Death in Twilight (3 page)

“Any chance he slipped and fell?” Blaustein finally asked, without much hope.

“No sir, no chance. You could see through the hole, all the way to his brains.”

More silence.

Blaustein stood very still, his eyes frozen on an invisible something. Shemtov knew that Blaustein was working through all the angles he himself had thought of, and probably others that he hadn’t.

After several minutes, Shemtov could see Blaustein’s mind slowly making its way back to his office.

“Witnesses?” Blaustein asked.

“None who would speak to us, sir,” Shemtov said.

That was little surprise.

“And where is Berson now?”

“I thought it was best if we took care of him ourselves, make sure there was no evidence in plain sight, sir,” Shemtov said. “We moved him to a basement just a few blocks from where we found him.”

“
You
thought it was best?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And how did you come to that conclusion?”

“I thought you’d want to keep the Germans out of it as long as possible,” Shemtov said, cringing under Blaustein’s glare.

It would take no more than a word for Shemtov to lose his position, and that was something Shemtov couldn’t face. He would miss the extra rations, but would probably miss what protection his armband offered even more. It wasn’t possible to be a policeman and not make enemies, especially here.

Berson didn’t get much protection from his armband, though, did he?
Shemtov thought glumly.

But he needn’t have worried.

“In this case, your judgment was right,” Blaustein said grudgingly. “We have to keep the Germans out of this. Do you have any idea what happened? Do you know what Berson might have been doing last night?”

“No, sir,” Shemtov said. “And there was nothing much to see at the scene. There was no sign of whatever hit him. No obvious reason why he was hit.”

“All right, it sounds like you did what you could,” Blaustein said, knowing just how poorly his men were trained. “Thank you, Shemtov, you did well. I may need to ask you more questions later on, so don’t go too far. For now, you’re dismissed.”

Shemtov left the room, relieved to have shifted the burden onto other shoulders.

Chapter 2

B
laustein sat. After a minute he turned to the small heater at his side, shutting it off. He rarely kept it going for more than a few minutes — fuel was too expensive — but he always made sure to turn it on when he heard a knock at the door. The warmth served as a reminder of Blaustein’s privilege and station.

This I didn’t need
, he thought.

Blaustein knew the investigation would have to be quick, subtle and, most importantly, wrapped up neatly with a bow before it was handed over to the Nazis. To best protect the Jewish community, there would have to be a clear villain and a non-political motive. Anything else and the Gestapo would launch its own inquiry, resulting in random sweeps, torture of the innocent and their eventual murders.

The key question then became who should run the investigation?

Blaustein considered his options among the men who worked for him. He knew most of them to be the bottom of the barrel, for the most part weak, cruel or not particularly intelligent. Some were all three in one delightful package. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more he realized there was no one on the force he trusted to do the job right.

The next option that Blaustein considered was appointing himself to the job. He quickly decided against it. Though he had contacts everywhere in the ghetto, he was no trained detective. Blaustein was a purely political appointee, previously known for his management skills and lack of scruples as a member of the Miasto city council.

He had always been a man to delegate work, especially if it was the kind of work that could lead him into danger. Blaustein could already foresee circumstances where the case’s investigator would have to become a scapegoat. It wasn’t a role he would volunteer for.

If only there was a way to play the whole thing off as an accident, to say that Berson had tripped and fallen. Blaustein had no deep desire to see justice. He wanted the case off his desk with as little damage as possible done to the people of the ghetto — especially himself.

But there were a few potential problems with labeling Berson’s death an accident. If Shemtov’s description of the body were accurate, the story wouldn’t hold up for a second under the eyes of a Gestapo officer. It was also unlikely the Germans would buy the idea that the body had been quickly cremated. It was widely known that Jewish law didn’t allow for cremation.

The other issue was potential informants. If someone took it upon him or herself to tell the Germans what had happened, any cover up would be exposed immediately. In that case, there was no chance Blaustein would survive.

Blaustein thought until he could no longer stand his own company and the closeness of his small, commandeered space. He stepped out of his office and headed for the lounge, struck by the change in temperature as he exited. The others in the hallway all had their coats on. Without the heat generated by the crowd in the main hall, the police offices were no warmer than anywhere else in the ghetto.

Today was a banner day in the lounge. Someone had found black tea and the samovar steamed with it. The smell spoke of days that had passed into oblivion — even the memories were fading. There was nothing to sweeten the bitter brew, but to ask for sugar was like asking for a personal visit from the beautiful Irena Solska. Or fresh pastry.

Blaustein poured himself a glass, savored the warmth in his hands, and brought the beaker up to his nose. For a minute, maybe more, he let the perfume of the Orient take him elsewhere and to better times. A single sip and the brown bitterness of inferior and ancient tealeaves shattered his reverie and made him shudder.

The only people in the room with him were Shemtov and Finkelstein, who had a guilty look, knowing he should be back out on patrol rather than sulking in comfort. Blaustein gave him a firm look that had him hastening on his way with a jerky nod.

Shemtov stayed where he was.

Blaustein gave him the evil eye, too.

“I’m sure there’s some paperwork you need to catch up on,” he suggested.

Shemtov gave a half-hearted salute and left the little lounge.

The tea provided Blaustein with little inspiration. In the end, all he could think to do was to follow Shemtov’s example and take his problem up the chain of command and leave it with someone else.

The Jewish Police answered to the Judenrat, which, at its core, was comprised of a council of twenty-five elders. Their charge was maintaining order and allocating impossibly inadequate resources to sixty-five thousand people crammed into the ghetto.

The Jewish population of Miasto had been thirty thousand before the German tanks had arrived. A further fifty thousand Jews had lived in surrounding towns, villages and farms. Those who had survived the initial days of the occupation had been herded into a small corner of the city.

Many of the members of the Judenrat had been prominent men long before the Germans arrived, through religion, law or medicine. The occupiers merely confirmed them in their positions, some, literally at gunpoint. If given a choice, serving the Nazis was an honor most Jews, however venal, would have declined. The president of the Judenrat, and the man Blaustein needed to see, was Mordechai Zimmerman.

Blaustein headed into the main hall, the hand with his tea held high above the throng, as if he were a waiter at a busy French café. He worked his way carefully through the crowd and clerks, heading for a doorway adjacent to the police suite.

“You weren’t next!” a voice cried out. “That lady was in front of you, and I was in front of her!”

Blaustein saw the person who had provoked the shout. It was an old man, pathetic in his threadbare religious garments, including a beaver fur hat that had balded badly.

There was a shove. A small shove, but the old man was frail and he stumbled forward. Everyone was packed so tightly they wobbled from the impact, though they had no place to fall.

The wavefront rippled outward, eventually reaching Blaustein. His cup tipped backward, tea spilled out on the tie he insisted on wearing despite the fact that no one was impressed.

Blaustein was instantly filled with rage. He growled and his body stiffened as if he was going to strike out.

But he didn’t.

There was no target. Not the small, scarred woman who had touched him and now looked terrified. Not the man in black wool behind her who had tipped forward just enough to make her sway. Trace the line as far back as he liked, all he could see were victims.

The officers from the front door hurried into the room to calm things. They looked bewildered at the chorus of accusations and counter-accusations, but quickly settled their interest on the old man who had stepped out of line. One of the officers grabbed the old man firmly and the other lifted a hand to strike him. He stopped himself as he caught sight of Blaustein, who simply shook his head. Instead of striking him, the officer spoke gently to the old man.

“Whatever business you have, you’ll have to come back tomorrow. Things are bad enough without you making it worse,” he said.

“I have no heat!” the old man shouted. It sounded to Blaustein as if the man was more deaf than agitated.

The officer spoke more loudly.

“Nobody has heat. Come back tomorrow, otherwise there’s going to be a pogrom in here.”

“I have no heat!” the old man said again.

Seeing there was nothing for it, the officer tightened his grip and pulled the man, now as confused as he was deaf, out of the room. All eyes followed the old man back into the cold. After a few moments the room returned to its sullen usual.

Blaustein carefully husbanded his remaining tea — less than half the glass — through the doors and into the offices of the Judenrat’s president.

The rooms were luxurious by the standards of deprivation set everywhere else in the Jewish District. In the reception area, a lightly soiled Persian carpet lay in front of a desk made entirely of oak. Portraits of men in somber clothing with white beards hung on the walls. None of the frames were straight, and each was tilted in precisely its own way, leaving Blaustein a little seasick. He was unclear whether the men pictured were the ancestors of the man in the next office or just placed there to create an atmosphere of Talmudic wisdom.

Behind that oak desk was a man unremarkable in any obvious way. His yarmulke and studious look made him out to be observant but not so deeply religious as to remove himself from the world. The hair on his face and head was gray, and so was the man himself. Blaustein could easily picture him in front of King Solomon’s Temple thousands of years earlier, filling in the blanks of papyrus scrolls.

“Mr. Kaminski,” Blaustein asked. “Is Mr. Zimmerman available?”

Yitzhak Kaminski looked up from whatever form he had been filling out and peered nearsightedly at the police commandant.

“I’ll check for you,” he said, and was up and gone into the next office before Blaustein could blink.

It was several blinks before he returned.

“Mr. Zimmerman asks you to wait. He is on the telephone with the German officer in charge of the electrical supply,” Kaminski said properly. “Please take a seat.”

Blaustein took the short step to a wooden chair against the wall. At some point the green upholstery might have contained some padding. Now, it provided a thin veil over pointy springs.

He sat.

Blaustein was kept waiting just long enough to be reminded of his place in the scheme of things. At the right moment, Mordechai Zimmerman appeared in his own doorframe, his hand outstretched and his smile welcoming.

Zimmerman was a man who knew how to sell. Selling what or to who wasn’t always clear, but the answer — whatever it was — had made him rich before the Germans came. And if someone could be rich in a ghetto, he still was.

Zimmerman was well dressed. His suit showed no signs of wear. There was no fraying at the collar or cuffs of his shirt. His hair was held in place with scented pomade. Somehow the world had changed for everyone except Zimmerman. If he noticed how agitated Blaustein was, he showed no sign of it.

“What’s that wet spot on your tie?” Zimmerman asked.

Blaustein brushed the comment aside.

“We have a bit of a problem,” he said.

Zimmerman blinked.

“Come in then,” he said.

The room Blaustein walked into was little like his own small office. It had the feel of a successful businessman’s place of refuge, with polished wood and leather-bound books sitting patiently on shelves. There was another Persian carpet here. It was neither faded nor stained. There was a coffee table surrounded by comfortable-looking chairs, and a beautifully crafted, baroque cherry wood desk. Behind that sat a formidable leather office chair.

Zimmerman took one of the chairs around the table and pointed Blaustein to another. He poured himself tea and then offered the pot to Blaustein. Before pouring, Blaustein first gulped down the residue of his first glass so that it wouldn’t contaminate the fresh brew.

Zimmerman then dribbled honey — honey! — into his own glass and offered that to Blaustein as well, who took it gratefully. Lastly, Zimmerman passed over a small plate of cookies. Blaustein showed enormous restraint in taking only two.

Even though Blaustein’s business was urgent, he appreciated the excellent tea, the sweetness of the honey and the soft chair his ass was resting on.

When the head of the Judenrat said nothing but began to look impatient, Blaustein knew his brush with his boss’ luxuries was coming to an end. He took a bite of the cookie. It was stale.

Zimmerman lifted an eyebrow.

“One of my men’s been murdered,” Blaustein said.

“What?” Zimmerman said. “Who?”

“Lev Berson.”

It was clear from the look on Zimmerman’s face that he had no idea who that was.

“Do you know who did it?” he asked.

“Not yet.”