His cheeks filled with color. His words came out edged with fury.
"No harm? You who were in that camp should know better. They collaborated with the Germans. While the rest of us did backbreaking labor, they played their instruments for the amusement of the guards."
"They did what they needed to do to survive," I said. "Just like we did when we worked in the camp factories."
He waved his hand dismissively. "None of us did what they did. None of us helped the Germans fool the rest of the prisoners, the rest of our people, as they were led to their deaths. I remember them, when I got out of the train car and stood on that platform, how they played jolly music intended to hide the fact that most of us would soon be dead. It was because of them that we were led like sheep to the slaughter, because of them that we didn't fight."
I looked at him for a moment, but there was no mistaking the fervor of his words, the rigid sincerity in his eyes.
"Fight?" I said. "Fight with what? They had machine guns; we had nothing. They were trained soldiers; we were civilians, with children and women and the old. And the Germans hadn't been stuffed into train cars, offered no water and no food for days, made to breathe the stink of those who died in the car with us. When I arrived in Auschwitz, I was barely able to stand. I couldn't have fought anyone."
"We should have revolted," he said adamantly.
"And we would have been killed. The whole lot of us. None of us would have survived."
He shook his head, and I knew that he could not be persuaded. He believed what he was saying with the uncompromising manner of a fanatic.
"As Jews, they should have refused to collaborate. They should have refused to deceive their people."
"And they deserved to die for it?"
"Yes. Simple justice. And if this new country of ours had any sense, the police would arrest such traitors and they would be hanged." He looked at me. "You of all people should understand. You're ready to go to Germany to exact vengeance. I cannot join you there, so I do what I can here, in Israel. I go after the collaborators. I work for justice. Just like you."
I was silent for a long moment. I looked at him, this man with the ruined arm and the scorched soul and the shattered sense of right and wrong. This man had a family, money, a good profession, a future to look forward to. Yet he was still stuck in the past, not just in thought but also in deed. And what was clear was that he would go on being this way. Given the chance, he would find other so-called collaborators and murder them. This was how he dealt with the memories and the guilt of surviving.
I said, "Earlier you said that I couldn't prove that you killed Abramo and Kaplon and Zinger, and that is why I didn't call the police. You were wrong: that is not why. If I gave them your name and they started sniffing around, you would be surprised by what they could uncover. They can be quite tenacious when they wish to be, and they have the resources to find all sorts of things. They'll be able to determine that you weren't in Tel Aviv on the day of Abramo's killing. They'll know you stayed across the street from him shortly before his death."
He snorted. "So what? Staying in a hotel is not a crime."
"Under a false name?"
"Maybe I was seeing a married woman in Jerusalem. Being a gentleman, I would refuse to give her name to the police, to save her the embarrassment."
I went on. "Once they place you at the hotel, the police will take your picture, show it around Tel Aviv. Maybe one of Kaplon's neighbors will remember seeing you. As you just learned, people remember the strangest things. And there is also Kaplon's note. Now that I have a few of his letters to Abramo, a comparison can be made. The police will know he was murdered."
"So they'll know. But they won't know it was me. And it's far from certain that anyone saw us together. It was late and I waited until he was far away from the café before I approached him."
I said, "If you left a single fingerprint in Kaplon's or Abramo's apartments, you're finished. If this gun I took from you is the one used on Zinger—"
"Do you really think I would have kept that gun, Adam? Especially after the police came knocking on my door? Do you take me for a fool? That gun is gone. No one will ever find it. And as for fingerprints, the police won't find a single one of mine in either apartment. You can count on it."
He was smiling pleasantly at me, like a master at an apprentice.
"There's no need to quarrel about this, Adam," he said, employing what I was sure was his most persuasive tone. "We can and should be allies. I am actually impressed with how you found me out. Now I am even more convinced that you are the right man to lead a team into Germany." He pointed at the envelope on his desk. "There's five thousand dollars in it. Take the money. Go to Germany. Do some good. And if you want, I can get you more. Just to put this whole sorry thing behind us. Isn't that the real reason why you haven't brought the police here with you?"
I shook my head. "I didn't go to the police with what I know because I don't want them involved in this."
"Why not?" he said.
I pointed at the picture of his family. "That's one reason. If I go to the police, how long do you think your family will remain out of it? If, at any time, the papers caught wind of the investigation, your name will be dragged through the mud, and your wife and son with it. I don't want that."
I rubbed my eyes. I was very tired, I suddenly realized. Tired of this case. Tired of this killer. I wanted to go home, to have coffee at Greta's, to beat myself at chess.
"In addition," I said, "there are enough people in this country who assume that those of us who survived the camps are ruined people, damaged mentally. Crazy. Your story being splashed across front pages will reinforce that opinion. I don't want that either. But you're a murderer. You kill people. You kill your fellow Jews. You kill those who survived hell itself. I can't let you go on. So I'm going to give you a choice. I either go to the police, or you finish this yourself."
I drew his revolver from my pocket and handed it to him. He looked at me, incredulous.
"You expect me to shoot myself?" he said.
"It's either that or public humiliation and a jail cell," I said.
I put the gun on the desk and straightened.
He hesitated for a second, frowning at me. I put my hands in my jacket pockets. He reached forward and picked up the gun. He looked at it, then up at me, and then down at it again. Then he raised his head, grinning.
"You are a fool."
And he pulled the trigger.
16
The click was louder than I had expected. So was the second one as he pulled the trigger again. Then a third time. With each click his face registered a different emotion: bewilderment, incredulity, fury.
I brought my hand out of my pocket. All five shells were nestled in my palm. I had surreptitiously emptied the cylinder while the revolver was in my pocket.
"I guess you don't just kill those who deserve it," I said.
He roared, throwing the gun at my head. I turned and it hit my right shoulder, sending a shock of pain down my arm. The bullets fell from my hand, bouncing noiselessly on the carpet. He was up from his chair, his face contorted and red. He snatched at the sword-shaped letter opener I'd noticed on my first visit to his office, brandishing it in front of my face.
"I'll kill you," he shouted, and he came around the table, waving the opener at me. It was seven inches long. It looked wicked and sharp as a knife as it caught the light. I stepped back, letting him make the first move.
Using a blade seems intuitive, but it takes knowledge and training to use it properly. He had neither. He came straight at me, trying to stab me in the stomach. His balance was off—probably due to his bad hand—and I slid to the right away from his jab and launched a fist at his head.