Goldstein, page 11
Back then Abraham Goldstein didn’t know much about life, but he did know one thing: that he never wanted to be like his father.
He wanted to be an American, not a Yid who bemoaned his fate every day and railed at Yahweh; who knew nothing, and didn’t want to know anything but his Mishnah and Gemara; who couldn’t speak English properly and was afraid of Americans, as though every Goy was a Russian cossack, even in the middle of Williamsburg. No, Abraham Goldstein, whom everyone in the neighbourhood called Abe – another grievance of his father’s – had decided not to be afraid of the Goyim, of the Jewish people or of God.
He had already been hanging around with Fat Moe’s boys before he left his father and their claustrophobic little flat. In time, Moe’s boys would become the family he never had, American through and through. Every one of them was Jewish, but they were American Jews, the sort who didn’t bemoan their fate, but bent it to their will when it took an expected turn.
Even if he and his father walked the same streets, in the same Williamsburg, under the same grey American skies, they inhabited different worlds. So different, in fact, that they never saw one another anymore, even though Nathan Goldstein walked over Williamsburg Bridge every day on his way to work at Greenberg’s clothes factory on the Lower East Side, every day there and back, too tight or too poor for the journey on the Jamaica Line. Abe wouldn’t see him again until the day his mortal remains were installed in their last resting place at Linden Hill Cemetery. Abe was so drunk he could scarcely remember it, only that his father’s bearded caftan-wearing friends were already saying Kaddish when the drunken, beardless son of the deceased descended upon the ceremony. Since Abraham Goldstein was no longer capable of praying alongside them, indeed, could scarcely stand on his own two feet, the men in black had bundled him into a taxi and sent him away.
That was the last time he’d had anything to do with the black hats, but here he was among them again, in Berlin of all places.
The man whose stairs he descended didn’t look like a Jew. At least, he wasn’t wearing a black hat. He was a craftsman in grey overalls, a scrawny man with a receding hairline and a braid of thick locks around his bald skull. When Goldstein entered the shop, which was more of a studio, the man ceased filing an unidentified tool and peered over his wire-rimmed spectacles. He didn’t say anything, no ‘What can I do for you?’, no ‘Good morning’; he just looked up, before going back to his filing.
Richard Eisenschmidt, Werkzeuge, a discreet wooden sign over the entrance said, and Goldstein suspected that the taciturn man was the owner. If so, he was appropriately named. Goldstein continued into the dark room, observing the items on the shelves around him. He saw greasy metal parts as well as various drills and cutter heads, but had no idea about most of the tools. Eisenschmidt watched him the whole time over his file and workpiece. Only when the long shadow of his customer fell upon the lathe did he finally look up. Goldstein gazed into fearless eyes.
‘You come highly recommended,’ he said.
20
The operation commander sat across from him. Just like yesterday, Police Lieutenant Sebastian Tornow’s uniform was immaculate, and, just like yesterday, they were in Interview Room B drinking coffee Lange had had brought up specially. Everything else was different. The uniformed officer made no secret of his impatience, bobbing up and down on his chair and constantly looking at his watch. Even the stenographer, whose pencil stood at the ready, was infected with his restlessness.
Lange knew he wouldn’t be making any friends by re-commencing interrogations instead of passing the file onto the public prosecutor, but Gennat had given him this assignment and he wanted to treat it as he would any other. He went through the notes he had made after his conversation with the superintendent that morning.
‘It’s a serious accusation you’re making,’ Buddha had said. ‘Sergeant Major Kuschke has discharged his duties with the Prussian Police for a number of years. It is imperative that you rule out all other possibilities before accusing him of anything. You have my full support, but proceed with care.’
Lange snapped the file shut and lit a Muratti. Sometimes they helped with his nerves.
‘You didn’t smoke yesterday, Detective,’ said Tornow. ‘Can you refrain from it today? I can’t stand the fumes.’
‘Assistant detective,’ Lange corrected, going red. ‘If you insist,’ he said and stubbed the cigarette out, without taking another drag. The stenographer, evidently a non-smoker too, looked gratefully at the uniformed officer.
‘What are we waiting for?’ Tornow asked.
‘For the officer present at the time of death. I did request that you inform the man his presence is . . .’
‘You won’t be able to speak to Sergeant Major Kuschke until tomorrow. He’s taking part in an operation.’
‘And why are you telling me this now?’
‘Because you didn’t ask before.’
Lange cleared his throat. Although only a few years older, the man was several ranks higher than him.
‘Where, if I might ask?’
‘On the streets. Where people like me risk our necks every day so that you paper-pushers from CID can sit around on your fat arses.’
The stenographer blushed and gave an embarrassed little cough. Christel Temme, who normally sat in on Lange’s interrogations, would have noted that last sentence stoically, without batting an eyelash, but her temporary replacement, Hilda Steffens, was obviously too busy listening. Only now did she appear to be considering whether she should commit the shorthand for arses to paper.
Tornow seemed to be enjoying himself. Flash fucking Harry, Lange thought! You don’t look as if you’d risk your neck for anyone. ‘You can spare yourself the rude remarks, Lieutenant,’ he said, realising that his tone was sharper than intended. ‘A police officer ought to remain objective.’
His words had the desired effect. Tornow yielded. ‘Please excuse my ill temper,’ he said, ‘but you’ll understand if I have more pressing things to do than appear before you every day. I thought you had asked all your questions yesterday. So, let’s keep this as brief as possible.’
‘That will depend entirely on you.’
‘And on you – if you don’t ask any questions, I can’t give any answers.’
Lange ignored this fresh dig, and cast Steffens a glance as if to say: now you can start.
‘The operation in KaDeWe,’ he said, and listened as the pencil scratched across the page. ‘There are a few . . . discrepancies.’ Tornow said nothing, waiting for a definite question. ‘Which officers,’ Lange continued, ‘were on the fourth floor at the time of the fatal incident?’
‘You asked me that yesterday.’
‘It’s an extremely important question. Now, please answer.’
‘As I said yesterday, I positioned two officers on each floor after the intruders sought refuge in the lift. Sergeants Kuschke and Hansen were on the fourth floor.’
‘Where, exactly?’
‘Hansen was monitoring the lifts and stairwell. Kuschke was combing the floor. In the process he discovered one of the intruders outside on the railings. The boy made a foolhardy attempt to escape down the front and plunged to his death. End of story.’
‘You haven’t answered my question. Where exactly was Kuschke when the boy fell?’
‘You’ll have to ask him yourself.’
‘I will, but you were in charge of the operation and wrote the report, so I’d like to hear your assessment.’
‘Kuschke was outside on the balcony when the boy fell. You know that already. He tried to help him, but . . . Well, he arrived too late.’
‘How would you describe Sergeant Major Kuschke? The officer and the man?’
‘For me, those categories are inseparable,’ Tornow said. ‘Sergeant Kuschke is an experienced officer. A man who keeps his nerve, even when things get dicey.’
‘You’d say he had strong nerves?’
‘What do you think? Kuschke has courage. Balls, if you like.’
Hilda Steffens stifled a giggle.
‘Not the sort of man who disappears when the going gets tough?’
‘No.’
‘And the other possibility?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘In the face of danger, there are two possible reactions: fight or flight.’
‘I don’t know what you’re getting at.’
‘Does Sergeant Major Kuschke have a tendency to lose his temper and – how shall I put it? – act in an unnecessarily violent way?’
‘Not in the least. Kuschke is one of the most level-headed members of my team.’
Lange opened a file. ‘Then you don’t know anything about . . .’ he began reading from it. ‘Ah, I see that was long before your time.’
‘What was?’
‘Doesn’t matter. Back to our current case.’ Lange snapped the file shut. ‘Did anyone witness the boy’s fall aside from the sergeant major?’
If Tornow was unsettled by Lange’s manoeuvre, he showed no sign of it. ‘I’ve mentioned that already, too,’ he said. ‘No one else from my team witnessed the fall. The same goes for the pedestrians we interviewed on Passauer Strasse.’
‘And the other intruder?’
‘Pardon me?’
‘Several officers have stated that the other boy was crouched by the corpse of his friend before taking flight. Perhaps he saw something.’
‘Perhaps, but you’ll have to catch him first.’
Lange nodded. ‘The balcony again. You said Kuschke climbed over the railings to help the boy. Did the boy refuse?’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Could the boy have tried to fend off the sergeant major? Might he even have punched him?’
Tornow was silent for a moment, a good sign. ‘Not that I’m aware of,’ he said. ‘But you’ll have to ask him yourself. I’m not sure how it’d be possible to hit someone when you’re hanging from the edge of a precipice. What made you think of it?’
Lange pretended to make a note in the file. In fact he was doodling underneath one of yesterday’s statements, but the scratch of his pencil achieved its effect. Suddenly the police lieutenant didn’t seem quite so sure of himself.
It was only natural for a superior officer to back his men when something went wrong – and there was no doubt something had happened up there that didn’t tally with the officers’ statements, perhaps even a murder. Did Tornow know, or at least suspect? Was he trying to cover for one of his men, the indispensable Sergeant Major Kuschke? The main thing was Lange had unsettled the man, and that, for the moment, was enough.
He put his pencil to one side and stood up. ‘So, that’s it,’ he said.
‘That’s it? That’s the reason you summoned me here?’
‘You requested that I keep it brief.’ Lange stretched out a hand. ‘If you would please tell Sergeant Major Kuschke to come and see me at eleven o’clock tomorrow.’
Tornow looked him in the eye, as if he could read the assistant detective’s thoughts, and nodded. ‘Of course. Tomorrow at eleven.’
No sooner was the man outside than Lange relit the stubbed-out Muratti.
‘Should I type up the statement now?’ the stenographer asked as she stood up.
‘Not necessary, Fräulein Steffens. As you’ll have no doubt heard, we already have the statements on file. Throw your notes away and finish there for the day. It’s such lovely weather outside.’
Hilda Steffens looked at the assistant detective as if he wasn’t quite right in the head before packing her things and leaving the room. Lange drew deeply on his cigarette and leaned back. Perhaps he was imagining things, or simply reading too much into the operation commander’s behaviour, but he was certain that Lieutenant Tornow suspected something untoward had happened on his watch. Tornow was on the verge of starting a career in CID, and it would be most unfortunate if a black mark appearing so soon against his name were to compromise his future. Lange just had to convince the lieutenant that cooperating would be more beneficial to his career than stalling. Once he had the operation commander on side, he’d have Kuschke on a plate.
21
By the time he escaped the darkness and returned to Grenadierstrasse, Abraham Goldstein was a good pound heavier and felt like a different person. His fingers searched for the cold metal under the cover of his coat pocket, played with the weight, clasped the ribbed handle. It felt good in his hand. Though he hadn’t been able to test the weapon in the shop, he was certain he had made the right choice. A Remington Model 51: small, easy to use, effective.
He hadn’t thought he’d be able to get one in this country, so far from home. The taciturn toolmaker had surveyed him briefly when Abe asked for a firearm, then continued with his filing, before making for a cupboard in a dark corner of the studio. From its depths he had taken three pistols, a German model, a Belgian model, and the Remington. Even if the other pistols had been in better condition – the Belgian model was rusted, the German model had a slightly warped barrel – he’d still have gone for this. The Remington 51 felt as if it had been made for him, and the price was good. The toolmaker hadn’t been able to give him much ammunition, but it would be enough for his purposes. It wasn’t as if he was planning a session at the range.
He could still remember how it felt the first time he had fired a gun, when he was twelve or thirteen. It had been under Williamsburg Bridge, just before his Bar Mitzvah, at a time when he was anxious to shake off the God of his fathers.
He remembered the weight of the pistol in his hand, a Browning-Colt, almost twice as heavy as the Remington, with Moe’s boys looking on expectantly. They told him how he should breathe, how he should aim over his outstretched arm, but the feeling of the weapon in his hand overrode all else. The Browning-Colt gave him more power and strength than a gaunt twelve-year-old boy had any right to possess. It fit his hand perfectly, and made him feel big and strong, like one of them. The trigger was so light; he just had to move his fingertips gently back until he located the slack. The elevated train approached the bridge and, just as it thundered directly above him, Abe squeezed. He knew how loud a shot was, but was still surprised at how it rang in his ears, and even more surprised by the recoil which almost took his hand off. The laughter of the others drowned out the iron thunder of the Jamaica Line. He hadn’t even hit the car, a rusty old Ford which somebody had left under the bridge and on whose door they had drawn the target. It was said that one of O’Flannagan’s men had been shot in it, but it was so riddled with bullet holes from shooting practice that it was impossible to know.
The train hadn’t yet crossed the bridge and the laughter was still ringing in his ears when Abe took aim again. This time he was ready for the recoil, this time he was ready for anything. Imposing his will on the heavy pistol, he subjugated it to his desires. Then, calmly, he aimed, felt himself becoming one with the Browning. It was just like an extension of his arm, and he fired, again and again. Twice he struck the inner part of the target circle, once the outer part. Every shot hit home.
Nobody laughed now, just gazed at him in astonishment. Later they would let him shoot at rats on the bank of the East River, his first live targets. Red clouds of blood spattered everywhere, accompanied by hoots of delight. He had never understood their glee at seeing creatures suffer. When it came to killing a person for the first time, he was surprised at his own cold-bloodedness. He had screwed up a delivery (later he believed they had set him up to fail) and Moe had given him the chance to make good on a quivering wretch of a man they took from the boot of the car and threw onto the asphalt in the middle of the night. Moe looked at Abe and, without saying anything, pressed a Remington into his hand. Abe saw the shackled form in front of him, his ravaged face, and knew that one way or another this man was going to die. He also knew that he would win the respect of the entire gang if he took care of this whimpering fool as casually as possible.
He fired so quickly that even Moe was taken aback, a single shot to the back of the head, and returned the Remington to his boss. Moe couldn’t help breaking out into a grin, and then roared with laughter. ‘You’re a handsome son of a bitch,’ he said, and that had been Abe’s nickname ever since. He was just sixteen.
That night he had realised, to his surprise, that he had no fear of death, neither of his own nor other people’s. As soon as you accepted death, it lost its terror, simple as that. Perhaps that was what had estranged him from the religion of his forebears. If you didn’t fear death, how could you fear God?
What was death anyway? It could catch you at any moment: your heart, a car, a bullet. If you wanted to live, you had to accept it, and Abe had understood that death was a necessary condition of life. The fact that we’re alive is pure chance, he had once heard Moe say, the only certainty is death. And he was right. Most people saw it the other way around. They regarded their miserable existences as preordained and their death as chance, and that was their mistake.
Fat Moe’s rise in the last few years was due, not least, to the sure hand and discretion of Abe Goldstein. If it became inevitable that someone must die, then Handsome Abe was the man you called. Goldstein had never known any of the people on his list; most of the time he was over in Manhattan, rarely in Brooklyn, and never in Williamsburg. He never knew why they had to die, only that their death was a necessity. He took care of his work scrupulously, quickly and without emotion, using a different Remington 51 for each new contract, which he got rid of as soon as the job was complete. The police would never find a weapon on him, nor could they prove anything against him.
He walked back to the U-Bahn station, slower than on the way out, an oasis of calm in the midst of the busy throng. Reaching a wagon he came to a halt and tasted the sour cherries, spitting the stones onto the pavement before nodding contentedly and buying a bag from the trader. People hurrying by couldn’t realise, but the man crossing Grenadierstrasse was different from the one who had passed half an hour before. Only now did Abraham Goldstein feel complete, armed and ready to visit the address he had come to this city to find. Hopefully he wasn’t too late.
