The Auschwitz Violinist
(Adam Lapid Mysteries #3)
by Jonathan Dunsky
Books by Jonathan Dunsky
Ten Years Gone
The Dead Sister
The Auschwitz Violinist
A Debt of Death
The Unlucky Woman (short story)
The Payback Girl
To Ben
1
I was buying a newspaper at a kiosk when the man called my name. He was on the opposite curb, holding up a short hand. The rest of him was short as well, from his legs to his torso to his graying hair. He was young, too young to be turning gray. But there were many such men and women about. War ages the young almost as fast as it kills the living.
His name eluded me, though his face seemed familiar. When he came across the street and said hello to me in Hungarian, I figured out where I had last seen him. It was in 1944, and we were in the same barracks at Auschwitz. For a short while at least. Then he simply wasn't there one night. I assumed he died—that was what usually happened to people in Auschwitz who were there one day and gone the next. Prisoners were regularly shot for one infraction or another, or beaten to death for the amusement of the guards. But there he was, six years later, on Ben Yehuda Street in Tel Aviv, dressed in a blue short-sleeved shirt, black slacks and shoes, his arms browned by the blazing August sun. Kaplon, his name was. Yosef Kaplon.
"Thought I was dead, didn't you?" he said after crossing the street. He smiled widely. He had a gold tooth on the right side of his mouth. I wondered idly when he got it. Couldn't have been before the camp. The guards would have yanked it out of his mouth.
"It was a safe bet," I said, shaking his extended hand. He had long fingers and a soft, uncalloused hand. He was no day laborer.
"That is very true. Of course, I knew you were alive for quite some time. Imagine my surprise when I opened up a copy of Davar and saw your picture plastered across half a page. And what a headline: 'Adam Lapid, Hero of Israel.' It was quite impressive what you did in that battle."
I felt a throb in my chest where a coin-shaped scar marred my skin. The story of my wartime exploits had been published without my knowledge—I was lying in a hospital in Tel Aviv in what amounted to a coma at the time, trying to survive two bullet wounds I had taken in Israel's War of Independence. Those had been dark times for the new country, and the people needed heroes. I fit the bill. It got me a lot of attention at the time and sometimes still did. I didn't like it. Killing was sometimes necessary and justified, and occasionally satisfying, but I wasn't interested in the glory that came with it.
"A wild exaggeration," I said.
"Not from what I read. I was very happy to read that you survived your wounds."
"How did you survive?" I said, changing the subject. "The camp, I mean."
His face turned somber. "I owe it all to my mother."
He must have read the question in my eyes, for he smiled again. "Instead of telling you, why don't I show you. Are you busy tonight? Come to Café Budapest at eight o'clock, and the secret of my survival will be revealed."
Café Budapest smelled thickly of goulash. Meat—like eggs, butter, and a host of other food items—was still strictly rationed, so the owner probably had some connections he pulled to get his supply. There was a bar along the left side of the room. Two flags hung side by side on the wall behind it—the Israeli and Hungarian flags. You would have thought the two countries were firm allies. Scattered about the room were a dozen or so round wooden tables. All of the tables were occupied. The atmosphere was festive. Men and women sat over steaming bowls and tall glasses filled with wine or vodka or brandy, chattering in Hungarian and Hebrew, laughing, smoking cheap cigarettes. I looked around for Kaplon, but he wasn't there.
I took one of the tall stools at the bar. The barkeep was an amiable-looking, overweight man in a gray shirt and spotless white apron. He had the ruddy cheeks of a habitual drinker, but not the broken capillaries that signify excess. His hair was dark, just a little bit receding, and his wide mouth was overhung by a thick, Stalin-style mustache. He brought me a bowl of goulash with a hunk of dark, coarse bread on the side. The smell brought water to my mouth. I dunked the bread in the broth, stuck it in my mouth, and thought of my mother. The memory came unbidden, like a trespasser. The way she'd made it was different—thicker, with a bit more salt—but it was close, too close for comfort. For a moment, I regretted ordering it. But food was food, and it was delicious.
"Good, eh?" the barkeep asked, smiling the smile of a merchant who knew the value of his product.
I nodded.
"For a moment there," he said, "you looked like you were someplace else."
I said, "I was back at what used to be home."
His smile faltered momentarily then returned. "That's as good a compliment as I can expect." He held out a meaty hand. "Milosh Dobrash."
"Adam Lapid." His handshake was firm, his palm warm.
We chatted for a while, exchanging background stories. He had come to Israel in 1928 along with his wife. They'd worked a variety of jobs for some years, struggled like everyone else, and in 1936 opened the café together. His wife was the one who made the goulash, and any other dishes on the menu, and he took care of the day-to-day running of the place. The café became a gathering place for Hungarian Jews. A place to talk a familiar language, eat familiar food, and share pleasant memories.
It was the last part that had kept me away from Café Budapest. I did not want to share any memories of Hungary. Dredging up the pleasant memories would require digging through whole layers of unpleasant ones.
I told Milosh a little of my history, how I had been a police officer in Hungary from 1933 to 1939, the first Jewish detective on that country's police force, and that I worked as a private detective after anti-Jewish laws led to my firing from the police force. I left the worst things out, but I could see that Milosh was smart enough to fill in the gaps.
"You look like a policeman. That's what I figured you were when you came in."
"I'm not a policeman anymore. Just a detective. For things the police can't or won't handle. Or when you'd rather not get the police involved in your affairs."
Milosh nodded sagaciously. He didn't ask me to explain why I chose not to be a policeman in Israel.
When I told him that I was there to meet Yosef Kaplon and asked if he knew him, Milosh broke into a smile. "Sure I know him. You don't know what he's here for, do you? Well, you're in for a special treat. He should be on in ten minutes or so."
After bringing me some more bread, which I used to soak up the dregs of the goulash sauce, Milosh went to pour drinks for other patrons. I sat with my thoughts for a moment, wondering what had possessed me to come to Café Budapest that night, when I'd been avoiding it for so long. It had something to do with Yosef Kaplon and what he'd said about his mother. I wanted to hear his story, and he had just smiled enigmatically when I'd tried getting it out of him earlier that day, saying that I should come to the café that night.
So here I was.
Milosh came back to where I sat. He nodded toward the other end of the café. "Here he comes."
I turned and there was Yosef Kaplon stepping out of a side door in the far corner of the café. I noticed that there was a small elevated platform snug against the wall, with a single high stool standing on it. Kaplon, dressed in an immaculate dark suit and silver tie, stepped onto the platform. Conversation ceased and an anticipatory silence fell on the café as he bowed deeply. It was then that I noticed that he was holding a violin in his left hand, a bow in his right.