"I made it through Auschwitz with my body intact," he said, "and then, in '48, when the Egyptians bombed Tel Aviv, I got this. Now you know why I can't make the trip to Germany myself. But, in my own way, I can still contribute to the cause of justice and our people. I am financing your trip to Germany, for one thing, and I personally do what I can here in Israel. And I am satisfied with it. You should do the same—what you can. One can ask no more of one's self. Just do what you can now, today, and be satisfied with it. Go to Germany, kill some of the bastards who massacred your family and our people. When you return, we shall deal with the rest."
When we finished our talk, Feinstein walked me to the door. He grabbed my hand in his and gave it a good squeeze. “I’m glad you came to see me today, Adam. I'm glad we talked. I now have no doubts that you are the right man to lead this holy mission into Germany.”
Saturday I went to the beach and watched men and women and children bask in the sun and soak in the surf. I kept my shirt on—I had no wish for the whip marks on my back to draw stares and comments and pointed fingers. I drank soda and ate some watermelon and read my Western. I smoked double the usual number of cigarettes. I drank too much coffee. I felt anxious for some news, some development. I tried not to consider the fact that if Reuben found nothing for me, I would likely have to admit defeat. I had no other leads or ideas. When night fell, I went home and slept. I woke twice from bad dreams, but almost immediately fell asleep again.
At ten thirty Sunday morning, I called Reuben. Still nothing. I called him again in the afternoon.
"Nothing, right?"
"I'm not sure," he said. "I may have something. Four months ago, mid-April. Not in Tel Aviv. In Ramat Gan. But it's not exactly what you told me to look for. It wasn't a suicide. It was a murder. One dead musician."
He gave me the name of the officer in charge of the investigation and the address of the police station. "He's there until four thirty. Then he's off for the day."
I hung up and caught a bus to Ramat Gan. It was a small, dreary city a few kilometers to the east of Tel Aviv. The bus I boarded had a stop directly across the street from the police station. The ride took just under thirty minutes.
I entered the police station and told the officer at the front desk that I was there to see Sergeant Shamai. I found him seated behind his desk, poring over reports. He was a tall man, broad across the shoulders, with keen dark-brown eyes, a broad mouth, and a lump of a chin.
He pumped my hand. "If it had been any other man, I wouldn't have shown you any investigation report, favor to another policeman or no favor. But my brother-in-law served with you in the Givati Brigade. Told me he never met a braver man. Figured I could make an exception."
He got me a coffee—"It's pretty bad, I'm afraid"—and an uncomfortable wooden chair. He gave me the file. "I'd like to know what this is about," he said. "I don't like to leave cases open. Especially homicides."
I told him I was working on another case, and there was a very slight chance of there being a connection.
"At the moment it's not worth even discussing. The chance is so low."
He frowned and I could see he didn't like being kept in the dark. But it was close to the end of the day and he was anxious to go home. "Give the file to the desk officer when you leave. Don't take anything with you."
I assured him that I wouldn't and thanked him for his help. He grunted once and looked about to ask me again what my interest was, but in the end he left without saying anything. I opened the file and began to read.
Benny Regev should have been made to read this report. It would have taught him a few things about what a real police officer did. Shamai had conducted an extensive investigation and had documented it meticulously. There were medical reports, crime scene reports, interviews with work colleagues, neighbors, and anyone else who was connected to the victim, however tenuously.
The victim's name was Kalman Zinger. He had lived in Ramat Gan, in a three-room house near the Yarkon River, and worked in a farm equipment factory. He was survived by his wife and four-year-old son.
He was born in Poland in 1920. In 1946, he met his wife in a camp for the displaced in Italy. She became pregnant and delivered their son while still in Europe. In 1947, they got on a boat that made it through the British blockade that strove to stop Jewish immigration to Israel and settled in Haifa, later moving to Ramat Gan.
The reason Sergeant Shamai told Reuben this case fitted what I was looking for was that Zinger was an avid trumpet player. His wife said it was the thing he loved most, after his family, of course. He would play whenever he could, much to the consternation of some of his neighbors.
Zinger was found dead one night in his home, while his wife and son were spending the night at her sister's in Haifa. He'd been shot twice in the chest from close range. His wife discovered the body the next day when she and their son returned from their trip. Nothing had been taken. The doors and windows were all intact and showed no sign of having been forced.
I went through the medical report. The autopsy showed what was clear from the scene. Two shots, one dead man. It did offer one additional detaiclass="underline" Kalman Zinger had a number tattooed on his left forearm. He'd been in Auschwitz. Whether he had played in a camp orchestra remained an open question.
I lit a cigarette and began reading the interviews Shamai had conducted. It was clear from the beginning that he had no leads, no idea, really, why this murder had taken place. The lack of motive was the problem. A motive pointed to a benefit and beneficiaries. Without a motive, a detective was working blind.
Shamai had taken a look at Zinger's wife, but saw no reason for her to kill her husband. By all accounts, they had had a good marriage. Their neighbors had seen no sign of trouble. Zinger did not have life insurance, and his death had left his wife and son without a provider. In addition, she had an alibi, and she did not have money of her own to hire an assassin. Shamai noted in the report that he doubted she would know how to find someone to hire even if she did.
When Shamai interviewed Zinger's acquaintances, coworkers, and neighbors, he went broad with his questions, trying to learn as much as he could about Zinger's life. It was a regular workingman's life: work, make a modest home for yourself and your family, slowly save your money, raise your son to be a good person. Shamai started with Zinger's neighbors and got little from them. After a while, the interviews turned so repetitively dull that I poured myself another cup of the bad coffee Shamai had given me earlier. It was better cold than hot, which said a lot about its quality.
His talks with Zinger's coworkers had yielded nothing, and I was ready to call this a dead end when I turned to a new page in the report, saw the name of the interviewee at the top, and felt my heart freeze in my chest. I had to read the name over before it completely sank in. When it did, and everything connected in my mind, I knew I had found my killer.
15
I took the next bus to Jerusalem and went directly to the Hatikva hotel. Yigal, the clerk I had spoken with on my first visit, was not at the desk. The man who'd replaced him when Yigal accompanied me on my tour of the rooms was. He saw me approach and was shaking his head before I had said a word.
"I'm under clear instructions not to answer any of your questions," he said.
I smiled. "I won't tell if you won't." I laid ten Israeli liras—two fives—on the counter. Made no effort to hide them. His eyes widened. I casually placed my hand on the bills, drumming my fingers on them. "These go into your pocket when I get the information I'm here for. You won't have to leave your post."