A Man Lies Dreaming (15 page)

Besides all of which, the Jews were everywhere; manipulating all behind the scenes; and no doubt they were the reason he had been rejected from the Academy of Fine Arts, to boot – was it a wonder that he hated them?

He had begun to perceive the great conspiracy behind all things; perhaps even then, so early, he knew it was his destiny to fight it; and yet in the final tally, he had lost. The Fall had made a mockery of Wolf. Imagine only if he had succeeded; if Germany was his, its military and its citizens, to wield as he saw fit: what would have happened to the Jewish people then?

But Wolf had given up what-ifs long ago. And so he made his way amongst the throng of Jews in this alien city, the way he had once walked through the Jewish ghettos of Vienna; and the same hostile alien faces stared back at him. He came to a fishmonger and stopped and said, ‘I am looking for a man named Barbie.’

The man pursed his lips and shook his head and Wolf moved on. He came to Petticoat Lane where all the Jewish cloth merchants congregated at one end. It tapered slowly towards vegetables and fruit, fish, crockery and badly made toys, and various and sundry merchandise which had happened to fall off the back of carts only to wind up here.

‘Barbie. I am looking for Barbie.’

More heads shaking, lips pursing, Jews cursing: the name resonated but no one wanted to talk. He was almost on the Whitechapel Road where the market became more unruly and the wares more decrepit and less legitimate and for a moment he stopped and admired a gold watch.

‘Palestine for the Jews!’ The man was wild-haired and wild-eyed, swarthy and thin, and he was holding an armful of pamphlets and offering them like a priest offering the flesh and blood of Christ. ‘Palestine for the Jews, comrade! Take one!’

Without having time to reply the man shoved a grubby pamphlet into Wolf’s hands and moved on. ‘Respect the Balfour Declaration! A homeland for the Jews!’

Wolf stared after him thoughtfully, his eyes cold. He looked at the pamphlet. The cover showed healthy-looking men and women, the men in khaki work clothes, the women in white dresses, against the background of a clear blue sea and distant mountains. Orange trees grew around them and a group of laughing, happy children stood in a circle, holding hands. Some sort of electric train, brightly coloured, vanished into the distance and high overhead, above the blue-chalked mountains in the distance, there hovered a bad artist’s impression of an airship.
The Old-New Land
, the cover said,
by Theodor Herzl
.

Wolf crumpled the pamphlet into a ball and dropped it on the ground.

‘You a Jew?’

Wolf turned again. The gold watch he had been admiring lay on a none-too-clean blanket on which sat various items pilfered who knew where. There were watches and rings, bracelets and necklaces, silver- and gold- and pearl-handled letter-openers and their like. The man was squatting behind his wares, on the ground. The look he gave Wolf was neither hostile nor friendly; it just was.

‘Do I look like a fucking Jew,’ Wolf said.

‘Can’t say as I could tell, mate.’

The man was speaking German. He spat on the ground. ‘Jews,’ he said. ‘Don’t mind them, myself. Sure got a lot of them around, though.’

Wolf nodded.

‘Live and let live,’ the man said. ‘I come from Dortmund, myself. Got in trouble with the commies, had to make a run for it, didn’t I.’

‘Political?’

‘Nah. Got caught with some things what didn’t belong to me. You?’

Wolf shrugged, vaguely. ‘You know how it is.’

The man nodded. ‘Times are hard for everyone,’ he said. ‘You want to buy that watch?’

‘I’m looking for a man. Name of Barbie?’

‘Oh, you mean Santa Claus?’ the man said.

‘Excuse me?’

The man grinned, a little sheepishly. ‘It’s what they call him, around here, the English. The Jews don’t like him much.’

Understanding dawned. ‘His name is Klaus?’

‘
Ja
, Klaus. You can find him down that end.’ He gestured towards where the market met the Whitechapel Road. Kept his voice low. ‘Deals in this and that, if you know what I mean.’

Wolf threw the man a shilling. The man caught it deftly and made it disappear. ‘Cocky looking devil, if you know what I mean,’ the man said. ‘You can find him in the bicycle shop down there. Can’t miss it.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Go in peace, my friend. By the way–’ the man jerked his head sideways, ‘did you know you’re being followed?’

Wolf didn’t turn to look. ‘How many?’ he said.

‘Two.’

Wolf nodded. ‘Black suits?’

‘Sure. Friends of yours?’

Wolf shrugged. ‘Who isn’t,’ he said. The man smiled back but he didn’t look convinced. Wolf walked on.

The bicycle shop was indeed there. The window was dark and dusty and the bikes seemed to have been sitting there for at least twenty years. A faded poster on the wall showed a young black boy riding a bike while being chased by a lion.
Raleigh: The All-Steel Bicycle
, the poster proclaimed. Wolf pushed the door open and went inside. It was dark and dusty and smelled of aniseed. There was a wireless on the counter, tuned to Radio Luxembourg, playing the
Horlicks Tea Time Hour
, which changed into a spirited advert for Brown and Polson’s custard powder as the door clanged shut.

‘Waiting for the racing news, see.’ Two men stood in the gloomy interior leaning against the counter. One was tall; one was short. Both had pencil stubs behind their ears. Both turned as Wolf came in. They regarded him with puzzled curiosity. ‘Who’s your money on?’ the tall one said.

Wolf said, ‘Me.’

The tall one laughed, dutifully. The short one scowled. ‘Everyone’s a clown,’ he said.

‘Maybe he’s a copper.’

The short one scratched his head. ‘You a copper?’ he said.

‘No.’

‘Didn’t think so, mate. Didn’t think so.’

‘Well what does he want?’

‘Yeah, what do you want?’

‘Is this a betting shop?’ Wolf said.

‘Is this a betting shop, he says,’ complained the tall one. ‘Well, what does this look like to you, friend?’

‘Maybe he’s in the wrong place,’ said the short one. ‘Are you in the wrong place, mate?’

‘I’m always in the wrong place,’ Wolf said.

‘He’s a smartarse isn’t he,’ the tall one said.

‘German, isn’t he.’

‘Austrian,’ Wolf said, stiffly.

The tall one waved a hand vaguely. ‘All the same,’ he said. On the radio a woman was trying to convince them of the benefits of Lifebuoy Soap –
More than a Good Soap, it’s a Good Habit
!

‘I only got bad habits, me,’ the short one said. ‘So what do you want, kraut?’

‘I’m looking for a man called Barbie. Klaus Barbie.’

‘Oh,
him
.’

‘Santa Claus, eh?’

‘You know him?’

‘Sure we know him. But does he know you?’

Wolf saw a shadow move on the other side of the counter. And he was ready when the short man pulled out a nasty looking shiv and made a lunge at Wolf. Wolf grabbed his hand and twisted, breaking the small bones of the fingers with vicious pleasure. The man screamed. The knife clattered to the floor.

Wolf kneed him between the legs and kicked him when he was down. He felt much better now. The tall man watched them mournfully. ‘Everyone’s a clown,’ he said. ‘Come on.’ He knelt and tugged at his friend, who cried with a soft whistling sound. Wolf came round and helped him drag the man outside. At the door he stood and watched them both, the tall one and the short. The tall one pulled out a note from his pocket.
‘Put a tenner on Bogskar for us, will you?’ he said.

Wolf took the money and they walked off, the one tall, the other limping and hunched. On the corner of Petticoat Lane and Whitechapel, Wolf saw a man in a black suit he thought he recognised. The man raised his hand and smiled in apparent greeting. He had very even, white teeth; like an American’s. Wolf went back inside and shut the door.

‘You Barbie?’

The man was good-looking with sharp Aryan features and a cruel sensuous mouth. He leaned on the counter. His sleeves were rolled up. He said, ‘You’re not good for business.’

‘You know who I am?’

‘I know who you were.’

Wolf had to hand it to him: the man was cool. He said, ‘I hear you can get things.’

‘What sort of things.’

‘Girls,’ Wolf said. Barbie shrugged. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Plenty of girls all about.’

‘Young girls.’

Barbie looked at Wolf. His eyes were clear and he didn’t blink much. ‘Never had you pegged for one of those.’

‘What did you have me pegged for?’

Barbie shrugged. ‘What do I know,’ he said.

‘Sell many bicycles?’

That made him smile. ‘Sometimes,’ he said. ‘You’d be surprised.’

‘Who owns the betting book?’

‘A man.’

‘Has he got a name?’

‘Sure,’ Barbie said. ‘Everybody’s gotta name.’

‘Do I know his name?’

‘If you did, you wouldn’t be asking, now, would you?’

Wolf didn’t like the man’s attitude. ‘So what can you get me?’

‘It depends. You got money?’

Wolf took out a roll of notes. ‘I don’t suppose you’d take a cheque.’

Again the man smiled. ‘I don’t suppose you’re wrong, at that,’ he said.

‘I’m looking for a Jewish girl.’

‘Jews,’ Barbie said. ‘The world’s got too many damn Jews in it.’

‘And Jewish girls?’

‘Sure. Girls, boys … whatever you like.’

‘This one would have been out of Germany a few weeks ago,’ Wolf said. ‘Family paid to have her delivered safely. She never made it.’

‘All families pay,’ Barbie said, and shrugged. ‘Who cares if a Jew goes missing.’

‘I care.’

‘You want to fuck her? I can get you a Jew girl to fuck six ways from Sunday.’

‘I want this girl.’ Wolf took out the photograph Isabella had given him. Laid it flat on the countertop. ‘Know her?’

Barbie was still looking at Wolf. ‘Don’t seem familiar,’ he said.

‘You’re not looking.’

‘I’ve seen all I need to see.’

‘Look at her,’ Wolf said. The man was staring at him. ‘I said,
look at her
.’

Barbie looked down. Wolf grabbed Barbie’s head and slammed it against the countertop. There was the
crunch
of breaking bone. Wolf lifted Barbie’s head and slammed it down again, and again, until the man’s face was a mess of blood and snot and the photo of the girl was unrecognisable with blood. At last Wolf released him and Barbie slid slowly down to the floor. Wolf went and opened the hatch in the counter and passed to the other side. He pulled up a chair and sat down.

‘You’re just a fucking follower,’ he said, though Barbie couldn’t hear him. Wolf looked through the man’s clothes. He found a set of keys and a little black book. He opened the book. It was full of lists, numbers in an ascending serial order and amounts next to each one. ‘You supply them,’ Wolf said. ‘Clubs like the one on Leather Lane, or men who come to you wanting something special, little girls, little boys. But you’re still only a middleman. You’re a nobody.’ He straightened up and then kicked Barbie hard in the ribs. There was something thoroughly satisfying about the sound of breaking bones. Barbie didn’t make a sound. Wolf rather expected that he would choke on the blood. Eventually. He kicked him in the head just for good measure and then went to the back of the store. There was a safe and one of the keys opened it. Inside was a fat brown envelope. Wolf took it out and put it in his coat pocket and closed and locked the safe again. There was a door and it too was locked. He tried the keys until one worked. He opened the door and saw steps leading down to a basement. He had a sense of déjà vu. He switched the light on and went downstairs.

There were no cells this time, no mattresses, nothing of the luxury afforded the slaves at the club. There, consideration was made for the clients. Here it was just the holding pens.

It must have been a warehouse, once. The door was securely locked but there was a grille and he could look through it. Inside the large room there were some sixty to a hundred women. They wore nothing but undergarments. They were crammed into the space. The place smelled: of unwashed bodies and piss and shit. The women stared up at him with eyes as dull as cattle. The light was dim inside. He saw that they had been tattooed, a blue number, a serial corresponding, he assumed, to the numbers in Barbie’s little black book.

‘Hey, you,’ he said. Some of them turned to look at him. ‘I am looking for Judith Rubinstein. Is there a Judith Rubinstein here?’

A slim black-haired girl roused herself from a pallet. ‘I’m Judith,’ she said. She approached him cautiously, like a wounded animal. Wolf squinted at her. Could it be that easy? He tried to compare her to the photograph. The girl in the photograph had been healthy, happy. This one was just a number. He didn’t know.

‘Come closer,’ he said. ‘Let me take a look at you.’

The girl shook her head, this way and that. She looked unsure of where she was, now that she had spoken.

A blonde girl stood up. ‘I’m Judith,’ she said.

‘I’m Judith—’ from an old grandmother.

‘Take me, mister, I’ll be your Judith!’

‘Does she fuck you like I would? Does she take it in the ass?’

One of them was yelling curses in Yiddish. Another tried to shush her, fearfully. Wolf rapped on the bars. Immediately all the girls fell silent.

‘You,’ he said, pointing at the first one. ‘Come here.’

‘I didn’t do nothing, mister.’

‘Come here.’

The girl was shaking. ‘Don’t make me, don’t make me,’ she said.

‘I said come here!’

The other girls were pushing her. ‘You have to go, otherwise he will come back—’ Wolf assumed they were talking about Barbie. He could imagine how Barbie liked to amuse himself, when business upstairs was quiet. He said, ‘I won’t hurt you. I just want to ask you a question.’

The girl stumbled forward, pushed from behind. Her face was pressed to the bars of her prison. Her hair was dirty and lank, Wolf saw, her face pale and drawn. She had a dark bruise under one eye. He said, ‘Did you know Judith Rubinstein?’

‘She’s not here, mister. Honest.’