He straightened and laid three slim paperbacks on the counter. All three had creased covers and spines. One had pages that were the color of desert sand. That was another thing about Goldberg. He would buy and sell books in almost any condition so long as no pages were missing. In his store, one could find leather-bound first editions occupying the same shelves as well-thumbed paperbacks.
The three covers had some elements in common. All were colorful, dramatic, and featured a weathered-face cowboy armed with a gun and a steely gaze. One of the books showed an armed woman as well, and I immediately thought of Mira Roth. Two of the books were in English; the third—by Karl May—was in German. I pushed the latter back to Goldberg.
"You don't want it? It's an exciting story. You can read German, can't you?"
I could. Like many Hungarians, I had learned a number of languages in my childhood. Hungarian, naturally, but also Romanian and German. After the war, tens of thousands of ethnic Germans were expelled from Hungary. Germans were also expelled from Poland and Czechoslovakia. In an ironic, or perhaps tragic, twist of fate and history, many European countries emptied of Germans shortly after the Germans had emptied them of Jews.
"I don't want to read anything in German," I said.
Goldberg stole a peek at my arm. His frown might have been for my number, or the purple stain beneath it, or both. "The language is not at fault for the deeds of those who speak it," he said. "And German is a beautiful language."
Not anymore it wasn't. Now it was the language of ashes and fire and death. A language of cruelty and wickedness. I shook my head. "Not for me, Erwin."
He shrugged and slid the book off the counter, but his expression was sad. Goldberg was a man of words, and he lamented the rejection of any language.
I paid for the other two novels and put them in the paper bag. I thanked him for putting them aside for me and was about to leave, when it occurred to me he might be able to clarify something for me.
"Erwin, you've lived here all these years, what can you tell me about the Irgun?"
"The Irgun? I was never a member myself. I don't like their politics much. Menachem Begin is too extreme for my taste, though I must admit he and his boys fought the British like lions."
"His girls, too," I muttered, thinking of Mira again.
"Excuse me?"
I waved a hand. "Never mind. What I was wondering is how secretive they were."
"Very much so. They had to be. If the British caught them, they would lock them up or hang them. The British were ruthless in that regard, and there were plenty of snitches—Jews too—who would sell them out to the British for money. Shameful. Quite shameful." Goldberg emphasized this last sentiment with a mournful shake of his head.
"What about today?"
"Today? What do you mean, today?"
"Are Irgun members still secretive?"
"Not like they were when the British ruled here, of course. But our government is not a fan of the Irgun or the
"It's nothing important. Just some minor thing I'm working on."
But it wasn't. It was something that had begun niggling at the back of my mind the evening before. A question for which I had no answer. What Goldberg told me did not provide the answer, simply confirmed the validity of the question. It might prove to be unimportant, but what I had learned as a police detective is that seemingly unimportant questions can have very important answers. They often led you to see things in a new light.
I thanked Goldberg and left, heading south. At the corner of Allenby and Ben Yehuda, I walked past Moghrabi Theater and recalled the crowds of jubilant Jews who had danced in the street in front of the theater when, in November 1947, the United Nations voted in favor of partitioning Palestine between the Jews and the Arabs. Continuing south, I soon got to Greta's Café.
Greta served me lunch—soup, rice and cooked vegetables—but the lunch crowd kept her too busy for chatting. Someone had left a copy of
After lunch I read a number of chapters from one of the novels I had bought earlier and played a few games of chess. At half past two, I left Greta's and went to pay Reuben Tzanani a visit.
