Stuart Kaminsky - Fall of a Cosmonaut

Belinsky had been in Moscow only a few years. He had started a congregation and almost immediately had found the young men in his small congregation being murdered. Belinsky himself had almost been killed by the murderers, who had acted not out of a commitment to anti-Semitism but to drive the congregation out of existence and out of the synagogue where they knew a valuable bejeweled artifact was hidden. With Belinsky’s help, Rostnikov had caught the murderers. Now, the policeman and the rabbi were close to being friends.

Belinsky was a powerfully built man of average height. He had been a soldier, an extremely well trained Israeli soldier who was familiar with confrontation, sacrifice, and death. He had been chosen to go to Moscow precisely because he was determined and capable of taking care of himself and his congregation.

“Porfiry Petrovich,” Belinsky said, looking up with a smile and touching his short black beard.

“Avrum,” Rostnikov answered, deciding not to sit in one of the several dozen folding chairs that faced the platform on which the young rabbi stood.

“I was working on a sermon,” Belinsky said, moving away from the bema and approaching Rostnikov with his hand out.

The two men shook hands and Belinsky motioned for Rostnikov to take a seat. He could not refuse. Rostnikov did not trust wooden folding chairs. They had disappointed him in the past. He sat carefully and the rabbi turned one of the chairs around to face him.

“I was in Pushkin Square,” Rostnikov said.

“And you decided to pay me a visit,” said Belinsky.

Rostnikov nodded. “But that is not all,” he said.

“Sarah,” said the rabbi.

“She goes out every Friday night,” said Rostnikov. “She says she is going to see her cousin or friends. But she is coming here to attend services.”

“Yes, she is Jewish.”

“She has been through a great deal,” said Rostnikov. “Surgery. I almost lost her.”

“I know.”

“It does not surprise me that she would turn to the religion of her grandfather,” said Rostnikov. “And it is reasonable that she would come here, to you.”

“But?”

“I do not understand why she has not told me. Are you under some rule, like a Catholic priest or something, that prevents you from telling me?”

“No, but I think you should ask her. Would you like a drink? Water? I even have some wine and Pepsi-Cola in my office.”

“No, thank you. I plan to ask her, but I have learned that it is a good idea if at all possible to be prepared for what might turn out to be a difficult situation.”

It was Belinsky’s turn to nod. “She is concerned.”

“Afraid,” said Rostnikov.

“Yes. She is seeking some deeper meaning in life and has turned to a reasonable place for that meaning.”

“And has she found it?” asked Rostnikov.

“I don’t think so. Not yet. Maybe never. Let me tell you a secret, Porfiry Petrovich. There is no meaning we can find. Our God does not give us simple answers. His only answer is in the enigma of the Bible, of our Torah. I have come to the conclusion that if we seek openly we come to realize that the Bible is telling us to accept what is-the good, the evil. God makes no sense we can understand, just as the world makes no sense we can understand. We can only accept what is and we can find solace in that acceptance. Accept life. Do not ask God for justice, mercy, goodness. God is, like man, a mystery. He can act in ways that make no sense to us. He can change his mind. He can destroy us or grant us mercy, and there is no fathoming why he does any of this.”

“That is the sermon you are working on?”

“Yes,” said the rabbi, touching his dark beard and smiling.

“You do not wish to answer my question,” said Rostnikov.

“In a way, I have. Ask Sarah.”

Rostnikov rose.

“The heating system working well?”

“Yes, you did a good job. This winter will be the real test.”

“The toilet?”

“A work of art. Thank you.”

“Then,” said Rostnikov, “there is no more to say.”

“Not now,” said Belinsky.

They shook hands again and Rostnikov made his way out onto the street. He was lost in thought, half a block away, when he remembered that he had meant to ask Avrum Belinsky where he had been during the morning storm.

The director of the Center for the Study of Technical Parapsychology, Andrei Vanga, was clean shaven, white haired, and wearing a rather rumpled brown suit and a tie that was no match for it. He was a slight, nervous man who habitually played with the gold band on the small finger of his left hand. His office was large. The furniture was well-polished wood with comfortable chairs and even a small brown leather couch. The paintings on the wall were originals, though a close examination would reveal that the artists were not particularly well known.

Nadia Spectorski had left them to return to her work. Zelach and Karpo had been guided to the sofa by the director, who took Zelach’s arm.

“We would prefer the chairs,” Karpo said.

“As you wish,” said Vanga, backing off and moving three of the four chairs in the room into a mini circle so they could face each other.

Vanga’s face was pink and solemn. He leaned forward attentively, playing with his gold band, ready to help.

“Do you have any ideas about why someone might kill Sergei Bolskanov?”

“None,” said the director.

“No enemies?” asked Karpo.

“None,” said the director sadly.

“Everyone liked him?”

“Everyone,” said the director. “He was a quiet, pleasant, hardworking scientist. We all admired him.”

“We have heard otherwise,” said Karpo.

“Well,” said the director with a knowing smile. “He could be a bit … how shall I say? A bit gruff, but just a bit.”

“Someone hit him repeatedly with a hammer,” said Karpo.

“I know,” said the director.

“It is possible that it was done by someone who did not like him.”

“Of course,” the director said with a shrug.

Zelach was paying close attention and had concluded that they were going to get little from Vanga, but Karpo persisted.

“Could someone profit from stealing the results of Bolskanov’s work?”

“Profit? Make money?”

“Make money, win acclaim, respect.”

“I don’t know. Maybe. We don’t think like that. We’re afraid to. Someone around here might read our minds,” said the director with a smile.

Neither of the detectives returned the smile.

“It was just a joke,” said the director earnestly, “an attempt to lighten … I spend much of my time raising money. I sometimes use that …”

“And your research?” asked Karpo.

“Psychic phenomena during dream states,” he said. “I have written forty papers presented at conferences all over the world. I’ve written two books. I’d give you both copies but they are a bit old and I have only a few left. But I’m working on a new article which I believe will be modestly important in the field. I …”

“Bolskanov also did dream research,” said Karpo.

“Correct,” said Vanga. “I brought him into the center. We worked together on many projects. He often came to me for advice, to review his findings, to …”

“We would like your shoes,” said Karpo.

“My … I beg your pardon.”

“Your shoes,” Karpo repeated.

“Now, these?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“You will get them back before the end of the day,” said Karpo. “Please take them off and give them to Inspector Zelach.”

A bewildered director began removing his well-polished brown patent-leather shoes.

“I’ll have to wear my spare pair,” he said. “They are black and …”