busy port area to a residential area of tree-lined streets winding along the hills overlooking the harbor. I found Mina's house without any difficulty. It looked exactly as Ralph had described it: a two-story stone building, circa 1920, with an iron gate and a path leading to the entrance. I went through the unlocked gate. There were three old vines and a couple of orange trees in the small yard. This house had seen better days. Neglect and disrepair were visible, but so were traces of its former glory. There were four broken letterboxesat the door, each with several names crossed out. The landlord must have had a firm short-lease policy. Unusual. On one of the mailboxes I saw the name Bernstein-Peled. I went up shabby stairs to the first floor. I found the name I was looking for on the door on the left.
I rang the bell. There was no response, and I could detect no noise inside. I waited a few more minutes. It was apparent that either nobody was home or somebody didn't want visitors. I looked at my watch. 1:25 P.M. I hoped Mina Bernstein was at work and would be back soon. I decided to sit in my car and wait it out.
A few people, mostly children, came in but not one looked like a Mina Bernstein. I knew she had to be in her sixties, but no woman of that age entered the building. Finally, after three hours, I went back into the house, up the stairs, and rang the bell. Still no answer. I turned to the door opposite and knocked lightly. A woman in her late thirties in a dressing gown, hair tied up in a haphazard knot, opened the door.
“Yes?” she asked.
“Excuse me,” I said in Hebrew, “I'm looking for Mrs. Bernstein. Would you know when she is expected back? I was to meet her here about this time,” I lied with a smile.
She sized me up. In the background I heard a child crying, and the smell of cooked cabbage seeped from the kitchen. She didn't seem to have much time to spend talking to me.
“All I know is that she left a few days ago. She told me she was going overseas. She didn't tell me where she was going or for how long. That's all I know.” The last sentence was said in a subdued tone. I realized the woman probably thought I was a cop; her attitude was becoming defensive. I needed more information before she asked to see a badge. Let her think I was a cop.
“What about her mail?”
“I collect it,” she replied and pointed to a small table with a stack of mail on it. I went over to the table and shuffled through the envelopes. Mostly junk, some bills. I pulled out the phone bill and slid it into my pocket. The neighbor said nothing.
“Do you know where she works?”
“She was a teacher, but I think she retired last year.”
As I turned away she hesitated and added, “You could also ask her daughter.”
I stopped. “Her daughter?”
“Yes,” she said, “Ariel.”
“Ah,” I said. “Do you know where I can find her?
“She's a chemistry teacher at Ramot High School. You could try there. I don't know where she lives.”
“Thanks,” I said, and walked outside. I looked at my watch; it was 4:12 P.M. No point in going by the school at that late hour.
In my car I opened Mina's telephone bill. It listed service and other charges for two months through September 30,1990. There were no details concerning any local calls — just a flat fee. But there was one line that attracted my attention. It was a collect call made to Mina Bernstein from Munich, Germany, on September 26, 1990, from number 004989227645. The duration of the call was 5 minutes 11 seconds.
I drove back to Tel Aviv and called my office in New York from a pay phone just outside my hotel. “Please do a reverse search on this little item,” I asked Lan, and gave her the Munich telephone number. Not much, but it was a start. I hung up and called Ralph.
“I thought it would be easy,” I said.
“Well, did you find her?”
“No, I found her apartment, but she's been gone a week or so. The neighbor said she went overseas, but
I rang the bell. There was no response, and I could detect no noise inside. I waited a few more minutes. It was apparent that either nobody was home or somebody didn't want visitors. I looked at my watch. 1:25 P.M. I hoped Mina Bernstein was at work and would be back soon. I decided to sit in my car and wait it out.
A few people, mostly children, came in but not one looked like a Mina Bernstein. I knew she had to be in her sixties, but no woman of that age entered the building. Finally, after three hours, I went back into the house, up the stairs, and rang the bell. Still no answer. I turned to the door opposite and knocked lightly. A woman in her late thirties in a dressing gown, hair tied up in a haphazard knot, opened the door.
“Yes?” she asked.
“Excuse me,” I said in Hebrew, “I'm looking for Mrs. Bernstein. Would you know when she is expected back? I was to meet her here about this time,” I lied with a smile.
She sized me up. In the background I heard a child crying, and the smell of cooked cabbage seeped from the kitchen. She didn't seem to have much time to spend talking to me.
“All I know is that she left a few days ago. She told me she was going overseas. She didn't tell me where she was going or for how long. That's all I know.” The last sentence was said in a subdued tone. I realized the woman probably thought I was a cop; her attitude was becoming defensive. I needed more information before she asked to see a badge. Let her think I was a cop.
“What about her mail?”
“I collect it,” she replied and pointed to a small table with a stack of mail on it. I went over to the table and shuffled through the envelopes. Mostly junk, some bills. I pulled out the phone bill and slid it into my pocket. The neighbor said nothing.
“Do you know where she works?”
“She was a teacher, but I think she retired last year.”
As I turned away she hesitated and added, “You could also ask her daughter.”
I stopped. “Her daughter?”
“Yes,” she said, “Ariel.”
“Ah,” I said. “Do you know where I can find her?
“She's a chemistry teacher at Ramot High School. You could try there. I don't know where she lives.”
“Thanks,” I said, and walked outside. I looked at my watch; it was 4:12 P.M. No point in going by the school at that late hour.
In my car I opened Mina's telephone bill. It listed service and other charges for two months through September 30,1990. There were no details concerning any local calls — just a flat fee. But there was one line that attracted my attention. It was a collect call made to Mina Bernstein from Munich, Germany, on September 26, 1990, from number 004989227645. The duration of the call was 5 minutes 11 seconds.
I drove back to Tel Aviv and called my office in New York from a pay phone just outside my hotel. “Please do a reverse search on this little item,” I asked Lan, and gave her the Munich telephone number. Not much, but it was a start. I hung up and called Ralph.
“I thought it would be easy,” I said.
“Well, did you find her?”
“No, I found her apartment, but she's been gone a week or so. The neighbor said she went overseas, but
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