Фолькер Кучер - Goldstein

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Could the boy have tried to fend off the sergeant major? Might he even have punched him?’

Tornow was silent for a moment, a good sign. ‘Not that I’m aware of,’ he said. ‘But you’ll have to ask him yourself. I’m not sure how it’d be possible to hit someone when you’re hanging from the edge of a precipice. What made you think of it?’

Lange pretended to make a note in the file. In fact he was doodling underneath one of yesterday’s statements, but the scratch of his pencil achieved its effect. Suddenly the police lieutenant didn’t seem quite so sure of himself.

It was only natural for a superior officer to back his men when something went wrong – and there was no doubt something had happened up there that didn’t tally with the officers’ statements, perhaps even a murder. Did Tornow know, or at least suspect? Was he trying to cover for one of his men, the indispensable Sergeant Major Kuschke? The main thing was Lange had unsettled the man, and that, for the moment, was enough.

He put his pencil to one side and stood up. ‘So, that’s it,’ he said.

‘That’s it? That’s the reason you summoned me here?’

‘You requested that I keep it brief.’ Lange stretched out a hand. ‘If you would please tell Sergeant Major Kuschke to come and see me at eleven o’clock tomorrow.’

Tornow looked him in the eye, as if he could read the assistant detective’s thoughts, and nodded. ‘Of course. Tomorrow at eleven.’

No sooner was the man outside than Lange relit the stubbed-out Muratti.

‘Should I type up the statement now?’ the stenographer asked as she stood up.

‘Not necessary, Fräulein Steffens. As you’ll have no doubt heard, we already have the statements on file. Throw your notes away and finish there for the day. It’s such lovely weather outside.’

Hilda Steffens looked at the assistant detective as if he wasn’t quite right in the head before packing her things and leaving the room. Lange drew deeply on his cigarette and leaned back. Perhaps he was imagining things, or simply reading too much into the operation commander’s behaviour, but he was certain that Lieutenant Tornow suspected something untoward had happened on his watch. Tornow was on the verge of starting a career in CID, and it would be most unfortunate if a black mark appearing so soon against his name were to compromise his future. Lange just had to convince the lieutenant that cooperating would be more beneficial to his career than stalling. Once he had the operation commander on side, he’d have Kuschke on a plate.

By the time he escaped the darkness and returned to Grenadierstrasse, Abraham Goldstein was a good pound heavier and felt like a different person. His fingers searched for the cold metal under the cover of his coat pocket, played with the weight, clasped the ribbed handle. It felt good in his hand. Though he hadn’t been able to test the weapon in the shop, he was certain he had made the right choice. A Remington Model 51: small, easy to use, effective.

He hadn’t thought he’d be able to get one in this country, so far from home. The taciturn toolmaker had surveyed him briefly when Abe asked for a firearm, then continued with his filing, before making for a cupboard in a dark corner of the studio. From its depths he had taken three pistols, a German model, a Belgian model, and the Remington. Even if the other pistols had been in better condition – the Belgian model was rusted, the German model had a slightly warped barrel – he’d still have gone for this. The Remington 51 felt as if it had been made for him, and the price was good. The toolmaker hadn’t been able to give him much ammunition, but it would be enough for his purposes. It wasn’t as if he was planning a session at the range.

He could still remember how it felt the first time he had fired a gun, when he was twelve or thirteen. It had been under Williamsburg Bridge, just before his Bar Mitzvah, at a time when he was anxious to shake off the God of his fathers.

He remembered the weight of the pistol in his hand, a Browning-Colt, almost twice as heavy as the Remington, with Moe’s boys looking on expectantly. They told him how he should breathe, how he should aim over his outstretched arm, but the feeling of the weapon in his hand overrode all else. The Browning-Colt gave him more power and strength than a gaunt twelve-year-old boy had any right to possess. It fit his hand perfectly, and made him feel big and strong, like one of them. The trigger was so light; he just had to move his fingertips gently back until he located the slack. The elevated train approached the bridge and, just as it thundered directly above him, Abe squeezed. He knew how loud a shot was, but was still surprised at how it rang in his ears, and even more surprised by the recoil which almost took his hand off. The laughter of the others drowned out the iron thunder of the Jamaica Line. He hadn’t even hit the car, a rusty old Ford which somebody had left under the bridge and on whose door they had drawn the target. It was said that one of O’Flannagan’s men had been shot in it, but it was so riddled with bullet holes from shooting practice that it was impossible to know.

The train hadn’t yet crossed the bridge and the laughter was still ringing in his ears when Abe took aim again. This time he was ready for the recoil, this time he was ready for anything. Imposing his will on the heavy pistol, he subjugated it to his desires. Then, calmly, he aimed, felt himself becoming one with the Browning. It was just like an extension of his arm, and he fired, again and again. Twice he struck the inner part of the target circle, once the outer part. Every shot hit home.

Nobody laughed now, just gazed at him in astonishment. Later they would let him shoot at rats on the bank of the East River, his first live targets. Red clouds of blood spattered everywhere, accompanied by hoots of delight. He had never understood their glee at seeing creatures suffer. When it came to killing a person for the first time, he was surprised at his own cold-bloodedness. He had screwed up a delivery (later he believed they had set him up to fail) and Moe had given him the chance to make good on a quivering wretch of a man they took from the boot of the car and threw onto the asphalt in the middle of the night. Moe looked at Abe and, without saying anything, pressed a Remington into his hand. Abe saw the shackled form in front of him, his ravaged face, and knew that one way or another this man was going to die. He also knew that he would win the respect of the entire gang if he took care of this whimpering fool as casually as possible.

He fired so quickly that even Moe was taken aback, a single shot to the back of the head, and returned the Remington to his boss. Moe couldn’t help breaking out into a grin, and then roared with laughter. ‘You’re a handsome son of a bitch,’ he said, and that had been Abe’s nickname ever since. He was just sixteen.

That night he had realised, to his surprise, that he had no fear of death, neither of his own nor other people’s. As soon as you accepted death, it lost its terror, simple as that. Perhaps that was what had estranged him from the religion of his forebears. If you didn’t fear death, how could you fear God?

What was death anyway? It could catch you at any moment: your heart, a car, a bullet. If you wanted to live, you had to accept it, and Abe had understood that death was a necessary condition of life. The fact that we’re alive is pure chance, he had once heard Moe say, the only certainty is death. And he was right. Most people saw it the other way around. They regarded their miserable existences as preordained and their death as chance, and that was their mistake.