Back at my apartment, I found the cup of tea I had made for myself earlier that evening. I hadn't touched it before I left. I took a sip. Cold, but sweet. Like revenge.

I got into bed and pulled the thin blanket over me. The room was warm but pleasant. I left all the windows open. Tonight there would be no nightmares, no screams. Tonight I would sleep like an innocent child.

Violent days were like that. They always ended with peaceful nights. I did not know why. And in those twilight moments between wakefulness and blissful sleep, I did not care either.

6

Shmuel Birnbaum did not look happy to see me.

I found him the next morning in Café Tamar on Sheinkin Street, a few blocks from the offices of Davar, the newspaper where he worked, the same newspaper where Henrietta Ackerland had posted an ad in the hopes that Esther Grunewald would see it. Davar was the party newspaper of Mapai, the left-wing ruling party of Israel, and the most widely read paper in the country. Shmuel Birnbaum was one of its most prominent reporters.

Seeing me approach, Birnbaum set down the paper he'd been reading and began rubbing his jaw. I made an effort to hide my smile. He made none to hide his scowl.

"Good morning, Shmuel. Can I sit with you?"

"If I say no, will you leave?"

I shook my head.

Birnbaum sighed. "Then pull up a chair, by all means. Make yourself at home."

I sat. Birnbaum folded his paper and put it on a vacant chair. He leaned back and ran a hand over his bald scalp, scratching the fringe of light brown hair at the back of his head. He gave me a long probing look.

"Something tells me you're not here to apologize."

"Apologize? For what?"

"For this," he said, pointing at his jaw. "You nearly broke it, you meshuganah. And loosened a couple of my teeth while you were at it. I was this close to losing them." He held up a thumb and forefinger close together. "And for what? For singing your praises in the newspaper."

"Without asking me for permission," I reminded him.

"I could have asked you a hundred times, but what good would it have done? You weren't in a position to answer."

"I was in the hospital. Unconscious."

Birnbaum waved a hand dismissively. "Unavailable for comment. When has that ever stopped an enterprising reporter from publishing a story? Especially one as good as yours. You stormed an Egyptian gun position single-handedly and so allowed the rest of your platoon to score a major victory. And you nearly lost your life in the process. How could I resist printing a story like that? It would have been unprofessional. I don't know what you're complaining about. I made you out to be a hero, didn't I? Not that it was hard. Reporting the truth never is. You should have thanked me, you stupid bastard, but what do you do instead? Punch me in the jaw, that's what."