I wanted to find out who had killed him and Esther. I wanted it badly. Maybe, just maybe, if I brought the killer to justice, it would make Henrietta's pain bearable. Maybe she wouldn't crumble to dust when she learned the truth.
I didn't know whether I truly believed that. Maybe it was something I told myself to excuse my lying to her. Maybe I wanted to catch this killer for personal reasons. Because if there was one thing I hated more than anything, it was child killers.
I would never be able to bring the men who had killed my daughters to justice. I did not know their names, and no matter how many Nazis I killed, there would always be more who were involved in the wholesale murder machine that had claimed my daughters, along with so many others. Full vengeance was impossible.
But I might be able to avenge the death of Henrietta's son. And that was what I planned on doing.
The following morning, I descended from my apartment and walked west toward Tchernichovsky Street. In my hand was a brown paper bag containing the two western paperbacks I'd finished over the past week.
I turned north on Tchernichovsky and, shortly before the corner of Bograshov, encountered what was now a common sight in Tel Aviv. A long line of basket-wielding women snaked out of a grocery store and halfway down the block. In the store window hung a handwritten sign proclaiming the arrival of fresh eggs that very morning. The number of eggs was not specified. I wondered how many of these women would go home empty-handed. More than a few, I bet.
I turned west on Bograshov, marching toward the sea. The morning sun was at my back and cast my shadow in front of me. A couple of blocks past the turn to the Trumpeldor Cemetery, between a women's clothing store and an insurance agency, was Zion Books. A bell tinkled as I pushed open the door and stepped inside.
The interior smelled of old paper and dry leather. Books were haphazardly stacked on shelves lining two walls, on narrow tables along the front window, and on the counter. Behind said counter sat a narrow-shouldered scholarly man in his fifties, reading a hardback through a pair of very thick glasses. He lifted his eyes at the sound of the bell and, seeing me, set his book aside. He smiled a delicate little smile, but one that spoke of true delight.
"Adam, nice to see you. I was just thinking of you."
"What brought me to mind?" I asked, crossing over to the counter and extending my hand.
The man shook it. His palm was dry and his handshake limp. His strength lay not in his body, but in his mind. His name was Erwin Goldberg, and books were his passion and business. He owned Zion Books and, he once told me in a tone utterly devoid of bragging, he had read over ten thousand books over the course of his lifetime. I would have doubted any other man who made such a claim, but I did not doubt Erwin Goldberg.
The books he sold did not run to type. In his store you could find impenetrable scholarly books on the most esoteric scientific fields; heavy religious tomes analyzing the finer points of not just Judaism, but also Islam, Christianity, and various other faiths; travel books to every corner of the earth; gazetteers, almanacs, and atlases; and fiction novels in a variety of genres.
Goldberg's taste in books matched that of his stock. He read everything and anything. My taste was more focused. I read adventure novels, almost exclusively westerns. Over the months we had known each other, he had tried to steer me to what he called "more serious work," books that would "levitate my soul" and "expand my mind," as he put it, but so far I had resisted.
I slid the two paperbacks out of the bag and laid them on the counter. He glanced down at them. He had a thin face that sloped from his temples to a weak and hairless chin. His mouth was small and seemed perpetually pursed. Lines plowed across his forehead over sparse black eyebrows and earth-colored eyes. His hair was the color and thinness of silver threads. He wore a navy blue suit jacket over a white shirt with a subdued red stripe and a blue necktie. He did not seem to be bothered by the heat.
"You finished them both. Good, good." Goldberg not only found satisfaction in reading himself, but also in books being read by others. "As to your question, some books have come in that I thought you'd enjoy, though I do wish you'd let me slip you something different this time. Some Victorian literature, perhaps?"
I hated to tell him no, but I did just that. The corners of his mouth drooped, but then he shrugged.
"Well, maybe next time."
"Maybe."
He set the two books I had finished aside and bent to look behind the counter. Scratching his head, he muttered, "Now where did I—here they are."
