Death in Twilight (5 page)

And what was the point of investigating one murder in a place where everyone was slowly being murdered?

Still, Aaron decided, it was worth a conversation. If he was careful, he would leave with more information than he gave away. He might even be able to find an angle that would lead to some kind of advantage. At the least, it wouldn’t hurt to have the people at the Judenrat thinking he was on their side.

Aaron gulped what was left of his drink. He was already in his coat.

“Okay, finish up. Let’s go,” he said to his father.

Chapter 4

M
ordechai Zimmerman, president of the Miasto Judenrat, stared across his desk at Aaron Kaminski, trying to see the Jew he had expected in the gentile who sat in front of him.

The Jewish gendarme looked nothing like his father and completely lacked that man’s bookish air. Aaron’s hard, scarred face connoted a certain brutality. His frigid blue eyes bored into Zimmerman and no doubt found him wanting.

The Jewish leader decided to keep the meeting brief.

He sighed.

“You understand what’s at stake, right?” Zimmerman asked. “If we can’t produce the person or persons who did this, the Nazis aren’t likely to care much about guilt or innocence.”

“I haven’t noticed that being much of a priority for the Jewish Police, either,” Aaron replied, his eyebrow arched.

Blaustein, the Jewish police’s commandant, shot him a dark look.

“Whatever you think of them is beside the point,” Zimmerman said. “We’re all doing our best to live in an impossible situation.”

“Some are living a bit better than others,” Aaron said, staring around at the rich furnishings.

“Symbols are important,” Zimmerman said defensively. “I can hardly expect the Nazis to take me seriously … ”

“I think most of Europe knows how much they like symbols,” Aaron said with heavy irony. “But no matter how many nice rugs you have, I doubt they take you very seriously.”

Zimmerman’s face passed pink on the way to red.

“I know no one else does,” Aaron concluded.

“You little shit! The first chance you get, you abandon your community, forgetting everything about the people who made you, leaving your father alone?

“And now the Germans have reminded you of who you really are — shut you in with the rest of us Jews — and you still think that somehow you’re better than us? Better than me?”

Zimmerman paused for breath, and Aaron’s father stepped into the momentary void.

“I’m sure that’s not what Aaron meant … ” Yitzhak said.

“What the hell do you think the Judenrat does every day?” Zimmerman said, still thundering. “What the Jewish Police does? We’re working with the Germans to keep people alive.”

Aaron’s stony expression hadn’t wavered — despite the desperate glances his father shot his way — but he said nothing else. Zimmerman took a deep breath and steadied himself.

“My point is that you don’t have to love the police to help find Berson’s killer. You just have to care a little for your own people.”

“Maybe whoever killed him had the people’s interests in mind,” Aaron said.

“See it however you like,” Zimmerman snapped. “But should hundreds of innocents die for it? Is one Jewish policeman’s death worth that high a price?”

Aaron had nothing witty to say to that, so he paused for a second. When did reply, there was a little more thought in his voice.

“Have you considered that you may be asking me to do the impossible?” Aaron said. “There’s a whole ghetto full of suspects.”

Zimmerman took this as another attack on his administration.

“You think you’d be better off with the Nazi death squads running things here, instead of the Judenrat?”

“Are you sure we could tell the difference?” Aaron replied with a sneer. “What we’ve got now are Nazi orders with a Jewish face.”

“You wouldn’t like to see the other face,” Blaustein interjected.

“I have seen it,” Aaron said. “Before my unit was captured, we passed through towns where the Germans had already been. They used machine guns instead of starvation. It’s cruel, but quick. And you can’t fault the honesty of the men doing the job.”

“You sanctimonious fuck!” Blaustein yelled, taking a step in Aaron’s direction.

Aaron’s father moved between the two men.

“Aaron, this is getting us nowhere,” Yitzhak Kaminski said. “You’re either going to do the job, or you’re not.”

Aaron was undecided. However much pleasure he’d gotten from tweaking Zimmerman and the others, he understood the game. He knew that many served in the Judenrat only under duress. Some even deluded themselves into thinking they could heal the horrors of the ghetto if only they worked hard enough.

Aaron had heard that Zimmerman’s second son had been tortured before the man had agreed to take his current job — though when Aaron looked around at the teapots and sweets, he wondered if that had been Zimmerman’s only motivation.

In the end, though, understanding the system didn’t make Aaron want to be part of it.

“Sorry,” he said, getting up. “You’re on your own.”

Suddenly, Blaustein was chest to chest with him.

“I really don’t think that’s the way you want to go,” Blaustein said, baring his teeth.

“Oh, I’m pretty sure it is,” Aaron said, pushing Blaustein back a couple of inches with a palm to the chest.

Blaustein leaned forward, shrinking the distance again.

“Let me explain,” Blaustein said. “I know what you do for a living.”

“And what’s that?”

“You’re a black marketeer.”

“Everyone still alive in this damned place is a black marketeer,” Aaron pointed out.

“Not everyone has such
diverse
business interests, though.”

“I don’t think I need to be penalized for my success.”

Aaron’s father couldn’t suppress a grin at that.

“Understand this: I can penalize you all I want,” Blaustein said. “I can take your operation apart piece by piece, until there’s nothing and nobody left. Then I’ll come for you.”

The man was breathing hard.

Aaron’s right fist was cocked. He was ready to let fly.

“Okay, that’s enough,” Zimmerman interrupted. “That’s enough!”

Blaustein took a reluctant step back, looking like he could spit.

“Blaustein’s not subtle, but I’ll back up what he’s saying,” Zimmerman said. “We can squeeze your business interests. We can squeeze you.

“So, the threats are on the table. The only incentive I can give you is the opportunity to be a mensch. So take the job and do it.”

Aaron looked inside for his reservoir of defiance, but it seemed to have developed a slow leak.

He believed every word Blaustein said. There was no reason not to. The Jewish Police could do what it wanted inside the confines of the ghetto, as long as a mass uprising wasn’t the result. What did the Nazis care if there were a few Jews more or less? Unless a Jew was on German business, of course.

Aaron knew he couldn’t ignore this “request.” A week from now, yes, but not today. He wasn’t willing to give up months of careful work to stick it to the men in front of him.

Aaron sat back down in his chair, facing Zimmerman

“What can you tell me about Berson?” he asked with a sigh.

“He wasn’t much,” Blaustein said after taking a deep and calming breath. “He worked his shift, made no trouble for me,” Blaustein said. “He always asked to partner with the same man — Martin Gersh — which isn’t normal, but there was no reason to separate them.”

“Do you have any idea why he was so devoted to Gersh?” Aaron asked.

“I assume they were doing some kind of business on the side,” Blaustein said.

“And Gersh was with him last night?”

Blaustein looked uncomfortable.

“They left the offices together, but I haven’t spoken to him, yet. He’s not scheduled to be in until later. He and Berson always worked the night shift.”

“Have you tried to reach Gersh today?” Aaron asked archly.

“I had a clerk call his house.”

“He has a phone?” Aaron asked. Working telephones had become somewhat of a rarity in the ghetto. Few could pay the bills and there was no one to do repairs when something broke, or when the copper wires were stolen for scrap.

“His building has one.”

“So did you reach him?”

“I would have said so, if I had,” Blaustein said. “And watch your fucking tone. I suggest you take your astounding detective talents and go find him.”

Aaron looked at Blaustein with incredulity.

“Do you realize you may have a second dead policeman out there somewhere? And that someone — even the Germans — might find the body, putting you right back in the shit?”

Judging from the blank looks on the faces around him, Aaron guessed they hadn’t considered the possibility.

“Fine,” Aaron said. “Is there anything else you can tell me about Berson? Anything at all? Did anyone have a particular grudge against him that you know about?”

“If I knew about something like that, I wouldn’t need you.” Blaustein pointed out.

“And Gersh? What about him? What’s his background? Any problems with him?” Aaron asked.

“He’s very smart. An educated man. Likes to work nights,” Blaustein said.

“That’s it?” Aaron asked. Something in Blaustein’s voice told him there was more.

Blaustein shook his head and handed Aaron a piece of paper.

“That’s got the basic information from Berson’s file. Address, date and place of birth, when he was hired. Not much more.”

Aaron folded the paper and put it in a pocket.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll need to talk to the other ‘police’ to get details from the scene. So, who found Berson?”

Aaron saw there was no reason to make himself a suspect by mentioning that he’d seen the murder site firsthand. Besides, someone less drunk might have seen more.

“An officer named Shemtov,” Blaustein said. “He’s still here. I asked him to stay and tell you what he knows. If he’s not at his desk, he’ll be in the lounge, I’m sure.”

“Fine, I’ll start with Shemtov,” Aaron said, shaking himself free of the deep chair.

Before he could walk out of the room, Zimmerman wanted a final word.

“There’s no way to know when the Germans may find out about this and begin their own ‘investigation,’ We’ll put him down as sick on the roster, but I don’t think there’s much else we can do.” Zimmerman said. “Please be quick.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Aaron said.

As he walked out the door and into the hall, he could hear Blaustein talking to the other two still in the room.

“He doesn’t give a shit.”

“But he’ll do it,” Aaron’s father assured them. “He’s always done what he said he would. It’s part of how he gets himself in trouble.”

Blaustein actually laughed.

The smell of ersatz tea led Aaron to the lounge.

He thought of all the people in the main hall, waiting for their minute with a clerk who wouldn’t be able to help them. If they could smell the tea, would there be a riot, he wondered?

The thought didn’t stop him from heading directly to the samovar in the corner of the sparse and uncomfortably furnished room. Hard stools stood around nicked tables of horrible Formica that was peeling faster than an orange would in the hands of one the children outside.

There was only one other man in the room. He was nursing tea and what looked like a grudge. There was no way for Aaron to know that the man always looked like that.

“Shemtov?” Aaron asked, knowing the answer.

“So?”

A warm welcome.

“So, I’m here to find out what happened to your shit-dipped colleague,” Aaron said. “And I’m told you’re going to offer me every assistance. That’s why you’re here, yes?”

“Fuck you.”

“Maybe later, but I need some information first,” Aaron said.

“Fuck you, I said. And who the hell are you anyway?” Shemtov asked.

“That’s more like it. Better to be introduced before you fuck someone, don’t you think?” Aaron smiled.

Blustery men like Shemtov amused him. Blustery and tough were rarely synonymous, he’d found.

First, a lifting of the eyebrows, then, unexpectedly, Shemtov guffawed.

“No, you’re right,” he said. “An introduction makes it so much more romantic.” He put out a hand. “Leon Shemtov. You must be the alleged expert I heard rumors about.”

Aaron was just as happy not to have a fight, not least because his hangover hadn’t entirely left him. He took the large hand he’d been offered and shook.

“Well, if spending a few years with the Zendarmerie makes you an expert in this kind of thing, I guess that’s what I am,” he said. “Aaron Kaminski.”

“Never heard of you.” Shemtov said, but without malice. “Have a seat.”

He pointed to a stool next to him.

Aaron sat down and took a first taste of the tea. His face nearly exploded with disgust, making Shemtov laugh again, harder this time.

“We serve only the finest poisons,” Shemtov said.

Aaron had to agree with Shemtov’s assessment. A fine and bitter poison indeed. The best the darkly amber liquid could do was crush the memory of what tea tasted like.

Aaron shunted the glass aside hoping that his stomach would be able to do the same with the drink.