“What, that old Jew? Mad Solly?” said the leader of the group in answer to his question. The rest gathered around.
“That’s the one,” said Miller. “Mad Solly.”
“He was crazy,” said one of the crowd. “He used to walk like this.” The boy hunched his head into his shoulders, hands clutching his jacket around him, and shuffled forward a few paces, muttering to himself and casting his eyes about. The others dissolved in laughter, and one gave the impersonator a hefty shove which sent him sprawling.
“Anyone ever see him with anyone else?” asked Miller. “Talking with anyone else? Another man?”
“Whatcher want to know for?” asked the leader suspiciously. “We didn’t do him no harm.” Miller flicked a five-mark coin idly up and down in one band. Eight pairs of eyes watched the silver glitter of the spinning coin. Eight heads shook slowly. Miller turned and walked away.
“Mister.” He stopped and turned around. The smallest of the group had caught up with him.
“I seen him once with a man. Talking, they was. Sitting and talking.”
“Where was that?”
“Down by the river. On the grass bank along the river. There are some benches there. They was sitting on a bench, talking.”
“How old was he, the other one?”
“Very old. Lot of white hair.” Miller tossed him the coin, convinced it had been a wasted gesture. But he walked to the river and stared down the length of the grass bank in both directions. There were a dozen benches along the bank, all of them empty.
In summer there would be plenty of people sitting along the Elbe Chaussee watching the great liners come in and out, but not at the end of November.
To his left along the near bank lay the fishing port, with half a dozen North Sea trawlers drawn up at the wharfs, discharging their loads of fresh-caught herring and mackerel or preparing for the sea again.
As a boy, Peter had returned to the shattered city from a farm in the country where he had been evacuated during the bombing, and had grown up amid the rubble and the ruins. His favorite playing place had been this fishing port along the river at Altona.
He liked the fishermen, gruff, kindly men who smelled of tar and salt and shag tobacco. He thought of Eduard Roschmann in Riga and wondered how the same country could have produced them both.
His mind came back to Tauber and went over the problem again. Where could he possibly have met his friend Marx? Miller knew there was something missing but could not put his finger on it. It was not until he was back in his car and had stopped for gas close to Altona railway station that the answer came. As so often, it was a chance remark. The pump attendant pointed out there had been a price increase in top grade gasoline and added, just to make conversation with his customer, that money went less and less far these days. He went to get the change and left Miller staring at the open wallet in Ws hand.
Money. Where did Tauber get his money? He didn’t work. He refused to accept any compensation from the German state. Yet he paid his rent regularly and must have bad something left over with which to eat.
He was fifty-six years old, so he could not have had an old-age pension, but he could well have had a disability pension. Probably did.
Miller pocketed his change, gunned the Jaguar to life, and drove to the Altona post office. He approached the window marked PENSIONS.
“Can you tell me when the pensioners collect their money?” he asked the fat lady behind the grille.
“Last day of the month, of course,” she said.
“That will be Saturday, then?”
“Except on weekends. This month it will be Friday, the day after tomorrow.”
“Does that include those with disability pensions?” he asked.
“Everyone who’s entitled to a pension collects it on the last day of the month.”
“Here, at this window?”
“If the person lives in Altona, yes,” replied the woman.
“At what time?”
“From opening time onward”
“Thank you.”
Miller was back on Friday morning, watching the queue of old men and women begin to filter through the doors of the post office when it opened. He positioned himself against the wall opposite, watching the directions they took as they departed. Many had white hair, but most wore bats against the cold. The weather had turned dry again, sunny but chill.
Just before eleven an old man with a shock of white hair like candy floss came out of the post office, counted his money to make sure it was all there, put it in his inside pocket, and looked around as if searching for someone. After a few minutes he turned and began to walk slowly away. At the comer he looked up and down again, then turned down Museum Street in the direction of the riverbank. Miller eased himself off the wall and followed him.
It took the old man twenty minutes to get the half mile to the Elbe Cbaussee; then he turned up the bank, crossed the grass, and settled himself on a bench. Miller approached slowly from behind.
“Herr Marx?” The old man turned as Miller came around the end of the bench. He showed no surprise, as though he were often recognized by complete strangers.
“Yes,” he said gravely, “I am Marx.”
“My name is Miller.” Marx inclined his head gravely in acceptance of this news.
“Are you—er—waiting for Herr Tauber?”
“Yes, I am,” said the old man without surprise.
“May I sit down?”
“Please.”
Miller sat beside him, so they both faced toward the Elbe River. A giant dry-cargo ship, the Kota Maru out of Yokohama, was easing downriver on the tide.
“I’m afraid Herr Tauber is dead.” The old man stared at the passing ship. He showed neither grief nor surprise, as if such news was brought frequently. Perhaps it was.
“I see,” he said.
Miller told him briefly about the events of the previous Friday night. “You don’t seem surprised. That he killed himself.”
“No,” said Marx, “he was a very unhappy man.”
“He left a diary, you know.”
“Yes, he told me once about that.”
“Did you ever read it?” asked Miller.
“No, he never let anybody read it. But he told me about it.”
“It described the time he spent in Riga during the war.”
“Yes, he told me he was in Riga.”
“Were you in Riga too?”
The man turned and looked at him with sad old eyes. “No, I was in Dachau.”
“Look, Herr Marx, I need your help. In his diary your friend mentioned a man, an SS officer, called Roschmann. Captain Eduard Roschmann. Did he ever mention him to you?”
“Oh, yes. He told me about Roschmann. That was really what kept him alive. Hoping one day to give evidence against Roschmann.”
“That’s what he said in his diary. I read it after his death. I’m a press reporter. I want to try and find Roschmann. Bring him to trial. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“But there’s no point if Roschmann is already dead.
Can you remember if Herr Tauber ever learned whether Roschmann was still alive and free?” Marx stared out at the disappearing stem of the Kola Maru for several minutes.
“Captain Roschmann is alive,” he said simply, “and free.”
Miller leaned forward earnestly. “How do you know?”
“Because Tauber saw him.”
“Yes I read that. It was in early April nineteen forty-five.”
Marx shook his head slowly. “No, it was last month.” For several more minutes there was silence as Miller stared at the old man and Marx stared out at the water.
“Last month?” repeated Miller at length. “Did he say how he saw him?”
Marx sighed, then turned to Miller. “Yes. He was walking late at night, as be often used to do when he could not sleep. He was walking back home past the State Opera House just as a crowd of people started to come out. He stopped as they came to the pavement. He said they were wealthy people, the men in dinner jackets, the women in furs and jewels. There were three taxis lined up at the curb waiting for them. The doorman held the passers-by back so they could climb in. And then he saw Roschmann.”