Although expecting to uncover a lead, Rath was still surprised to see the porter nodding through the glass after one look at the sketch.
‘He was here,’ the porter said. ‘A few days ago. With a bouquet.’
‘Was he visiting someone?’
‘I’d say so. Asked for someone anyways.’
‘Do you remember who?’
‘A Herr Goldstein, I think.’
‘Goldstein?’ Rath said, trying to stay cool. He gave Tornow a discreet nod. ‘That’s the name of a patient?’
‘Yes,’ the porter looked at a long list. ‘Jakob Goldstein. First floor, room 102.’
‘Do you remember when he visited?’
‘I’d reckon Wednesday or Thursday. During afternoon visiting hours, anyway. I can’t tell you any more than that. Only that he wasn’t the only one with a bouquet of flowers.’
‘Did he come a second time?’ Rath asked.
‘Not that I’m aware of. At least not while I’ve been on shift.’
‘We’d like to visit Herr Goldstein in room 102. Is that possible? Now, I mean.’
63
The old man was clearly in pain. The skin in his face seemed thinner, more transparent somehow. On the table stood fresh flowers, another bunch that was beginning to wilt, just like him. Everything in the room smelled of death and departure.
Abraham Goldstein had pictured his grandfather, whom he knew only from his father’s stories, with a long, white beard like all the old men in Williamsburg. And, of course, sidelocks – an older edition, so to speak, of his father Nathan. But Jakob Goldstein was about as much of a black hat as his grandson, Abraham, or he’d never have asked for such a favour.
Looking at his grandfather was like staring into a mirror: Abraham Goldstein fifty years older. No beard, no sidelocks, the same facial characteristics, only more prominent, the skin more wrinkled, the eyes deeper, the nose bigger, and the ears. Since arriving in Berlin he had realised that he looked more like Jakob than Nathan; and that Jakob looked more like him than his son.
Having only wanted to come once, he was now a daily visitor, and entering the hospital by the rear door had become almost routine. He moved through the corridors with the confidence of a young chief physician and, so far, no one had smelled a rat. A little bit of chutzpah made things easier, he’d known that for a long time. Even dying.
‘Abraham, there you are,’ the man smiled into his pillow. He barely had any strength left. Each word caused him pain, but it was clear from his face that he wanted to speak for as long as he still could. ‘Have you been to see your aunts?’
‘I don’t know if they really want to see me. You haven’t mentioned anything?’
‘You have to go and see them! They’re your father’s sisters. The mishpocha is important, even when it gets on your nerves.’ He laughed softly before the pain became too much. Abe nodded vaguely.
The old man gripped his hand. ‘Did you get it?’
This time Abe’s nod was more decisive. This would be his final visit. ‘Yes.’ He squeezed the old hand in return.
His grandfather’s face relaxed. ‘Show it to me,’ he said.
Abe took the syringe out of the bag. He had already filled it, prepared everything in the hotel – a nasty little flophouse that bore no comparison with the Excelsior. Still, they didn’t want to know his name or see his passport, and the porter had a few useful tips up his sleeve, like where you could get hold of cheap morphine.
He showed his grandfather the syringe, and the old man gazed at the liquid shimmering through the glass bulb. He nodded contentedly, gave a soft groan and grimaced. His hand clenched around Abe’s and held tight.
The flash of pain was over; his grandfather looked at him. ‘Now,’ he said. ‘I want it now.’
‘Right this minute? What’s the big hurry?’
‘Before dinner.’
‘It must be goddamn awful…’
The laughter lines around his grandfather’s eyes tightened. ‘It is,’ he said and nodded. ‘I’d rather die than eat that slop again.’ He laughed at his own joke, but it only hurt more. ‘Now,’ he said, serious this time.
Abe nodded. He took the syringe out of the case and pressed lightly, until the first drop of morphine appeared. He exposed his grandfather’s right arm and searched for a vein. The arm was shockingly thin, the skin pale and covered in age spots, the skin of a dead man. Abe squeezed the entire contents of the bulb into the vein, before dabbing the injection site with a cotton wool ball. There was no going back.
When Abe set the syringe aside, his grandfather gripped his hand once more, holding it tight, as if he never wanted to let go. ‘Thank you,’ he said quietly. ‘How long?’
‘A few minutes. You’ll fall asleep. There’ll be no more pain.’
The old man sank back into the pillow, feeling the effects of the morphine already.
‘Broadway,’ he said, and his tired eyes sparkled at the word. ‘Tell me about Broadway.’
For all his visits to the hospital, Abe still hadn’t been able to reveal the truth: that there was a big difference between the Broadway in Manhattan, which everybody knew, and the one in Williamsburg, where Nathan Goldstein and his family eked out their existence. So, Abe maintained the same cock and bull story his father had begun all those years ago. Nathan Goldstein had written regularly to Jakob, who had remained behind in Berlin, but Abe never knew how the pious old fool had littered his correspondence with lies: how he had made his fortune in America after starting his own clothing factory and moved into a flat on Broadway. What else could he write?
Only now, in Berlin, did Abe realise what hopes the Goldsteins had invested in Nathan, the eldest son. They had only been able to cobble together enough for one passage, and sent him on their behalf, expecting him to bring them over when he was able. But Nathan’s sisters found happiness in Berlin, persuaded Jakob to stay, and no one learned what a pig’s ear Nathan Goldstein had made of things in the States. The only person who knew was his son, Abraham, and he kept his father’s secret.
Aunt Lea had married a scrap metal dealer, a black hat who devoted his life to God but was no less successful in business for that. Aunt Margot, meanwhile, became a lawyer’s wife, a liberal, secularly minded man, which regularly led to huge family arguments and amused Abe’s grandfather no end.
With each visit Abe embellished his father’s fantastical tales, taking delight in the sparkling eyes of the sick, old man. Even now he told his grandfather about the day Nathan Goldstein hit upon the idea of combining the production and sale of off-the-peg clothing within a single company, although he sadly did not live to see its success. Abe recounted his father’s funeral in such heart-rending terms that he felt almost moved himself, as if half of New York had been part of Nathan Goldstein’s cortège, when in reality it had been a wretched affair, the appearance of a drunken son being its questionable highlight.
Abe had avoided his German relations because he didn’t feel like serving up the same old lies. In fact he had only seen his aunts and their families on one more occasion, yesterday, as he waited in the shadow of the trees on Schulstrasse for visiting hours to end. The young black hat was there again, Joseph Flegenheimer, going by his grandfather’s description. The oldest son of the scrap metal dealer was roughly his own age. His cousin had squinted across and hesitated for a moment, before turning to face the others. Since then, Abe, who had pulled his hat over his face, had been wondering whether Jossele, as his grandfather called him, had recognised him from their brief meeting in the hospital corridor. Or perhaps he had seen that blasted picture in the newspaper.