While we waited for the coffee, I examined Henrietta Ackerland more closely. She had been beautiful once, but time and circumstances had changed that. Dark bags bulged beneath her washed-out blue eyes. Her lips were thin and colorless. Deep lines ran across her forehead and shallow ones webbed at the corners of her eyes. The lines of someone who did more frowning than smiling.
She was frowning now, two parallel lines etched between her eyebrows. Desperation was weighing heavily on her, crushing her soul. She fixed her tired gaze on me.
"I understand you're a private investigator," she said.
"And you used to be a policeman. A police detective."
"You're well informed."
She said nothing, but the question was clear in her eyes.
I hated this part. I did not relish sharing my history. Or explaining my present. But clients needed to be reassured that you could do the job.
"I was a detective with the Hungarian police before the war in Europe. After the war, I came here."
And in between? Well, I couldn't see how that was any of Henrietta Ackerland's business. Nor was it relevant to my abilities as an investigator. Neither was my decision not to become a policeman in Israel.
Thankfully, Greta chose that moment to come over with the coffee, sparing me more of my potential client's questions regarding my past or present. Leaving, she gave me a look that said,
Henrietta took a careful sip from her cup, closed her eyes, and nodded appreciatively.
"See?" I said. "I told you it was good."
She gave me a smile that died within one breath of being born. Those smile lines would not be getting deeper any time soon.
I drank from my own cup. "Where did you get my name?"
"From a policeman. Reuben Tzanani. He told me I should see you."
"And you want to hire me?" I said.
"Yes. My son. I want you to find my son."
"He's missing? How long?"
"Ten years."
I raised both eyebrows. "How's that?"
"The last time I saw my son, Willie, was on February 27, 1939. Ten years ago."
Ten years and four months, actually. It was now July 6, 1949.
"And the police couldn't help you?"
"The first officer I spoke with told me it was pointless, that too much time has passed. The second one told me that since the last time I saw Willie was outside the borders of Israel, he couldn't help me. I could see in his eyes that he thought I was a bad mother." There was a sharp edge to her tone, as if this were the greatest insult she had ever suffered. "The third policeman I saw was Reuben Tzanani. He told me you might be able to help."
She was running ahead of me. It was a common phenomenon with clients. They spoke as if you already knew what troubled them, that the formality of hiring you was all that was needed for you to get started on their case.
"Why don't you tell me the whole story from the beginning?"
Instead of speaking, she unclasped her handbag and brought out a small brown book. From its middle, she withdrew a small photograph and handed it to me. The photograph was three inches wide and four inches long. A small piece near the top-left corner had been torn off. The photo was yellowing with age, but the image it showed was clear enough.
A sunny day. A lake in the background. Trees looming on the far bank. Patches of white where sailboats cut across the placid lake surface. A much younger, better-fed Henrietta Ackerland at the front. I could tell it had been a cold day, because she was coated and gloved. A small hat perched on her head. She was cradling a baby. Her son, Willie?
Henrietta was staring directly at the camera, a broad smile across her face. I was right. She had been beautiful once. And happy. The woman who sat across the table from me did not seem capable of such happiness.
"Where was this taken?" I asked, lowering the picture.
"Krumme Lanke. In Berlin. Do you know the city?"
"No."
"It's very beautiful. Or it was, before the war."
"You lived there?"
"Yes. I was born there, went to school there, and got married there. My husband, Jacob, took that picture."
"And this is your son?"
"Yes. Willie is his name. But I said that already, didn't I? He was six weeks old that day."
"Big boy," I said. I would have guessed his age at ten weeks. Neither of my two daughters had looked as big as the baby in the picture at six weeks. "This was how long ago?"
"November 2, 1938," Henrietta said without hesitation.
I turned the picture over. No date on the back.
"You know the date by heart."
She nodded. "It was the last time I was happy, the last time all three of us were happy together. Jacob, Willie and me. Things were turning dark for Jews in Germany, but I had my little bubble of sunshine around me."
