Фолькер Кучер - Goldstein

‘We’re taking back what’s rightfully ours.’

‘No matter how many people are killed in the process?’

‘That’s rich. Do you know why I’m sitting here, Inspector? It’s because Rudi Höller has disappeared. Lapke thinks Berolina bumped him off.’

‘Rudi the Rat?’

‘We deal with these things ourselves. No cops.’

‘What makes you think Berolina are behind it? They don’t go about killing people. They stick to the code of honour.’

‘Well, maybe Red Hugo and his men don’t get their own hands dirty, but if you knew who just landed in Berlin…’

‘Explain!’

‘Don’t you know anything? You haven’t heard there’s an American killer in town? Now, who has the money to send for someone like that? Not the Pirates! You should spend some time probing the good men of Berolina.’

‘What do you think I’ve been doing?’ Rath gestured towards the pub. ‘The things they’re saying about your lot, you’d want to be careful hanging around like this.’ He opened the door. ‘Tell your boss that we don’t want a gangland war here in Berlin. Tell him to keep the peace, or he’ll be straight back in the can.’

Away from the streetlamps it was pitch black. Wind rattled the trees and gravel crunched underfoot. Goldstein had started to believe he was the only person in this nocturnal wilderness when he heard a cry, but the juddering of a passing train drowned all other sound, even the rustle of leaves in the trees.

He moved in the direction of the cry until he saw the four brownshirts gathered in a little clearing around the old man. Silhouetted by the light of a streetlamp, their long shadows were thrown across the grass. The black hat was pulling himself up from the ground. ‘You Shkotzim, why don’t you let an old man go about his business in peace?’

‘Speak German. This is Germany!’

One of the brownshirts launched a kick at the old man’s solar plexus, and he fell to his knees, gasping for breath. A second kick struck him under the chin and he toppled forward, his hat rolling across the grass.

Goldstein stepped silently onto the soft grass, but they were too preoccupied to notice. The fat one fumbled around with his fly. ‘Make a bit of room. I’m desperate here.’

The others laughed and stepped aside. The old man groaned but didn’t move. The fat man had his dick in his hands when Goldstein shouted. ‘Who shat on your uniforms?’

All four turned, and the one holding his dick said: ‘I don’t believe it. Someone must have a death wish.’

‘It’s the big mouth from just now!’

‘Must be a foreigner who doesn’t know who he’s dealing with. Needs teaching a lesson.’

‘I’ll tell you who I’m dealing with,’ said Goldstein. ‘A group of cowardly mamzerim going at an old man, one with a fat belly and a tiny schmock. Put that thing away before it drops off. You won’t find it in the dark.’

The fat brownshirt stuffed his penis back in his fly and fumbled frantically at the buttons. The other three turned their attentions to Abraham Goldstein.

‘The way you’re talking you must be a Jew too?’

‘It doesn’t fucking matter what he is, Stefan,’ the ringleader said, still buttoning his fly, ‘either way he needs a good slap.’

Stefan planted himself in front of Goldstein and looked him over. ‘You don’t look Jewish to me, so don’t butt in. You’ll regret it.’

Goldstein flung his cigarette onto the grass. ‘Fuck you ,’ he said in English, putting his hands in his coat pocket.

‘We’re in Germany,’ Stefan said, ‘and in Germany we speak German. Time for your first lesson.’

He lifted his right hand but Goldstein rammed his forehead against the bridge of his nose before he could move. Stefan’s eyes rolled and he fell to the floor, blood streaming from his nose. One down, three to go.

‘Did you understand that?’ Goldstein asked. ‘Or do you need me to translate?’

The fat ringleader found his voice. ‘Now you’re talking,’ he said. ‘Show him, Gerd!’

Gerd put on a knuckleduster. ‘You won’t get me like that,’ he said. ‘Not so much as a warning, you cowardly piece of shit.’

‘Consider yourself forewarned.’ Goldstein pulled the Remington out of his coat pocket. ‘One more step, and there’ll be a hole in that nice uniform.’

Gerd stared uncertainly into the barrel and looked to his leader. ‘He’s got a piece, Günter. He must think we haven’t seen it all before.’

‘Put that away,’ said Günter. ‘You think the SA would venture into a Communist area unarmed?’

‘I repeat. Reach for a pocket and you’ll find yourself with a hole in your shirt.’

Abe must have been concentrating too hard on the ringleader and Gerd’s knuckleduster. He lost sight of the third man. By the time he registered movement, his arms were gripped from behind. He lost his balance and, together with his attacker, fell to the ground. A shot went off and someone screamed.

‘Aargh, my foot!’

His attacker loosened his grip for a moment and Goldstein slammed the Remington against his temple, knocking him out. He wasn’t the only one rendered out of commission. Gerd was sitting on the lawn next to the unconscious Stefan, clasping his right foot with both hands. On his right hand he still wore the knuckleduster. Dark, shiny lines of blood seeped through his fingers and dripped on the floor.

‘Damn it, my foot!’ he yelled. ‘What have you done, you arsehole?’

Goldstein looked over at the fat man, who stood off, making no move to approach. He picked himself up, ready for the next attack, but the man stayed where he was. ‘So,’ the man said, ‘things look a little different now, don’t they. Drop your weapon!’

At first Goldstein thought he must have misheard, but then he saw the Luger cocked in the man’s hand.

‘I’m warning you,’ Günter said. ‘I’m a good marksman. Pistol on the floor.’

Goldstein shrugged. ‘You know, in situations like this, it doesn’t really come down to who’s the best shot.’

‘Oh?’

‘It comes down to who can hold their nerve.’

‘Drop your weapon!’

‘That’s what I’m talking about. You’re too nervy. Your voice is too loud. Any moment now your hand will start shaking.’

‘An arsehole like you, I’d hit every time.’

‘The problem is you don’t want to shoot me. You can’t. You’re not capable. Otherwise you’d have done it already.’

The Luger began to shake.

‘Shoot him!’ cried Gerd. ‘Do him! The bastard shot my foot! It’s self-defence!’

Günter was already moving backwards.

‘I think it’s about time I issued another warning,’ Goldstein said, nodding towards the Luger. ‘Drop your weapon before I shoot it out of your hand. Have you ever thought how awkward life can be without a right hand?’

The panic in the fat man’s eyes grew. Fight or flight? He dropped the Luger, turned on his heels and ran.

‘Some Scharführer,’ Goldstein said to the whimpering Gerd, who was still mourning the loss of his toes. ‘Leaving you in the lurch.’

Stefan groaned and put his hands to his bloody nose. Reaching it, he gave a yawp and immediately regained consciousness. The third man was also coming round. All three looked at Goldstein. In the meantime Gerd had tears in his eyes, and was making an increasingly strained face.

‘This isn’t a picnic, you know,’ Goldstein said. ‘So far, you’ve managed to escape with a few bruises…’

‘Bruises?’ Gerd wailed. ‘My foot!’

‘…but I warn you. It’s time to get the hell out of here before I change my mind.’

Stefan and the other man cast a final glance at their lame colleague, before taking flight in different directions.