A man detached himself from the shadows of a doorway and came toward him. “You okay, buddy?”
“Yes. Thank you.” He brushed the snow from his coat, glancing behind him.
The subway entrance was just a few steps ahead of him. He would be safe there. He fumbled through his pockets at the ticket booth, grabbed his change as a train thundered into the station, fell in with the jostling crowd that poured through the turnstile. When he glanced over his shoulder he felt a quick squeeze in his heart. The policeman stood at the turnstile. Finally he was inside the car. He took a seat near the window. He could see the policeman, running toward him. Why don’t the doors close, he thought. What are they waiting for? Everyone is ready. Everyone is sitting here. Why don’t they close?
He shut his eyes. When he opened them again, the train was moving. The car was crowded and most of the seats were occupied. A young girl sat opposite him. She had blue eyes and long, yellow hair.
She put out a small hand and said graciously, “Is that your violin?”
“Yes.”
“Will you play it for me?”
“No. I used to play. Now I only teach young people to play — like you.”
“Will you teach me to play?”
“It is very difficult.”
“I would work very hard.”
“Would you?”
“Oh, yes.” She clapped the tiny hands together.
“Then I will teach you.” He wrote his address on a scrap of paper and gave it to her. “Here. Tell your mother that you are going to become a great virtuoso on the violin.”
The train came out onto an elevated. As he looked into the blue eyes, a scene long lost of some happier time in his boyhood flashed across his mind, vanished as the train lurched to a stop. People came into the car. Rain slashed against the windows. He put his head back. The trembling in his chest had stopped. He relaxed. There no longer was any element of doubt in his mind. Now he knew. He could kill a man. There was a look of sadness on his face. He looked out of the window, thinking how odd it was that it should be raining now.
During Fischer’s third year at the camp, on the morning of the first seasonal rain, he had been dragged from his damp cubicle and sent to the cookhouse. Normally the work of cleaning pots and pans was done out of doors, in the prison compound, but because of the rain Fischer was allowed inside. He worked next to a table where Haller, the fat Nazi cook, stood dicing potatoes and tossing them into a watery slop. Fischer’s eyes took in the small pieces of batter that clung like snails to the damp table legs. A shudder ran through him. Perhaps it was the rain, but he knew that the day would be a long one. He wondered what game he might play to occupy his mind, to help pass the time, and his eyes went to the mound of potatoes. Of course! He would steal one. Not that he would actually take one of the potatoes — the risk was absurd — but, if he put himself on a rigid schedule, he might spend the remainder of the day planning such an offense. The important thing was that he devise a game to occupy his mind. Lethargy was a luxury that could destroy him, turning his brain into a spongy waste. He began to plan. Rank, greasy water was splashed over the front of his shirt, and soon he would exude a sour odor. If he were able to slip one of the potatoes into his shirt, a cursory search by the guards might fail to detect it. The plan had a certain amount of appeal. Its daring amused him. By noon the thought had risen in his mind, dashing out of control, until he realized that he would actually test its soundness. His brain had become fogged with the enormity of what he was about to do. He waited until Haller’s back was turned. Then, carefully, he inched his left hand toward the table. His fingers closed around a gritty potato. It was done! He was about to snatch the prize away when he felt Haller’s knife crush through his knuckles. He screamed. The crack of bone came to him like the familiar sound of snapping violin strings. After what seemed like a long time, he got to his feet and stumbled dazedly out of the cook-house into the prison compound, the sound of Haller’s oily chuckle ringing in his ears.
Fischer walked along slowly. He had been walking aimlessly for an hour. Down one street, across at the intersection, up the next street. There was still plenty of time. He carried the violin case and a small package of liverwurst, a special treat, he had purchased at Liebermann’s.
At exactly four forty-five he turned onto Trimble Street. He was only vaguely aware of the cab that cruised slowly past him looking for a fare, of an old man with newspapers under his arm, of a cat that watched him from the warmth of a porch chair. He stopped a few yards down from the familiar brownstone and looked around him wearily. The rain had stopped during the night, but it was colder now, and the snow had frozen into ice underfoot.
He pulled the threadbare collar around his throat. In a few moments, he knew, a green-and-white car would turn the corner and come toward him down the street. He knew because he had made his plans carefully. After the first full shock of deciding to snuff out a life had passed, after the sweating and the momentary panic were gone, there remained only the work to be done. It was unpleasant work. There were tedious details to be attended to. The hours of standing in chilly doorways as he observed the comings and goings of the people who lived in the brownstone on Trimble Street. The purchase at the hardware store. The stop at Liebermann’s.
He began walking again as the green-and-white car passed him and pulled to the curb in front of the brownstone. A girl got out and ran up the steps to the porch. He followed her slowly, gripping the railing, stood stamping the wet snow from his shoes as she fitted her key in the lock. He coughed. The wreath with the words Seasons Greetings was still on the door. He began humming to himself, tunelessly, waiting.
The girl seemed to be having difficulty with the lock.
“Here. Let me,” he said, putting the violin case at his feet. He opened the door, stood back and motioned for her to preceed him, a smile on his face.
“Thank you,” she said. She went inside and he heard the sound of her small feet on the stairs.
Inside it was very dim and cold. There was not much air. He squinted at a row of names under the dusty mailboxes in the hall. Brown. Mulhern. Schulze! His feet moved noiselessly over the worn carpet that ran down the hall to the flight of rickety stairs. He took the stairs slowly, right hand on the railing, with only the sound of the floorboards creaking under his weight.
Haller’s apartment was in the front, overlooking the street. The lock was no problem. He had learned about locks in the concentration camp. There was only one room. It was small, cramped; the walls squeezing in like a giant vice. For a moment Fischer felt like turning and running out. He thought how odd it was that the pitiful, fishy-smelling cubicle was so much like the pitiful, fishy-smelling cubicles of the concentration camp.
Fischer pulled back the curtain that draped the window. The curtain rings made a whining noise. A fly started across one of the panes of glass, hesitated, as if it were not sure of where it wanted to go. Fischer watched the fly, listening to the sound of the traffic in the street. He closed his eyes and the familiar image came to him clearly. He wondered what Haller would do when he returned home to find this skeleton in his room. Smiling, he placed the tip of one finger over the fly and pressed it against the glass.