As Keren had to discuss some other matters with Silver, I left on my own. When I reached the ground floor, Malka Balani was manoeuvring Simha out of the lift. The wheelchair was heavy. She would be unable to manage the six stairs leading to street level. My training as a lawyer dictated that I refrain from any communications with the “other party”. My Israeli mores, though, militated against this: I was young and strong. Crippled Simha needed help.
Stepping over, I asked: “Can I help you Mrs. Balani?”
“Thanks. But even Shimon found it difficult, and he is a big fellow.”
“You wait here: I’ll get reinforcement from passers by.”
With the help of two sturdy soldiers, we got Simha and his chair down to Rothschild Boulevard. As Malka was flagging taxis, Simha turned to me: “You didn’t say much up there, Mr. Eli?”
“The boss did the talking, Mr. Balani. I’m small beer!”
“Just call me Simha. But I want to have your opinion, Mr. Eli. In my place, would you take the pension?”
“I’d grab it, Simha: it wasn’t easy to convince Rotem to OK it. It is more than just a good offer: in my eyes, it’s irresistible.”
“You are right. But Shimon thinks he can put a lump sum to good use. If he does, it will be excellent for all of us.”
“It’s your decision. But remember: a bird in the hand is better than seven on a tree. Today many trees are collapsing! Once you take a lump sum, Rotem and Solbon have discharged their debt!”
“I see. And all this because I wanted to make sure Yossi was out of danger when the planks came off!”
“Yossi?” I asked without thinking.
“My daughter’s fiancé: he is one of the gang. I should have known he could look after himself! But I sort of didn’t think, Mr. Eli,” Simha confided.
Just then a taxi stopped in front of us. The two soldiers got Simha out of his wheelchair and placed him securely on one of the back seats. Malka folded the wheelchair and the driver put it in the boot. My eyes followed them until the taxi turned round the corner.