He paid for the drinks and left. On his way to the bus stop he bought an evening paper. He noted with interest that the Balat murder had graduated to front-page news. The article even mentioned the strange policeman who had interviewed him, Ikmen, a very high roller by the tone of the article. Robert laughed inwardly at this piece of hype and continued on his way. It was only when he reached the bus stop and read the article properly that an element of unease resurfaced in his mind. Until the murderer was caught it would be difficult to get away from the subject of Balat and the events of the previous afternoon. It made him feel like there was a loose end somewhere in his life, dragging behind him, waiting to be tied.
Chapter 4
The following morning dawned bright, clear and, as far as Ikmen was concerned, much more promising than its predecessor. As he left his apartment for Balat he actually had a smile on his face, although this had all but disappeared by the time he had negotiated the rush-hour traffic. And when he discovered that it was impossible to park anywhere within three blocks of his destination, his customary gloom returned with a vengeance. He met Suleyman, who had already been into the station to pick up messages, on the corner of the Rabbi’s street.
“Ready to meet the Supreme Ruler of the Universe’s representative on earth, are you then, Suleyman?”
The younger man dealt, on this occasion, with Ikmen’s irreligious flippancy by ignoring it. There were, besides, much more important moves afoot. “Forensic found over ten million lira in Meyer’s apartment you know, sir.”
Ikmen frowned. “Ten million lira? When? How?”
“Stuffed underneath the mattress of his bed, according to Demir.” He looked at his watch and indicated that perhaps they should start moving toward the Rabbi’s house. As he walked, Ikmen took a cigarette out of his pocket and lit up. “I wonder where somebody like Meyer got hold of money like that? Money, and by that I mean their own money, is not something alcoholics usually have any of.”
“Well, I have no answers for you on that one, sir. All Demir said was that he had found a lot of money which, on the face of it, seems to have belonged to Meyer.” Ikmen drew hard on his cigarette and sighed. “So. The mystery deepens, eh, Suleyman?”
“It would appear to be moving in that direction, sir.”
* * *
Rabbi Yitzak Şimon was only first generation Balat. It was unusual for one of the local clerics to be foreign but then his appointment only reflected the rather more recent, albeit small, influx of Ashkenazi Jews into the area since the beginning of the century. Apart from and yet embedded within the, to him, more dark and mysterious Sephardi majority, Şimon had grown up among these shy, insular people with their strange language and oriental customs. His very “otherness” had actually assisted his understanding of them. Lonely and unpopular as a child, he had watched, listened, observed the ebb and flow, identified tensions. It was all very objective. They weren’t his people, he could watch through eyes unclouded by dynastic rivalry or ancient territorial right.
Until he came into contact with other children who originated from Europe in the 1950s, Şimon had simply been known as “that Polish boy.” The words themselves hadn’t hurt but the lack of playmates had frequently depressed him. It had all seemed so unfair. He had, after all, been born in the district.
But the bitterness he had felt as a child had receded. Once he had elevated himself to the exalted position of rabbi to his small flock of foreigners they had developed a sneaking respect for him—as he had for them. Maddening and unintelligible as they could be, Şimon had to admit that any community that could achieve and maintain a civilized relationship with the host nation for five hundred years was only to be admired. The Turks, though grudgingly at times, respected them too.
He had always hoped that that situation would remain unchanged. The recent death of Leonid Meyer had, however, shaken him. It had shaken the whole district. Nothing was said but there were signs that people were afraid. Suddenly, the streets were empty after dark and the locksmith had more work than his one small shop could cope with. The only consolation was that the police had managed to play down the racist element. Consequently the press hadn’t, as yet, really gone for that angle. The last thing Balat needed were gangs of morbid sightseers and unhinged fascist sympathizers. The only visitors the district had attracted so far were the police themselves and a mercifully low-key appearance from the Israeli Consul.
He looked at his watch. The police were due at his door at any minute. He cleared a pile of books and papers from one of the chairs in front of his desk and put them on the floor. His office was hideously untidy, but as long as his guests had somewhere comfortable to sit the interview would not be too unpleasant. The silver samovar over in the corner bubbled gently. He could offer them tea as well. However distressing the subject under discussion, provided you had a glass of tea in your hands there was a feeling, Şimon felt, that civilization was not too irredeemably distant.
He heard a knock on his door followed by the sound of someone clearing their throat. Şimon walked down the hallway and pulled back the long iron bolt that secured the entrance to his home.
Two men stood on his doorstep: one short, swarthy, about his own age; the other younger, tall and very smart.
The older man spoke. “Rabbi Şimon?” It was the same deep, dry voice that had spoken to him over the telephone the previous day.
“You must be Inspector Ikmen.” He smiled.
“Yes.” Ikmen tilted his head in the direction of the younger man. “This is Sergeant Suleyman.”
Şimon acknowledged Suleyman’s presence with a slight bow of the head and then ushered the two men into his office.
“Please sit down, gentlemen,” he said and moved across the room toward the samovar. “Would you like some tea?”
As he sat, Ikmen caught sight of the ornate silver samovar in the corner. It brought a smile to his face. Old charcoal-burning ones, like the Rabbi’s, had become rare in post-teabag Istanbul. “What a wonderful old samovar!”
The Rabbi turned to look at him. “This?”
“Yes,” said Ikmen. “Takes me right back to my childhood. Our whole house revolved around one of those things. My mother was always fiddling with it, topping it up with water, putting on fresh charcoal. The hub of old Turkish life.” He stood up and went to have a closer look at it. The samovar hissed very slightly and the Rabbi turned to the policeman and chuckled.
“Remember that sound, Inspector?”
“I do. It’s a good sound.”
They smiled at each other, enjoying the moment of a shared childhood memory. Sometimes it was difficult for Ikmen to remember that he had once been young. Twenty-five years of heavy responsibility had taken their toll. And yet it had not seemed like a long time. He even wondered sometimes how he had got to be so old so quickly.
He resumed his seat and the Rabbi filled three small tulip glasses with steaming golden liquid. Whenever he used the samovar, Şimon remembered his mother too. The way she always pushed her sleeves back just before she poured from the teapot. It was the only time she ever exposed the number tattooed on her wrist, 17564. She was dead, but that number still lived, cut into his memory like diamond on glass. It was such a big number.
Şimon gave his guests their tea and sat down behind his desk.
He sighed. “So, gentlemen, Leonid Meyer. How can I help?”
“Background mainly, sir,” said Ikmen. “We know very little about the gentleman. Nobody has, as yet, come forward to claim him as their own. Anything you can tell us really.”
The Rabbi took a sip from his glass and then put it down on the desk. “Well, as you already know, Leonid was Russian. He came here in 1918, just after the Revolution. Like my own parents he found integrating into the community quite difficult. He never really got to grips with Ladino, never, to my knowledge, married, and tended, inasmuch as he communicated with anyone, to restrict his friendships to within other émigré circles. I speak Russian myself and, as the only
Ashkenazi rabbi in the district, it was inevitable that I should attend to Leonid’s spiritual needs.”
“Was he a religious man?”
Şimon smiled. “No, Inspector. To be truthful I was more Leonid’s psychiatrist than his rabbi. He was old, he drank heavily, he just sometimes wanted someone to talk to. It was my linguistic skills he was after, not my faith.”
“I see.”
“Leonid Meyer was not a happy man. For some peculiar reason he wanted to go back to Russia. He never settled here. I didn’t manage to discover whether he still had relatives in the Soviet Union, in fact I never did and still don’t know whether he had any here either. However, there appeared to be some sort of unfinished business, but quite honestly, Inspector, he was always so drunk, I often found it hard to understand what he was saying.”
Suleyman took a notebook and pencil out of his pocket and started writing. “Can you think of anyone who particularly disliked the gentleman, sir?” he asked the Rabbi.
Şimon thought silently for a few seconds. “No. Not really. Every so often one or other of his neighbors would complain about him to the landlord. When he was drunk he tended to shout a lot. He would throw things around, curse, sob even.”
Ikmen took his cigarettes and lighter out and put them on the Rabbi’s desk. “Do you mind if I smoke, sir?”
“No, not at all.”
“Do you have any idea what all this raving and sobbing was about?” asked Suleyman. The Rabbi slid a dirty glass ashtray across at Ikmen. “Well, I do and don’t.” He paused. “As far as I can tell it all stemmed from sometime before he ever came to Balat.”
Ikmen offered a cigarette to the Rabbi. “You mean when he was still living in Russia?”
The Rabbi took the cigarette and lit up. “I believe so, yes. There was some sort of violence involved. Strangely, when one considers that Leonid came from the background that he did, which was both impoverished and Jewish, it was not violence enacted against him, but rather violent acts perpetrated by him.”
“Oh?”
“Some people were killed. Or rather Leonid and others, I don’t know who, killed some people. Given the violence inherent in those troubled times I suppose it is all quite feasible. But quite who Leonid’s victims were, and why, when and how it all occurred, I really do not know.”
Ikmen, his brow furrowed, sighed shallowly. “I don’t suppose he ever said whether or not these events were connected to the wider disturbances in Russia at that time?”
“You mean the Revolution?” The Rabbi smiled. “No, Inspector, he did not. I suppose they may have been but then, given the fact that Leonid was a poor Jew, they might equally have been connected simply with his routine, for want of a better word, struggle to survive.”
Suleyman looked up from his notebook. “Are you aware of anyone else who might know about Mr. Meyer’s past, sir?”
“Only, possibly, Sara Blatsky. She’s an elderly Russian lady who had an—albeit sometimes uneasy—friendship with Leonid. It might be worth your while talking to her. I’m sure she’d be most cooperative.”
“Yes, sir,” Ikmen replied, “we plan to see Mrs. Blatsky as well as a Maria Gulcu over in Beyoğlu and a company called Şeker Textiles. All these names and addresses, as well as your own, were found in a notebook belonging to the deceased.”
“I see.”
“I don’t suppose you know of either Maria Gulcu or Şeker Textiles?”
The Rabbi stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray and leaned back in his chair. “Maria Gulcu, I don’t know. I don’t remember Leonid talking about such a person although that, of course, doesn’t mean that he didn’t. Şeker Textiles, however, I do know about.”
“Oh?”
Suleyman, pen at the ready, prepared to take down any relevant details.
“Şeker Textiles,” said the Rabbi, “was the company that employed Leonid from the time he first came to this country until, I believe, sometime in the 1940s.”
“I don’t suppose you know what his job was, Rabbi?”
Şimon frowned in an attempt to remember, but only momentarily. “He was a cotton packer. You know, baling up fabric, putting it into sacks and boxes. Not the sort of thing I could see Leonid doing from my own experience of him. His hands were very bad, you know, sort of clawed. Perhaps arthritis. I don’t really know—I never asked. But anyway, apparently he liked the job but fell out with the owner of the company over something or other. I expect it was his drinking. Although considering who the owner was, or rather is, it could have been because of something else.”
Ikmen eyed the Rabbi quizzically. “Meaning?”
“Şeker Textiles is owned by a man called Reinhold Smits. As you can probably tell from his name he had a German father. One of those who came to this country during the 1914–18 war, I believe. Anyway, legend has it, and I must stress here that this is only anecdotal, that Reinhold Smits was rather vocal with regard to his support for the Nazi regime in the 1940s.”
Ikmen looked across at Suleyman who was writing everything down in minute detail. “Was he indeed?”
“So it is said.” Rabbi Şimon reached inside his desk and took out a packet of cigarettes. “And if that is true it could explain why Leonid was asked to leave at that time. There could be no place for a Jew in a company headed by a person with such views.” He opened up the packet of cigarettes and shook one out toward Ikmen. “Cigarette?”
“Thank you.” Before he lit up, Ikmen tapped the little tube of tobacco gently upon the top of the desk. “You say that Şeker Textiles is still owned by Smits?”
“As far as I know. Although I really don’t think that Leonid had any contact there since he left—he never spoke of it.”
“And yet,” said Ikmen, “he still had the company’s address in his book over fifty years later.”
The Rabbi shrugged. “I have no idea why that might be, I’m afraid. His involvement with them finished, as far as I am aware, back in the 1940s.” He smiled a little rather embarrassed and flustered smile. “What I mean, I suppose, is that I don’t think it very likely that Mr. Smits had anything to do with Leonid’s death. I think that is most unlikely.”
With a flick of the wrist, Ikmen threw his cigarette up into his mouth and lit up. “Yes. I see what you’re saying, Rabbi. Mmm.”
A moment of tension followed which Suleyman did not understand but which he felt compelled to curtail.
“So,” he said, “do you know what Meyer might have done after he left Şeker Textiles, sir?”
“My understanding,” the Rabbi replied, “is that Leonid never actually worked again.”
Ikmen and Suleyman exchanged a troubled look which Rabbi Şimon both saw and acknowledged.
“That Leonid had no observable financial problems,” he continued, “was always a mystery to me. I suppose he could always have had some sort of pension or annuity, but I never heard him speak of such things.”
“He wasn’t, as far as you know, Rabbi, behind with his rent?” Ikmen asked.
“No. In fact quite the reverse. Mr. Dilaver, his landlord, was put in rather a ‘position’ because of it. Leonid was often upset as well as being almost permanently intoxicated and his sometimes ceaseless crying and shouting gave many of his fellow tenants real cause for complaint. He was also in the habit of filling his little apartment with the most awful derelicts including, I have to say, the unfortunate Leah Delmonte. But as long as he was paying the rent on time, Mr. Dilaver didn’t really have any cause to evict him.” He smiled. “Besides, around here those who pay their rent at all are few and far between and from the monetary point of view the landlord could not have wished for a better tenant.”
“The crying and shouting being almost always connected to his violent past?”
The Rabbi sighed. “Yes. It seemed to haunt him and sometimes when he was very drunk, I think he might have fancied himself back there, if you know what I mean.”
“Yes.”
Addressing both policemen, the Rabbi continu
ed, “Whatever one’s stance may be with regard to divine retribution, I really do not believe that anyone can feel ultimately happy about taking the life of another. Had Leonid felt all right about it he would have stayed in Russia, wouldn’t he? I mean, just after the Revolution things got better than they had ever been for Jews there—for a little while.”
“Yes.” Ikmen glanced quickly at Suleyman and then turned back to the Rabbi once again. “Is there anything else you can tell us, sir?”
“No, not really. Leonid, with the exception of that one event, didn’t tend to talk about himself much. It was all mainly trivia: grumbling about the price of things, his neighbors’ noisy children, his aches and pains, things like that. As I’ve said, he never spoke about his money, so I’m afraid that I can’t tell you where he got it from.” He looked down at his desk and lowered his voice. “The people are very frightened, you know, Inspector.”
“I can imagine.”
“At the risk of causing offense, I don’t think that you can.” He put his hand up to his face and scratched his beard. “Most of the people around here have never experienced real anti-Semitism. It is a credit to your people that they haven’t, but…”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Both my parents were in Dachau. How they survived I cannot imagine. But through them and their experiences and the experiences of my own sad little flock of Ashkenazim here, I do have an awareness of what anti-Semitism can be like if it is allowed to run out of control. Most of the poor little Sephardis here are frightened but unaware. I look at what is happening, rearing up in other parts of Europe, and I don’t honestly know what to do for the best. Part of the reason why the Germans could do to us what they did was because we were too trusting, we were not prepared.” He looked Ikmen straight in the eye. “To your knowledge, Inspector, is this a growing problem here? Please be frank.”
Belshazzar's Daughter: A Novel of Istanbul (Inspector Ikmen series Book 1) Page 7
