‘Erwin …’ says Haber.
‘But I did! Was that wrong too? Yes, all right, I know, I know. But anyway, the thing was I asked him one day, what it was about the Jews. Whether they were a people, even if they’d lived apart for thousands of years, if there was an Ahasuerus, an eternal Jew … if there was something peculiarly Jewish … not money or big noses, menorahs and all that, but something they themselves felt to be Jewish, and Steiner … it strikes me now that his name was Steiner … or was it Stein … how odd …’
‘Get to the point, man!’ Haber barks.
‘Do you know what he said?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘What did he say?’
‘Put two Jews in a room with a hundred people and within two minutes they’ll have found each other and be exchanging reminiscences, even if they’ve never met before!’
‘And that would be peculiarly Jewish?’ says Haber. ‘That one Yid can recognise another? Hardly likely to get us anywhere, is it?’
‘My words exactly!’
‘Then what did he say?’
‘He said: the Prussians are beaten dogs, the Jews are beaten cats!’
‘What kind of nonsense is that?’
‘That’s what he said. The Prussians bear a grudge, they sneak away and will bite, whereas the Jews will be polite and smile … the Jews will smile. And it’s true. Cats are … Egyptian, aren’t they, like the Jews themselves. They’re alien and can’t survive on their own in the wild in Germany, they have to be fed. But the dog. The dog is a German animal … and the Germans love dogs!’
‘I’ve seen a lot of Jews. Most were not smiling,’ says Semjon across the table.
‘Indeed, they’ve not got much to laugh about,’ says Haber.
‘Smiling cats, ha!’ Grünfeldt exclaims with delight.
‘There may be some truth in it,’ Semjon goes on. ‘I’ve seen many Jews beaten, but never a Jew who has laid a hand on a Christian. They just carry on their way, muttering their Jew language and sewing your trousers. That’s why they’re so unsettling … they’re like water.’
‘False as water …’ Haber ponders.
‘Schiller,’ says Grünfeldt. ‘Good old Schiller.’
‘It’s Shakespeare,’ says Haber. ‘Othello.’
‘So it is. Well done, Haber! How clever you are!’
There is a lull. Grünfeldt studies his varnished nails. Haber returns to the table and opens another dossier.
‘How many have we got now?’ I ask, with a nod in the direction of Haber, who has been making the list.
‘Eighty-seven Jews, of whom twenty-one we know for certain are dead. And of course none of them gave their real name, if whatshisface here is to be trusted,’ he says, indicating Semjon. ‘And they were in one of our camps.’
‘Semjon,’ I say. ‘His name is Semjon.’
‘Suit yourself,’ says Haber.
‘There you go again … work, work, work,’ Grünfeldt says and pats his stomach with both hands. ‘How about that pussy – Haber, what do you say?’
_ _ _
Haber drives, Semjon is in the passenger seat. Grünfeldt has his long fingers between the thighs of a skinny whore, her painted mouth opens in laughter, lips a small red heart, a kiss, a crude hallmark; jangling jewellery, plated metal and coloured glass, pale, flat bosom with blue veins, boa puffed at her throat. She babbles in Polish, Grünfeldt hands me the bottle and buries his face in hers, hands and glistening nails around her neck. He devours her with his undersized mouth and pointed tongue, slobbers, sucks at her as though sucking an egg, a partial vacuum. Haber watches them in the mirror and lights a cigarette.
‘Let me out here,’ I say.
‘What? But what about the cabaret?’ says Grünfeldt. ‘I could have them sing “Kleiner Max” …’
‘Just let me out,’ I say.
‘What about me, gospodin?’ says Semjon.
‘Do whatever you want,’ I tell him as we pull up at a corner. I get out, and he follows. Haber revs the engine, the car tears off down the street.
I pull out an Efka and hand it to Semjon.
‘Well, if it’s all right with gospodin, I think I’ll go for a walk,’ he says.
‘Let’s say six o’clock tomorrow morning, shall we?’
We stand for a moment, then Semjon nods, turns and strides off on his long legs into the bright night.
I savour the cool air.
I asked Haber where the nurses live.
_ _ _
It is a two-winged building behind the hospital; to get in means scaling a fence and entering a dark garden area that smells sweetly of night and cold apples. The windows of the top floor are lit up. I sit down in grass wet with dew and wait, listen.
Nothing.
This rush of expectation. I can hear my heart beating.
I know where Gertrud lives. I could have gone the front way, shown my police ID; the security guard would have let me in. But this moment is irresistible: the particularly German smell of a residence hall, to climb a fence, to tap against a pane.
She opens the door in her nightdress, red hair heavy, her freckled skin transparent.
I reach a hand to her face, tuck a lock of hair behind her ear.
‘Hello, Gertrud Engeler of Claudiusstrasse 41.’
‘Hello, stranger of Rumpffstrasse 3.’
_ _ _
Her eyes are closed, she holds onto the headboard of the bed. I can see the beat of her pulse in the hollow of her neck.
She licks my ear, whispers, sings: Casper, my darling, Casper, Casper, Casper.
_ _ _
She lies in the light. She has to be up soon. She is beautiful, and almost orange; her lips are orange in the still light of morning. I scribble a note and leave
