Stuart Kaminsky - Tarnished Icons

“But he never told you he wasn’t Jewish?” Rostnikov asked.

Belinsky shook his head and said, “He told us his family was originally from Ukraine, a small shtetl.”

“We Russians are a people accustomed to lying,” said Rostnikov, “lying with such sincerity, conviction, and indignation that we often believe our own lies. I have faced murderers who committed their crime in front of numerous reliable witnesses. The murderers often swore that they had not committed the crime. Their sincerity was convincing. Polygraphs don’t work on us. It has taken us almost a thousand years to perfect this art.”

“Mesanovich was an infiltrator?” asked Belinsky.

“It is possible,” said Rostnikov. “He seems to have belonged to no nationalistic or anti-Semitic organizations. Yet one cannot avoid the possibility that those with whom he conspired distrusted him for some reason, real or imagined, and killed him. In all likelihood he was simply mistaken for a Jew, since he contended that he was one. We are looking into it. So far we have not been able to find Mesanovich’s parents here in Moscow. They have not been home when we called, and we have not found out where they might work.”

Belinsky’s eyes met those of the policeman, and the rabbi made a cautious decision to trust the man.

“Do you have informants within the mafias, the nationalist groups, the hate groups?” asked Belinsky.

Rostnikov shrugged and said, “I have been asked by the director of my office to request that you cease your services and activities until we find the murderers.”

“No,” said Belinsky firmly.

Rostnikov nodded, having anticipated the answer.

“More may die,” said Rostnikov, “as you said.”

“We will help God and the police to try to keep that from happening,” said the rabbi.

“And I will see what I can do about getting the ducting and tools to heat this place adequately,” said Rostnikov.

“Why?” asked Belinsky.

“Because it is cold in here,” said Rostnikov. “And because my wife and son are Jews, as will be my grandchildren. Perhaps one day one of them will choose to come here on a winter morning. I should not want them cold.”

The rabbi examined his visitor with curiosity.

“One last question,” said Rostnikov. “Do you have a favorite color?”

“Yes,” the rabbi said. “Two colors, blue and white, the colors of Israel.”

“I’m exploring a theory that people often reveal a great deal about themselves from the colors they feel drawn to,” said Rostnikov. “It is not my idea but that of a German psychologist who wrote an article I read. It seems reasonable, but the puzzle is what to make of people’s choices.”

“So, you’ve not yet drawn any conclusions?”

“About you, yes. You are an ardent Zionist who might well do something dangerous to find these murderers. The colors don’t tell me this. They confirm it. My own favorite color seems to tell me nothing about myself. But that is the nature of life.”

With that the policeman turned and limped out the door into the snowy night. Belinsky had spent far too much of his time with far too little result keeping the stoves filled with wood. After the funeral he would need to visit each member of the small congregation, not only to help strengthen their resolve but also to urge other Jews to come to stand with them. Belinsky knew he could be very persuasive. That was one of the reasons he had volunteered for this assignment. A horrible irony of the murders could ultimately be that the congregation might grow rather than dwindle, that the money Israel was investing in this congregation would continue to draw those hungry for food and others who shared their outcast state. Belinsky had faith in his God and in his own power of persuasion.

Rostnikov, however, was a nagging puzzle. Belinsky couldn’t afford to like the man, yet he was drawn to the detective’s apparent openness and odd ideas. In addition, Rostnikov had volunteered to help with the heating system. Belinsky would see if that came to pass. It is easy to make promises and only a little harder to ignore them.

He let the fires die down while he sat in a chair in silent prayer. When he felt the fires were safe, he retrieved his coat from the alcove near the entrance, turned out the light, and locked the door.

He headed toward his small apartment, which was only two blocks away. The streets were empty. It was late and it was cold. There was little for the people of Moscow to do except visit friends, talk and drink tea, read a book, watch television, and produce more Russians.

Avrum Belinsky was less than a block from his apartment building when they appeared. There were three of them. Avrum knew they were there fifteen feet before two of them stepped out of the doorway. He knew there was another one behind. He had seen the one behind in the shadows of a darkened house and been careful not to show in his gait or manner what he had seen.

Belinsky’s hand was on the gun in his pocket as he approached the two men who stood before him now, waiting for him to turn around and see that his escape was impossible. But Belinsky didn’t want to escape. He continued to walk forward toward the two men, and he didn’t look behind him.

It was called Trotsky Station by the policemen who worked there and by most of the veterans from other law enforcement agencies who had dealt with or heard about it. Actually this police station, like the other 133 stations in Moscow, had a number. Only the administrators ever used the number. No one was quite sure why it was called Trotsky Station.

The primary tale was that Trotsky and a group of friends had lived for a time in the building. It was certainly old enough. The large stone blocks it was built with probably had been white once. Now they were gray. The stairs to the second floor needed repair. The walls needed plastering and painting, and the heating system was barely functional. The building also had a distinctive, and certainly not pleasant, moldy odor. The floor tiles were loose, and the toilets in the rest room were reluctant at best.

Another reason less often given for the Trotsky name was that those assigned to the district had a reputation for effective brutality. It was said that the major in charge during the 1950s had actually smashed a murder suspect’s head with a hammer-a death similar to Trotsky’s.

Elena and Sasha sat in the anteroom in front of the office of a Lieutenant Spaskov to whom they had been sent by the clerk downstairs, who sat behind a barred window that made him look more like a prisoner than a police officer. The uniformed man, with an ageless pock-marked face, had barely looked up when they identified themselves.

Sasha had said they wanted to see whoever was in charge of ongoing investigations. When the man behind the bars had asked which investigation, Elena said, “The rapes.”

“Which …?” the man had begun, and then he had looked up at them. “Lieutenant Spaskov on the second floor, Room 2. He’s in a meeting in his office. I think he’ll be done soon.”

So they now sat on a wooden bench outside four offices with no names on the doors but numbers over each. They could make out the sound of voices from a few of the offices but no distinct words. In Russia, government officials had learned to keep their voices down and their conversations quiet.

“This is a waste of time,” Sasha said.

“You have a better lead?” answered Elena.

“An old woman got a glimpse of a man who tried to rob her ten years ago. He may be the rapist. Now she sees a policeman two or three times in a police car in Leningrad Square and declares it is the man.”

“She gave a description,” said Elena quietly as she unbuttoned her jacket.