Goldstein, page 31
‘That’s not how I’d put it. We . . .’
‘How would you put it? We want to bury our father and, thanks to you, it isn’t possible. You are aware that Jewish tradition dictates that the funeral take place on the day of death?’
‘I wasn’t aware of that, no . . .’
‘Tell that to my brother-in-law. He’s a good deal less sympathetic than me.’
So . . . Rath thought. Dr Hermann Kohn regards himself as sympathetic.
‘As far as autopsies go, the Jewish faith is even clearer. They’re forbidden, since they take away the deceased’s dignity. Viewed from the perspective of an orthodox Jew, what you have done is so egregious that it led to my brother-in-law telephoning me for the first time in five years.’
‘Our forensic pathologist Dr Schwartz is Jewish himself and is sure to know . . .’
Again Kohn interrupted. ‘Magnus Schwartz is many things, but he is certainly not an orthodox Jew.’
‘You know Dr Schwartz?’
‘Magnus and I attended the same school.’ Kohn looked Rath straight in the eye, an expression that made the inspector hope he’d never encounter him in his professional capacity, before shaking his head, as if to satisfy a judge of the prosecution’s incompetence. ‘My father-in-law was terminally ill, and you suspect he was murdered. It’s utterly ridiculous.’
‘As I said, we’re having the corpse examined to eliminate the possibility that he was murdered.’ It was clear that arguing with Kohn was pointless.
‘Then off you go and get eliminating! So that the body can be released.’ Hermann Kohn gestured unequivocally towards the door. ‘And stop harassing me and my family. In case you hadn’t noticed, we are trying to mourn the death of my wife’s father.’
Their second visit was no more successful. Lea Flegenheimer lived with her family in a grand apartment in the Bayerische Viertel, where many other Jews resided, but where the Flegenheimers somehow didn’t fit. Her husband Ariel might have been a successful businessman but, in his black clothing, he was all too reminiscent of the Shtetl Jews who had settled in the Scheunenviertel around Grenadierstrasse. His Jewish neighbours didn’t approve, at least that was Rath’s impression when they entered the building and asked for the Flegenheimer family. The disdain and incomprehension that the liberal Jew Hermann Kohn felt towards his orthodox brother-in-law were much in evidence here too.
Nevertheless, as different as the families that the Goldstein sisters had married into were, they were united in their outrage that their American nephew should be sought in a Berlin murder investigation.
‘It must be a case of mistaken identity,’ Lea Flegenheimer said. ‘I said that to your colleagues at the morgue. My nephew isn’t in Berlin; if he was, he’d have been in touch.’ The woman must have shed a lot of tears in the last few hours. ‘Even so, they refused to release Father.’
Rath was surprised. ‘You’ve visited the morgue?’
‘Of course!’ Ariel Flegenheimer said. ‘Yesterday evening, just after Dr Friedländer informed us that you had had our dead father removed from the hospital.’
Though he looked as if he had just arrived from Grodno, Flegenheimer spoke perfect German, without a trace of Yiddish accent. If his speech was modified by any dialect it was Berlin’s. The beard, sidelocks and black caftan didn’t bespeak his origins, but his religious faith. The mezuzah on the doorpost told visitors they were entering a Jewish apartment where religion played a decisive role. Everywhere Rath looked, there was evidence of their faith. He was reminded of his childhood. Aunt Lisbeth’s house had a similar feel, though she was Catholic, of course, with crucifixes, sacred images and rosary beads everywhere. He had always hated visiting his aunt, and he felt as uncomfortable now. It didn’t help that Ariel Flegenheimer made no effort to put him at his ease.
‘The way you’re treating my father-in-law: violating the dignity of his body. We should have buried him yesterday evening!’
‘If you could just be patient for a little longer.’
‘This isn’t about my patience, but your lack of respect. The soul remains present until the body is buried. Only then does it leave this world.’ He seemed, genuinely, to believe this. ‘That’s why Joseph is holding Shmira with him.’
‘Pardon me?’
‘My son. He’s been keeping watch over his grandfather’s body overnight.’
‘In the morgue?’
‘It was you who had our father sent there. If it was up to us, we’d have buried him by now. Or at least kept watch over him here. I don’t understand why you did it in the first place.’
‘That’s exactly what we’re here to talk about.’ Rath no longer made any effort to conceal his impatience. ‘We’re hoping to rule out the possibility that Jakob Goldstein died an unnatural death. That’s why we’re having the corpse examined.’
Flegenheimer jumped to his feet. ‘That is simply outrageous!’
‘Take it easy. There will be no autopsy. I’ve spoken with Pathology to ensure that blood is taken only for the purposes of examination.’
‘What makes you think he could have died an unnatural death? My father-in-law was terminally ill.’
‘It’s just surprising that he should die at precisely the moment your nephew, Abraham Goldstein, was in his room.’
‘Stop talking nonsense! My nephew would have visited us long ago if he were in Berlin.’
Rath showed them the newspaper article. The Flegenheimers skimmed it and looked incensed.
Lea Flegenheimer shook her head. ‘It can’t be.’
‘I thought you had never met him.’
‘I know . . . knew my brother. I just . . .’ she pounded the newspaper with her fists. ‘I just can’t believe that’s his son.’
‘But it is, Frau Flegenheimer,’ Rath said. ‘And I have met your son. We’ll find out whether or not he’s responsible for the death of this SA officer, but it is beyond question that Abraham Goldstein is under police surveillance in the USA as a multiple homicide suspect.’
‘What does all this have to do with my father-in-law’s corpse?’
‘It’s purely a matter of routine,’ Rath said. ‘This is the procedure the public prosecutor is obliged to follow should there be anything unusual about the circumstances of death. If I’m not mistaken, you’ve already spoken with your brother-in-law about the legal background.’
With nothing to be gained, Rath prepared to beat an orderly retreat. This visit had been just as pointless as the first. The Goldstein sisters clearly had no idea where their nephew was; they didn’t even know who he was.
He stood up. Tornow, who until now hadn’t uttered a single word save for ‘Good morning’, did likewise. Rath handed Lea Flegenheimer his card. ‘If your nephew should get in touch, please let me know.’
The woman’s mind seemed to be elsewhere.
‘I hope you’ll see to it that my father-in-law can be buried soon,’ Ariel Flegenheimer said. ‘The Aninut mustn’t be extended any longer than is necessary.’
‘The what?’
‘The period of mourning between death and burial.’
‘Ultimately, it’s the public prosecutor who decides,’ Rath said, ‘but I promise to contact you as soon as I know more.’
He took his hat and, heading for the door, halted at the bookshelves and the books of the Torah. In front was a small metal tin with a coin slot, a kind of piggy bank.
‘What’s this?’ he asked.
‘It’s our Tzedakah box,’ Flegenheimer explained. ‘If you like, you can put in a few coins. Give Tzedakah.’
‘Give what?’
‘A donation. Not for us. We’re collecting for a charitable cause. Every day we set aside a little of the change encumbering our purses.’
The idea appealed to Rath. He took out his wallet and dropped in a few coins. Tornow kept hold of his money, but Rath couldn’t blame him; a new lieutenant in CID was hardly going to be rolling in it.
‘Strange people,’ Tornow said after they left the flat. ‘They could try and adapt a little, having moved to Germany.’
‘There have been Flegenheimers here for generations. They’re Prussian through and through. It’s the Goldsteins who arrived from the East.’
‘So why does he act as if he just got in from Poland?’
‘Jeder Jeck ist anders,’ Rath said.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘It’s a saying in Cologne. It means something like: Let every man seek heaven in his own fashion.’
‘That’s Old Fritz, isn’t it?’
‘It was one of you Prussians, anyway.’
As a Prussian, Tornow didn’t find being lumped together with Ariel Flegenheimer amusing. He fell quiet, but kept a straight face, only breaking his silence in the Buick. ‘Where are we going?’ he asked. Rath drove north via Friedrich-Ebert-Strasse, rather than take the turning for Alex at Potsdamer Platz.
‘Hannoversche Strasse,’ Rath said. ‘We’ll have this done and dusted by lunchtime.’
Joseph Flegenheimer was recognisable from a long way off. Dressed like his father, he was especially conspicuous in Pathology where most workers wore white. The man wasn’t thirty but wore a Methuselah-like full beard. He had placed a prayer shawl over his black caftan, and bobbed back and forth as though he were in a synagogue rather than the lobby of the morgue. He seemed to take his religion even more seriously than his father.
Thinking of Abraham Goldstein, Rath could scarcely believe the two men were related. Cousins! But then he recalled his own cousin Martin, Aunt Lisbeth’s son, who had also spent the whole day praying, having built a little altar in his bedroom underneath a sombre crucifix. Martin had become a monk at eighteen, maybe even a priest. Rath could no longer say; he had avoided his aunt’s family ever since he was able to decide who to visit for himself. He remembered not being able to play with Martin, or talk to him much either.
Dr Schwartz, a man who wasn’t easily intimidated, seemed nervous when he greeted them, but perhaps he was just tired. Rath introduced his new colleague.
‘A cadet,’ said Schwartz, ‘and straight into Homicide. Congratulations! I hope you have a strong stomach.’
‘We’ll see,’ Tornow said, clearly unimpressed. He gestured towards the praying man. ‘I see you have company?’
Schwartz forced a smile. ‘We Jews can be a real nuisance, can’t we? No one better when it comes to pig-headedness.’ He led them into the autopsy room. ‘He was here when I arrived this morning. The porter said he couldn’t be dissuaded; wanted to be as close as possible to his grandfather. I tried to encourage him to visit the canteen at the Charité or one of the nice cafes nearby, but he insisted on staying here to pray.’
‘Have you examined the corpse?’ Rath asked. ‘I’d like to release the body as soon as possible.’
‘The examination is complete,’ Schwartz said, leading them to the gurney on which the covered corpse lay. ‘Here he is, but I’m afraid his release is up to the public prosecutor.’
‘Perhaps we overreacted – because he had a visitor just before he died. It might have been better not to send him at all.’
‘Don’t say that. If you ask me, people don’t arrange for autopsies as often as they should. Still, that would mean having more staff here, and that’s something no one’s willing to pay for. The reason most killers get away – and this is my avowed opinion – is that no one believes a murder has been committed in the first place.’
‘And in this case?’
‘Hard to say, but I wouldn’t call it murder.’ He paused thoughtfully. ‘Death was a relief for this old man. The final stages of pancreatic cancer. The poor fellow must have been in terrible pain.’
‘You didn’t open him up, did you?’ Rath asked, horrified. ‘I telephoned here specifically and left a message with the por . . .’
‘I know better than to open the corpse of an orthodox Jew. I’d need to have a very good reason for that. No, I had Dr Friedländer send his medical file.’
‘So, he did die a natural death after all.’
‘Like I said, it’s hard to say. I didn’t find any traces of external trauma on his body – apart from injection sites from various needles. But the blood examination revealed something interesting: a high concentration of morphine, over a thousand nanograms per millilitre.’ Dr Schwartz looked over the rim of his glasses, first at Rath then at Tornow. ‘Dr Friedländer assures me he only administered morphine in moderation, and I’ve no reason to disbelieve him.’
‘What are you trying to tell me?’ Rath asked.
Schwartz hunched his shoulders. ‘That’s for you to find out, but I wouldn’t discount the possibility that someone tried to spare the man further suffering.’ He nodded towards the frosted glass in the swing doors where the shadow of the praying Flegenheimer was still bobbing up and down.
‘It’s up to you whether you choose to pursue what is no more than a hunch. If it was a family member, then their conscience ought to be punishment enough. For an orthodox Jew, assisted suicide is forbidden under any circumstances, no matter how adverse.’ He gazed over his spectacles. ‘Don’t forget it was we Jews who invented Job.’
70
At least there was a cafe, so Charly didn’t have to loiter on the street.
What were they thinking? A surveillance job without a car? She stirred her coffee and looked across to the house front opposite: REVENGE FOR BENNY S.
Keeping Sergeant Major Jochen Kuschke under surveillance was a tedious chore, unlike the search for Alex, which dovetailed nicely with her own interests. She had only been shadowing Kuschke in the evenings as agreed, but the call from Lange at lunchtime had changed all that. He had surprising news. ‘Kuschke is going on temporary leave from today. This alters our plans.’
Above all, it altered Charly’s plans. She had intended to surprise Gereon and have lunch with him somewhere, since they hadn’t been able to eat breakfast together. Instead, Lange had given her Kuschke’s address in Winterfeldtstrasse, a solidly middle-class neighbourhood, and identified this cafe as an ideal observation post. She sat at a window seat behind a curtain, with an excellent view of the street outside. The view in the opposite direction was less good, however, owing to the reflection in the glass pane. As agreed, she had called Lange when she arrived.
‘I’m here,’ she had said quietly, so that the staff behind the counter couldn’t hear. ‘What happens if he isn’t there?’
‘He’s there, believe me. I think you’ll catch sight of him soon.’
Lange proved to be right. Charly had just added milk to her second cup of coffee, and lit her first cigarette, when he emerged. There was no mistaking the bandage across his face. In all likelihood, Kuschke had Alex to thank for that little keepsake. He carried a pail of water, a scrubbing brush and a wooden stepladder. After unfolding the ladder in front of the mural, he climbed up and began to scrub, starting with the word REVENGE.
Charly looked on calmly. She was starting to enjoy this. It was always nice watching other people work, but in this case it was particularly gratifying to know that the words most likely belonged to Alex, which reminded her of her plans for the afternoon. Another hour and she would have to go and collect her bicycle from Moabit.
From time to time people would speak to Kuschke, but he didn’t seem to like it and answered with a few terse words. Most times he didn’t even turn, just kept on scrubbing. The colour was coming off nicely; the word REVENGE was now scarcely legible. FOR would be next.
She glanced at her watch. Time was getting on if she didn’t want to miss Erich Rambow. She drank the last of her coffee, placed a one-mark coin beside the cup and set off. The search for Alex took priority: Lange said so himself.
Half an hour later she stood in the Wertheim delivery area for the second time that day. On this occasion, however, she stayed in the background. She had taken Greta’s Miele bicycle out of the cellar this morning after returning from Wertheim and pumped up the tyres. She hadn’t ridden one like it for a long time but, for today’s operation, it was essential.
He emerged punctually. Erich Rambow pushed his bicycle out with the first wave of Wertheim employees. To the carrier he attached a package dripping with blood, probably his supper or offcuts for the dog. He mounted on Vossstrasse and pedalled off. Charly swung herself onto Greta’s rickety two-wheeler and followed.
Erich Rambow cycled mighty quick; she pedalled hard to keep up, taking care not to get too close. She had taken the precaution of changing her clothes, wearing completely different colours from this morning, a subdued mixture of brown and grey.
Rambow cycled right across town, via Werderscher Markt and Königstrasse, out towards the east. Passing Alexanderplatz he skilfully weaved his way through the maze of diversions created by the construction site; Charly prayed that no one from the Castle would see her cycling after a scrawny butcher’s apprentice. Luckily no one did, and she was able to stay on him. She just hoped he didn’t live too far out east, as she was beginning to run out of puff. Rambow turned uphill onto Greifswalder Strasse, before, finally, riding into a rear courtyard in Lippehner Strasse. The smell of the nearby brewery hung in the air: malt and mash.
Charly dismounted and peered carefully through the entrance to the courtyard to see Rambow carrying his bike down a set of basement steps. She felt her heart pumping and her lungs gasping for air, but got her breath back before he returned with the blood-soaked package in his hand. He vanished inside the rear building. She waited a moment, then went over, leaning her bicycle against the wall and looking at the mailboxes until she found his name. Fam. Günter Rambow. So, he lived with his parents. Good to know. She mounted the bicycle again, cycling at full pelt through the entrance and back onto the road. She had to look like she was in a hurry, with a long journey still ahead. No one could suspect that she had no intention of leaving the neighbourhood.
71
They had found the stolen ambulance at last. Böhm left a message with Erika Voss while Rath was on his lunch break with Tornow and Gräf: Warrants had located the vehicle near the freight depot at Moabit. It was empty of course; of Goldstein, not a trace.
