“That man.” Fischer repeated the words, his eyes wide, his mouth working. “Don’t you know who that is?”
“What man, Heinrich?” He looked puzzled.
“The one who was just here,” Fischer shouted. “I tell you, I saw him with my own eyes.”
“Of course.” Liebermann looked at him peculiarly. “His name is Schulze. Karl Schulze. He is just over from the Old Country.”
“Schulze? He told you his name is Schulze?”
“Yes. Why should he tell me anything else?” Liebermann got out the herring, tore off a piece of brown wrapping paper, put the fish on it. “Don’t tell me you know Schulze from the Old Country. It’s a small world, eh, Heinrich?”
“Yes. Yes. A small world.” His voice rose. He felt a little ill. “Quickly. Tell me where he lives.”
“Schulze?”
“Haller! I tell you, his name is Haller.” He held his fingerless left hand for Liebermann to see. “I could never forget the man who did this to me.”
Liebermann looked at him. “Perhaps he only looks like the man. It’s been a long time, Heinrich. People change. Tell me — have you ever seen such a herring, eh?”
Fool. Fischer did not wait to argue. He ran back out onto the street. The rain was coming down. There were not many people. He saw Haller crossing the street at the end of the block. He hurried after him. He had been a fool to waste time talking with Liebermann. Because of the stupid delay, Haller might disappear again from the face of the earth, just as he had disappeared during those frenzied days following the war.
Fischer quickened his pace, vaguely conscious of the rough brick fronts of the buildings sliding past, his feet making crunching sounds in the snow. The slush had become icy. His breath came in short gasps. There was a wild thumping in his chest and he knew that the pain there was caused by the cold air rushing into his lungs. He suddenly lost sight of Haller’s broad back as a bus spewed people onto the sidewalk between them. He lunged forward, bumping a woman carrying an umbrella, ignored her exclamation of disgust.
He broke through the crowd, scanning the sidewalk ahead through burning eyes. He stopped. He was in the middle of a long block. He squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again, feeling himself slipping into a delirium of hopelessness.
There was no sign of life along the street.
He stood there, the rain falling on him. He was dimly aware of the wetness. He thought, can this be some terrible trick of my mind? Is it possible? No! It is him. I know it. He has only gone into one of the buildings.
He shuffled quickly past the clouded store fronts — a cleaners with the word CLOSED FOR XMAS soap-smeared across grimy glass, greasy spoon cafes, a barber shop with empty chairs — seeing nothing. At the corner, he paused, getting his bearings. He was about to continue up Sixth Street when he spotted Haller, hanging close to the cheap apartment buildings on Trimble Street, pressing in out of the rain.
“Erich Haller. Stop! Butcher!” His voice was little more than a womanish screech, unintelligible. He turned the corner, staggered rubber-kneed along Trimble Street, narrowing the gap between them.
He was about to call again, when suddenly Haller dropped to one knee, as if struck by a bullet. Fischer squeezed his eyes again. They did not seem to focus right. He saw Haller pick up an object from the sidewalk, one of the packages probably, and disappear through the entrance to a rundown brick house near the end of the block.
When Fischer reached the spot, he paused at the bottom of a short flight of steps. A cardboard sign tacked to one of the pillars supporting the delapidated porch said FURNISHED ROOMS. His knees nearly buckled as he climbed the steps. He tried the door. It was locked. A faded Christmas wreath hung there from a nail. Frantically, he pounded against the frosted-glass panel in the door, a soundless scream building in his throat.
There was the sound of a chain being slid into place and he felt a shudder go through him. He stepped back a pace. He wondered what Haller would do when they suddenly came face to face.
The door opened. It stretched taut the length of chain, leaving an opening five or six inches wide. A woman’s face appeared at the opening. The skin on her face looked like a thin layer of wax. She was shoddy and cheap. There was a patch of rouge on each cheek. She looked at him suspiciously through slitted eyes. “You trying to break the glass?”
“Haller,” Fischer said breathlessly. “You will only get into trouble if you hide him. I saw—”
“What do you want?”
“Erich Haller. I told you. I know he is here.”
The face became frightened. She tried to look past him. “There’s some mistake. There’s no Haller here.”
“You’re lying! Why do you lie?”
“Please,” she said nervously. “If you don’t go away I’ll have to call the police.”
“Liar!” With his right hand he reached for her throat, cursing, a horrible tremor in his voice. He was nearly blind with passion and fury. “Liar! Liar! Liar!”
She tried to close the door with his arm still in the opening, pinning him there, sending pain reverberating into his system. He wondered if the bone had been broken. With a sudden jerk, he pulled the arm free, felt the sting of tearing flesh. The door closed. He thought how odd it was that a ribbon hanging from the wreath had the words Seasons Greetings. His thumb was cut. Blood dripped in small drops onto the porch.
He stood there, staring intently at the door, his face vacant. He perspired. His head ached.
“Crazy. Crazy!” The woman’s high-pitched scream came clearly through the frosted glass. “I’ll call the police.”
The police. Of course. This was America. In America, he could go to the police for help.
Hurriedly, Fischer left the porch and walked one block back to Sixth Street where he found the beat cop, a smiling, heavy-shouldered young man with a wide jaw faintly corded with muscle, standing under a canopy out of the rain.
“Come with me,” Fischer said, gesturing. “Hurry.”
“What was that?”
“Why do you stand there?” Fischer said, the words tumbling from quivering lips. “You must come with me. I will show you where a criminal is hiding.”
“Criminal?” The smile faded from the policeman’s face, his eyes darkened. “What criminal? What did he do?”
“His name is Erich Haller.”
“Haller?”
“Yes. At first I thought he was some trick my mind was playing. But I followed him. You’ll see.”
“Slow down, buddy. You ain’t making much sense.” The policeman’s eyes shifted, watched a drop of Fischer’s blood splatter on the sidewalk. He became conscious of the chill in the air. The policeman had seen a lot of things, terrible things, but that single drop of blood made him shiver. He said, “Maybe we’d better go down to headquarters. They’ll want to hear about this Haller guy.”
Fischer’s face changed. “There’s no time for that.”
“There’s time.” The policeman looked at him piercingly.
“No!” Fischer backed away. “You don’t believe me.”
“Sure I believe you.” He smiled. “Come on, now.”
Fischer could think of only one thing to do. He moved suddenly, lowering the violin case like a battering ram, slammed it into the policeman’s groin. The policeman groaned, stared at him as if dazed, fell toward on his knees. He ran, swung down a side street, knees thumping hollowly against the violin case clutched awkwardly against his chest. Sweat stung his eyes and he could not get enough air into his lungs. He came to another corner and tried to make the turn too fast. He went down, slamming heavily against the packed snow. The violin case slithered out in front of him. Grit ripped into the flesh of his palm and he stifled a cry as a sharp object wrenched at his knee. He rolled against one shoulder to stop his forward momentum, came to his feet, stumbled against a wall. He picked up the violin case, forcing his weight on the leg with the hurt knee, and almost went down again.