HS02 - Days of Atonement (62 page)

‘He wanted to be a Prussian
and
a Jew,’ Aaron Jacob reminded me. ‘And he wanted the same for them.’ He tried to smile, but managed only a grimace. ‘It seems impossible, doesn’t it? And yet, it is such a simple wish.’

Suddenly, he placed his hand on my arm. He drew it back quickly, as if he had presumed too far. Even so, he smiled. A warm, luminous, genuine smile. ‘The
Kindergarten
is where they should remain, Herr Procurator. Safe with all the Prussian children. And the parents should also be buried as
Prussians.
In a Prussian cemetery.’

‘But Gottewald died because he wished them to be known as Jews.’

He stared at me, a burning light in his black eyes. ‘God knows and sees all things,’ he replied. ‘He knows that they belonged to the Chosen People. There is a way to honour his wish in death, Herr Procurator. A shallow dish placed inconspicuously beside the grave.’

‘For flowers?’

Aaron Jacob grinned conspiratorially. ‘For stones,’ he replied. ‘It will be a sign. Every time you visit the place, sir, leave a stone or a pebble in the dish. It is an ancient tradition of ours. In memory of the dead. They will be Jewish tombs. And Prussian ones, too. Wasn’t that what he wanted?’

‘So easy?’ I said with astonishment. ‘A dish and a stone? The dead are more easily contented than the living.’

‘They’ll have what Jews have never had,’ he erupted with passion. ‘Peace! They would find none in a Jewish cemetery.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘Surely you’ve heard of the regular vandalising of our burial grounds, Herr Procurator? I have been to the East, to Insterberg, on four occasions to visit my own wife’s grave . . .’ He raised his hand and hid his eyes. ‘On each occasion, I had to rebuild it.’ He choked on the words, then struggled to continue. ‘Bruno Gottewald has had his portion of violence. In a Prussian cemetery, they will not be subjected to humiliation
after
death as well. His ears, and the ears of his children, will not be forced to hear that shameful cry.
Hep! Hep!
will never sound again for them.’

I listened in stunned silence. I had seen, and failed to recognise, those words scrawled in blood on the bedroom wall. I had held them in my hand for an instant, before they vanished from the blackened paper.

His eyes gaped wide, as I grabbed his arm and held him fast.

‘What does it mean?’ I asked.

‘It is ancient Latin, sir.
Hierosolima est perdita
,’ he intoned. ‘Jerusalem is lost. No hope for the Jews.
That’s
what it means. It means many things, none of them good. Those words are shouted out to rouse other Jew-haters. Bring your clubs.
Hierosolima est perdita. Hep! Hep!
Slay the Jews!’

As he uttered the words in a rough, urgent voice, like a swineherd rounding up his pigs, I recognised the sound. I had heard it the day that Lavedrine and I ran close to being lynched by the mob on the quayside. My heart felt deathly cold. Was that the ‘dreadful sound’ that Bruno Gottewald had warned his wife about? The ‘chanting voice’ that haunted his dreams and hounded his steps in Kamenetz?

‘She wrote those words on the wall,’ I whispered. ‘
Hep! Hep!
Written with her children’s blood. She’d been frightened by a letter that her husband wrote. What else could drive a mother to such an act? I am convinced that she heard the cry
Hep! Hep!
inside her fuddled head. As if some frightful nemesis were coming.’

He shuddered, then he looked up.

‘Describe that room to me,’ he said. ‘Tell me what you saw there, sir.’

Lavedrine had discovered the murderer. I had found the cause. Was Aaron Jacob now going to pull the threads together and tell me
how
the crime had been committed?

‘I can do more than that,’ I said, opening my shoulder bag, taking out my sketchbook. ‘I can show you.’

I sat on the edge of the unlit fireplace, ignoring the dirt and ashes, and spread the album open on my knees. Aaron Jacob sat down at my side. As
Immanuel Kant might have done, I had inscribed a title on the cover:
Drawings Relating to the Gottewald Murders.

‘This is the first,’ I said. ‘A sketch of the children’s bodies laid out on the bed. As you can see, they were covered with a sheet. Only the heads were exposed, hanging over the edge of the bed.’ I turned the page, my fingers trembling as I did so. ‘In this one, the sheet had been pulled away. The bodies are exposed to view. On a pillow at the foot of the bed, we found the sexual organs of the two boys, which had been sliced off . . .’

‘Rough work,’ he murmured quietly. ‘I wonder why she didn’t call a rabbi.’

‘To bury them?’

‘To assist her. She prepared her children for the sacrifice, I think. But please, turn to the next page. If I am right, the other drawings will confirm it.’

I ran my finger over the next drawing. ‘This is a simple plan of the furniture in the bedroom,’ I said. ‘As you can see, there wasn’t very much. The bed, of course. A small table by the bed, and this chair here.’

He laid his hand on mine, preventing me from turning to the next sketch. He tapped his nail against the paper. ‘One chair only in the room? In this position at the foot of the bed?’

I nodded. ‘I remember thinking that it was an odd place to leave a chair.’

‘Like a humble throne, is that what you mean?’

I nodded again. ‘I would not have used those words exactly. But that was the impression that I had.’

‘And where was the writing?’

‘Just here,’ I said, pointing to the wall nearest to the children’s feet. ‘Beneath the window sill. An awkward and improbable place to write. I can show you exactly what I mean.’

I turned the album leaf. ‘There was very little to see. But such thick blood as this, so far from the bodies. There was nothing casual in it. She had tried to write on the rough plaster.’

Aaron Jacob bent down close to examine the marks that I had tried to draw.

‘I can tell you precisely what happened in the room,’ he said. ‘If the children were going to die as Jews, then a sign was needed.’

‘A sign?’

‘The Jews are renowned for their humour, Herr Stiffeniis. On the Day of Atonement, we say, the Lord will ask each man to stand up. And He will recognise his own.’

He laughed in a hollow, empty manner.

‘What do you mean?’

‘
Berit milah
,’ he answered. ‘A rite carried out on the eighth day of a male
child’s existence. Or any time after, if he has not already been admitted to the community. In this case, there are obvious irregularities. The rite is never performed in the presence of a woman. And never
by
a woman. Normally, a
Mohel
is present. But this woman was alone and terrified. She had no rabbi to turn to. She was not known as a Jew in Lotingen. She cut roughly, but she did her best in the circumstances.’

I knew in a blinding flash what he was speaking about.

The plan of the Gottewald bedroom seemed to seethe with frantic life as he described the scene. The crazed desperation of Sybille Gottewald was given direction and purpose.

‘Turn back to your plan of the room, sir. We can see what happened that night. Perhaps she gave them some medicinal substance to make them sleep. She laid them crosswise on the bed for her own ease. They would not have chosen to sleep in such a position, their heads dangling uncomfortably back over the edge of the bed. But their throats were exposed, and she slit them. Once they were dead, she thoroughly cleaned the room. She did not lack respect. She buried the blood, but not the corpses, and when order had been restored, she attempted to circumcise the boys. But every action is marred by fear, by panic, by inadequate preparation. Her knife was long, and not sufficiently sharp. Even so, she eviscerated the boys as best she could, laying their sacrificed flesh on the pillow for the Prophet to witness . . .’

‘Was somebody watching while she did it?’ I gasped with horror.

The Jew turned to me, and nodded. ‘This chair, Herr Procurator, was
not
empty. Elijah the Prophet was sitting there. He may not have approved, but he was there in spirit. He saw it happen. In the
berit milah
ritual, his throne is placed next to the altar as witness to the saving of another soul. A foreskin placed on a pillow is an offering to God. In return for the sacrifice, the circumcised child will enter the kingdom of heaven.’

The album slipped from my fingers and fell to the floor.

Aaron Jacob picked it up and opened it. The book fell open at the page where I had tried to sketch the face of the mother.

‘I gave you an outline of her face,’ he murmured, ‘but this is more exact. Is it the fruit of your imagination, sir?’

‘A witness helped me,’ I replied cautiously. ‘That person may have spoken to Sybille Gottewald.’

‘Such unusual eyebrows,’ he commented. ‘I would never have guessed. Only a witness could describe them so precisely.’

He closed the album, and handed it to me. ‘Bury them all, Herr Stiffeniis. In a Prussian cemetery with a Jewish symbol on the grave. Satisfy the desire of Gottewald, the Jew. Have you not discovered their real name?’

‘Not yet,’ I said. ‘But I will, I promise you.’

A knot in my throat inhibited the expression of my sentiments. I did not say how fortunate I had been in meeting him—a Prussian upbringing has its faults. But I hoped that he would comprehend my gratitude.

I walked away from Judenstrasse in a sort of trance. A dense sea fog had smothered the town. All was silent, all was still. I went to my office and penned a note to the effect that I intended to bury the remains of Bruno Gottewald in the Pietist cemetery as soon as the body could be discharged from French hands, telling Knutzen to carry the announcement over to the general quarters, with a copy to the office of Dittersdorf. I was counting on the proven efficiency of Mutiez, and the incapacity of Dittersdorf, to oppose any scheme that had been approved by the French. More so after the debacle of Kamenetz, and the subsequent placing of General Katowice under house arrest.

The fog was gone by the time I left the office, and the temperature had dropped some degrees. I was walking quickly, shivering with cold, when I came in sight of the house. As I looked eagerly towards my door, a wild black spot appeared in the moonlight. Helena was running to meet me without a shawl, her hair flying wildly about her, a piece of paper in her hand.

I saw the strained look on her face as I charged towards her.

‘Bialystok,’ she gasped, pushing the paper at me, begging: ‘Open it.’

‘Do you want to die of cold?’ I snapped, perplexed by the urgency in her voice, taking her arm, leading her towards the garden gate.

No sooner had I shut the door than she turned to me.

‘Read it, Hanno. Please.’

She moved to my elbow, watching as I broke the sealing wax, stretching to see what was written there. One hand flew to her mouth, the other to my sleeve.

‘This is madness, Hanno! He wants us both to go. What he says
cannot
be true!’

I read again what Lavedrine had written.

‘He believes that the case is still not over.’

Helena had never been parted from the children, but our bag was ready within the hour.

 42 

T
HE DRIVER RAPPED
hard on the roof.

‘Next stop, the new Jerusalem!’ he announced with a whoop.

We had been voyaging continuously for two days and nights.

The coach trundled across the River Biala by means of an ancient wooden bridge, and pulled up ten minutes later in the crowded market square of Bialystok. As I helped Helena down, I kept a watchful eye on our bag. We might have been in a foreign country. It was more than a matter of geography, the closeness of the Russian border. People swirled around us in the square. The men wore tight black jackets reaching beneath their knees. The women wore smocks of grey wool. The children were tinier versions of their parents. But it was the hair that gave the game away. Long, tangled beards which had never known a barber’s blade. Each man wore a black hat, skullcap, or a black-and-white striped blanket over his head, wild curls and ringlets dancing about their cheeks. Those people spoke a tongue that I recognised, but did not understand.