"Seeing her? That's not exactly how I would put it. You trying to avoid thinking unpleasant thoughts?"
"Wipe that smirk off your face and answer my question."
"Tonight," I said. "I'm going over to her place tonight."
Greta gave a thoughtful nod and eyed me long and hard, as if trying to memorize every inch of my face, or perhaps say a prayer over me.
"You watch yourself, you hear?"
"It'll be all right," I said, discomforted by her concern. "Don't worry."
"I'll worry all I want. And you should worry, too. If you're not worried, you're being arrogant, and arrogance can get you in trouble."
"I have done this sort of thing before, you recall."
"I know, but tonight may be different. So watch yourself. I'll see you tomorrow."
"Tomorrow," I said in a somber voice, as if making her a promise. But in truth, I was not worried and couldn't see why she should be.
Outside, it was still hot, but not as oppressive as earlier. The broad, tree-lined sidewalks of Allenby Street were teeming with pedestrians, and on the road a bus laden with passengers was maneuvering around a truck that had parked with its tail end blocking part of the way. A handful of cars waited patiently for the road to clear. There was a sense of optimism in the air. And why shouldn't there be? Israel's War of Independence was, to all intents and purposes, over. We Jews had won. It was a costly victory, with six thousand dead and many thousands injured, but we had our state. A two-thousand-year-old dream had come true. Armistice agreements had been signed with Egypt, Lebanon, and the Kingdom of Transjordan. Rumor was that an agreement would soon be signed with Syria, Israel's sole remaining belligerent neighbor. Maybe now we would have peace. Maybe.
Not that everything was rosy. Far from it. The economy was in tatters. Thousands of impoverished Jews were pouring into the country on a monthly basis. There was nowhere to house them all, so tent towns had sprouted in various places across the land. Conditions there were miserable. There were also widespread shortages of basic products, including food. A few months ago the government had announced a rationing policy, which included meat, cheese, butter, eggs, and a variety of other items. A number of substitutes such as powdered eggs and chicory coffee were introduced, none of which tasted very good. The rationing gave birth to a thriving black market, with nearly every citizen participating in it, as either seller or buyer. I was one of the latter.
The government made great efforts to crack down on black marketeers, but it was a futile battle. Jewish mothers were not about to let laws and regulations deprive their children of proper nourishment. Good for them.
Hamaccabi Street, where I lived, was an unassuming residential road tucked between the much larger King George and Tchernichovsky Streets. I lived on the third floor of a ten-year-old building that no architect was likely to point to as the pinnacle of his achievements. My apartment comprised a closet-sized bathroom; a walk-in-closet-sized kitchen; a balcony big enough for two people, as long as both held their breath; and one room that served as dining room, living room, and bedroom all rolled into one.
The furniture consisted of a bed, a nightstand bearing a shadeless reading lamp, a closet, one chest of drawers, a scratched-top dining table, and two mismatched chairs. There were no paintings or pictures. Bare walls were good enough.
The rent was cheap, the neighbors unobtrusive, and Greta's was a short walking distance away. It suited me just fine. Compared to some of the places I'd been, it was a palace.
Upon entering, I removed my shirt and draped it over one of the chairs. Then I went into the kitchen, filled one of the three glasses I owned with water and drained it in one long gulp. From the icebox I withdrew the little butter I had left from that month's rations. From a cupboard over the sink I got a box of sardines I had bought on the black market.
I sliced two pieces of bread, put them on a plate, smeared them with butter and stacked some sardines on top. I set the plate on the dining table and sat down to eat. Before the World War, this would have seemed like a poor meal. These days I knew it for what it truly was—a feast.
I rinsed the plate when I was done, made some tea, and took the steaming cup with me to the bedroom. I checked my watch. 20:11. There was time to burn before I was to go see Rachel Weiss, as Greta had put it. I leaned my pillow against the wall and sat on the bed with my back to it. On the nightstand lay a dog-eared paperback western by Max Brand and next to it was an English-Hebrew dictionary, in case I encountered any unfamiliar words. I flicked on the reading lamp, picked up the novel, and began to read.
