by Pieter Aspe
“Herr von Metternich is completely right,” said Leitner. “I couldn’t have sketched the situation any better.”
Klagersfeld and Vögel nodded approvingly.
“With all due respect, Herr von Metternich, I think we’re overlooking one important element.” Witze took off his glasses and looked around at the out-of-focus assembly. “The success of the operation depends primarily on Vandekerckhove. Fiedle made all the arrangements with him, and no one knows the precise details of the final phase of the plan.”
“Promote him to head of department,” said Klagersfeld, “and he’ll be eating out of our hands.”
“Excellent idea, Manfred.”
Leitner scribbled a note.
“Are we agreed, then?”
Even Witze had nothing more to say. He had lost the battle. The death of Fiedle had solved nothing. Von Metternich had set his mind on Bruges, and it would be foolish to openly attempt to thwart the old man’s plans.
19
“GOOD MORNING, COMMISSIONER VAN IN.”
Mayor Moens scribbled his signature at the bottom of a routine letter.
Van In formulated a polite greeting and sat down in the chair at which the mayor had pointed.
“Good news?” asked the evidently relaxed mayor, rolling back his chair and crossing his legs.
“Let’s just call it ‘news,’ sir.”
Moens fiddled with the tip of his nose and encouraged Van In to continue.
“We received a file on Friday from State Security, but I’m afraid it’s not going to be very useful.”
Moens let go of his nose as if he had suddenly realized he was not alone in his office.
“Of all the groups considered a danger to the state, only one matches our profile. They call themselves the Mouvement Wallon Révolutionnaire, MWR for short. In the winter of 1976, a State Security ‘spy’ happened to overhear a conversation that took place in a club room at the back of a café in Liège. Four students were carping about wealthy Flanders, which was threatening to bulldoze impoverished Wallonia out of its economic existence. The discussion was occasioned by the sale of a luxury hotel in Spa to a buyer from Oostende. The new owner had sacked the Walloon staff on the spot and imported Flemish replacements, complaining that the Walloons didn’t speak enough Dutch and that they were too lazy to work.”
“The man may have had a point,” Moens grinned. He had his own little pied-à-terre in the Ardennes, and as a dyed-in-the-wool supporter of the Flemish Movement he was convinced that the Walloons could use a taste of their own medicine. They had exploited and terrorized Flemish laborers for more than a century.
“The situation bothered them,” Van In calmly continued. “They feared the effects of the forthcoming federalization and were convinced that an autonomous Flanders would tighten the purse strings and reduce the flow of money into Wallonia. After a couple of Westmalles, ironically enough one of Flanders’s best beers, they decided to wage war against what they called Flemish colonialism. They planned to imitate the Cellules Communistes Combattante, or Communist Combatant Cells, and organize a campaign of terror to draw attention to the situation. The State Security informant took note of the conversation and passed it on to his case officer.”
“And you don’t call that good news?” Moens scowled.
“The problem is that the MWR only managed to distribute a few pamphlets and organize a couple of meetings, which no one attended. They were suspected of a number of arson attacks on Flemish-owned property in the Liège region between 1976 and 1979, but the judicial police were never able to substantiate their claims.”
“Of course not,” Moens snorted. “In Wallonia they know how to keep the lid on things.”
Van In wasn’t of a mind to pay attention to the mayor’s remark. “Just to be sure, we checked out the current alibis of the founding members of the MWR,” he said wearily. “Claude Dufour is an engineer and works for a major construction company near Brussels. He’s currently on assignment in Kuwait. Jacques Hendrix teaches communication studies at the University of Louvain-la-Neuve. The man is suffering from AIDS and requires constant nursing.”
“Typical. Those communication studies people are all the same,” Moens interjected sarcastically.
Van In resisted reacting yet again. He had long known that politicians were rarely the people they pretended to be.
“Grégoire Bilay has a senior position at the Ministry of Health, and Alain Parmentier entered the Dominican order last year.”
“And the others?”
“There were only those four founders, sir. After 1979, nothing more was heard of the MWR. But for the sake of completeness, I should mention that Bostoen at State Security suspects that someone has revived the movement. In his opinion, the July 11 incident has something to do with the MWR revival. It may have been trivial, but it was enough of a spark to rekindle their fire. Inflammatory pamphlets have been spotted in a variety of places in Wallonia in the past months.”
Moens radiated like an applicant who had finally been given a job after his thirty-sixth psychological screening. July 11 was carved in his memory like hieroglyphics: as the Flemish community celebrated its national day, the king had visited Bruges and had been broadcast on all the TV stations singing the Flemish national anthem.
“Why so modest, Commissioner Van In?” said the mayor, shaking his head. “Surely this represents a breakthrough in the investigation.”
“I’m not convinced, sir,” said Van In, digging in his heels. “Terrorists always claim an attack.”
“Nonsense. Look at what happened in America and Japan, Commissioner.”
“That was the work of religious fanatics or fundamentalists.” He forgot to add “sir.” “If you ask me, these guys have different motives.”
Moens planted his elbows on his desk and treated Van In to a stony stare.
“It’s my job to ensure a subjective sense of security among the citizens,” he said. “National television is going to be breathing down my neck this afternoon, Commissioner. I’m obliged to tell them we’re making progress. Do you know how many people have already cancelled their Easter vacations?”
“No idea,” said Van In listlessly.
“Thirty percent. If we don’t succeed in reassuring the public, I fear for the worst.”
“The potential revival of the MWR won’t make much of a difference to the percentages,” said Van In sternly. “And don’t forget, the Walloons are also potential visitors.”
It was as if someone had opened all the windows in midwinter. The temperature in the mayor’s cozy office dropped forty degrees on the spot. The mayor may have been right, Van In thought. The man was begging for a breakthrough and was desperately trying to protect the city from an even bigger disaster.
Moens took a deep breath and was just about to read the insubordinate commissioner the riot act when Van In’s pager started to beep.
Saved by the bell, thought Van In, taking back everything he had ever said about the irritating gadget.
“Excuse me, sir. Do you mind if I make a call?”
Moens pointed at the phone on his desk, stood up, and made way for his subordinate. A flock of gulls fought over a dried-up slice of ham in the garden.
Van In rejoiced at the sound of Versavel’s voice.
“I’ll be there as fast as I can, Guido. No … no need to send a car. I’ll walk.”
Moens registered the click and turned.
“New developments,” said Van In, deadpan. “Our Dutch colleagues claim they have valuable information at their disposal.”
“So what are you waiting for, Commissioner?” said Moens grumpily.
They shook hands by way of formality, and Van In took to his heels. He passed Decorte in the corridor. The councillor for Tourism didn’t even deign to look at him.
“Perfect timing, Guido,” said Van In,
puffing and panting. He had covered the distance between city hall and the police station in less than ten minutes.
“Tjepkema said it was personal,” said Versavel, wondering what Van In had meant about timing. “He said he was sending a fax in ten minutes from then.”
Van In was gasping for a drink, but he left the bottle in his secret drawer undisturbed. To compensate, he lit a cigarette. After three puffs, the fax machine started to churn out paper. Tjepkema was punctual.
When Van In read the first lines, he understood why his Dutch colleague had called his office first and only then sent the fax. This was explosive stuff.
The handwriting was shaky, but its regular tiny letters and almost perfectly straight lines betrayed its author as an educated man.
Steiner stood in the doorway grinning while fifteen prisoners rolled the massive block inside over a carpet of birch trunks. I stood in front of the stone in amazement. As a sculptor, I had always dreamed of Carrera marble. But the SS had never asked for statues before. They were always after paintings, and I had reproduced them en masse together with Zalman Rosenthal and Oler, a French Jew. The three of us were mesmerized as we watched the emaciated detainees win the almost hopeless battle against the sturdy limestone, inch by inch. When they had delivered the marble block to the designated spot, Steiner screamed ’raus, Dreckjuden, as he always did.
The shadows disappeared like mist in a balmy summer breeze. Then the Unterscharführer approached me. I looked down and waited anxiously for what would happen next. I inhaled his breath through my nose. The German stank of rotten food and cheap tobacco.
“I have a job for you, Dreckjuden,” he bellowed. “The commandant wants you scum to carve a statue for him.” I stood stock-still. Oler and Zalman were standing behind me, and must have felt a whole lot safer.
“He wants a copy of this statue, Schwein,” he raved.
It was only when Steiner hit me with his lash that I realized he wanted me to look up. Blood poured over my right eye from the cut he had just put in my eyebrow. Steiner was holding a postcard, and I immediately recognized the statue. I realized in an instant that this job was a death sentence. No one could copy a Michelangelo on the basis of a photo.
“Do you understand, filthy Jew?” Steiner raved further.
“Ja, Herr Unterscharführer,” I whispered.
The SS officer forced the butt of his lash under my chin and pushed back my head. He looked me straight in the eye, and all I could do was outstare his wild gaze.
“The commandant wants the statue in three months,” he said with cynical satisfaction. He then roared with laughter, slapping his thighs like a little child.
We stood still until the drone of his marching boots ebbed away. Oler was the first to move. He approached the block of marble with respect and ran his bony fingers over its unhewn surface.
“If they don’t have the original, maybe we can dupe them,” he said optimistically.
Twenty-two months of Nazi terror had broken his spirit. The diminutive painter looked at me as if he knew the commission intrigued me.
“This is the opportunity of a lifetime, Meir. Have you any idea how much such a block of Carrera costs? Before the war, you would have gone crazy,” he said almost jeeringly.
Zalman rarely said anything, but this time he nodded enthusiastically.
“Rumors are doing the rounds that the Allies are nearing Brussels. Three months is quite a long time. Let’s see what we can do.”
Three days later, they arrived with the real statue. I couldn’t believe my eyes. The presence of the Michelangelo had a discouraging effect. I was lucky to have Zalman and Oler to keep my spirits up. They never let it show that we were working on an impossible commission. Zalman helped me with the sculpting, and Oler polished the marble when I had completed a segment. Steiner paid us daily visits and gave us dog’s abuse. We were happy that our monumental task was showing signs of progress.
“Schneller, schneller!” the SS man raved, but fortunately that was all he did.
After seven weeks working eighteen hours a day, the copy was starting to look more and more like the original Madonna. At least that’s what Zalman and Oler thought. We worked with passion, and I couldn’t deny that the statue was beginning to radiate a melancholic beauty. News that the Americans were getting close to the Rhine gave us courage.
Just as we were planning to slow down a little, all hell broke loose. Steiner barged in one morning, ranting like a man possessed. Oler took the brunt of his anger. It was a miracle that he survived the beating.
“Fucking Jews! The statue needs to be ready in two weeks. And what do you call this? A monstrosity! Don’t you love the blessed virgin?”
Steiner was foaming at the mouth. He had given us three months. This would barely be two. Perhaps the Allies had reached the Rhine!
“This is the mother of Christ, the God you hooknose bastards nailed to the cross!”
He turned on Zalman Rosenthal and kept hitting him until the fragile artist sank to the floor covered in blood.
When the SS man’s rage was spent, it was my turn. He bore down on me, snorting, his expression wild, his eyes distraught with fear. I prayed to HaShem. A real God doesn’t concern himself with earthly trivialities, I thought to myself. But that was something the German would never understand. God isn’t a magician, ready to solve trifling problems by pointing his finger. God is love. God shows us the way. I felt no bitterness when the Aryan laid into me mercilessly with his lash.
“Beginning tomorrow, I shoot five filthy Jews,” he snorted, “and the same every day until the statue is finished.”
Oler did what he could, but he was forced to throw in the towel. He was urinating blood, and he died just before we were transported to Auschwitz. Zalman and I were now working twenty hours a day. The executions continued unabated. The copy was ready on the night of 24/25 December. We had hurried to complete it before dawn and so spare five lives.
When Steiner arrived that morning, we proudly stood to attention.
“Dirty ass-lickers,” he jabbered. “You did that on purpose! Well, since it’s Christmas, you can say goodbye to twenty.”
“Fucking Kraut,” said Van In, shaking his head. “This is enough to make anyone boycott Volkswagen.”
“It explains the pokeweed,” said Versavel. “Fiedle had the statue copied and shipped to South America.”
Van In set the fax aside.
“Meir Frenkel,” he said under his breath. “Meir Frenkel. MF. ‘Mia Fiorentina’ or ‘Meir Frenkel.’”
“What was that, Commissioner?”
“Chaos, Guido, chaos.”
“You were trying to tell me something about that yesterday.”
“You read the book too, didn’t you?”
“If you hadn’t kept interrupting me, I might have managed to read it, yes,” the sergeant crustily observed.
Van In lit a fresh cigarette and clasped his hands behind his neck. “Do you want the expert version, or should I wait until you’ve finished the book?”
“I already got the gist of it,” Versavel responded defiantly.
“Okay, tell me.”
The sergeant nervously rubbed his moustache. He wasn’t a fan of this sort of intellectual verbal diarrhea.
“If you ask me, chaos theory has its roots in popular wisdom,” he said self-consciously. “Small leaks sink big ships. It’s all about situations that start simple and then become so incredibly complicated that the results are no longer predictable.”
“Bravo, Guido. How many pages did you read?”
“Thirty,” said Versavel.
“Then let me summarize the remaining 250. Chaos works with fractals, making it relatively easy to measure complicated forms such as the volume of a cloud or the craggy surface of a Norwegian fjord. The weather is a typical example. According to classical models, forecas
ters try to chart systems of cyclones and depressions on the basis of countless measurements and thousands of different parameters. The results are rarely satisfactory. The weather isn’t ready to submit to a handful of mathematical formulas. Chaotica offers an alternative. According to the author, a Peruvian farting in the Andes can disrupt the weather system to such a degree that—in defiance of classical calculations—a tropical storm develops off the coast of Bangladesh.”
“Jeez,” Versavel laughed. “That’s a fart I’d like to hear.”
“There’s no such thing as a stable system,” Van In continued, unperturbed. “Minute discrepancies find their way into every process, and classical mathematics can’t account for them. Such anomalies can only be dealt with by chaotica. And don’t forget that the same minute defects manifest themselves in all sorts of different domains. Let me give you an example.”
“Finally,” Versavel sighed. “I don’t understand any of this.”
“Me neither, but I’m doing my best.”
Versavel grinned. He hadn’t heard the commissioner preach this kind of pseudo-intellectual twaddle for years.
“Scientists discovered by accident that running faucets will start to whistle if there’s turbulence in the pipes. The tone increases an octave if the water pressure is increased by 21.7 percent. A trivial phenomenon in itself, perhaps, but it gets interesting when other scholars come to the conclusion that you need to increase the oscillations in an electrical circuit by 21.7 percent if you want to double the frequency.”
Versavel yawned in Van In’s face. He was beginning to suspect the DTs.
“Which is proof that chaotica functions in different domains,” said Van In, proud as a peacock. “So why don’t we use it to solve crime?”
