I fished the note Mira had given me out of my pocket and held it out to him. He climbed the rest of the way, set down the two bags, and plucked the note from my hand. He read it with seeming care. I watched his face while he did so. Not much of a reaction, a slight deepening of those frown lines, an upward flick of the eyes to assess my face. On their way back to the note, the eyes paused for a fraction of a second on the number tattooed on my forearm, but did not give away his thoughts. When he was done reading, he folded the note and did not return it.
"Better come in, then," he said.
While he unlocked the door, I reached down and grabbed one of the grocery bags. He muttered a low thank you, hoisted the other bag, pushed open the door, and led the way inside.
I had expected his apartment to match the rest of the building. It didn't. The walls were freshly painted, the floor clean. The kitchen, which opened to the right a couple of feet from the door, was about the size of mine and immaculate. No crumbs on the counters, no dirty dishes in the sink, no grime on the small window. We set the bags on the floor and he proceeded to unpack them. Bread and dry goods went into a cupboard; cheese, milk, and vegetables he put in the icebox. None of the food items were contraband. Either he was one of those rare souls who did not partake of the black market, or I had caught him on a good day. When the last of the food was in its place, he said, "I'm gonna have a beer. Want one?"
"Too early for me."
He shrugged and tugged out a bottle from the icebox. Condensation sparkled along the glass. He popped the cap, took a swig, smiled a small smile, and said, "I just got back from work, so this is like a nightcap. How about some water?" I nodded and he filled me a glass from the tap. "Let's go to the other room."
The other room wore a number of hats, just like mine on Hamaccabi Street. There was a small table for eating and writing; a made bed, with a nightstand next to it; a low sofa, which was slightly sagging in the middle, but otherwise looking in good repair; and a row of overturned wooden milk boxes arrayed against one wall and topped with cramped rows of books. A poor man's room, but one who took care of what he owned. Also a single man's room, as there was no sign of any woman or her touch anywhere.
A number of pictures hung on one wall. The first was a copy of the picture Mira had shown me. The second, of about the same period, showed a younger Michael Shamir grinning, a cigarette in one hand, a Sten machine gun in the other. The third had him shaking hands with Menachem Begin, the leader of the Irgun. The fourth, no older than a year, showed him in an IDF uniform, army hat jammed low on his head, leaning against an earth bank, rifle stock at his shoulder.
"Where did you fight?" I asked.
"A bunch of places. Jaffa, Jerusalem, the Galilee. Mostly against the Lebanese and Syrians. Were you in the war?"
"Yes. A bit in Jerusalem, during Operation Nachshon, and the rest of the time in the Negev."
He nodded appreciatively. "You boys did good work there. Gave the Egyptians a good licking."
"You guys in the north did not do so bad yourselves."
A shrug. "I wish we'd done better." Then he raised his bottle and added, "To old comrades."
The toast might have sounded funny coming from most men, but it didn't from him. We drank and lapsed into our separate thoughts and memories. I caught a faint whiff of cigarette smoke and, looking around, spotted an empty tin ashtray on the table. I set my glass down and got out my pack of cigarettes. I proffered him one, but he declined, saying he didn't like mixing it with beer. He told me to go ahead, so I did.
He sat in the middle of the sofa with his knees wide apart, holding his beer bottle by its neck between them. I took a chair by the table, ashtray at my elbow. For the first time, I noticed his face was drawn and tired, and I remembered him saying he had worked during the night.
"Where do you work?" I asked.
"I'm a guard at the Reading Power Station."
"Always work nights?"
"Usually. The other guys don't like it much, but I do. It's quiet, and no one's around. I can get some reading done."
"I guess working nights is easier when you're single."
"I'm not single," he said in a low voice. "I'm a widower. But I suppose it amounts to the same thing, as far as working nights is concerned."
