As he walked his mood improved. He would meet Isaac later and put all this nonsense to rest. With a sense of guilt he recalled the thoughts about taking a weapon to the meeting, about suspecting his old friend of being a murderer: confused maybe, but not a killer. Confusion was something he could relate to.
Confused. Wasn’t that what they would be calling him soon?
Stop it.
The shutters came down again. He was not about to spoil the mood by dwelling on things negative. That was not his way.
What is your way? Burial?
With real effort this time he forced his mind to obey. He turned right into Mommsenstrasse, which would take him to the corner of his street. Men were erecting scaffolding around a pre-war building and Saul was assaulted with the clang of metal upon metal. He crossed the street and looked up at the men enclosing the apartment block in a cage. Many of these buildings had survived the bombings and as he walked he took the time to look up and appreciate the architecture of the last century. He must have walked this street a thousand times and never seen the grandeur of the elaborate cornices and deep balconies. He got lost in a swirl and had trouble finding his way out. The next building was adorned with cherubs and he noticed one of them had an eye that had become chipped into an evil gape. As he stared he had the distinct feeling that he knew the child the statue was based upon. There was a sadness that came from being witness to the events of the last decades and not being able to do anything about them. The cherub was another helpless spectator and had tried to pluck its eyes out. Saul was now rooted to the spot, engrossed and the deeper he looked the more he felt he could join with the cherub molecule by molecule. But this was not a fair exchange. The cherub was taking him over and now a sort of comfortable panic set in. Sure, he could stay here but that was not the answer. The answer was somewhere else. There was something he had to do. But what? Ever so slowly, Saul started to pull back from the merger until: How long had he been standing on the pavement like this? What had he been looking at? The ugly post-war building next to the ornate pre-war one? These were erected in a hurry and looked to Saul like concrete boxes. About the only things they did to make them look “nice” was to paint them garish colours. He stood a few moments more trying to find a conclusion to the puzzle of the last few moments. Nothing came to mind and he continued his walk home. Right! Home is where he was going. The pre-war buildings told of opulence and an attention to detail unheard of in modern times. When his family moved to Charlottenburg it had been one of the richest parts of Europe. Saul cast his eyes down the road and could see where the bombs had fallen and where not just by the colour of the building.
Turning into his street he remembered how this had also been the Jewish centre of Berlin. There was a time when he knew all the important families in the area. He had played with their children in these streets, run errands for the grown ups, learned the piano, had his first crush and became a man here. Given the state of things his Bar Mitzvah had been a quiet, almost secret affair. Still, he was impressed by the turnout and what a good day it had turned into. Everyone laughing and having fun like they used to; if there was a tinge of forced gaiety he never felt it, but then he had other things on his mind that day: reciting a passage from the Torah in Hebrew, in front of them all. Soon after that he never saw any of them again.
His mother had made Sabich for the occasion and he must have eaten five of them. Even now he could recall their velvety texture as they slipped down his throat. How they mixed perfectly with the saliva in his mouth making a bite he wished he could bottle. He remembered those sandwiches his whole life but could never recreate them.
The smell of good strong coffee filled his nostrils as he opened the front door. He hung up his jacket, dropped his keys on a small table next to the coat stand and then he and his rolls followed the sounds of conversation to the kitchen. Here he was met by the sight of three adults and child squeezed into the tiny room enjoying breakfast. For too long it had been only Hannah and him and most of the time they ate breakfast at the bakery anyway. This was home.
‘Opa!’ shouted Aisha.
‘Good morning everyone,’ said Saul. ‘I brought rolls. Still warm.’
He added the bag of rolls to the table and slotted himself in a space between Aisha and Aaron.
‘Shouldn’t you be at work?’ asked Aaron.
‘I’m the boss. I can do what I like,’ Saul answered jubilantly. He regarded a packet of Cornflakes on the table. ‘Who’s eating those?’
‘She is,’ said Aaron, grinning and pointing a finger at Aisha.
Saul faked shock and anger:
‘You want Cornflakes! You know what your poor Opa does for a living?’ As an afterthought he added: ‘What do you want to be when you grow up?’
‘A wizard!’ replied Aisha without hesitation.
Everyone laughed but Aisha was not sure why this should be funny.
‘Papa, can we swap? If we drop Aisha at kindergarten can you pick her up?’
‘No problem,’ said Saul. He then turned to Aisha. ‘We can go for ice cream after.’
She nodded enthusiastically, milk dripping down her chin. Saul broke off a chunk of roll and popped it into his mouth, satisfied with the way the bread held firm for a moment and then melted in his mouth. Good work.
‘What do you two have planned for the day?’ asked Hannah.
‘A bit of sightseeing and I wanted to have a picnic in Tiergarten, but that has been vetoed by high command.’ Aaron said sarcastically.
‘There are some great galleries in Berlin. It would be a shame to pass up the opportunity,’ defended Mira in English this time.
#
Saul never went back to work. After everyone had left he spent the morning fretting about the meeting, regretting that he had ever caved in. He played with his new CD player: It sounded good, but he was not convinced of its superiority over his records. There seemed to be no soul in a compact disc.
He decided to get to the café early in order to procure a good table. Once again he admonished himself for allowing panic to take control. Midday was a bad time to meet. The café would be packed and they would have no privacy.
Putting on a summer jacket he checked his wallet; finding it on the light side, he went to his bedside table to replenish the cash. The drawer contained spare keys, handkerchiefs, his passport, some loose change but no notes: The money was gone. He searched more thoroughly. Still nothing. He always kept a few hundred Marks at home just in case and it was inconceivable that Hannah would take them without telling him.
Rage hit him like a ton of bricks. He slammed the drawer shut and the force knocked the lamp and the alarm clock onto the floor. CRUNCH went the bulb. He left them there while he fumed: Aaron.
How dare he! Steal from his own family.
He had been right all along. He would need to pay more attention to his inner voice: it had always served him well but this time he had overridden it. Blinded by love.
No more.
If the robot was back it was back for a reason and from now on he would let it in. He needed his edge back and this was just the lesson required to teach him never to let his guard down.
With his heart pounding in his ears he went to the cupboard where he knew Hannah kept her emergency cash. He found the tattered handbag and rummaged through it until he found a fifty Mark note and stuffed it into his pocket. He let the bag drop as it was and stormed out of the apartment swinging the door so hard that it bounced open before it had the chance to lock.
#
The walk to the café had calmed him somewhat and this was vital. Emotions would not help with Isaac. He had to be rational in order to clam, reassure and placate.
Arriving in good time he secured a table at the back and sat facing the large windows that bordered the entrance so he could see everyone that walked in, out and past. Reassured, he ordered a sparkling mineral water from the waitress and informed her he would wait for his friend to arrive b
efore ordering. She promptly placed another menu on the table and spun on her heels buzzing away, landing lightly at each occupied table for long enough to find out if she could be of service and then buzzing into the kitchen.
The café soon filled up and became a noisy smoke-filled affair as Berliners indulged in a lunch hour that was normally anything but. The place needed a fresh lick of paint, Saul noticed how the walls started white at floor level and became progressively dirty tan/orange by the time they reached the ceiling - which was almost brown.
Somehow, he did not notice the woman walking past the large windows; he only picked her up as she entered the café. No one, not even Saul seemed taken back that she was naked. He gripped the cool marble surface of his table.
She marched up to Saul her breasts bouncing, her eyes venomous. A full V shaped tangled mass of dark pubic hair separated the varicose veined legs. She arrived at his table and Saul stared into eyes of pure hatred.
‘You’re worse than them! How dare you look me in the eyes you scum!’
She spat in his face and Saul let the spittle trickle down rather than make an attempt to wipe himself. She put her hands on her hips and Saul could see her underarm hair pressed flat and straight. He could smell that burning stench that meant she had not washed for days.
From behind the counter a naked man ran up to join her. He was a bear of an Orthodox Jew.
‘What are you doing?’ The man shouted at the woman.
He sat down at the table opposite Saul.
‘You have to live, you have to tell the world.’
The young Saul looked between the two victims of his past. The man offered him a napkin and Saul used it to wipe his face.
The next time he looked up the naked dead were gone and the waitress stood where the woman had been.
Back.
‘Have you decided yet?’ she asked with a broad smile.
‘I’m still waiting,’ said Saul almost at a whisper.
The waitress refilled his glass from the bottle and was gone again.
Saul looked around the café. Nothing seemed out of place. But nothing ever was. The past reality merging seamlessly with the present. The only evidence Saul had that anything had happened was the disjointed sluggishness that came with the jaunt. Today, angst joined this feeling and he knew that terror was not far behind. Absently, Saul put his hands through his hair and was relieved to find it long and not the near skinhead he had worn back then. He was back proper now.
How long could he keep this up? How long before he travelled and never returned? Surely at some point his mind would simply refuse him the return ticket.
A little longer. Please.
He removed his wallet and searched through the old receipts and bits of junk until he found what he was looking for: A prescription from his doctor. He unfolded it.
This could help with cognition she had said. It was a notropic medication. A smart drug. So far he had resisted all medication and to be honest there was not a lot available, but perhaps now it was time to accept the inevitable: he would lose control. He had resisted in the way he always had; internally, burying and compartmentalising the truth until it no longer had to be admitted to.
If he began to rely on a drug he knew it would be the start of the end. He could never stop using it, as his mind would never accept its withdrawal: he would always need the crutch. Better just to go, he had thought. Time was time and his was nearly up.
Every man’s life is sufficient.
It wouldn’t really help anyway. There was no help for what he had. The drug would prolong and then it too would become redundant.
Time.
He never expected to get this far. Living with a death sentence actually came easy to him. He had experience. In the camp he was ready to die every day, at a moment’s notice but it never came and he could never make it come. Only one of his colleagues had made it come and even David had extenuating circumstances. Who wouldn’t have done the same in his case? But in truth most, if not all, had not. After all these years Saul could never conclude that chapter: had David been weak or strong? Had HE been weak or strong? One thing was sure: it was not so easy to let go. There was always hope. Sitting in the café waiting for Isaac it dawned on him that it was actually ego not hope that had kept them alive. They dressed it up with all kinds of reasons; all of them damn good too. They had a duty after all: a duty to the dead; a duty to history a duty to the world. Ego. The individual was unique, that he was different to the others. Survival at any cost. He tried now to accept his fate like a good Stoic. Given the universal time scale what did any of it matter?
‘Saul Cohen?’
Saul jumped at the sound of the voice. He looked up to see Steffan and Torsten staring down at him. He folded the prescription and tucked it back into his wallet, wondering how long they had been standing there. Both wore cheap suits, conflicting aftershaves and held the look of confident arrogance that comes from serving the people while accepting without hesitation that they were superior to the people. One had a moustache. He knew they were police and he knew immediately that Isaac must be dead.
‘Yes,’ said Saul.
The two men sat at the table without asking for permission. Steffan showed his identification badge confirming what Saul already knew. Torsten stroked his neat moustache.
‘My name is Steffan Müller and this is my colleague, Torsten Freitag. We’re with the KRIPO.’
Saul was silent, waiting for the inevitable.
‘I’m sorry to say that Isaac Blum was murdered yesterday.’
Steffan watched for a reaction. There was none. He knew or had already figured it out and that alone was disconcerting. Here was a man who gave him nothing. In the back of his mind his interest was piqued and he had the distinct notion that this might be fun. Saul had wrong footed him and that had not happened since he was a rookie. He was not about to make another mistake and talk first. So they sat in silence for moment: A battle of wills, which Saul lost.
‘How did you-‘
‘He had a diary,’ answered Steffan.
Another pause as Saul absorbed the fact.
‘How did he die?’
Torsten withdrew a photograph from an envelope and threw it on the table. Saul took a quick glance at the horror and moved his eyes back to the men opposite. He had seen enough in that second to know the pain Isaac had suffered. The robot could process the rest of the data in the background.
It was a cheap trick but Steffan had asked Torsten to do it if Saul had ticked certain criteria. It had failed: this man could not be provoked into a reaction. Intriguing.
‘You didn’t have to do that,’ said Saul directly.
Torsten put the photograph away. Steffan continued:
‘When was the last time you saw him?’
‘Friday.’
‘How was he?’
‘Upset.’
‘What did you talk about?’
Saul considered his next move. Being evasive now might make him a suspect; however, he was now certain of one thing and hence, he had a vested interest in knowing what the police knew. The truth then:
‘He said that Mark Ramek had been murdered.’
The robot registered the surprise in them both. The one calling himself Steffan was good; he recovered well, but the other one could just as well have shouted it out.
‘He was right? Why keep it a secret?’ Saul was indignant.
‘It was decided that it would be best to say the fire was an accident. But yes, he was murdered at home and there is evidence that the killer wanted to start the fire there. We think he was disturbed by the wife and the body was moved to the factory for burning.’ Steffan spoke freely, knowing that the cat would soon be out of the bag anyway. ‘The investigation was to be kept low key for obvious reasons. All that’s going to change now.’ He continued with the interview hoping that his frankness had earned him some credit. ‘How long had you known Isaac?’
; Saul examined Torsten.
‘Since before your-
Not now.
‘-He was born.’ Saul finished.
‘Did he have any enemies?’
‘You mean people that would pull his teeth out while he was still alive?’ The anger was coming to the boil.
‘Did you know Mark Ramek?’
‘Yes. We’re a small community,’ Saul almost added ‘now’ but decided against it.
‘I didn’t see you at the funeral.’ Steffan ventured.
‘I’m a Cohen. We don’t go to funerals.’
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘Well, you do now.’
‘Have you noticed anything suspicious or out of the ordinary?’
‘Why?’ Saul shrugged.
‘It would appear that someone has a grudge against Jewish businessmen. Obviously we are looking into the possibility of it being some neo-Nazi group, but we have to keep our options open.’
The waitress appeared pleased that the table would finally bear some tip-fruit. She stopped and her hair fell into her eyes. She wiped it back into place and just then Saul could imagine her as a little girl. The slant to her mouth. Had he seen her before? Did she come to the bakery?
‘So what can I get you Gentlemen?’
‘Nothing for us, we’re just leaving,’ said Steffan answering for them all. She looked disappointed and Steffan gave the waitress a stare and held it until she had left. He passed Saul a card. ‘Call me if you think of anything or see anything suspicious.’
Saul looked at the card.
‘By the way, was Isaac planning a trip to America?’
‘I don’t think so. Why?’
‘The words: ‘The White House’ were written next to your name in the diary.’ Steffan glimpsed something in Saul’s countenance then, so fast it barely registered and then it was gone.
‘I don’t know,’ lied Saul. ‘Didn’t Reagan speak that day?’
‘Yeah, he did,’ said Steffan standing. This was Torsten’s signal to stand too. ‘Take care.’
Saul watched the men leave. His mind reeling from the new information it had to process. He signalled the waitress that he was ready for the bill.
The White House Page 6
