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Authors: Avichai Schmidt
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disappeared from the family album years ago. Greenberg’s hand reached out as if by its own accord to touch the picture, but froze in midair as he saw another one. It was a frontal portrait of himself, but he could not remember when it was taken. He had a feeling it had been taken without his knowledge, but that – yes! -- he had seen it before, but when? There was something strange about the picture.
A shiver passed through his body. He carefully replaced the contents of the file and weakly closed it. For two or three minutes he stood there without moving, then checked the rest of the drawer’s contents: an ash tray, two cheap ballpoint pens, a red pencil, a box of paper clips – that was all.
His mind, which until a moment ago had been preoccupied with feelings and absent of thought, was spurred action. Greenberg fought against the tendency to analyze the situation – now wasn’t the time. First he had to get out of there; he could not stay another minute!
He rapidly put everything back in place, then took out his handkerchief, spit on it, and wiped his fingerprints from everything he had touched.
* * *
It was late. Greenberg had devoted more time to the break-in than he had expected. Soon the late news bulletin would be shown on television, and he wanted to see it. Something was bothering him and he didn’t know what. He wanted to see his image once more on the screen. He drove slowly along the side of a commercial street, scanning the storefronts. There was little traffic this late at night in this part of town, and very few pedestrians.
A few minutes before broadcast time he found what he was looking for. He pulled over and parked the car, then got out and stood before the window of an appliance store. About a dozen television sets were on, all of them tuned to the same channel so the prospective customer could compare the difference in quality among them. There was a small outside speaker above the display window, enabling passerby to hear the program as well. Every so often people would stop and look in the window, then move on. As the final credits of the evening’s movie passed up the screens, Greenberg’s body tensed with anticipation.
* * *
As usual, the announcer began with an update of the political news – most of which was devoted to the meeting being forced upon Israel with George Abu-Hatra. The rest of the short bulletin dealt with a brief analysis of the economic situation and several news briefs. The murder at the nursery was relegated to the end of the broadcast. For the second time that night, Greenberg saw the image of the suspect, and heard the public being asked to keep alert and to notify the nearest police station, if…
“Maniacs!” a voice suddenly declared from behind him.
He nearly jumped in alarm. Forcing himself to remain calm, he turned and looked straight into the face of a middle-aged man, who continued speaking, as if to himself: “This city is full of nut cases; it’s really scary just walking in the street! It’s not even safe in the daytime anymore…” The man paused, as if waiting for a reply.
Greenberg nodded at the man with an expression of complete agreement, then added gratuitously, “That’s how it is, there’s nothing you can do,” in a tone that meant he wanted to end the conversation that had been imposed upon him. He still worried that the man might identify him. In fact, he could not understand how the stranger had not already identified him, nor did all those who had seen him before – for example, in the restaurant three hours before.
Then, all at once, he understood. He suddenly knew what was missing in the portrait: the slide shown on television was not a police sketch, it was a photograph – an enlargement of the same picture he had seen in the file at the office of The Rising, copies of which must by now be in the hands of all the authorities. But the picture had undergone some kind
A shiver passed through his body. He carefully replaced the contents of the file and weakly closed it. For two or three minutes he stood there without moving, then checked the rest of the drawer’s contents: an ash tray, two cheap ballpoint pens, a red pencil, a box of paper clips – that was all.
His mind, which until a moment ago had been preoccupied with feelings and absent of thought, was spurred action. Greenberg fought against the tendency to analyze the situation – now wasn’t the time. First he had to get out of there; he could not stay another minute!
He rapidly put everything back in place, then took out his handkerchief, spit on it, and wiped his fingerprints from everything he had touched.
* * *
It was late. Greenberg had devoted more time to the break-in than he had expected. Soon the late news bulletin would be shown on television, and he wanted to see it. Something was bothering him and he didn’t know what. He wanted to see his image once more on the screen. He drove slowly along the side of a commercial street, scanning the storefronts. There was little traffic this late at night in this part of town, and very few pedestrians.
A few minutes before broadcast time he found what he was looking for. He pulled over and parked the car, then got out and stood before the window of an appliance store. About a dozen television sets were on, all of them tuned to the same channel so the prospective customer could compare the difference in quality among them. There was a small outside speaker above the display window, enabling passerby to hear the program as well. Every so often people would stop and look in the window, then move on. As the final credits of the evening’s movie passed up the screens, Greenberg’s body tensed with anticipation.
* * *
As usual, the announcer began with an update of the political news – most of which was devoted to the meeting being forced upon Israel with George Abu-Hatra. The rest of the short bulletin dealt with a brief analysis of the economic situation and several news briefs. The murder at the nursery was relegated to the end of the broadcast. For the second time that night, Greenberg saw the image of the suspect, and heard the public being asked to keep alert and to notify the nearest police station, if…
“Maniacs!” a voice suddenly declared from behind him.
He nearly jumped in alarm. Forcing himself to remain calm, he turned and looked straight into the face of a middle-aged man, who continued speaking, as if to himself: “This city is full of nut cases; it’s really scary just walking in the street! It’s not even safe in the daytime anymore…” The man paused, as if waiting for a reply.
Greenberg nodded at the man with an expression of complete agreement, then added gratuitously, “That’s how it is, there’s nothing you can do,” in a tone that meant he wanted to end the conversation that had been imposed upon him. He still worried that the man might identify him. In fact, he could not understand how the stranger had not already identified him, nor did all those who had seen him before – for example, in the restaurant three hours before.
Then, all at once, he understood. He suddenly knew what was missing in the portrait: the slide shown on television was not a police sketch, it was a photograph – an enlargement of the same picture he had seen in the file at the office of The Rising, copies of which must by now be in the hands of all the authorities. But the picture had undergone some kind
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