A Possibility of Violence by D. A. Mishani Page B

had been trying to catch her for the last few days, to which she offered no response. Nevertheless he told her about the first days at work and Saban’s speech, and was surprised by her reaction. “Why does he sound so idiotic to you?” he asked, and Marianka said, “Because that’s the speech of a politician, not a cop. He’s simply vapid, don’t you think? Real cops know that there aren’t areas free of violence. Every place where there’s people there’s violence.” There was an anger in her voice that Avraham didn’t understand.
    When he asked her how she was doing and how the preparations for the trip were coming along she avoided answering. She asked how he was feeling at work and he said excellent. Since he returned he was sensitive to what was being said and what wasn’t, to what was visible and to what was trying to remain hidden. Nothing evaded him. Not Chava Cohen’s lies, nor the fear in the voice of the assistant before she agreed to come to his office tomorrow morning to give testimony, even though it would be just a few hours before the holiday began.
    â€œAnd how are your parents?” Marianka asked, and he said that he’d see them tomorrow.
    â€œDo you know that it’s Rosh Hashanah?”
    She didn’t know, and he told her that it was his favorite day of the year. “I don’t know how to explain it to you,” he said, “I guess you just have to be here.” A sentence was echoing in his brain, but because of the distance between them he didn’t say it out loud: When the sun sets this evening, it’s as if it understands that it’s setting for the last time. Before they got off, he asked her, “Do you miss me?” and she said, “Yes.”
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    THE NEXT DAY, AT 8:30 IN the morning, Natalie Pinchasov was in his office and within a matter of minutes told him about the warning call. She was twenty-two years old, and her face was pale and beautiful. Avraham thanked her for agreeing to testify on the eve of the holiday. Most of the time her eyes were lowered and her voice quiet, and she looked around as if seeking out someone else unseen in the room. In her hair were dyed red streaks. He asked how long she’d been working at the daycare and she said since the start of the fall session, less than three weeks. He noticed that on her neck, below her hair, was a long scar.
    â€œHow did you wind up at the daycare?”
    â€œMy past employer recommended me. Last year I didn’t work steadily, I was a substitute assistant at a few daycares. A week here, a week there. There isn’t a lot of work at daycares now. But about a month ago one of the women I worked with called and said that Chava was urgently searching for an assistant.”
    â€œWhy urgently?”
    â€œBecause the assistant who was working with her quit a few days before the start of the season.”
    He spoke with her in a soft voice. Offered her coffee or tea. Asked her where she lived. She took two buses to work, left her house around six thirty. The daycare opened at a quarter to eight but she needed to be there fifteen minutes before then in order to help Chava get the place ready and welcome the children. Afterward he asked her if she had been witness to any anomalous events at the daycare and she cautiously asked him, “What is . . . anomalous?”
    â€œWhatever strikes you as odd. Something that looks exceptional to you and that you might perhaps connect to the bomb.”
    She again looked around, and he said to her, “I promise that everything you say will remain between us. Not a word you say will leave here.”
    She touched the scar on her neck. “There were two parents, yes. Who had an argument with Chava. But I don’t think that this can be connected to the bomb.”
    â€œIt doesn’t matter. I want you to tell me whatever strikes you. Parents who . . .