The old man was speaking so softly now, Abe had to lean over the bed to hear. ‘It’s almost time, Abraham. We must say our goodbyes.’
Abe squeezed his grandfather’s hand, feeling an indefinable ache as he stared into the wrinkled face that would soon no longer stare back. Had Jakob Goldstein written to his grandson in America in order that he fulfil this wish? Did his grandfather have some inkling that he wasn’t a harmless textile dealer who had taken on his father’s flourishing business?
For some reason he felt much closer to this old man, whom he had met for the first time five days ago, than he ever had to his father. He felt almost ashamed of having loved his father so little, just as he felt ashamed of turning up drunk at his funeral.
‘Promise me something!’ The bony, old hand squeezed his palm with astonishing force, the eyes gazed at him, miraculous in their youth. Such intense eyes in such a weak, withered face, Abe thought, leaning over to hear what he had to say.
‘You have to say Kaddish at my funeral. Promise me you will.’
Abe made a promise he wasn’t sure he could keep. He hadn’t said Kaddish for an eternity, but that wasn’t the problem. The Kaddish was one of those things he’d never forget, that he’d carry with him for the rest of his life. That, at least, his father’s upbringing had achieved. The problem was that he needed to get out of Berlin as soon as possible. He hadn’t planned on attending his grandfather’s funeral, but, still, he nodded, the old man saw him nod, and that was enough.
‘That’s good,’ Jakob Goldstein said. ‘Schma Jisrael, Adonaj Elohejnu, Adonaj Echad.’ His voice grew softer and softer.
Somewhere deep inside Abe recognised the words, even if he hadn’t spoken them for years, and inwardly he prayed, despite no longer believing in the figure he was invoking.
His grandfather closed his eyes, as if recovering from a great exertion, though it wasn’t clear if it was the exertion of speech, or the exertion of a life fully lived. His face was calm and contented, and his breathing grew steadier as the morphine took control of his emaciated body.
Abe held his grandfather’s hand. ‘Farewell, Seide,’ he said, and the old man opened his eyes once more.
‘Not farewell. Until we meet again,’ Jakob Goldstein smiled. ‘You’ll visit me at my grave, say Kaddish. You promised.’
Abe nodded and his grandfather closed his eyes, the contented smile remaining on his face long after he had ceased to breath.
Goldstein didn’t know how long he had sat at his dead grandfather’s bed, but the old man’s hands were still warm when he was startled by a loud noise in the corridor. The nurses usually took their break about now, before everything started again and dinner was brought to the rooms. He opened the door a crack and peered out.
Two men approached from the corridor, one of whom he recognised. Detective Rath, that stubborn mule! He should have known they’d pick up his tail. But now! Today!
Rath’s companion must have bumped into one of the serving trolleys standing ready for delivery. A teapot had fallen to the floor, which he bent to pick up. The door to the nurses’ room opened and a fury in white shot out and took the two officers to task.
Abe closed the door, and returned to his grandfather’s bed. He pocketed the empty syringe, cast his grandfather a final glance and went to the window. A kind of pergola extended around the whole building. He swung onto it and looked down on the rear courtyard just as an ambulance arrived.
Driver and passenger climbed out and opened the rear door. For a moment he thought about jumping on top of the vehicle, but in the end climbed over the railings and clambered onto the rainwater pipe that led down from the roof. An elderly patient in a dressing gown, taking a stroll through the grounds, saw him but said nothing.
The metal buckled a little during his descent, and he ripped his coat but, after a few seconds, he was safely down. A quick upward glance told him the cops still didn’t know he had escaped, but he couldn’t afford to lose any time.
The ambulance puttered away on idle while two orderlies lifted out an unconscious man on a stretcher and carried him towards Accident and Emergency. They hadn’t noticed him. The man in the dressing gown was the only one watching.
Goldstein opened the driver’s door, gave the elderly patient a friendly nod and sat behind the wheel. Releasing the handbrake he engaged first gear and accelerated. The rear door swung this way and that as the vehicle lurched forward, tyres spraying gravel.
64
This nurse was a tough customer. The combined persuasive power of two police officers could not appease her.
Tornow had overlooked a service trolley and knocked a teapot to the floor. They were picking up the pieces when she stormed across the corridor and had barely got a word in since. The greatest crime wasn’t the destruction of the teapot, no, it was that two men, police officers or not, had dared to make such a racket – and outside of visiting hours at that!
How her own raised voice promoted the patients’ afternoon rest was another matter. This time Tornow attempted to appease her.
‘My good woman,’ he said, ‘we just want to take a quick peek inside room 102. It’s possible your patient can help us trace an escaped criminal.’
‘I’ll give you my good woman…!’ When the sister began another tirade, Rath lost patience.
‘Now, listen here! You can complain to the police commissioner himself for all I care, but, if you detain us any longer, I’ll charge you with obstructing a police investigation.’
She fell silent and, after a moment of paralysis, said meekly: ‘Room 102.’
Rath gave a friendly smile.
‘It’s over there,’ she said, ‘but please don’t get the patient too worked up. He’s on his deathbed.’
‘We’ll proceed with caution,’ Tornow said.
The sister followed them to the door at a respectful distance. Tornow knocked, but there was no response.
‘Perhaps he’s sleeping,’ she said. ‘He sleeps a lot, when he’s not in pain.’
Rath opened the door quietly.
There was a lone patient, an old man whose gaunt face was nestled deep inside his pillows. On a handwritten sign at the foot of the bed was the name Jakob Goldstein. The bedside table held an enormous bouquet of flowers.
Rath had seen enough dead bodies to know the man smiling peacefully was no longer alive.
Loud cries came through the open window, and the sound of a roaring engine. An ambulance was heading towards Schulstrasse at full tilt, its rear door swinging this way and that. Two male orderlies gazed after it open-mouthed. A man in a dressing gown shuffled over the gravel path towards them.
‘He just left,’ Rath heard him say. ‘Came down from up there and climbed into the ambulance!’
He explained what he meant by up there by pointing directly at Rath.
‘What’s wrong?’ Tornow asked.
‘Goldstein. He’s escaped.’
‘Damn it!’
They stormed past the sister, out of the room and into the corridor and, a minute later, were on the street. It was already too late. The ambulance was long gone.
Tornow kicked the nearest waste bin. ‘It’s my fault. That stupid service trolley must have warned him!’
‘Not so much the service trolley as dear old Sister Rabiata,’ Rath said. ‘Don’t blame yourself. We couldn’t have known he was in the building. We came here to question a witness, not chase a fugitive.’