about. I made you out to be a hero, didn't I? Not that it was hard. Reporting the truth never is. You should have thanked me, you stupid bastard, but what do you do instead? Punch me in the jaw, that's what."

"You deserved it. You crept into my room without permission and took a picture of me in my hospital bed. The nurse later told me she had to chase you out."