the giant dishwasher made the walls perspire. Finally, the last plates were coming down the conveyer belt. In minutes he would be done with the dinner shift and heading to the old lady’s apartment.
Yossi appeared on the other side of the belt, his face and hands red from unloading the scalding clean plates from the opposite end of the dishwasher, where it was even hotter. “You can go now, Adam. You did a great job again today. It’s so much easier when I have a good teammate.”
Adam peeled off the rubber gloves, flattered, unable to remember the last time someone had commended him on a job well done. He threw his apron into a hamper overflowing with dishrags and proceeded to the hand-washing stations, where he splashed water on his face and considered his reflection. Not great, but not bad, considering he’d only been sober for five days. The kibbutz hairdresser, a woman working out of her house, gave him more of a flattop than a pompadour, but it was still an improvement. The bags under his eyes had mostly faded. He gave himself a fake grin, checking once again that the black cavities only showed when he opened his mouth wide.
In the dusk, Ziva’s window glowed on the other side of the square. Hers was the first apartment in the old age building, right after the bomb-shelter door. Passing the kolbo, Adam locked eyes with a boy strapped into a large electric wheelchair, his parent probably inside the shop. His arms were bent upward and his hands flopped forward as if his wrists were affixed to invisible puppet strings. Adam managed to give the boy a smile just before the boy’s eyes and head rolled back. Adam walked on, feeling guilty that he could.
He knocked on Ziva’s door. Inside he heard shuffling, followed by a shout in Hebrew with the cadence of “one minute.” The muddy brown boots outside the door were identical to the ones on his feet. Adam had never been a part of anything with a uniform before—no school, sports team, fast-food joint—and it felt weird having the same boots as an old lady.
Ziva opened the door. Her eyes and lips tightened. Adam didn’t know what to make of her strange expression. Why didn’t she say anything?
“You’re Ziva, right? Eyal’s mom?”
“Yes . . .” Her voice came out slow, uncertain. Maybe the old woman still wasn’t feeling well. Too bad; he couldn’t wait any longer.
“Can I come in for a sec? I just wanted to ask you something.”
She brought a hand to her forehead, looking dizzy. He hoped she wasn’t going to faint again.
He stammered, “Eyal . . . said it would be okay.”
“Well, it’s not okay. I’m working on something.”
He could hear the German accent now. He hadn’t heard it outside the dining hall. He loved that accent. Some people might think of Nazis when they heard it, but he thought of Zayde and the other old people from their building.
“It’ll only take five minutes, tops. I’ve been waiting three days to talk to you.”
She took a deep breath. “And then you promise you’ll go away?”
Go away? Eyal wasn’t kidding: his mother was rude.
“Yes, ma’am. And then I promise to go away.”
Ziva stepped back, allowing him inside. As soon as he was through the door, she turned and left, mumbling something about tea.
Adam edged into the room, hands clasped, feeling ill at ease. The place had little in the way of furnishings beyond the shabby green couch and chair, which were of the uncushiony variety found in waiting rooms. The walls were bare except for the yellowed banner that presumably said the same thing in Hebrew as it did in English: WORKERS OF THE WORLD UNITE! Aside from the well-used writing pad on the coffee table and the two picture frames on the wooden sideboard, the tabletops were clear, void of coasters, remote controls, magazines, bowls of candy.
It was so quiet. No sound of the old lady fussing in the kitchen. He wandered over to the old black-and-white portraits. One showed a smiling woman, thirty years old or so, with a storm of curly dark hair. She wasn’t pretty exactly, but she had presence. She stood in short shorts—who knew people wore them so short back then?—meaty legs apart, one hand on one hip, the other grasping the rifle strap crossing her chest. Despite the youth, the smile, the vigor, Adam recognized this was the old lady. It was the eyes that gave it away, peering into the camera with confidence, excitement, like she had just dared the photographer to do something. The very handsome man in the other picture stared off to the side, as was the fashion for portraits. A thin blond mustache traced a firm mouth, but his clear, light eyes were kind. This handsome man had probably been Ziva’s husband, Eyal’s father. He’d never seen a picture of Zayde young. Not one. He wondered what he and Dagmar had looked like at this age.
“All right, tell me why you’re here.”
Adam spun around. The old woman had returned without any tea. Had she gone into the kitchen and then forgotten why?
He gestured toward the armchair. “May I?”
“If you must.” The old woman perched on the far end of the couch. “You said this would be quick.”
Adam lowered into the chair, crossed his legs, then uncrossed them. This old woman really put him on edge. “I’m trying to find someone who used to live on the kibbutz. Someone named Dagmar.”
Her gaze dropped from him to the ground. At first she seemed to be struggling to remember, but then her eyes became glassy. She offered no information. Had she forgotten what he asked her?
Adam tried to sound natural, as if he weren’t feeding her the question again. “Do you know what happened to Dagmar? Where I might find her now?”
She raised her head, peered sideways at him. “Why are you asking me?”
“Because I know she lived here in 1947, and you’ve been on the kibbutz longer than anyone.”
“I’m not sure that I . . . remember a Dagmar.” She straightened the work shirt over her strange, pregnant-like belly. “May I ask why you’re looking for her?”
For the last three days, Adam had been counting on this old woman remembering Dagmar. He should’ve known when he saw her blank out onstage that she might prove less than helpful. It wasn’t fair to be frustrated with her—it wasn’t her fault her mind was going—but frustrated he was. And what was he supposed to tell her? That he came all the way to Israel to give this Dagmar, his grandfather’s long-lost love, their precious family heirloom? That made him sound like a saint, the very opposite of what he was. He answered through his teeth. “That’s between me and Dagmar.”
The old woman glared at him, and he regretted snapping at her. He softened his voice. “Dagmar was my grandfather’s girlfriend. Or whatever you called girlfriends back then, after the war. Maybe you said ‘sweetheart’? You might remember my grandfather, a Holocaust refugee. Franz Rosenberg?”
The old woman, eyes still beholding him with distrust, slowly shook her head.
He hated to push her, but he had hoped her face would light up at his grandfather’s name, that she would have stories for him. “I know we’re talking fifty years ago, but you must remember him. He was on the kibbutz for three whole years. Until 1947, when he moved to New York.”
She said the name slowly, as if trying it on: “Franz Rosenberg.”
Was
