Inspector Green Mysteries 9-Book Bundle (42 page)

Jules placed his fingertips together on his lap and studied them. “Michael, Dr. MacPhail’s report lists the death as natural causes. Eighty years old, enough disease to sink an elephant, and according to the blood work-up, nearly twice the legal limit of alcohol in his system. By all means harass grieving widows, tie up the OPP, build up our overtime bill in Forensics.”

Green grinned. Nothing got past Jules. “Adam, just because he could have died of natural causes doesn’t mean he did.”

“Do you have one shred of evidence to point to homicide?”

“Yes sir.”

“What?”

“A small depression wound on Walker’s temple which couldn’t have been made as he fell, because nothing in the vicinity matches the shape.”

Jules’ eyebrows rose, and the thin line of his lips grew thinner still. “This is evidence?”

“It’s a shred. That’s all you asked for.”

Jules studied him in silence for a minute with no hint of expression in the perfectly groomed exterior to betray his thoughts. His grey eyes seemed emotionless, but Green sensed that he was weakening. Jules sighed.

“Do you have a theory?”

Green relaxed. “Some possible ones, all of which suggest premeditation. But I’m going to need to assign some men to the case.”

“And given MacPhail’s report and the family’s complaints, I’m going to need something to justify it, Michael. Shea and our public image, you know.” Jules rolled his eyes almost imperceptibly as he mentioned the new Police Chief.

“Do you need it in writing or will a verbal report do?”

Jules gave his approximation of a smile, for Green’s aversion to paper was legendary. “In writing when you can. Until then, a verbal report will have to do.”

It took Green fifteen minutes to brief Jules on the investigation to date and the leads he was following. Jules listened in silence as the list of procedural irregularities mounted, but when Green mentioned going to Hamilton, he stiffened.

“What’s in Hamilton?”

“The mysterious assault victim. Walker was arguing with someone in a foreign language just before he died, and there may be a tie-in.”

“Why not get the Hamilton police to do it?”

“Because it’s an intricate matter, possibly involving events that took place over fifty years ago. Only Sergeant Sullivan and I know the context.”

“Then send Sullivan. I’ll authorize that.”

“But Adam—” Green raised his eyes in silent hope, but the grey eyes that met his were unmoved.

“You’re an inspector, Michael, not a field man. End of discussion.”

Green left Jules’ apartment with mixed feelings. Disappointed and frustrated that Jules would not let him follow the Hamilton lead personally, but pleased that he had secured Jules’ cooperation to continue pursuing the case, however tenuous the evidence was. For there were many questions and no clear-cut idea as to whether any of them were important.

Kressman, Gryszkiewicz and Walker all seemed to come from Ozorkow. Surely that was too great a coincidence not to be relevant. Sullivan would check out Gryszkiewicz in Hamilton tomorrow. That left Green with Kressman, the simple Jewish blacksmith who had never returned from the war. How the hell could Green find out about him, especially on a Sunday morning when all official agencies would be locked up tight?

Fifteen years earlier, the Federal Justice Department’s War Crimes unit had begun its quest to prosecute Nazi war criminals with zeal and optimism but had since become mired in bureaucratic and judicial red tape. All of the original team had been replaced, but Green remembered one fiery former prosecutor whose very passion had been his undoing. David Haley had felt the pain of every one of the frail old witnesses he’d tracked down, and the accumulated frustrations and roadblocks had nearly destroyed his health. Green knew that he had left war crimes several years earlier for the more mundane halls of civil law, but he hoped Haley’s interest in war crimes was still keen. Maybe keen enough to accept a call to duty no matter the day.

The federal lawyer had probably just settled down to his Sunday morning coffee, because he was initially gruff on the phone, but as Green had hoped, when he explained his mission, the old adversarial passion began to stir. There was a long silence at the other end of the line as David Haley pondered Green’s problem.

“There is no central registry that lists the fate of all European Jews caught in the Holocaust,” he began slowly. “The Red Cross compiled lists, but mainly of people who survived the camps. You could ask them to check their lists, in case your man Kressman turned up in their care, but you would need to know what camps he might have been sent to. All right, I’m getting some ideas.” His voice lost its groping quality. “A Holocaust historian such as Martin Gilbert in Britain or Raul Hilberg in the States could tell you when the Jews of Ozorkow were rounded up and what camps they were sent to. In fact, Peter Marks at the University of Toronto is becoming quite an expert. He could tell you. Then you could check the Red Cross lists for those camps. They might not be alphabetical, and it would be a hell of a job. Alternatively you could ask an archivist at Yad Vashem—that’s the Holocaust Museum in Israel—to research their files. They have been gathering witness testimonials of both survivors and victims and have a massive collection of data. It requires slogging through archives and documents and letters and photos.”

“It sounds like it could take weeks.”

“Months. And cost thousands.”

“Hardly the kind of job a city police officer can justify to his bosses.”

“Well, it’s not a neat, modern computerized database you can search at the touch of a button, like you guys are used to.” Haley chuckled. “The only other way I can possibly think of to track down a Joseph Kressman is to check with the Jewish Documentation Centre set up in France by Beate and Serge Klarsfeld. She’s a German married to a Jew, and they’re both active in collecting information on the Holocaust, with the intention of bringing Nazi War Criminals to justice.”

“Yes, I’m familiar with them. They tracked down Barbie, the Butcher of Lyons.”

“That’s right. It’s a long shot, but they might be able to help. And they’re terrific people, it wouldn’t be beneath them.”

That’s wonderful, Green thought to himself after he’d hung up. Just how the hell am I supposed to justify a long-distance phone call to Paris or Israel? Jules’ generosity had already been tapped dry for that day.

Peter Marks, on the other hand, was in Toronto, and dozens of calls were made between Toronto and the Ottawa force every day. In fact, he approved many of them. The historian might not appreciate a call to duty Sunday morning any more than the war crimes prosecutor had, but Green was counting on his being equally intrigued. A five-minute call, that was all it would take to find out if the search for Kressman was futile.

It took twenty minutes, however, to track down the right Peter Marks in the Toronto phone book. Marks was delighted to be involved in a real life quest which brought him out of the rarefied halls of academia. He consulted his library immediately, and Green could hear his heavy breathing as he flipped through the books.

“How much time do you have? We could take the short cut and say that Kressman’s over ninety per cent likely to have been killed. Three million Polish Jews died in the Holocaust, only 225,000 survived. Not good odds. The worst odds in all of Europe, actually. And statistically he probably died in Chelmno, Treblinka or Belzec.”

Green knew that, but statistics had never deterred him. “All right, so the odds aren’t good. But we think the man’s from Ozorkow. Is there any way I can check survivors’ lists or something, if we can trace what camp he’d been sent to?”

“Poland is a lot more complicated than David Haley led you to believe. Ozorkow’s a town in the Warthegau, the part of western Poland that Germany annexed during the war. The Jews in Western Poland were handled in different stages. First, when the Germans invaded Poland in September 1939, they rampaged through the towns and countryside, randomly torturing and killing Jews and Poles alike—Jews in greater proportion just for being Jews. About five thousand Jews from western towns and villages were killed in this fashion. Others fled eastward, still others were herded from the farms and smaller villages into larger ghettos in the cities so they could be more easily controlled. Ozorkow was one of the towns they were herded into. Let me check here.” His breathing hissed in the silence. “There were about five thousand Jews in Ozorkow before the war, and in October 1939 another forty-seven hundred were forced into it. Disease, winter cold and starvation took its toll. Then…I seem to remember, oh, here—yes, it was Chelmno. Between March and May 1942 the Jews of Ozorkow were sent to Chelmno and gassed. Most of Poland’s Jews perished in 1942.”

“Chelmno. Any survivors from Chelmno?”

“Two and a half years later? Not likely. But I think it’s in here somewhere—” Pages began to flip. “Incredible book, this. Every horrible fact laid out in neat black and white. Ah-ha! Here we are. Two survivors.”

“Names?”

Marks snorted. “Three hundred and sixty thousand gassed at Chelmno, and he’s asking about two survivors. Talk about odds!” There was some more wheezing, a curse, shuffling of papers and then a grunt of satisfaction. “Zurawski and Srebik. No Kressman. You know, you might have more luck if you approached the problem from the other end.”

“What do you mean?”

“Find a survivor from Ozorkow who knew Kressman before the war and ask if they know what happened to him. Ozorkow wasn’t that big. Most of the Jews would have known each other.”

Green felt his hopes lift. “Are there records anywhere of survivors by city of origin?”

“Israel has the most complete list of survivors everywhere. But we had a survivors’ reunion here in Canada back in the eighties, and there’s a Holocaust Remembrance Committee that keeps track of survivors. They might have a list. Just a sec, I even have the contact person’s phone number somewhere.”

Green waited as the man at the other end of the phone went off in search. Even through the wires, he could still hear the man’s wheezing. Green remembered the survivors’ reunion, which had been held in Ottawa about fifteen years earlier. His father had not attended, citing his heart, but Green had attended some of the sessions and had listened to the tales of triumph and despair. Most vividly he recalled the noticeboard where survivors had pinned notes asking if anyone knew the fate of brothers, sisters or husbands. Green shivered even now at the memory.

Peter Marks came back on the line with the information, which Green jotted down. Marks seemed eager to chat forever. “You could also check the survivors of the labour camps in central Poland. Some of the internees ended up in camps in Germany because of the forced evacuations. Check Sachsenhausen, Ravensbruck, Theriesenstadt and Buchenwald. Good luck, and let me know if I can do more.”

“What books are you consulting?”

Green recorded the titles, by the historians Martin Gilbert and Raul Hilberg whom David Haley had mentioned, and then gracefully extricated himself. His next call was to Naomi Wyman of the Canadian Holocaust Remembrance Committee in Toronto, who Green suspected was a survivor herself, for she had a gentle Yiddish lilt that reminded him of his own mother. His mind formed a picture of wide, patient brown eyes and grey hair drawn back in a bun.

When she heard Green’s request, she clucked her tongue in exasperation. “There were hundreds of labour camps in Central Poland, and if Kressman was in one of them, Inspector, he could have ended up anywhere! The SS marched them here, there, all over the place at the end of the war, trying to outrun the Allies on both fronts. Sometimes they shot them all on the spot. Thousands died just days or hours before liberation. What am I saying, thousands died afterwards too.”

“I know it’s a long shot, Mrs. Wyman,” Green replied patiently, then played his ace. “My own parents were survivors, so I know what a mess things were. But if you could just check your records for names of a few survivors of the labour camps, I’d be very grateful. And even more important, if you have any survivor who came from Ozorkow, please let me know.”

He heard an irritated sigh, and his image of the gentle, patient Yiddish grandmother began to fade. This one was feisty and anything but patient.

“It will take me a couple of days.”

“As quickly as you can, Mrs. Wyman. It’s very important for a case we’re working on.”

Suddenly her voice perked up. “A war crimes case?”

“I’m afraid I can’t say any more at this time.”

Afterwards, Green gazed at the notes he jotted down. Holocaust, war crimes, concentration camps—what was he getting himself into? He had three old men, Walker, Kressman and Gryszkiewicz. All born in Ozorkow, all tied together in some way. Was the whole thing a coincidence, or was there a connection somewhere in Poland, deep in the lost events of the Second World War?

By the time Green arrived home from the university library with three books under his arm, Sharon and Tony had disappeared. They had both been asleep when he’d left to meet Sullivan earlier, and now the only sign of them was a note from Sharon on the kitchen counter.

Green, I’m off shopping for Tony’s birthday. When you get home you’d better stay there, or your ass is toast.

He grinned with relief. Sharon was annoyed, but on a scale of one to ten, this ranked only a six. She still had a sense of humour. With Tony’s first birthday bash only days away, maybe she was too excited to whip up much outrage.

Grateful for the peace and quiet, he took the books into his new study, spread them on his makeshift desk, picked up a pen and paper, and began to read.

He thought after all his years of wading through human depravity in Major Crimes, he would be inured to the horrors of the Holocaust, but as he worked his way through the coldly factual chronicle on the fate of Poland’s three million Jews, he felt his comprehension fail him. He sat at his desk with a forgotten cup of coffee at his elbow and forced himself to write down the grim and twisting trail which had led most of the five thousand Jews of Ozorkow to the gas chambers. His first discovery was that the killing of Jews in Poland had not begun with the Nazi invasion in September 1939. Throughout the 1930s, there had been escalating acts of anti-Semitism, terrorism and murder across the country. Between 1935 and 1937 alone, seventy-nine Polish Jews had been murdered in random attacks, but this fact had become insignificant in the overwhelming slaughter that followed.