Goldstein, page 28
Having only wanted to come once, he was now a daily visitor, and entering the hospital by the rear door had become almost routine. He moved through the corridors with the confidence of a young chief physician and, so far, no one had smelled a rat. A little bit of chutzpah made things easier, he’d known that for a long time. Even dying.
‘Abraham, there you are,’ the man smiled into his pillow. He barely had any strength left. Each word caused him pain, but it was clear from his face that he wanted to speak for as long as he still could. ‘Have you been to see your aunts?’
‘I don’t know if they really want to see me. You haven’t mentioned anything?’
‘You have to go and see them! They’re your father’s sisters. The mishpocha is important, even when it gets on your nerves.’ He laughed softly before the pain became too much. Abe nodded vaguely.
The old man gripped his hand. ‘Did you get it?’
This time Abe’s nod was more decisive. This would be his final visit. ‘Yes.’ He squeezed the old hand in return.
His grandfather’s face relaxed. ‘Show it to me,’ he said.
Abe took the syringe out of the bag. He had already filled it, prepared everything in the hotel – a nasty little flophouse that bore no comparison with the Excelsior. Still, they didn’t want to know his name or see his passport, and the porter had a few useful tips up his sleeve, like where you could get hold of cheap morphine.
He showed his grandfather the syringe, and the old man gazed at the liquid shimmering through the glass bulb. He nodded contentedly, gave a soft groan and grimaced. His hand clenched around Abe’s and held tight.
The flash of pain was over; his grandfather looked at him. ‘Now,’ he said. ‘I want it now.’
‘Right this minute? What’s the big hurry?’
‘Before dinner.’
‘It must be goddamn awful . . .’
The laughter lines around his grandfather’s eyes tightened. ‘It is,’ he said and nodded. ‘I’d rather die than eat that slop again.’ He laughed at his own joke, but it only hurt more. ‘Now,’ he said, serious this time.
Abe nodded. He took the syringe out of the case and pressed lightly, until the first drop of morphine appeared. He exposed his grandfather’s right arm and searched for a vein. The arm was shockingly thin, the skin pale and covered in age spots, the skin of a dead man. Abe squeezed the entire contents of the bulb into the vein, before dabbing the injection site with a cotton wool ball. There was no going back.
When Abe set the syringe aside, his grandfather gripped his hand once more, holding it tight, as if he never wanted to let go. ‘Thank you,’ he said quietly. ‘How long?’
‘A few minutes. You’ll fall asleep. There’ll be no more pain.’
The old man sank back into the pillow, feeling the effects of the morphine already.
‘Broadway,’ he said, and his tired eyes sparkled at the word. ‘Tell me about Broadway.’
For all his visits to the hospital, Abe still hadn’t been able to reveal the truth: that there was a big difference between the Broadway in Manhattan, which everybody knew, and the one in Williamsburg, where Nathan Goldstein and his family eked out their existence. So, Abe maintained the same cock and bull story his father had begun all those years ago. Nathan Goldstein had written regularly to Jakob, who had remained behind in Berlin, but Abe never knew how the pious old fool had littered his correspondence with lies: how he had made his fortune in America after starting his own clothing factory and moved into a flat on Broadway. What else could he write?
Only now, in Berlin, did Abe realise what hopes the Goldsteins had invested in Nathan, the eldest son. They had only been able to cobble together enough for one passage, and sent him on their behalf, expecting him to bring them over when he was able. But Nathan’s sisters found happiness in Berlin, persuaded Jakob to stay, and no one learned what a pig’s ear Nathan Goldstein had made of things in the States. The only person who knew was his son, Abraham, and he kept his father’s secret.
Aunt Lea had married a scrap metal dealer, a black hat who devoted his life to God but was no less successful in business for that. Aunt Margot, meanwhile, became a lawyer’s wife, a liberal, secularly minded man, which regularly led to huge family arguments and amused Abe’s grandfather no end.
With each visit Abe embellished his father’s fantastical tales, taking delight in the sparkling eyes of the sick, old man. Even now he told his grandfather about the day Nathan Goldstein hit upon the idea of combining the production and sale of off-the-peg clothing within a single company, although he sadly did not live to see its success. Abe recounted his father’s funeral in such heart-rending terms that he felt almost moved himself, as if half of New York had been part of Nathan Goldstein’s cortège, when in reality it had been a wretched affair, the appearance of a drunken son being its questionable highlight.
Abe had avoided his German relations because he didn’t feel like serving up the same old lies. In fact he had only seen his aunts and their families on one more occasion, yesterday, as he waited in the shadow of the trees on Schulstrasse for visiting hours to end. The young black hat was there again, Joseph Flegenheimer, going by his grandfather’s description. The oldest son of the scrap metal dealer was roughly his own age. His cousin had squinted across and hesitated for a moment, before turning to face the others. Since then, Abe, who had pulled his hat over his face, had been wondering whether Jossele, as his grandfather called him, had recognised him from their brief meeting in the hospital corridor. Or perhaps he had seen that blasted picture in the newspaper.
The old man was speaking so softly now, Abe had to lean over the bed to hear. ‘It’s almost time, Abraham. We must say our goodbyes.’
Abe squeezed his grandfather’s hand, feeling an indefinable ache as he stared into the wrinkled face that would soon no longer stare back. Had Jakob Goldstein written to his grandson in America in order that he fulfil this wish? Did his grandfather have some inkling that he wasn’t a harmless textile dealer who had taken on his father’s flourishing business?
For some reason he felt much closer to this old man, whom he had met for the first time five days ago, than he ever had to his father. He felt almost ashamed of having loved his father so little, just as he felt ashamed of turning up drunk at his funeral.
‘Promise me something!’ The bony, old hand squeezed his palm with astonishing force, the eyes gazed at him, miraculous in their youth. Such intense eyes in such a weak, withered face, Abe thought, leaning over to hear what he had to say.
‘You have to say Kaddish at my funeral. Promise me you will.’
Abe made a promise he wasn’t sure he could keep. He hadn’t said Kaddish for an eternity, but that wasn’t the problem. The Kaddish was one of those things he’d never forget, that he’d carry with him for the rest of his life. That, at least, his father’s upbringing had achieved. The problem was that he needed to get out of Berlin as soon as possible. He hadn’t planned on attending his grandfather’s funeral, but, still, he nodded, the old man saw him nod, and that was enough.
‘That’s good,’ Jakob Goldstein said. ‘Schma Jisrael, Adonaj Elohejnu, Adonaj Echad.’ His voice grew softer and softer.
Somewhere deep inside Abe recognised the words, even if he hadn’t spoken them for years, and inwardly he prayed, despite no longer believing in the figure he was invoking.
His grandfather closed his eyes, as if recovering from a great exertion, though it wasn’t clear if it was the exertion of speech, or the exertion of a life fully lived. His face was calm and contented, and his breathing grew steadier as the morphine took control of his emaciated body.
Abe held his grandfather’s hand. ‘Farewell, Seide,’ he said, and the old man opened his eyes once more.
‘Not farewell. Until we meet again,’ Jakob Goldstein smiled. ‘You’ll visit me at my grave, say Kaddish. You promised.’
Abe nodded and his grandfather closed his eyes, the contented smile remaining on his face long after he had ceased to breath.
Goldstein didn’t know how long he had sat at his dead grandfather’s bed, but the old man’s hands were still warm when he was startled by a loud noise in the corridor. The nurses usually took their break about now, before everything started again and dinner was brought to the rooms. He opened the door a crack and peered out.
Two men approached from the corridor, one of whom he recognised. Detective Rath, that stubborn mule! He should have known they’d pick up his tail. But now! Today!
Rath’s companion must have bumped into one of the serving trolleys standing ready for delivery. A teapot had fallen to the floor, which he bent to pick up. The door to the nurses’ room opened and a fury in white shot out and took the two officers to task.
Abe closed the door, and returned to his grandfather’s bed. He pocketed the empty syringe, cast his grandfather a final glance and went to the window. A kind of pergola extended around the whole building. He swung onto it and looked down on the rear courtyard just as an ambulance arrived.
Driver and passenger climbed out and opened the rear door. For a moment he thought about jumping on top of the vehicle, but in the end climbed over the railings and clambered onto the rainwater pipe that led down from the roof. An elderly patient in a dressing gown, taking a stroll through the grounds, saw him but said nothing.
The metal buckled a little during his descent, and he ripped his coat but, after a few seconds, he was safely down. A quick upward glance told him the cops still didn’t know he had escaped, but he couldn’t afford to lose any time.
The ambulance puttered away on idle while two orderlies lifted out an unconscious man on a stretcher and carried him towards Accident and Emergency. They hadn’t noticed him. The man in the dressing gown was the only one watching.
Goldstein opened the driver’s door, gave the elderly patient a friendly nod and sat behind the wheel. Releasing the handbrake he engaged first gear and accelerated. The rear door swung this way and that as the vehicle lurched forward, tyres spraying gravel.
64
This nurse was a tough customer. The combined persuasive power of two police officers could not appease her.
Tornow had overlooked a service trolley and knocked a teapot to the floor. They were picking up the pieces when she stormed across the corridor and had barely got a word in since. The greatest crime wasn’t the destruction of the teapot, no, it was that two men, police officers or not, had dared to make such a racket – and outside of visiting hours at that!
How her own raised voice promoted the patients’ afternoon rest was another matter. This time Tornow attempted to appease her.
‘My good woman,’ he said, ‘we just want to take a quick peek inside room 102. It’s possible your patient can help us trace an escaped criminal.’
‘I’ll give you my good woman . . .!’ When the sister began another tirade, Rath lost patience.
‘Now, listen here! You can complain to the police commissioner himself for all I care, but, if you detain us any longer, I’ll charge you with obstructing a police investigation.’
She fell silent and, after a moment of paralysis, said meekly: ‘Room 102.’
Rath gave a friendly smile.
‘It’s over there,’ she said, ‘but please don’t get the patient too worked up. He’s on his deathbed.’
‘We’ll proceed with caution,’ Tornow said.
The sister followed them to the door at a respectful distance. Tornow knocked, but there was no response.
‘Perhaps he’s sleeping,’ she said. ‘He sleeps a lot, when he’s not in pain.’
Rath opened the door quietly.
There was a lone patient, an old man whose gaunt face was nestled deep inside his pillows. On a handwritten sign at the foot of the bed was the name Jakob Goldstein. The bedside table held an enormous bouquet of flowers.
Rath had seen enough dead bodies to know the man smiling peacefully was no longer alive.
Loud cries came through the open window, and the sound of a roaring engine. An ambulance was heading towards Schulstrasse at full tilt, its rear door swinging this way and that. Two male orderlies gazed after it open-mouthed. A man in a dressing gown shuffled over the gravel path towards them.
‘He just left,’ Rath heard him say. ‘Came down from up there and climbed into the ambulance!’
He explained what he meant by up there by pointing directly at Rath.
‘What’s wrong?’ Tornow asked.
‘Goldstein. He’s escaped.’
‘Damn it!’
They stormed past the sister, out of the room and into the corridor and, a minute later, were on the street. It was already too late. The ambulance was long gone.
Tornow kicked the nearest waste bin. ‘It’s my fault. That stupid service trolley must have warned him!’
‘Not so much the service trolley as dear old Sister Rabiata,’ Rath said. ‘Don’t blame yourself. We couldn’t have known he was in the building. We came here to question a witness, not chase a fugitive.’
‘A witness who’s now dead. Must be our lucky day.’
Back at headquarters, Goldstein’s reappearance caused quite a stir. Wilhelm Böhm summoned Rath and Tornow to his office. The Bulldog seemed to have a clearer take on the issue of culpability, blaming neither Tornow, the service trolley, nor the recalcitrant sister; least of all the fact that Goldstein just happened to be in the building at that precise moment. Instead, he laid the blame squarely on the shoulders of Gereon Rath.
‘Am I right in thinking you’ve let a murder suspect give you the slip for the second time in a matter of days?’ he yelled.
Rath knew it was pointless defending himself, but tried nevertheless. ‘We couldn’t have known the suspect was in the building. Officer Tornow and I received a tip-off that he had been seen at the Jewish Hospital. We then established that his grandfather . . .’
Böhm interrupted: ‘What tip-off, and why do I know nothing about it?’
‘We can’t go bothering you with every anonymous call.’
‘Not every one, no, but the important ones.’
‘With respect, Sir,’ Tornow said. ‘It was me who took the call not Inspector Rath, and I’m assigned to Chief Inspector Kilian, J Division, not Homicide.’
Böhm wasn’t used to subordinates interrupting. Rath was also astonished, but gave nothing away.
‘Besides,’ Tornow continued, ‘it’s only possible to judge the importance of a call like that with hindsight. In the last few days Warrants have had any number of tip-offs, and more or less every single one has come to nothing.’
It took a moment for Böhm to regain the power of speech.
‘Then tell me how the whole thing went so belly-up,’ he growled, which, for a man of his temperament, was akin to a peace offering.
‘We knew from the porter that there was a Jakob Goldstein in room 102,’ Rath said. ‘As it turned out, Abraham Goldstein’s grandfather.’
‘He was the one you wanted to question?’
‘Correct.’
‘So did you see the Yank?’
‘When we entered the room he had already escaped through the window onto the courtyard, then stole an ambulance.’
‘How the hell did he get warning? Surely he wasn’t intending to escape through the window!’
Tornow was about to say something, but Rath got there first. ‘Chance. Perhaps Goldstein opened the door just as we entered the corridor. He knows my face; we’ve run into each other a few times at the Excelsior.’
‘He recognised you,’ Böhm mumbled and nodded. The answer appeared to satisfy him. ‘In future you ought to remain in the background, so that Goldstein isn’t warned again.’
Rath nodded demurely.
‘Did you get anything out of the witness?’
‘No, unfortunately. Jakob Goldstein is dead. We found him when we entered the room.’
Böhm hesitated. ‘You’re not trying to tell me that Goldstein killed his own grandfather?’
‘It’s a strange coincidence that he should die precisely at that moment, don’t you think? After consulting with the public prosecutor, I’ve had the corpse sent to Pathology.’
‘You’re aware that an autopsy is forbidden by the Mosaic faith?’
Rath hadn’t been aware until a few hours ago, but the ward doctor had told him in no uncertain terms. ‘Dr Schwartz is Jewish,’ he said. ‘He’ll know what to do.’
‘Dr Schwartz is a goddamn agnostic. He’ll cut anything he gets his hands on.’
‘Then I’ll ask him to proceed with caution. Maybe a blood examination will be enough. The man was terminally ill. He had pancreatic cancer.’
‘You should mention that too. We don’t want Schwartz examining a man who might have been dead for hours.’
‘He can’t have been. His family was with him until just before the end of visiting hours.’
‘Goldstein has more relatives in Berlin?’
‘Two aunts, if I’m not mistaken.’
‘Damn it! Why are we only hearing about this now? Pay them a visit. Maybe they know something. You can show our cadet here how to winkle information out of people.’
Tornow rose from his lethargy and looked at Böhm in disbelief. ‘My apologies, Sir, but I’m assigned to Warrants, DCI Kilian, not DI Rath. I . . .’
‘I’ll speak to Kilian, everything will be fine. For the time being you’ll work with Rath.’ Böhm gazed sternly at him, trying to regain lost authority. ‘You’ve made your bed, now you have to lie in it. Goldstein is the priority for both of you. Understood?’
Rath gave a dutiful nod. The audience with Böhm was over.
‘It looks like you’re my new partner then,’ he said, when they were back outside. ‘Here’s to us.’
The cadet shook his hand. ‘I know I made a mess of things in the hospital. But you didn’t have to protect me like that. All the same, thank you.’
‘You didn’t make a mess of anything. But there’s no reason for Böhm to know every last detail.’
