"Mrs. Levinsky’s Old Fiat" - short story

I can’t remember when I last saw Mrs. Levinsky. She lives across the hall from me and I pass by her door every morning on my way to work, and again when I return home in the evenings, but I never see her. Not even on weekends.

I have occasionally wondered whether Mrs. Levinsky still lives in that apartment. Maybe she passed away in her sleep. After all, she is quite elderly. Perhaps she suffered a fatal fall? No, she is definitely alive. When I walk in the hall, I hear the sound of a chair scraping across the floor. A kettle coming to a boil. A radio news broadcast. She’s alive, and she’s inside. But her door never opens.

I distinctly remember seeing her the day I moved into my third-floor apartment on Matta Street. That was four years ago. I had just moved to Tel Aviv from the kibbutz where I grew up. Finding available apartments in Tel Aviv is nearly impossible, but I got lucky. My good friend Shira was moving to a new place and I took over her rental contract.

“Who are you?”

I stopped for breath after struggling up the steep stairs, dragging two heavy suitcases filled with all the clothes I owned. I smiled at the frail, slightly stooped, gray-haired woman with large round glasses. Mrs. Levinsky. She took a step back and clutched her apartment door.

“Rami Harel. I’m moving into Shira’s place.”

“Shira? Who is that?”

“Shira used to live here. She’s getting married.”

“Who are you?” my neighbor asked again, as if I hadn’t previously introduced myself.

I nodded at her and went into my new home.

Read the rest of the story on Verdad Magazine.

Photo by Ramiro Mendes on Unsplash