On the platform, he lost sight of him and was tempted to put the experience down to his imagination, when the figure appeared again, floating down the escalator to fall into a short, mincing tread that bore an eerie resemblance to Nathan Goldstein’s gait. His father had walked just like that over Williamsburg Bridge to Greenberg’s clothing factory on the Lower East Side. The old man was reminiscent of his dead father in many ways except one: Nathan Goldstein would never have taken the train. He was too tight, or simply too poor.
In the middle of the platform the black hat came to a halt and to Goldstein he seemed like a man out of time among the advertising signs, electric lights and people waiting for their trains.
Four men in brown were laughing and talking far too loudly, their faces reddened with alcohol. They had followed the old man down the escalator. A passenger with a bandage on his face who must also have come from the hospital pointedly turned his back on them.
They wore uniform shirts the colour of an unhealthy bout of diarrhoea, military style caps, also in brown, with red brassards on their left arms. At first Goldstein thought they were Communists, until he saw the black cross against the white circle, a cross with hooks, a symbol Goldstein had seen a few times in Berlin without remembering where. The old man seemed to recognise the symbol and the uniforms. Discreetly he distanced himself from the four men, moving slowly and inconspicuously – no mincing now – to the opposite end of the platform. Others waiting had also registered the newcomers, but no one wanted to let it show. Instead they remained as unobtrusive and indifferent as possible.
The brownshirts, oblivious to the change in atmosphere, pushed their way past. You could smell the drink on them even in the stale underground air. ‘Well now, what have we here?’
Their laughter trickled out like the last drop of rainwater in a gully; as did all conversation on the platform. ‘Is someone lost? I thought this was an Aryan platform!’
The rest of the passengers stared either at their newspapers or their feet. The old man gave up trying to be invisible.
‘Should we show the poor man the way?’
It didn’t sound like the brownshirt was being a good Boy Scout. The old man lapsed into his mincing walk, back towards the escalator at the other end of the platform.
‘Hey, old timer! We mean you, stay where you are!’ He didn’t turn around. ‘Hey Jew! Stand still when Germans speak to you.’
The old man reached the escalator, climbing the moving steps one by one until he disappeared from Goldstein’s field of vision. The brownshirts followed.
He seemed to be the only one who had seen the incident; everyone else continued looking at their newspapers or staring at the ground. Only when the train arrived did they raise their eyes. The doors opened, and they climbed aboard. No one got out. The train wouldn’t depart for another few minutes. He looked at the open doors and then at the escalator, which continued to roll upwards.
30
Rath had taken the east. While Charly spoke to the five families who had registered girls called Alex, he would work his way through the list of Reinholds based in Friedrichshain. He strode to the top of the escalator and lit a cigarette. Before emerging from the U-Bahn station at Strausberger Platz, he took another look in his notebook. The first address was in Andreasstrasse, not far from here.
In her determination to make amends, Charly had reminded him of the year before, when she had flunked her exam. Clearly, failure was not a concept that existed in her world. Her only source of comfort was to act, which she had done by tackling the exam for a second time. She’s a tough one, my girl, he had thought, as she started over again, studying long into the night. He felt an immense love for Charly in those hours he observed her unnoticed. At the same time her dogged grimness almost scared him.
He walked down Andreasstrasse, looking at the house numbers. The neighbourhood didn’t bring back good memories. Not far from here, at a construction site on Koppenstrasse, which had long since been replaced by a new building, Rath had clashed fatally with Josef Wilczek, a small-time crook, and then disposed of the corpse. Later he had consigned the man’s file to the Wet Fish, the Castle’s store of unsolved cases, after sabotaging the investigation. At least that’s what he thought, until Johann Marlow quite casually dropped the name Wilczek into a conversation. It was one of the reasons he couldn’t refuse any of the gangster’s requests, and that included searching for Red Hugo. At least – and this was to the man’s credit – it was the first time in almost two and a half years that Marlow had tried to use him. Until now it had been the other way around, which only exacerbated Rath’s debt.
He looked around. The pub where Dr M. had waited in vain for Hugo Lenz on Monday evening must be close. Not the sort of neighbourhood Charly should be walking around in at night.
On Langen Strasse, a flickering neon sign was engaged in battle with the oncoming dusk. Amor-Diele. That was the place. For an underworld meeting point it looked pretty respectable. Perhaps it had to be for Johann Marlow to frequent it.
Rath came to a halt. He looked at his list of addresses and then the sign outside the pub. Damn it, he thought as he pocketed his notebook. Charly’s Reinholds could wait. He flicked his cigarette into the gutter and went over.
31
The old man didn’t make it out of the station building. The brownshirts caught up with him and pushed him into a corner. Two or three passersby looked across, and suddenly rushed to get down to the platform. The man at the ticket counter leaned over his till to count his change. Goldstein entered the foyer from the top of the escalator and saw the lips under the white beard moving as if in prayer. ‘Could you please to step aside so that I go back down the underground?’ he asked politely.
‘It’s for Germans only,’ said the red-faced man who had started the whole thing off. He tapped the old man’s chest with his fingers. ‘Who said you could take the train?’
‘But I have ticket.’
‘Didn’t you hear? For Germans only, you’ll have to walk!’ One of the brownshirts struck the old man a hefty blow so that he stumbled into the arms of the ringleader.
‘Hey, Jew, watch where you’re going!’
‘Well,’ said a third, giving the old man, who was still holding his ticket, a sharp rap on the arm. ‘Aren’t you going to apologise to the Scharführer?’
The old man’s eyes flitted this way and that, from one man to the next. Enough was enough.
‘Why don’t you just let the man go home?’ Goldstein said.
Four pairs of eyes turned to face him.
As calmly as possible, Goldstein lit a Camel, and, for a moment, they were speechless, looking at each other before returning to the man with the cigarette. ‘What do we have here?’
Goldstein would have liked to tear a strip off them, but he didn’t want to start a fight. He just wanted them to leave the old man in peace.
While the eyes of his tormentors were on Goldstein, the old man lunged to the right, darting sideways and out of the building with surprising speed. The four men gazed after him in confusion.
‘We haven’t finished with you yet!’ the Scharführer waved his fist at Goldstein, a gesture that seemed laughable, and followed his three cronies outside.
‘You’re welcome, asshole,’ Goldstein snarled in English. He was part of this now. By the time he stepped onto the street the old man had crossed the carriageway. His pursuers waited for their Scharführer to catch up, then bore down on the old man from both sides. He looked to the left and right, before turning towards the park, which rose dark and threatening in the night sky, a wall of leaves illuminated by streetlights.