“Well, of course. It’s been all over the papers. The customers don’t stop talking about it.”
“One of your customers-a young Hasid, I believe-was overheard saying that his master, a preacher called Barash, had prophesied the monk’s death.”
“Yes, that’s true. I was there at the time. But-with respect-you shouldn’t be taking very much notice of such things.”
“Oh, why not?”
“The Hasidim aren’t like the rest of us. They believe all sorts of nonsense. They interpret dreams, commune with the dead, and think that God reveals himself in magic numbers! And as for prophecies… Well, they’re always saying this thing or that thing is going to happen. They make so many predictions! I mean, it stands to reason they’ve got to be right about something-eventually! Coincidence, Inspector. That’s all it is. Coincidence.”
“Did the young Hasid say specifically that the monk would be murdered?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Please, try to remember exactly what he said.”
“Well, that’s not so easy. As usual, there was a lot of noise, and I was very busy.”
“Was your daughter present?”
“No. That’s why I was busy.”
“Even so, perhaps you could try to remember what was said?”
Zucker paused and thought for a moment.
“They were arguing about religion. A young Hasid, and some workmen. They usually keep themselves to themselves, the Hasidim. But when they do get into arguments with my regulars”-Zucker pretended to cover his ears-“it’s worse than a yeshiva.”
“A what?”
“A school where they study holy books. There’s an old saying: two rabbis, three arguments. And you know, it’s not far wrong.”
“You were saying…,” Rheinhardt prompted the proprietor. “About the young Hasid?”
“Oh yes… Actually, I think the workmen were just teasing. But the Hasid was getting more and more agitated, and to prove some point he mentioned his leader’s prophecy. To be honest, I can’t remember very much more than that.” Zucker waved his cigarette in the air, creating a vortex of ash. “Now, are you sure I can’t interest you in my reis trauttmansdorff? I promise you, once you’ve tasted it, you’ll be back for more.”
“You said that these Hasidim are always making prophecies. What other things have you heard?”
Zucker grinned. “Everything from horse race winners to the coming of the Messiah! Now, for the last time, Inspector: my reis trauttmansdorff? Are you going to try it or not?”
22
Nagel’s general store was situated in a narrow alleyway that connected two roads on opposite sides of the old ghetto buildings. It was paved with yellowish flagstones-many of them cracked and loose-and the air was suffused with a pungent, penetrating dampness. The alley was so narrow, and so inauspiciously positioned, that it received direct sunlight only for a few hours a day in the summer months. For the rest of the year it existed in a perpetual twilight that intensified to become a precocious night by mid-afternoon. This gloom was relieved by a single naked gas jet, mounted on one of the walls.
The general store was sandwiched between two other shops. A secondhand book dealer’s, occupied by an old man whose moldering stock added another harmonic of decay to the musty melange that tainted the air, and a cardboard vendor’s, run by a cadaverous Pole who spoke only Yiddish.
In the window of the general store were various items intended to attract the attention of passersby. However, such light as there was passed through the grimy little panes of glass enfolded the goods in a greenish murk and made the boxes, candles, tins, string, and bottles look like the kind of detritus that collects on the bed of a slow-flowing river.
Nahum sat behind the counter, toying with the weights and his scale. He was arranging the small weights on one side, to counterbalance a large weight on the other. The scale seesawed indecisively on its fulcrum-falling neither one way nor the other. Through the ceiling came the sound of Nahum’s father coughing, a horrible bark that crackled with phlegm the color of pus. Nahum knew this because he had inspected the contents of his father’s spittoon and noticed the change. The old man’s chest problem had obviously gotten much worse. They had scraped together a little money to pay for a doctor, but all he had said was that it would be better for Hayyim if they moved out of their rooms above the shop and away from the damp alleyway. But how were they going to do that?
The stockroom-really a cupboard-was empty, and there were still some of the suppliers who hadn’t been paid. Nahum tapped the smaller weights, and watched them descend, slow to a halt, and rise up again. The shop had never made much of a profit, but now it was running at a loss.
Rebbe Barash had promised change. He had held Hayyim’s hand and promised the old man that life would be better, very soon. But if things went on like this, it would be too late.
From outside, Nahum recognized the heavy tread of hobnailed boots on the flagstones. The door flew open, and the little bell chimed. Two thickset men stepped into the shop. Their broad shoulders and lumpy features became all that Nahum could see. One had a distinctive scar that cut through his left eyebrow and continued as a white weal down his cheek. The other had the broken nose and grazed knuckles of a pugilist.
“You came only last week,” said Nahum.
“Open the cash box,” said the man with the scar.
“But we’ve hardly sold anything…”
The man swung his fist over the counter and knocked Nahum’s hat off.
“Next time it’ll be your head.”
Nahum, with trembling fingers, took the cash box from under the counter and, taking the key from his pocket, opened it up. Inside was change amounting to no more than three kronen.
“Where’s the rest? I wasn’t born yesterday, you know.”
“There isn’t any more!”
The man grabbed Nahum by the collar and pulled him over the counter. He pressed his face up close.
“Go and get it.”
“There isn’t any more!”
The man lifted Nahum off his feet and threw him against the shelves. A bottle fell off and smashed on the floor.
“Nahum… Nahum?” It was the old man.
Nahum looked up and shouted, “It’s all right, Father… It was nothing… an accident.”
“Be careful, why don’t you?” the old man croaked.
“I will, Father.”
The two men looked at each other and smirked.
“Please,” said Nahum, lowering his voice. “I beg you. He’s very ill.”
The man with the scar scooped the coins out of the cash box and put them into his pocket.
“Listen. You get us the rest of the money by next time, or we’ll give you a beating to remember. Do you understand?”
They stormed out of the shop, accompanied by the innocent tinkling of the bell. Nahum collapsed onto his stool and wiped the perspiration from his brow.
23
Rheinhardt had been smoking cigars all the way from Josefstadt to Hietzing. As a result, when he opened the carriage door, he emerged from the confined space like Mephistopheles, surrounded by a roiling yellow cloud. He placed a foot on the step and jumped to the ground, his coat catching the air and rising up like a black wing. The
