Their second meeting had occurred after Isha finally became aware of Bruno Perlman’s death. She recalled him as an intense man who had wanted to record their conversation, and whose questioning bordered on the insensitive, particularly for an old woman who lived every day with the memory of what happened at Lubsko yet, like some who have been through great trauma, endure only by refusing to speak of it aloud, as if to do so would be to give it substance, and return them to the reality of it. But Isha felt some obligation to help this man who was clearly so haunted by his family’s past. She could tell him little that he did not already know, though, for she had not been at the camp when his relatives died. Eventually her daughter had returned home and, seeing how upset her mother was being made by the interview, terminated it as gently, yet as forcefully, as she could.
Demers and Isha had then met briefly at Ruth’s funeral, and now Demers was sitting in Isha’s home, with what she hoped might be a sliver of connective tissue between Ruth’s murder and the man who called himself Marcus Baulman.
Isha set the tray down on the table, and carefully placed cork mats on the mahogany before adding the cups and plates. She poured the coffee, and allowed Demers to add her own cream and sugar.
‘You will have some babka?’ she said, although Demers felt that it was more an order than a question.
‘I’d love a piece,’ she said, and Isha cut her a slice as thick as her arm, and a smaller portion for herself.
Demers tried it. God, it was good – not that she knew babka from bupkis, but this really was fantastic. It was crumbly and chocolaty, with a hint of familiar essence to it.
‘What do you think?’ asked Isha.
She had not yet touched her own slice. Her attention was fixed entirely on her visitor. Had Demers expressed dissatisfaction, even just through an absence of enthusiasm, she was certain that Isha would have been unable to eat, and might never have prepared her babka again. But there was no cause for Demers to feign enthusiasm. She thought she might actually weep, the cake was so good.
‘It’s wonderful. Are those nuts I’m tasting?’
‘Are you allergic?’
‘No, not at all. I just can’t figure out what nut it is.’
Only then did Isha take a bite of her own cake.
‘No nuts,’ she said.
‘Seriously?’
‘Mascarpone cheese. Others use cream cheese, but mascarpone is better. It gives the dough that flavor. Before you leave, I must write down the recipe for you.’
Good luck with that, thought Demers. She wasn’t a bad cook, but baking was too much like science – or alchemy – for her liking. It required the kind of precision that she instinctively applied to her work, but when she got home, she preferred to be a little more relaxed in her culinary endeavors.
‘How is Amanda doing?’ she asked.
Isha finished her own mouthful before answering.
‘Good and bad,’ she said. ‘She has nightmares, and her condition, her syndrome, has worsened again. They say that maybe she should talk to a therapist.’
‘It might help.’
‘But I am here for her. I will always listen to her.’
‘And that’s good,’ said Demers. ‘She needs that stability. But the circumstances in which her mother died were particularly awful. Amanda saw her mother’s body, and her killer, and was assaulted by him in turn. She’s still just a child, and if she receives the help that she needs now, it’ll ease the burden later.’
‘You’re right, of course,’ said Isha. ‘Yes, a therapist. I will tell them.’
She used her fork to cut away another piece of babka. They spoke of the ongoing investigation into her daughter’s death. Just as the police had done, Demers asked if Isha could think of any reason why Bruno Perlman might have wished to contact her daughter, but she could not.
At last Isha placed her fork on the plate, leaving the rest of her cake untouched. There was silence as she waited for Demers to explain why she was here.
‘Mrs Winter,’ she began, ‘does the name Reynard Kraus mean anything to you?’
Isha reacted as though she had been stabbed with the point of a blade. She grimaced, and her right hand lifted slightly as though to ward off a second assault.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I know that name.’
‘He was at Lubsko, right?’
‘He was a killer of children. I saw him take them away, when the Russians were coming. He had a small room at the back of the medical clinic, but I didn’t know what he was planning to do with them in there, not then, not until I saw the bodies being carried out. Then we heard the first shots, and my father told me to run, and I ran.’
Demers let a few seconds pass before proceeding. She had met many former concentration camp prisoners in her time, and survivor guilt was a common trait. She could only begin to imagine the kind of guilt Isha Winter carried from being the only one to have got out of a camp alive.
‘I’d like to show you a picture, if I may,’ said Demers.
‘Certainly.’
Isha wore her glasses on a chain around her neck. She put them on as Demers reached into her satchel and removed a blue plastic folder. From it she took the photograph of Baulman taken when he was first admitted to the United States. She placed it before Isha, who took it in her hands and examined it closely.
‘I don’t know this man,’ said Isha.
‘Please, look at it again. Take your time.’
Isha did as she was asked, but in the end she shook her head.
‘No, I don’t know him. Who is this?’
‘Isn’t it … Reynard Kraus?’
‘No, this is not Kraus.’
Demers couldn’t believe it. She had been growing increasingly sure about Baulman, even if it was only circumstantial evidence – and the claims of Engel as he tried to wriggle his way off the hook of extradition – that pointed toward the possibility that he was Kraus. It took Demers a moment to find her voice, and she couldn’t prevent it from betraying her disappointment.
‘You’re sure, absolutely sure?’
‘You think I would not remember his face? No, this man is not Reynard Kraus. Who is he?’
Demers didn’t know how to answer. She put the picture of Marcus Baulman on the table, and handed Isha instead Reynard Kraus’s party membership photo.
‘What about this one?’
Isha puffed out her cheeks. She held up the photo, adjusting it so that the light shone better upon it.
‘It could be Kraus,’ she said at last. ‘Don’t you have a better photograph?’
‘This is all we have.’
‘I – I want to say yes. You know, it might be him, but I could not swear to it. Why are you asking me this? Do you think you’ve found him? Have you found Kraus?’
‘I thought we had,’ said Demers. ‘Please, look again at that first photo. It’s possible that Kraus may have had some work done on his face to alter his appearance.’
‘I don’t need to look at it again,’ said Isha. ‘The eyes are wrong.’
‘The shape of them?’
‘No the spirit revealed in them. The soul. Can a man change this?’
‘No,’ said Demers. ‘He can’t.’
But Isha’s attention had been drawn to the final photo in Demers’s file, the one from Baulman’s driver’s license. Isha’s face reflected confusion, then a kind of recognition.
‘I have seen this man.’
She tapped the photograph. Demers could see her straining to remember where, or when, she had encountered Baulman. This was dangerous territory for Demers. By showing the picture to Isha Winter, she was letting her know that the shadow of suspicion had touched him. Who knew what impact that might have in a series of small, close-knit coastal communities? Baulman’s reputation – even what was left of his life – could be tainted or ruined entirely, if word got out that he was being investigated on suspicion of war crimes. Isha had already undermined Demers’s case by failing to identify Kraus from his immigrati
on photo, although the damage was not fatal. Despite what Isha had said, memories alone were unreliable, especially as people got older. The problem for Demers and her colleagues was that what they had on Baulman was flimsy: the word of Engel, some inconsistencies in Baulman’s paperwork in Germany that could probably be explained away by a good lawyer, and the incomplete records from Lubsko indicating that Reynard Kraus had been responsible for the deaths of at least seventy children. Had Isha Winter, the sole survivor of Lubsko, confirmed that Baulman and Kraus were one and the same, it would have significantly strengthened their case against him.
‘He lives not far from here,’ said Demers carefully.
‘What is his name?’
‘I can’t tell you that for now. Could he perhaps be Kraus? Can you picture Kraus as an elderly man?’
And once more came the same answer.
‘No. I’m sorry: it is again the eyes. This is not the man who killed those children.’
‘And you’re absolutely certain of this? I apologize for persisting, but you of all people will understand how important this is.’
Isha removed her glasses.
‘I wish I could tell you it was him. More than anything, I want it to be so. But I cannot say what is not true.’
A throbbing commenced in the left side of Demers’s skull. Suddenly the light streaming through the window was too bright, and when Isha poured fresh coffee the noise of the pot striking against the cup resonated so painfully that Demers felt it in her teeth. The migraine would be on her within the hour.
Isha perceived her discomfort.
‘Miss Demers, are you unwell?’
‘Sorry,’ said Demers. ‘I feel a headache coming on, and I don’t think I’ve brought any pills with me. Would you have some painkillers? Not aspirin, though: I’m allergic. Acetaminophen, maybe?’
‘I’ll see.’
She left the room, and Demers heard her searching in the kitchen cupboards.
Demers put her head in her hands. She had wanted so badly to have Isha make a positive identification. They’d continue looking into Baulman, of course, but some of the momentum had now gone from the investigation, and the clock was always ticking. It was merciless, implacable. No matter what they did, or how hard they tried, it would continue to run down until there was no time left at all, and justice would be lost in that final silence.
Isha could only find some Alka-Seltzer cold medicine, the kind that caused drowsiness, but the pain in Demers’s head was getting worse. She decided to take one of the soluble tablets instead of two. With luck, it would keep the migraine at bay while not impairing her ability to drive, or not too much, until she could check into her hotel and rest. She knocked the tablet back.
‘Would you like to lie down?’ asked Isha.
‘No, thank you. I have to go.’
She stood and gathered her things.
‘I don’t know what I can do,’ said Isha. She looked distraught, as though she had let Demers down by failing to give her the answer she was expecting.
‘Nothing,’ said Demers. ‘It’s not your fault. We’ll keep looking. We’ll keep trying. If I have any news, I’ll be in touch.’
Isha accompanied her to the door. Halfway down the hall, she stopped and took Demers’s arm.
‘The recipe,’ she said. ‘I meant to give you the babka recipe.’
‘Another time,’ said Demers. ‘It’ll keep.’
But Isha had something more to say, for she had not relaxed her grip.
‘Please,’ she said, ‘I don’t want you to take this the wrong way.’
‘Take what?’ asked Demers, not understanding.
‘I wonder sometimes why this matters so much to all of you.’
Demers was taken aback. How could it not matter? How could Isha even ask such a question?
‘Don’t you want these people found and punished, Isha?’ she replied. ‘They’re criminals. What they did was monstrous, without equal in history.’
‘This, I know,’ said Isha. ‘But you must understand something, Miss Demers. I have thought long about this, and I believe that you and your superiors are acting out of guilt, because you failed all of us so long ago.’
It hit Demers with the force of a blow.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You knew that the Jewish people were under threat. Your American government even convened a conference at Evian in 1938 to seek a solution to the refugee problem, but all of you, with but one exception – the Dominican Republic – refused to alter your immigration policies. You left us to die. And even when the truth of the camps was revealed, you did nothing.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘You were asked to bomb the railways, the camps, but you did not.’
‘There were legitimate concerns about injuring or killing prisoners if bombing raids were sanctioned.’
‘Prisoners were being gassed and hanged and shot! Six thousand a day at Auschwitz alone in the summer of 1944!’ Isha laughed, and Demers thought that she had never heard quite so much despair in the sound. ‘How much worse could bombing have been? Don’t you see? All this is just too late. It won’t bring the dead back. It will only allow you to sleep a little better in your beds at night.’
Demers didn’t know how to reply. Her head was thumping. She thought that she might be sick.
‘I’m sorry you feel that way,’ she said, and the words were so inadequate that she felt overwhelmed by a sense of their ridiculousness.
Isha gave Demers’s arm a final squeeze.
‘Sometimes, I don’t know how I feel,’ said Isha. ‘Forgive me. You are a good young woman, and I am a foolish old one.’
Demers said goodbye and walked to her car. She’d had failures in the past – they all had – but this one bothered her more than most, because she’d been so certain. Engel feared being returned to Germany, where he knew no one and would die a pariah. He wanted to save himself, yet he appeared to have lied.
And Isha Winter was partly right: Demers and her colleagues were motivated by an acute sense of justice, but their actions also represented a form of recompense, of atonement for the failures of the past; for the laziness and political expediency; for the parsimony that had deprived the hunt of resources for so long; and for the greed – for information, for new technology, for knowledge – that led American intelligence to join hands with men as terrible as Klaus Barbie and Friedrich Buchardt, whose Einsatzkommando unit was responsible for literally tens of thousands of deaths, making him the biggest mass murderer employed by the Allies after the war. Had the OSI been formed earlier – perhaps in the fifties, or even the early sixties – would the CIA have permitted Demers’s predecessors to purge it of its Nazi connections? The depressing answer was that she doubted it.
Enough: she hadn’t failed, not yet. Identification alone wouldn’t have put Baulman on a plane back to Germany anyway. An obstacle had been placed in their way, and they’d simply have to find a way around it.
But it wasn’t just about Isha. There was also her daughter, and Bruno Perlman, and the Tedescos. Perlman remained connected to Isha through Lubsko, and although doubts were now being raised about whether the mark on his orbital socket had actually been made by a blade, Demers was still convinced that he’d been murdered, if only because Lenny Tedesco, who appeared to be one of Perlman’s few friends, had also been killed, along with his wife, and Demers wasn’t about to buy that many coincidences.
Now there was Baulman, and another potential Lubsko link in Maine, even if it had been almost severed by Isha Winter’s inability to identify him as Kraus. No, this wasn’t over. Pieces were missing, but they would find them.
On the drive to Bangor, the ticking of her watch grew so loud that she took it off and placed it in the glove compartment.
Yet still she thought she could hear it.
47
The ride from Bangor to Burlington, Vermont was about six hours – or more, since Louis was doing most of the driving.
??
?You drive like you got Miss Daisy in the back,’ said Angel, as they made stately progress west. ‘I feel like I’m in a fucking funeral cortege.’
‘And you know why I drive this way?’
‘Because you’re frightened?’ suggested Angel. ‘Because someone put a limiter on the car? Why?’
‘Because I’m black. That’s why I’m careful.’
‘You’re not careful: you’re just slow. The internal combustion engine is wasted on you. You want me to get out and walk in front with a red flag?’
‘Yeah, would you? Then I could run you over.’
‘You couldn’t accelerate fast enough to run me over. By the time you got up to speed, I’d have died of old age.’
‘Why don’t you just count the number of black men you see driving cars between here and Vermont? It’s like a white supremacist road race. And while you’re counting, go find me a black state trooper. Around here, they see a black man doing fifty and they already writing his name beside a cell door.’
‘At least if you get arrested in Vermont they might give you ice cream, try to rehabilitate you.’
Parker listened to them bicker. His back was against the door on the passenger side, his feet stretched out before him. He’d taken a painkiller – just some Tylenol, not the prescription stuff they’d given him before he left the hospital. He wanted to keep a clear head.
He’d called Rachel shortly after they left Bangor, and told her he was on his way to see Sam, with Angel and Louis in tow. He assured her that they wouldn’t stop by until the morning, though. By the time they reached Burlington it would be nine p.m. at least, and he didn’t want her to keep Sam up on his account. Rachel didn’t sound too pleased to hear that he was heading to Vermont without giving her more notice, but he didn’t care. Relations between them had been even tenser since Ruth Winter’s murder. Rachel had driven from Burlington to Maine as soon as the call came in from the police informing her of what had happened on the beach at Green Heron Bay. She’d arrived at the Bangor Medical Center to find her daughter in the care of a female officer, and Parker’s internal injuries being treated on an operating table. She’d then stayed with Sam while she gave her statement to the police, and they’d both been present when Parker had come out of the anesthetic. He hadn’t been able to say much to either of them, but he could feel Rachel’s anger, even through his drug-induced daze. He’d only spoken to Rachel once since then, when he’d called to check on Sam. She’d been pretty curt. He couldn’t blame her.