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.