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Back Ten Years Gone
Chapters (43)
  1. Cover
  2. BOOKS BY JONATHAN DUNSKY
  3. Dedication
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. 15
  19. 16
  20. 17
  21. 18
  22. 19
  23. 20
  24. 21
  25. 22
  26. 23
  27. 24
  28. 25
  29. 26
  30. 27
  31. 28
  32. 29
  33. 30
  34. 31
  35. 32
  36. 33
  37. 34
  38. 35
  39. Thank You
  40. A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
  41. BOOK CLUB DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
  42. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  43. BOOKS BY JONATHAN DUNSKY

As he lay dying in his blood, I ransacked his house. I found the billfold in the inner pocket of a jacket hanging in his bedroom closet.

I opened it and drew out its contents. First was the money. A sheaf of bills, mostly German and French and Dutch notes in various denominations, but also some Swiss francs. There used to be more, but I had used some to pay rent on the apartment for a year in advance and to procure various black-market goods. In fact, it was through a black-market money changer that I exchanged this money for Israeli liras.

Second, and most important among all my German souvenirs, was the picture. It showed an elegant woman in a conservative gray dress, a gold necklace at her throat, and two children, a boy of eight and a girl of five. The girl had dimples. The boy a gap-toothed grin. All were fair-haired. All were smiling at the camera. A perfect German family.

Why had I taken the picture?

Perhaps I'd wanted to take something from that Nazi officer that was even more personal and valuable than his life.

And why did I hang onto it for as long as I did?

I think I simply liked having a family photo to look at from time to time, since I no longer had any of my own.

Picking up the photo of Henrietta Ackerland and her baby boy, I gazed from one picture to the other. The German matron and her two children were dead. Of that I had no doubt. There had been no trace of them in the house of the man I had killed. I did not know how they died. In an air raid, probably. I hoped their deaths were swift and painless.

And Henrietta's boy, Willie?

He was dead, too, I was certain. I did not know how or where or when, but he was dead all the same. I was chasing a ghost.

I cursed under my breath at the thought of this case. Where should I begin? What would be my first step? I simply did not know.

I glanced at my watch. 21:21. I returned the billfold to the box and the box to its hiding place in the closet. I laid Henrietta's picture on the nightstand. There would be time for it later.

It was time to head over to Rachel Weiss. It was time to shed some blood.

4

Rachel Weiss owned and operated a small restaurant on Hayarkon Street. The street ran parallel to the shoreline, close enough so I could hear waves breaking on the beach and smell the salty scent of the sea.