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.’