I pressed the release button. The blade sprang into view with a dull twang. Not long, but made from sturdy metal, the kind that could lodge itself in bone without breaking. The blade glinted as it caught the light. Reflected in the shiny steel, my left eye stared back at me. I could read nothing in my gaze, or maybe I did not wish to. I quickly shifted the angle of the weapon so it reflected something other than myself.

I had often wondered why I held on to these two weapons. I could easily have found replacements for them. But both the Luger and the knife were special to me. They were reminders that I was no longer the weak, pathetic creature that I had been reduced to in Auschwitz. They were symbols of the time I had set forth on my journey of vengeance, when I had brought some of my—and my people's—oppressors to justice. They helped me alleviate some of the guilt I felt for surviving while the rest of my family, and so many others, did not.

I swept the knife through the air, describing glittering arcs of deadliness. It felt like a natural extension of my arm. Then I placed it on the bed by the Luger. My eyes shifted from one weapon to the other as I considered which I should take with me tonight.

The Luger was tempting. It would certainly send a forceful message. But it was also risky. Having a gun brought you one step closer to using it, and this might spell trouble, not just for me, but also for Rachel Weiss. A gunshot is deadlier than a knife wound. Rachel Weiss had not hired me to kill anyone. Not to mention the idea of having to dispose of a body did not fill me with enthusiasm.

And besides, I was certain I could make do without it.

The knife, then.

I wrapped the Luger in its cloth and placed it back in the box. I folded the knife and slid it into my pocket. Then my eyes fell on another item I had acquired in Germany. A leather billfold, brown and creased, with a small metal J stamped into its top-right corner. I brought the billfold to my nose and inhaled its scent. Smoke, faint but unmistakable. What fire had impressed its scent on the billfold? Was it the fire of battle? Or the firebombing of some German city? Or was this the smell of Jewish bodies being put to the torch?

I did not know and would never find out. The previous owner of the billfold was dead. I had done the killing. He'd lived alone in a picturesque hamlet outside Frankfurt. When I told him who I was and why I had come to see him, he spat at me. The spittle missed. I did not.