"Your children are also dead?" he asked, and I could only nod in response, as my throat had closed up. "I'm sorry," he said. "I know what you mean about guilt." But otherwise he remained silent, offering no platitudes or hollow words of encouragement. There was no pity in his eyes, and he made no effort to affect an expression of commiseration. I was grateful for that. Too many Israelis, those who had lived in Israel while the Nazis strove to eradicate the Jews of Europe, did not know how to act around survivors such as I. The discomfort we aroused in them was palpable. They sought to ease their consciences by trying too hard to ease our pain. I liked that Michael did not try to make me feel better. He probably knew all too well that there was no way to do that. The loss of his wife would have taught him that some wounds cannot be salved by mere words or sympathy.
At the corner of Allenby and Tchernichovsky, we said our goodbyes. We shook hands, and for a second I thought of suggesting I'd walk him to the Reading Power Station. But I was dead tired and ached all over. I needed to get in bed.
"Let's meet at Greta's one of these evenings. You can claim your free meal."
"I'd like that," he said. "She seems like a good woman."
"She is, and her food is excellent. Tell you what, I'll give you a number where you can reach me. Just let me know when you plan to stop by." I recited the number at Levinson Drugstore and he repeated it back to me. We shook hands again and he walked off. I watched him for a few seconds, then turned to Hamaccabi Street.
At home, I peeled off my clothes and let them drop to the floor. In the bathroom mirror, I examined my torso. Beside my two bullet wound scars, there were patches of discolored skin where Davidson had kicked me. My lower back was abraded from being dragged across the pavement. I turned on the shower, standing under the hot jet for five minutes, letting the water sluice off the sweat from my skin and the tension from my body, but took care not to let any of it touch the plasters on my head.
After drying myself, I crawled into bed, leaving all the windows open. My mind started to drift, but it didn't get far. In less than ten seconds I was asleep.
It took me all morning to find her.
I woke up after nine, groaning as I rolled out of bed, my body aching and sore in multiple places. I stumbled into the shower, and this time let steaming water run over my head. The water loosened the plasters and stung the broken skin behind my ear. Gently, I peeled off the bandages and prodded the side of my head. A tender lump the size of an olive had blossomed behind my ear. I was happy to find that the wound was already scabbing over. A second lump, smaller and less sensitive to the touch, had grown on the back of my head where it had hit the door Davidson had flung me against. My torso looked like a few canisters of fresh paint had been upended over it.
Despite the pain, I was feeling refreshed and alert. I could not recall the last time I had slept so deeply, but it had been years ago.
I closed all the shutters, then retrieved my box of souvenirs from its hiding place and took out the Luger. I doubted Davidson was in any shape to attack me again today, but I was taking no chances. I got dressed, stuck the Luger in my waistband, and put on my light jacket to hide it from sight.
I made some toast and coffee, consumed both quickly, and discovered I was still hungry. I toasted two more pieces of bread and carried them with me as I left my apartment. I munched on the toast as I made my way north toward Ussishkin Street, where Shulamit Hendleman had lived when Alon Davidson was her lover.
She wasn't living there any longer. In fact, she hadn't lived there for about nine years. I learned this from one of her neighbors, who also informed me that the Hendlemans had gotten a divorce at about the same time. "She was involved with another man," the neighbor told me, shaking her head at the tragedy of a broken marriage. "Cheated on her husband. And Ethan is such a nice man. That's Dr. Hendleman. Imagine, she's married to a doctor and she goes behind his back. Foolish woman."
Dr. Hendleman, the neighbor told me, worked at Hayarkon Hospital. I hiked there and asked the reception nurse if I could see him. She told me Hendleman would be done with his rounds in twenty minutes or so. I found a bench and parked myself on it, the sight of patients hobbling along the hall and the heavy scent of disinfectant conjuring unpleasant memories of my own time in the hospital.
Dr. Hendleman was a scrawny man with round eyeglasses and a shrinking hairline. He offered a kind smile when he introduced himself and asked what ailed me. The smile vanished when I told him I was healthy and that I was looking for his wife, Shulamit.
"Ex-wife," he muttered. "She hasn't been my wife for nine years now."
"Know where I can find her?"
