Death in Twilight (33 page)

He looked down at Blaustein’s desk and saw the bottle the man had removed from the drawer. Twelve-year-old scotch. How the hell had that made its way to a Polish Jewish ghetto? The bottle was half-empty, but Aaron didn’t mind. He lit another of Blaustein’s cigarettes and took a long pull of the scotch. Fire ran down his throat and tore at his stomach. He felt nothing else.

“And our fearless leader, Zimmerman?”

“Suicide,” Blaustein said with a sneer. “He always thought that he could make a deal, that the Nazis were reasonable people, really. If he could just make the Jews useful enough, they’d allow us a place in the new world order.”

Blaustein then took on a funny voice that he obviously intended to be Zimmerman’s but sounded nothing like him.

“‘We’ll build factories here in the ghetto! We’ve got plenty of skilled workers! Hitler will see how helpful we are!’

“And the man always had plans, even up to the last minute,” Blaustein said in his own voice, then switched back to parody.

“‘Next week, I’m sure they’ll give permission to reopen the streetcars so people can get to work. They’ll build us a new bridge! The food will get better!’

“Such an optimist,” Blaustein said, once again himself. “I think that’s what killed him.”

“It’s good to see that you’re made of sterner stuff,” Aaron said.

Blaustein looked disgusted with himself, but Aaron couldn’t be sure that some of the disgust wasn’t for Zimmerman.

Aaron sighed from the bottom of his feet. His shoulders slumped.

“Do you know what happened to my people, Teitel, Boris, Dov? You have to at least know that. You know everything, right?”

“The Germans hung them.”

Aaron’s shoulders slumped further. It wasn’t that he hadn’t known, but hope isn’t rational. He closed his eyes and Lech’s face joined Stefan Kaczynski’s — another on the list of men he’d killed. And then a terrible thought struck him. What if the woman in the café was wrong? Or what if Yelena had been captured on her way out of Miasto?

“Was a small blond woman with them?”

“Your Polish partner?” Blaustein asked.

Aaron looked surprised.

“I told you, there’s nothing I don’t know about smuggling here. But, no, she wasn’t with them. As far as I know, she’s still out there, somewhere. And don’t bother to ask where, I have no idea.”

Aaron silently thanked the universe for this bit of kindness.

It was time to go, but Aaron was curious about one other thing.

“What about Officer Shemtov? Is he still here?”

“Shot,” Blaustein said. “He refused to put people on the trains.”

“At least there was one,” Aaron said, and grimaced. “Get up.”

It was a struggle for the police chief to reach his feet, but he just about did it. Aaron told him to go stand by the door. He then picked up the half-empty bottle of scotch and put it in his haversack. He went around the desk and did a thorough search of its drawers, finding another bottle of alcohol — this time schnapps — and several more packs of Pall Malls. The latter went into his pockets. The bottle he broke against the desk so that Blaustein could watch his lifeblood drain away.

“I’m sure you have more somewhere,” Aaron said. “But this is the least I can do.”

Aaron moved to the doorway and pushed Blaustein back toward his chair.

“That’s it?” Blaustein said. “That’s all you’re going to do?”

“Want me to kill you?”

Hesitation.

“Yes,” Blaustein said, in the smallest of all voices.

Aaron hit the man in the face again, his fist clenched.

“That’s why I won’t,” Aaron said. “Live with yourself as long as you can … Or as long as your Nazi friends will let you.” Aaron headed back toward the street.

Chapter 22

A
aron had a long walk in front of him and the streets were no more inviting than they had been an hour before. He passed more than one shop that gusted the smell of rot out its door, despite the cold. One smell that Aaron had gotten used to in the ghetto was notably absent, the miasma of unwashed bodies. Even the sewers, which had been overburdened with the doubling of the area’s population, seemed to have subsided.

Small relief, but relief nonetheless.

Aaron encountered a pointless Jewish patrol after a few blocks, but knew neither of the men. No one spoke as they passed. To Aaron, the policemen’s eyes looked hollow, gutted as the ghetto had been. Why they kept to their duties, Aaron could not imagine. Did they have some shred of hope that the Germans would keep their promises, even after everything they’d seen, everything they’d done?

As he moved through a neighborhood of small apartment houses, Aaron heard an engine. The streets were so silent and the buildings so close together that the sound echoed. He couldn’t distinguish where the car was coming from, even as its dull purr grew louder.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the sedan turn a corner several blocks behind.

Aaron suddenly realized that he wasn’t wearing the mandatory blue and white armband, or even a yellow Star of David on his coat. Even if the men in the car were on other business, there was no way for them to overlook such a gross violation of racial decorum.

He looked left, right, but saw no open doors or alleyways to duck into. There was nowhere to hide.

And then he noticed an overturned wooden cart. It wasn’t very large, but Aaron could think of nothing better. He lay down behind it, praying that the car would go by without even slowing down. And that no one in a window behind him would signal his presence to the Germans.

The cart wasn’t perfectly flush with the ground, giving Aaron a clear view of the street in front of him. As the car passed — if it passed — he would see it. If it stopped, he would have an even better vantage point.

The car was close now, no more than a block. He could feel a rumble. Aaron was seized with a sudden certainty that he would be found. That coming back to the ghetto was even stupider than he’d thought. The premonition and memory of electric shocks made Aaron’s teeth chatter harder than cold ever had.

The car was a gray-painted convertible with the top up. Soldiers stood on the running boards. An Iron Cross adorned the driver’s side door. It was moving at a walking pace.

And Hermann Clausewitz rode in the back seat, his face leering out the window to take in the necropolis he had helped create.

Aaron shivered so hard that it felt like a seizure. Would Clausewitz hear it? The Gestapo officer was a curious man — a suspicious one — he would make sure his men investigated.

The car slowed to a snail’s pace. Aaron heard a comment from Clausewitz and then a laugh from someone else in the car.

Aaron hugged himself, dragging his knees to his chest. He tried desperately to stop his heartbeat, reverberating so loudly in his ears. He squeezed his eyes tight shut.

The engine grew still louder and then began to fade away. Another minute and it was gone.

The absence of sound didn’t immediately penetrate Aaron’s ears.

Then it did.

I’m still here. I’m still here. I’m still here. I’m still here
.

Aaron reached for the bottle in his haversack and for a cigarette. He took a long drink from the one, but stopped himself from lighting the other. If he had been smoking as the car approached, the smell would have given him away.

The first slug of scotch helped to wring out the shaking. The second finished the bottle. After waiting a careful five minutes, Aaron stood it upright before standing himself. He looked around him. A curtain twitched, but that was the only sign of life.

There was still more than a mile to walk and his progress was slow. He spooked at every sound in the wind, freezing up at the faintest susurration.

It was nearly an hour later that he found himself standing in front of a stable that had been converted into a synagogue. Lev Berson’s shul.

Quietly, Aaron tried to open the small door bearing the Hebrew inscription,
Hear O Israel: The Lord is our God, the Lord is one
. It wasn’t locked.

He let himself in. Where the wagons had once been kept, where the horses had once defecated, ten elaborately bearded men now stood praying. They bowed unceasingly, rocking from their hips, in the direction of Jerusalem. The men, old and young, made up a minyan — the minimum number of Jewish males required for a ceremony or a service to count in the eyes of the Lord.

They were facing away from Aaron and didn’t hear him come in. He doubted they would have stopped what they were doing in any case. The men were enraptured. Leading them was Rav Schmuel Levinsohn.

Cold rage flowed over Aaron as he recalled the person he’d been before the torture, before the camp. It gave him back strength and arrogance. He became — however fleetingly — a man again.

Aaron found a wall to lean against, lit a cigarette and waited. People didn’t smoke in shuls. He figured that the offense would eventually get him some attention. He didn’t have all day to waste, after all.

He was right. No sooner had he lit his second from the nub of the first than the rabbi found a stopping point, quickly wrapping things up.

“Hello, rebbe,” Aaron said, far too loudly for the small room. “Got a couple of minutes for me?”

One of the younger men moved toward Aaron.

“Show respect!” the man said through clenched teeth.

“Oh, no disrespect intended!” Aaron said lightly, meaning the opposite. “Just looking for a few words with the Great Man.”

The first man moved closer to Aaron and another, older man with a heavy gray beard moved to join him. Aaron prepared for a fight, pleased at the prospect. The stress in his body was aching to get out and he would happily take on all ten men just for the release.

But he didn’t have to fight anybody. As Aaron had suspected he would, the rabbi came up and put an arresting hand on the shoulder of the young firebrand. The rabbi then whispered a few words that only the young man could hear, calming him and causing him to take a step back.

“By all means, Mr. Kaminski, let’s talk.”

“Thank you, rebbe,” Aaron said, taking him by the arm and pointing the old man toward his office.

That Aaron would touch the eminence brought out audible gasps from the crowd. Rav Levinsohn himself visibly stiffened but didn’t resist. Not quite.

“Avraham, please bring us some tea,” the rabbi called back over his shoulder. The man who had nearly assaulted Aaron obeyed immediately, hurrying off to fetch it.

Inside the small office, Aaron noticed few changes from his first visit. There were as many books as ever, sitting on shelves that sagged as if they carried the weight of the world, not just its accumulated knowledge. Added to the books were rations. Tinned vegetables and soups. Packets of cookies, even chocolate.

“Chocolate!” Aaron said. “How in the world did you manage that?”

The rabbi didn’t answer directly, instead returning Aaron’s question with a question.

“Why are you here?”

“Are you surprised?” Aaron asked back.

“Well, yes,” the rabbi said somewhat uneasily. “So many were taken in the last few weeks.”

“You’re still able to put together a minyan, I see.”

“The Lord has been kind. Still, we have sustained our share of losses.”

The rabbi bowed his head.

“I’m sorry to hear it,” Aaron said with no obvious sign of grief.

“I would be somewhat surprised to see you here in my shul again, regardless, Mr. Kaminski. When we spoke before, you showed no religious interest, and I’m uncertain what else would bring you to me.”

“Well, you’re right that I’m not very religious, myself. I’m afraid I see hypocrisy everywhere I look in religion,” Aaron said. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t have an interest in religious figures.”

“What does that mean?” the rabbi asked, an edge of annoyance in his voice.

Aaron pointedly looked down at the desk in front of the rabbi.

“Would it be possible to see your notebook?”

It sat quietly at the center of the cluttered rectangle, closed up in its warm leather binding.

“Why on earth do you want to see it?” the rabbi asked, seeming genuinely puzzled.

Before Aaron could answer, Avraham arrived with the tea. He served the rabbi first, naturally, and only grudgingly handed the other cup to Aaron.

“Is there anything else I can do, rebbe?” Avraham asked, by which he meant could he perform physical violence on Aaron’s person?

“No, thank you,” the rabbi replied stiffly. “You may go.”

Avraham exited reluctantly.

Once the door was closed, Aaron blew on his tea, acting the part of a man who had all the time in the world. The rabbi didn’t wait, taking a sip immediately. It was very hot and Aaron could see the man instantly regretted it.

“The notebook, please,” Aaron said. “If it makes you feel any better, I don’t plan on reading it.”

The temperature in the little room dropped until it was colder than it had been in the Kronberg labor camp.

“You may not!”

“You know what I’m looking for, don’t you?”

“Of course not,” the rabbi said with a thin veneer of indignation. “But it is private. I will not have someone as profane as yourself trying to peer into my thoughts.”

“Right at the moment, I couldn’t give less of a
shit
about your thoughts,” Aaron said, proving his profanity.

The rabbi looked like he’d never heard the word and was shocked to hear it now. Aaron guessed it was possible that no one had ever cursed in front of him, considering his role in village life before he was brought to the ghetto. The little prince with the word of God on his lips.

“Give me the notebook,” Aaron said. His voice was low but tipped in steel.

“No!” the rabbi said, beginning to sound petulant.

“I don’t think it’s such an unreasonable request, rebbe, considering all the trouble I’ve been through thanks to what you wrote in it.”

Aaron smiled. It was an ugly smile.

“What could I possibly have written that would cause you trouble?” the rabbi said dismissively. “The study of God’s law hurts no one.”

Aaron left that alone for the moment and shifted gears.