On the other hand, Niels found churches boring. As far as he was concerned, if you’d seen one, you’d seen them all. He had always felt that way, but Kathrine had a soft spot in her heart for the vast sacred spaces. She had once dragged him along to Helligåndskirke, the Church of the Holy Spirit, during an evening cultural celebration in Copenhagen. A choir had sung hymns in Latin, and a writer with a long beard had talked about the history of the church. The only thing Niels remembered was that at one time it had functioned as a hospital cloister. During the Middle Ages, when Copenhagen was becoming known as a European metropolis, countless travelers began arriving in the city: knights, wealthy burghers, and merchants. This increase in traffic meant more prostitutes and more illegitimate children. The babies were often killed right after birth. Helligåndskirke was then expanded and given the status of hospital cloister for the express purpose of taking in the babies given up by women who had become mothers against their will.
Niels parked his car at the curb and studied the church. Copenhagen residents were still bringing their children here six hundred years later. The cloister was now a day-care center.
He sat in the car for a moment, glancing up at the sky, where the sun was struggling to shine through a thin layer of pale gray clouds. He looked at the people walking past on the sidewalk. A young mother with a stroller. An elderly couple holding hands as if they were newly in love. It was a beautiful winter day in Copenhagen. Hopenhagen, as the city had been dubbed in honor of the climate conference.
Niels crossed the square, noticing immediately the patrol car parked at the curb. From quite a distance away he could hear a man yelling at the police officers. The slurred, unmistakable sound of a voice box damaged from long years of heavy drug use. The officers had grabbed hold of the addict’s arms.
“It wasn’t me, you fuckheads!”
Niels knew the man well. He had even arrested him once a long time ago. Just one of Copenhagen’s numerous deadbeats. An obnoxious figure who made everyone look the other way in a futile merging of empathy and disgust. The junkie tore himself out of the officers’ grip and set off in what looked like a comical flight. He lurched forward on frail legs. But it wasn’t his day, because he ran right into Niels.
“Hey, take it easy.”
“Let go of me, man. Dammit!”
Niels took a firm grip on the junkie’s arms until the officers caught up with him. The man was nothing but skin and bones. His arms felt as if they might snap in half. He clearly wasn’t long for this world; his breath stank of death. Niels had to turn his head away as the poor guy used his last strength to curse at the world.
“Go easy on the man,” Niels said as he handed him over to the custody of the young officers, seizing the opportunity to show them his police ID. One of the policemen wanted to make the addict lie down on the cold cobblestones so he could cuff him.
“I don’t think that’s really necessary, do you?” said Niels. The junkie was staring at him, but with no sign of recognition. “What did he do?”
“He was trying to break into the basement of the church.”
“It wasn’t me!” shouted the addict. “Listen to me, man. I just needed a place to give myself a fix.”
Niels glanced at his watch. He was late. He didn’t have time to find out exactly what had happened. Not if he was going to finish going down the list by six o’clock. The poor guy was still babbling. “Where are we supposed to go? Tell me that. Where the hell should we go when we need a fix?”
The cuffs closed around the addict’s thin wrists with an innocuous-sounding click. Niels noticed the man’s tattoo: a red snake and a little dragon wrapped around several symbols that he couldn’t make out. The tattoo was relatively new; no dull colors or smeared lines like on tattoos from the old days. Nor was it some sort of unauthorized tattoo from prison. It was a professional job. Quite the little work of art.
It turned out that the screws on the small basement window had been loosened, and a used syringe lay on the ground. Niels tossed the syringe in a garbage can. He wasn’t exactly fond of other people’s blood. He also found a single screw lying in the crack between two cobblestones. He fished it out and tried to push it into the window’s hinge. It fit perfectly. One of the young officers was standing behind him.
“Did you search the guy?” asked Niels.
“Yes.”
“Did you find a screwdriver?”
“No.”
Niels showed him the screw. “So he’s not the one who unscrewed the window. Besides, he doesn’t have the strength to manage anything like that.”
The policeman shrugged. He didn’t give a shit. Then he said, “If there’s nothing else, we’ll drive him over to the station.”
Niels wasn’t listening. He was thinking about the junkie’s tattoo. Why would an addict who had a hard enough time coming up with the thousand kroner he needed every day for his drug habit spend as much as ten thousand on a new tattoo?
Basement of Helligåndskirke—Copenhagen
Rosenberg looked very much like the version of himself that Niels had seen on TV. A tall, corpulent, balding man with a slightly stooped posture. His face was as round as a smiling sun in a child’s drawing. But behind the thick lenses of his glasses, a great solemnity lurked in his deep-set eyes.
“It happens a couple of times a year,” Rosenberg said.
They were standing in the basement under the church office. The space was practically empty. A couple of chairs, a few dusty cardboard boxes, a bookshelf holding a stack of pamphlets. Nothing else.
“Typically, some drug addict or homeless person imagines that our collection box is bulging with cash. But I must say they’re getting bolder. It usually happens at night. It’s never happened in broad daylight.”
“You didn’t see anything suspicious? Anyone sneaking around?”
“No. I was upstairs in my office. Answering all the hate mail, you know, and going through the minutes from the last meeting of our parish council. I’ll spare you the details.”
Niels caught the pastor’s eye. He smiled. People always told the police more than they were asked. “Is anything missing?”
Rosenberg surveyed the church’s earthly goods with a resigned expression. Folding chairs, cardboard boxes. Things that pile up and are then forgotten.
Niels looked around the room. “What’s behind that door over there?” He didn’t wait for an answer but walked over and opened it. He found himself looking into a small, dark room. The fluorescent lights took their time switching on. More tables and folding chairs. And over in the corner, a pile of old mattresses.
“Is this where they were living?” Niels asked, turning around.
Rosenberg came closer. “Are you going to arrest me for that now?”
Something that might have been a criticism of the police smoldered in Rosenberg’s eyes. He had turned the damp cellar wall into a gallery: black-and-white photographs from the days the refugees had spent in the church. A testimonial. Niels looked at their faces. Fear. And hope. The hope that Rosenberg had given them.
“How many were there?”
“Twelve, in the biggest group. This isn’t exactly the Hotel d’Angleterre, but they never complained.”
“Palestinians?”
“And Somalis, Yemenis, Sudanese. Even a lone Albanian. If they were telling me the truth, that is. Some of them weren’t especially talkative when it came right down to it. I’m sure they had their reasons.”
Niels studied the pastor. They were standing only inches away from each other, but the distance felt much greater. An invisible shield enveloped Rosenberg. His personal space seemed stronger than most people’s. He would allow someone to come this close and no closer. Niels wasn’t surprised. He had often encountered something similar from other people who made their living offering closeness and attention. Psychologists, psychiatrists, doctors. It was probably an unconscious survival mechanism.
Rosenberg switched off the light. Niels found himself standing in tot
al darkness.
“This is how I tell my confirmation students about the night when the police came. And how the refugees held on to each other. Some of them were crying, but they were brave, even though they knew what awaited them. I tell my students about how your colleagues broke down the door of the church and how their heavy boots could be heard moving across the church floor and down the stairs.”
Niels stood there listening to his own breathing. “But they didn’t come in here?”
“No. Your colleagues didn’t come in here. You gave up.”
Niels knew quite well that the police were not the ones who had given up. It was the politicians who had yielded to the pressure of popular opinion. Rosenberg turned the lights back on, and Niels again looked at the photos, trying to imagine what it must have been like.
“Aren’t there more than twelve in this picture?” Niels counted to himself. There were clearly more refugees in this one than in the other photographs. Rosenberg was standing in the doorway. He wanted Niels out of there.
“Yes, you’re right. A couple of them disappeared.”
“Disappeared?”
Niels noticed at once that Rosenberg was hesitating.
“Yes. Two men from Yemen. They just took off.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I guess they thought they wanted to try and make it on their own.”
Niels knew instantly that Rosenberg was lying.
The church was completely empty. Almost. An organist was practicing the same piece over and over. Rosenberg didn’t seem worried by the information that Niels had given him.
“Good people, you say? What sort of good people?” he asked.
“Human rights activists, aid workers, that sort of thing,” Niels said.
“What kind of world are we living in? Now that good people are being murdered?”
“Just be careful who you allow inside. Be vigilant.”
The pastor handed Niels a stack of hymnals to hold. “I’m not afraid. I’m not in any danger.” The mere idea made Rosenberg laugh, and he repeated, “I’m certainly in no danger of being considered a good person. I can promise you that. I’m a sinner.”
“I don’t think you’re in any danger, either, but you should still be careful.”
“There was once a man who went to see Luther.”
“The man who made all of us Protestants?”
“Yes, that’s the one.” Rosenberg laughed again, looking at Niels as if he were a child. “The man said to Luther: ‘I have a problem. I’ve thought long and hard about it, and do you know what? I have never sinned. I’ve never done anything that I shouldn’t.’ Luther looked at the man. Can you guess what he said?”
Niels felt himself carried back to the confirmation classes of his youth. It wasn’t a pleasant memory. “That the man was lucky?”
Rosenberg shook his head in triumph. “No, he told the man that he needed to commit a sin. That God existed in order to save sinners. Not for the sake of those who were already saved.”
The organist stopped playing. A couple of tourists came into the church and studied the interior with obligatory curiosity. Rosenberg clearly had more that he wanted to say to Niels, but he waited until the echo of the organ had dissipated up toward the ceiling.
“The Jews have a myth about the good people. Are you familiar with it?”
“I’ve never taken much interest in religion.” Niels could hear how that sounded, so he added apologetically, “Though I probably shouldn’t be saying that to a pastor.”
Rosenberg went on as if Niels hadn’t spoken, looking almost as if he were standing in the pulpit on a Sunday morning.
“It has to do with the thirty-six good people who keep the rest of humanity alive.”
“Thirty-six? Why thirty-six?”
“Each letter in the Hebrew alphabet has a certain numerical value. The letters that spell out the word ‘life’ add up to eighteen. And so eighteen is a sacred number.”
“And eighteen plus eighteen is thirty-six. That means it’s twice as sacred?”
“Pretty good for somebody who doesn’t take much of an interest in religion.”
Niels smiled, feeling a childish sense of pride. “How did they find that out?”
“What do you mean?”
“How did they know that God had put those thirty-six people here on earth?” Niels held back a disbelieving smile.
“He told Moses about it.”
Niels looked up at the huge paintings. Angels and demons. Dead people crawling out of their graves. The Son nailed to a wooden cross. Niels had seen a lot in his twenty years on the police force. Too much. He’d turned Copenhagen upside down in his hunt for evidence and motives to crimes; he’d searched every dark, grim corner of the human soul and discovered things that made him sick to his stomach just thinking about them. But he’d never seen a shadow of evidence that there was any sort of life after death.
“Sinai. Moses went up on the mountain and received the commandments. We still live our lives in accordance with what he was told. To such an extent, in fact, that we’ve made them into law. Thou shalt not kill.”
“That hasn’t ever stopped anyone.”
Rosenberg shrugged and went on. “Love thy neighbor. Thou shalt not steal. I’m sure you know the Ten Commandments.”
“Sure. Of course.”
“Actually, it’s your job to see that God’s Ten Commandments are kept. So maybe you’re more involved in the big picture than you know,” Rosenberg teased Niels, smiling. Niels couldn’t help smiling back. The pastor was clever. And experienced. He’d had years of training in how to tackle nonbelievers.
“Maybe,” replied Niels. “So what did God say to Moses?”
“He said that in every generation He would put thirty-six good, righteous people on earth to take care of humanity.”
“They’re supposed to go around and proselytize or what?”
“No. Because they don’t know that they’ve been chosen.”
“You mean the good people don’t know that they’re good?”
“That’s right. They don’t know that they’re good. Only God knows their identity. But they keep vigil over the rest of us.” The pastor paused. “As I said, this is very important in the Jewish faith. If you want to talk to an expert, you should go over to the synagogue on Krystalgade.”
Niels glanced at his watch and thought about Kathrine, the tranquilizers, and the plane he needed to catch the next day.
“Is it really so unthinkable?” the pastor went on. “Most of us would acknowledge that evil exists in the world. Evil individuals. Hitler. Stalin. So why not the opposite? Thirty-six people who offer a counterweight on God’s balance scale. How many drops of goodness are needed to keep evil in check? Maybe only thirty-six.”
Silence settled over them. Rosenberg took the hymnals from Niels and put them back in place on the bookshelf near the exit. Niels shook hands with the pastor. He was the first person on the list whom Niels had even wanted to shake hands with. Maybe the sacred space of the church was having an effect on him after all.
“As I said: I just think you should exercise a little precaution,” Niels repeated.
Rosenberg opened the door for him. Outside were bustling crowds, Christmas music, bells ringing, cars, noise—a raging, chaotic world. Niels looked the pastor in the eye, wondering what it was the man had lied about downstairs in the basement.
“In his eulogy for Gerald Ford, Kissinger called the deceased president one of the last good men. Someone also said the same of Oscar Schindler. Or was it Gandhi? Or Churchill?”
“Churchill? Can you send people off to war and still be considered good?”
Rosenberg paused to think about that. “Situations may arise when doing wrong is the right thing to do. But then you’re no longer good. That’s what Christianity is all about: that we can live with each other only when we’ve accepted sin as part of the human condition.”
Niels looked down at the church floor.
“I can see that I’ve scared you off now. That’s something that we pastors are good at doing.” Rosenberg laughed good-naturedly.
“I’ve got your phone number,” said Niels. “So I’ll know if you call me on my cell. Promise me that you’ll call if anything happens.”
Niels walked back to his car. He stopped next to the basement window of the church. Something didn’t fit. The basement window. The drug addict. The tattoo. Rosenberg lying to him. A lot of things don’t fit, he thought. But things didn’t always have to seem logical. That was the bane of a police officer’s job. People were liars. It was a matter of finding out which lie covered up not just a sin but a crime.
19
Ospedale Fatebenefratelli—Venice
The nun was from the Philippines. Sister Magdalena from the Order of the Sacred Heart. Tommaso liked her. A pretty and smiling face to help those who were terminally ill depart from this world. The newly established hospice was located on the north side of the old Jewish quarter. Tommaso could walk there from the Ghetto in only a few minutes. It was still called the Ghetto, even though the word had acquired a different meaning. It was here that the word had originated—getto meant iron-casting in Italian. Several hundred years ago, the Venetian ironworks had been housed in this part of the city, along with the Jews. At one point the gates were slammed shut, cutting off the Jews from the rest of the city. The area then became known as the Ghetto. A place that would later become the model for many urban districts around the world, which all had in common the fact that people were not allowed to leave.
The Last Good Man Page 10