The Green Face (23 page)

The first thing Sephardi did on the morning after his visit to
Hilversum was to go and see the police psychiatrist, Dr. de
Brouwer, to find out what he could about the case of Lazarus
Egyolk.

He was so firmly convinced that the old Jew could not be the
murderer, that he felt it his duty to put a word in for his co-religionist, especially as Dr. de Brouwerhad the reputation ofbeing
a poor observer who tended to jump to conclusions to a degree
unusual even for a psychiatrist.

Although he had only met him once in his life, Sephardi felt
a keen concern for Egyolk. The very fact that as a Russian Jew
he belonged to a spiritual group of decidedly Christian mystics
suggested that he must be a cabbalistic Hasid with more to him
than met the eye, and Sephardi was extremely interested in
anything to do with that strange sect.

He had not been wrong in his assumption that de Brouwer
would come to the wrong conclusion. Hardly had he expressed
his own conviction that Egyolk was innocent and that his confession was a result of hysteria than the psychiatrist - whose
very appearance, with his flowing blond beard and `kindly but
penetrating gaze’, betrayed the empty-headed scientific poseur
- interrupted in his sonorous voice, “No abnormality has been
diagnosed at all. Although I have only had the case under observation since yesterday, I have established that there are no signs
at all of mental illness.”

“So you think the old man is a thief and a murderer who knew
what he was doing, and you are completely satisfied with his
confession?” asked Sephardi in a neutral voice.

The expression in the doctor’s eyes changed to one of exceptional shrewdness. He carefully positioned himself against the
light, so that its reflection in the small, oval lenses of his spectacles would heighten his imposing, scholarly presence, and
said in a low, conspiratorial tone, as if he had suddenly remembered that `walls have ears’, “It is out of the question thatEgyolk
is the murderer, but there is a plot and he is involved in it.”

“Aha. And what makes you say that?”

Dr. de Brouwer leant towards him and whispered, “Certain
features of his confession correspond to the actual facts, ergo he
must be aware of them. He only confessed to being the murderer
in order to avert suspicion of receiving stolen goods, at the same
time giving his accomplices time to make good their escape.”

“Do they already know how the crime was carried out?”

“Certainly. One of ourmost able detectives has reconstructed
it from his confession: In a fit of … of dementia praecox”
(Sephardi suppressed a smile as he noted the expression)
“Klinkherbogk stabbed his granddaughter to death with a
shoemaker’s awl, and immediately after, as he was about to
leave the room, he himself was killed by an intruder and his body
thrown out of the window into the canal. A crown of gold paper
that he had been wearing was found floating on the water.”

“And Egyolk described it in all that detail?”

“That’s the whole point!” de Brouwer laughed out loud.
“When they heard of the murder some people went to Egyolk’s
room to wake him and found him completely unconscious. He
was shamming, of course. If he really had had nothing to do with
the murder he could not have known that the little girl had been
killed with a shoemaker’s awl; and yet that is what he expressly
said in his confession. That he also claimed that he himself was
the murderer, well, that was just a rather obvious ploy to put the
police off the scent.”

“And how does he claim to have killed Klinkherbogk?”

“He claims he climbed up a chain that hangs down from the
gable into the water. Klinkherbogk flung out his arms in joy and
went to welcome him. He said he killed him by breaking his
neck, but that’s all nonsense, of course.”

“You say he could not have known about the awl? Is there
really no possibility that he heard about it from someone orother
before he gave himself up to the police?”

“None whatsoever.”

The more Sephardi thought about it, the less sure he became.
His initial theory, that Egyolk had confessed to the murder in
order to fulfil some imaginary mission as `Simon the Crossbearer’, was no longer tenable. Assuming that the psychiatrist
was telling the truth, how could Egyolk have known about the awl? A suspicion formed inhis mind that itmusthave something
to do with unconscious clairvoyance, but it was difficult to see
how that worked. He opened his mouth to suggest that the Zulu
might be the murderer, but before the words passed his lips he
felt such a violent jolt from inside himself, that he remained
silent. Although it was almost like physical contact, he did not
dwell on it, but asked whether he would be permitted to speak
to Egyolk.

“I shouldn’t allow it, really”, said Dr. de Brouwer, “especially since you were with him at Swammerdam’s shortly before
the events, as the police well know. But if it means so much to
you - and in view of the high reputation you enjoy as a scholar
throughout Amsterdam”, he added with a hint of envy, “I am
quite happy to overstep my authority.”

He rang for a warder to take Sephardi to the cell.

As could be seen through the spyhole in the wall, the old Jew
was sitting by the barred window looking up at the sun-drenched
sky.

When he heard the door open, he stood up. Sephardi went
quickly over to him and shook his hand. “I have come to see you,
Ml jnheer Egyolk, firstly because I felt it was my duty as a fellow
Jew -“

“Fellow Jew”, murmured Egyolk respectfully, and made a
bow.

“and secondly, because I am convinced that you are innocent.”

“Are innocent”, echoed the old man.

“Perhaps you do not trust me”, Sephardi went on after a
pause, since the old man remained silent. “Do not worry, I come
as a friend.”

“As a friend”, repeated Egyolk mechanically.

“Or do you not believe me? That would be a pity. 29

The old Jew slowly rubbed his forehead, as if he were only
now waking up. Then he placed his hand on his heart and said
haltingly, taking care to pronounce each word separately and as
clearly as possible, “I - have - no - enemy. - Why should I? -
You tell me you come as my friend; would I have the chutzpah
to doubt your word?”

“Good. I’m glad. That means I can talk quite openly to you,
Mijnheer Egyolk.” Sephardi took the chair he was offered and
sat down where he could observe the old man’s expression as
clearly as possible. “I want to ask you various questions, but not
out of idle curiosity. You are in a dreadful situation, and you
need help.”

“Need help”, muttered Egyolk to himself.

Sephardi paused deliberately for a while and carefully observed the old man’s face, which was turned fixedly towards
him and showed not the slightest trace of emotion. One glance
at its deep furrows told him that here was a man who must have
suffered terribly in the course of his life; and yet, in a strange
contrast, his wide-open, jet-black eyes had a childlike glow,
such as he had never seen in a Russian Jew. He had not noticed
all that in the sparse light of Swammerdam’s room. Then he had
merely seen in the old man a zealot who tormented himself out
of an excessive sense of piety. The man before him seemed
someone completely different.

His features were not broad, nor had his face the rather
repulsive expression of cunning that is often characteristic of
the Russian Jews. Every line in his face suggested a powerful
mind, though at the moment it had a frighteningly vacant look.

It was a mystery to Sephardi how this mixture of childlike
innocence and decaying senility managed to run a liquor shop
in such a shady district.

He began his interrogation in a friendly tone. “Can you tell
me what gave you the idea of pretending to be the murderer
of Klinkherbogk and his granddaughter? Was it to help
someone?”

Egyolk shook his head. “Who would it have helped? I did kill
them.”

Sephardi pretended to accept this. “And why did you kill
them?”

“Why? For the thousand guilders.”

“And where is the money now?”

“The gaon with the beard asked me that before.” Egyolk
jerked his thumb towards the door, “I don’t know.”

“Are you not sorry for what you’ve done?”

“Sorry?” The old man thought. “Why should I be sorry? I
couldn’t help it.”

Sephardi was puzzled. That was not the answerof amadman.
He said, as lightly as possible, “Of course you couldn’t help it,
because you didn’t do it at all. You were asleep in bed and just
imagined it all. You didn’t climbupthe chain, thatwas someone
else; at your age you couldn’t do something like that, anyway.”

Egyolk hesitated. “You mean to say, sir, that I’m not the
murderer at all?”

“Of course you’re not! It’s perfectly obvious.”

Again the old man thought for a minute, then he muttered
calmly, “Well then, that’s all right then.” There was not the
slightest trace of joy or relief in his face, not even surprise.

Sephardi found the matter more and more puzzling. Had
some shift of consciousness taken place, it would have been
visible in the expression in Egyolk’s eyes, which still gazed out
with the same childlike innocence, or on his face. The idea of
deliberate deception was out of the question; the old man had
registered the fact that he was not a murderer as if it were hardly
worth mentioning.

“And do you know what they would have done to you, if you
had really murdered him?” asked Sephardi insistently. “Executed you, that’s what they would have done!”

“Hm. Executed me.”

“Yes. Doesn’t the idea frighten you?”

Obviously the question made no impact whatsoever on the
old man; if anything, his expression became a shade less
thoughtful, as if brightened up by some memory. Then he
shrugged his shoulders and said, “Much more terrible things
have happened to me, Doctor Sephardi.”

Sephardi waited for him to go on, but Egyolk had sunk back
into his corpse-like repose once more.

“Have you always run a liquor store?”

A shake of the head.

“How is your business going? Well?”

“I don’t know.”

“But listen, if you show such little interest in your business,
you might one day suddenly find that you have lost everything.”

“Of course; if I don’t watch out”, was the simple-minded
answer.

“Who watches out? You? Or have you got a wife? Or children? Do they watch out?”

“My wife died, long ago. And - and the children too.”

Sephardi thought he had found the doorto the old man’s heart.
“Don’t you think of your dear family sometimes? I don’t know
how long it is since you lost them, of course, but you must feel
lonely and that can’t make you happy. You see, I have no one
to care for me, either, so I can very easily understand how you
feel. Really, I’m not just asking out of curiosity, or to find out
what it is that makes you tick” - he was gradually forgetting why
he had come - “I am asking purely out of sympathy -“

“and because you can’t help it, because that’s how you feel,
nebbich”, Egyolk added, to Sephardi’s great astonishment. For
a moment he was transformed; a flash of pity and deep understanding lit up the face that until now had been completely
expressionless. A second later it was once more the empty sheet
it had been all along, and Sephardi heard him mutter absentmindedly to himself, “Rabbi John said: to bring together a true
couple from among mankind is more difficult than Moses’
miracle in parting the Red Sea.” At once he realised that, if only
for a brief second, the old man had shared his pain at the loss of
Eva, ofwhich at that moment he had not been conscious himself.

He remembered there was a legend among the Hasidim that
there were people in their community who gave the impression
of being mad, but yet were not. Divested for a time of their own
personalities, theirhearts could feel the joys and sorrows of their
fellow men as if they were their own. Sephardi had assumed it
was a myth, but could this confused old man really be the living
proof? If that were indeed the case, then his behaviour, his
delusion that he had killed Klinkherbogk, his actions, in short,
everything appeared in a new light.

His interest aroused, he asked, “Can you remember, Mijnheer
Egyolk, whether it has ever happened before that you imagined
you had done something, and it turned out later that another had
done it?”

“I’ve never bothered about that.”

“But perhaps you are aware that you think and feel in a different way from your fellow men, from me, or from your friend
Swammerdam, for example? The other evening, when we first
met, you were not taciturn like this, you were quite lively. Is it
Klinkherbogk’s murder that has had this effect on you?”
Sephardi grasped the old man’s hand in commiseration. “If
there is anything worrying you or if you need a rest, you can
confide in me, I will do all I can to help you. And I don’t think
thatliquorstore is the rightthing foryou. Perhaps we will be able
to find a different occupation that is more worthy of you. Why
reject a friendship when it is offered?”

Itwas clear to see that his friendly words did the old Jew good.
He gave a delighted smile, like a child who has been praised, but
he seemed to have no comprehension of what was being offered
him. A few times he opened his mouth, as if to thank Sephardi,
but apparently could not find the words.

“Was-was I different then?” he finally brought outhaltingly.

“Certainly. You spoke at length to us all. You were more
human, so to speak; you even had an argument with Mijnheer
Swammerdam about the Cabbala. It showed me that you had
thought much about questions of religion and God -” Sephardi
broke off when he saw a change appear on the old man’s face.

“Cabbala - Cabbala”, murmured Egyolk. “Yes, of course
I’ve studied the Cabbala. For a long time. And Babli, too. And
-and Jeruschalmi.” His thoughts started to wander back into the
distant past; he spoke like someone pointing to pictures and
explaining them to another, now slowly, now quickly, according to the speed with which they passed through his memory.
“But what they say in the Cabbala- about God-it’s wrong. The
living truth is quite different. All those years ago … in Odessa
… I didn’t know then. In the Vatican … in Rome … I had to
translate from the Talmud…”