The Warsaw Anagrams (24 page)

‘We found a piece of gauze in his fist. But maybe it had been in the barbed wire and got stuck to him when he was tossed there. It had been raining – the gauze must have been wet and clingy.’

‘What kind of gauze?’

‘The kind used in wedding veils, that sort of thing.’

‘Did you save it?’ I asked.

‘No.’

‘Why the hell not?’

‘It didn’t seem important. Look, Dr Cohen, hundreds of Jewish kids die each month in the ghetto – should we save everything they’ve got in their hands?’

‘Was the gauze bloody?’

‘No, it was clean.’

‘Which means it may have been put in his fist after he was murdered. Or he may even have snatched it up.’

‘Why would he do that?’ Schrei questioned.

‘I don’t know. What was Georg’s surname?’

‘If I tell you that, you have to promise not to go public with anything you find out.’

‘Whatever you want,’ I agreed. ‘I’ll even leave you my first editions of Freud in my will. You
can
read, can’t you?’

‘This is serious, Dr Cohen. You’re already in trouble.’

‘With whom? Besides God, I mean – for being an assimilated Jew.’

I thought that was witty, but he glared at me as if I’d gone too far. ‘With … me,’ he said slowly and darkly, and he took a long and greedy puff. He had fantastic lungs – I’d give him that.

‘
Mazel tov!
’ I told him sarcastically. ‘God and Benny Schrei regard me as too clever by half. Do you and He perform together often?’

‘This is useless,’ he concluded, frowning. ‘
You’re
useless. And I’m too sick of my life to go on hitting verbal ping-pong balls back and forth with a crusty old bugger like you.’ He strode past me, chin high and elbows swinging, just like the cowboy hero in a Karl May Western.

‘I’m sorry,’ I told him, and when he faced me at the kitchen door, I said, ‘I really am, but what can I do?’

I saw in the willingness of his eyes that he’d wanted someone to apologize for a long time – for what, I didn’t know, but every Jew in Poland woke up with an urgent need for someone, even a stranger, to tell him he was sorry.

‘You want me to follow your orders,’ I went on, ‘but I’m exhausted, and underneath my exhaustion is an anger so deep it’s probably bottomless. And besides, I’ve always been bad at doing what other people want.’

The water was boiling by now, but I’d used up all my strength bantering with him. I sat at the table and propped up my head with my hands.

‘When was the last time you had a good meal?’ he asked me.

‘Define good.’

‘I’ll make the chicory,’ he told me.

‘It’s in there,’ I said, pointing to one of the cabinets.

‘So what are you going to do when you find out who killed Adam?’ he asked me, taking out the tin. He also found a wedge of cheese that Stefa must have hidden for an emergency.

‘Have you ever been to London?’ I asked.

‘No,’ he replied.

‘How about Paris?’

‘Once, why?’

He took a paring knife from the towel on which I’d let the washed silverware dry and started scraping the outside of the cheese.

‘Was Paris exactly as you thought it would be?’ I questioned. ‘I mean, when you were walking along the Seine did you feel just as you thought you’d feel?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘So how can I know what I’ll do when I reach the final page of this mystery?’

He scowled as if my comparison was silly. ‘Do you have any bread?’ he asked.

I pointed to my stash of matzo on Stefa’s spice shelf. He took a rectangle and cut two reasonably mould-free slivers of cheese on top. ‘Eat this,’ he said, putting it in front of me.

It was comforting to be given an order. While he made our ersatz coffee, I nibbled away – the third mouse in my family, and the only one who hadn’t yet had his neck snapped in two.

We let silence settle the quarrel between us. I was grateful for that.

‘I want you to come to me when you find out who murdered Adam,’ he told me, putting a steaming cup of chicory in front of me. ‘Before you do anything stupid, I mean.’

‘All right, but I’m prone to doing stupid things. It’s a personality flaw.’

Sniffing, he said, ‘No offence intended, Dr Cohen, but are you aware you smell like a dog’s behind?’

His
no
offence intended
made me laugh. I liked him more and more.

To give ourselves a rest, we talked about the wretched weather for a time – a favoured subject in Warsaw for at least nine months every year. Then he asked about Stefa, and I told him how she’d given me back a belief in miracles. When I spoke of her Moroccan slippers falling off, and of the sores I discovered between her toes, he closed his eyes as if he might give up his Hollywood gangster persona and turn back into the softer man he undoubtedly was in the Before Time.

‘Hey, give me some more cheese,’ I asked, to move us beyond our impasse.

He cut me a big slice, pulling the knife towards his thumb like a peasant, which made me realize how far he’d come.

‘Got a pen and paper?’ he asked while I was licking the crumbs from my palm.

‘What for?’

‘I’m going to write down what I know about Georg.’

I told him to fetch my dream diary from under my pillow and my inkstand from my desk. In the thirty seconds he was gone, I realized the obvious: he was too overworked to solve the murders of Adam, Anna and Georg; he wanted me to do that for him. And I also realized that he must be sure a Jewish accomplice inside the ghetto was at least partly responsible for Adam’s death or he wouldn’t be worried about what I’d do.

‘Who are the letters under your pillow from?’ he asked when he returned.

‘My daughter. She lives in Izmir. She’s an archaeologist. She likes old things.’
Except for her father
, I almost added, but I hoped that was no longer true.

‘Thank God she’s safe,’ he told me.

‘Yes, that’s a very good thing. Listen, Schrei, after I find out who killed Adam, Anna and Georg, what’ll you do with me?’

‘Do with you? I won’t do anything with you.’ He was offended by my implication.

‘If the murderer turns out to be a wealthy smuggler who’s collaborating with the Germans, you won’t put a bullet in me?’

‘Not if you keep his identity to yourself.’

‘And if I don’t?’

‘Dr Cohen,’ he replied wearily, ‘if I were a betting man, I’d wager you’ll never find out who the murderer is. But if you do, you can be sure I’ll take care of him – even if he turns out to be Keranowicz.’

‘Who?’

‘Sorry – it’s my anagram for Czerniakow.’

Adam Czerniakow was the head of the Jewish Council – and the most famous man in the ghetto.

‘You too?’ I exclaimed.

‘Me too what?’

‘Rearranging things to fit the new world we’re living in.’

‘What else can I do?’ he replied, shrugging. ‘Anyway, I’ll take care of the murderer –
if
you find him. That’s my job.’

He spoke so matter-of-factly that I believed him. He wrote a name in my dream diary – Georg Mueller – then the address he’d lived at before being orphaned: 24 Brzeska Street, which was in the Warsaw suburb of Praga.

He also wrote down his own address. When he handed me my diary, he said, ‘Get in touch with me if you find out anything more – any time, day or night.’

‘You’re sure Georg’s parents are dead?’ I asked.

‘That’s what the boy told the people at the orphanage. And we managed to send someone to his home address, but none of his neighbours knew of any relatives in the area.’

‘He must have someone – an aunt, an uncle …’

‘He said he had cousins in Katowice.’

As I wrote that down, I asked, ‘And how did his parents die?’

‘The Nazis sent his father away on a labour gang and he never came home. Pneumonia killed his mother.’

‘Do you have a photo of him?’ I asked, and when Schrei shook his head, I added, ‘How about an identity card?’

‘Nothing. He was thrown naked into the barbed wire.’

‘From the Christian side?’

‘Yes.’

‘You said he’d run away from the orphanage. So where was he living?’

‘On the street. A nurse who worked at the orphanage said she used to see him juggling outside the Femina Theatre. But listen, Mueller may not be his real name. That’s the name he used, but he might have made it up. Apparently, he was that kind of kid.’

‘What kind of kid is that?’

‘The kind who lies to adults.’

‘You don’t get it, do you?’ I told him. ‘In here, all kids lie. That’s one more way we can be sure we’ve been exiled to
Gehenna
.’

A barber at a makeshift stall near the Femina Theatre confirmed to me that kids often performed there starting at noon and, sure enough, five boys and one girl, all in homemade black leotards, arrived only a few minutes after the hour. A crowd formed as they spread a worn red rug along the sidewalk.

They performed flips and handsprings to much delighted applause. Only one of the kids – a boy with a shaved head who was maybe ten or eleven years old – seemed to be a trained gymnast, however; he did a twisting handspring into a back flip that made everybody gasp. But he never smiled; he seemed to be embarrassed.

For a finale, the children formed a three-tiered pyramid. An imp with a shaved head stood at the top. He wore a gold papier-mâché crown and gripped a sceptre in his fist – a metal bar painted silver, with a blue light bulb fastened at the top. Surveying the onlookers, he held his head high, as if they were his subjects. He tried his best, but the whole amateurish spectacle only revealed to me how far we’d fallen.

As soon as the show was over, the capable gymnast walked through the crowd with a black derby, asking for donations. I dropped a złoty in and asked if he’d known a young street juggler named Georg. He told me that he hadn’t, but the miniature king who’d reigned atop the pyramid overheard us and hollered, ‘I knew him!’

‘What’s your name?’ I asked.

‘Zachariah Manberg,’ he replied proudly.

‘He’s
Tsibele
!’ the slightly older acrobat beside him shouted with malicious glee.

‘’Cause he smells like an rotten onion!’ another shouted.

‘We all smell like onions!’ I challenged them.

‘Not you,
Reb Yid
!’ yelled the girl acrobat, hoping to win some coins in exchange for flattery.

‘True,’ I acknowledged. ‘I have it on good authority that I smell like a dog’s rear end.’

She was too shocked to laugh. And Zachariah was too curious of me.

‘Come here,’ I told him, motioning him over. He had merry green eyes – intelligent and wily – and I imagined from the serious way he stared at me that he was trying to assess whether I was a hundred, or maybe even a thousand, years old. I felt an immediate affection for him.

‘My name is Erik Cohen and I’m sixty-seven,’ I told him. ‘How old are you?’

‘Seven and a half,’ he answered proudly, puffing up his chest like a rooster.

‘Do you know if Georg was smuggling?’ I asked.

He held out his palm, stuck the pink tip of his tongue between his lips and gave me a cheeky look. I reached into my pocket and took out a one-złoty coin, then gave it to him, which made his eyes pop. The four other boys and single girl in his troupe circled around us.

‘I’m sure he was smuggling,’ Zachariah told me.

I squatted to his level so he’d trust me, but my knees were so sore that it felt as though broken glass were sticking into them. I dropped down on to my bottom to relieve the pain. When I asked my little friend to sit with me, he dropped down and crossed his legs.

‘Where’s your coat?’ I asked him.

‘My sister is holding it.’

‘Where is she?’

‘She went for food.’

I took off my muffler and twirled it twice around his neck. ‘There, that’s better,’ I told him. ‘Now, what kind of goods did Georg smuggle?’

He held out his hand again. I gave him another złoty. He inserted both coins into his sock, then told me happily, ‘I don’t know.’

‘I paid you so you could tell me you don’t know?’ I made an exaggerated, silent-movie frown. ‘You’re taking advantage of an
alter kacker
!’

He giggled and squirmed. The ghetto hadn’t yet murdered his sense of humour, which was worth paying for. But more than that, I realized I’d found the child I wanted.

When I learn who killed Adam, take me, but let this boy survive
, I whispered to God – or maybe to Satan. It didn’t seem to matter which, as long as my wish was granted.

‘Do you know which secret passage Georg used to get out of the ghetto?’ I asked.

He held out his palm for more money. I snatched his hand. ‘Listen, Zachariah, this goes beyond money – I need to know very badly.’

‘Georg went right through the wall,’ he answered. ‘He and some other boys knocked out some bricks one night.’

‘Where?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘On Okopowa Street, near the cemetery,’ an older boy with a scab on his chin told me. ‘I was with him.’

I motioned him over and he squatted down beside me.

‘Did he ever speak about meeting anyone dangerous or threatening?’ I asked.

‘No.’

Zachariah agreed with that. He rubbed his eye with his knuckle. I noticed a louse crawling in his eyelashes. I took his shoulder. ‘Don’t move,’ I told him.

I pulled out the wretched parasite between my thumb and forefinger, then crushed it with my nail.

‘What was that?’ he asked.

‘Just a bug,’ I replied, tossing it away. ‘Listen, did Georg ever say why he didn’t go back to the orphanage?’

‘He hated being cooped up!’ Zachariah exclaimed, as if that answer might win him a ticket to the cinema.

‘And do you know where he was living?’

‘On Nowolipie Street.’

‘What number?’

Zachariah made a face and hunched up his shoulders to indicate he didn’t know.

‘Georg was kind of secretive,’ the older boy said solemnly.

‘What did he look like?’

‘He had big ears – like an elephant,’ Zachariah told me. He tugged on his earlobes.