Death in Twilight

by Jason Fields

  Chapter 22

  Aaron had a long walk in front of him and the streets were no more inviting than they had been an hour before. He passed more than one shop that gusted the smell of rot out its door, despite the cold. One smell that Aaron had gotten used to in the ghetto was notably absent, the miasma of unwashed bodies. Even the sewers, which had been overburdened with the doubling of the area’s population, seemed to have subsided.

  Small relief, but relief nonetheless.

  Aaron encountered a pointless Jewish patrol after a few blocks, but knew neither of the men. No one spoke as they passed. To Aaron, the policemen’s eyes looked hollow, gutted as the ghetto had been. Why they kept to their duties, Aaron could not imagine. Did they have some shred of hope that the Germans would keep their promises, even after everything they’d seen, everything they’d done?

  As he moved through a neighborhood of small apartment houses, Aaron heard an engine. The streets were so silent and the buildings so close together that the sound echoed. He couldn’t distinguish where the car was coming from, even as its dull purr grew louder.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the sedan turn a corner several blocks behind.

  Aaron suddenly realized that he wasn’t wearing the mandatory blue and white armband, or even a yellow Star of David on his coat. Even if the men in the car were on other business, there was no way for them to overlook such a gross violation of racial decorum.

  He looked left, right, but saw no open doors or alleyways to duck into. There was nowhere to hide.

  And then he noticed an overturned wooden cart. It wasn’t very large, but Aaron could think of nothing better. He lay down behind it, praying that the car would go by without even slowing down. And that no one in a window behind him would signal his presence to the Germans.

  The cart wasn’t perfectly flush with the ground, giving Aaron a clear view of the street in front of him. As the car passed — if it passed — he would see it. If it stopped, he would have an even better vantage point.

  The car was close now, no more than a block. He could feel a rumble. Aaron was seized with a sudden certainty that he would be found. That coming back to the ghetto was even stupider than he’d thought. The premonition and memory of electric shocks made Aaron’s teeth chatter harder than cold ever had.

  The car was a gray-painted convertible with the top up. Soldiers stood on the running boards. An Iron Cross adorned the driver’s side door. It was moving at a walking pace.

  And Hermann Clausewitz rode in the back seat, his face leering out the window to take in the necropolis he had helped create.

  Aaron shivered so hard that it felt like a seizure. Would Clausewitz hear it? The Gestapo officer was a curious man — a suspicious one — he would make sure his men investigated.

  The car slowed to a snail’s pace. Aaron heard a comment from Clausewitz and then a laugh from someone else in the car.

  Aaron hugged himself, dragging his knees to his chest. He tried desperately to stop his heartbeat, reverberating so loudly in his ears. He squeezed his eyes tight shut.

  The engine grew still louder and then began to fade away. Another minute and it was gone.

  The absence of sound didn’t immediately penetrate Aaron’s ears.

  Then it did.

  I’m still here. I’m still here. I’m still here. I’m still here.

  Aaron reached for the bottle in his haversack and for a cigarette. He took a long drink from the one, but stopped himself from lighting the other. If he had been smoking as the car approached, the smell would have given him away.

  The first slug of scotch helped to wring out the shaking. The second finished the bottle. After waiting a careful five minutes, Aaron stood it upright before standing himself. He looked around him. A curtain twitched, but that was the only sign of life.

  There was still more than a mile to walk and his progress was slow. He spooked at every sound in the wind, freezing up at the faintest susurration.

  It was nearly an hour later that he found himself standing in front of a stable that had been converted into a synagogue. Lev Berson’s shul.

  Quietly, Aaron tried to open the small door bearing the Hebrew inscription, Hear O Israel: The Lord is our God, the Lord is one. It wasn’t locked.

  He let himself in. Where the wagons had once been kept, where the horses had once defecated, ten elaborately bearded men now stood praying. They bowed unceasingly, rocking from their hips, in the direction of Jerusalem. The men, old and young, made up a minyan — the minimum number of Jewish males required for a ceremony or a service to count in the eyes of the Lord.

  They were facing away from Aaron and didn’t hear him come in. He doubted they would have stopped what they were doing in any case. The men were enraptured. Leading them was Rav Schmuel Levinsohn.

  Cold rage flowed over Aaron as he recalled the person he’d been before the torture, before the camp. It gave him back strength and arrogance. He became — however fleetingly — a man again.

  Aaron found a wall to lean against, lit a cigarette and waited. People didn’t smoke in shuls. He figured that the offense would eventually get him some attention. He didn’t have all day to waste, after all.

  He was right. No sooner had he lit his second from the nub of the first than the rabbi found a stopping point, quickly wrapping things up.

  “Hello, rebbe,” Aaron said, far too loudly for the small room. “Got a couple of minutes for me?”

  One of the younger men moved toward Aaron.

  “Show respect!” the man said through clenched teeth.

  “Oh, no disrespect intended!” Aaron said lightly, meaning the opposite. “Just looking for a few words with the Great Man.”

  The first man moved closer to Aaron and another, older man with a heavy gray beard moved to join him. Aaron prepared for a fight, pleased at the prospect. The stress in his body was aching to get out and he would happily take on all ten men just for the release.

  But he didn’t have to fight anybody. As Aaron had suspected he would, the rabbi came up and put an arresting hand on the shoulder of the young firebrand. The rabbi then whispered a few words that only the young man could hear, calming him and causing him to take a step back.

  “By all means, Mr. Kaminski, let’s talk.”

  “Thank you, rebbe,” Aaron said, taking him by the arm and pointing the old man toward his office.

  That Aaron would touch the eminence brought out audible gasps from the crowd. Rav Levinsohn himself visibly stiffened but didn’t resist. Not quite.

  “Avraham, please bring us some tea,” the rabbi called back over his shoulder. The man who had nearly assaulted Aaron obeyed immediately, hurrying off to fetch it.

  Inside the small office, Aaron noticed few changes from his first visit. There were as many books as ever, sitting on shelves that sagged as if they carried the weight of the world, not just its accumulated knowledge. Added to the books were rations. Tinned vegetables and soups. Packets of cookies, even chocolate.

  “Chocolate!” Aaron said. “How in the world did you manage that?”

  The rabbi didn’t answer directly, instead returning Aaron’s question with a question.

  “Why are you here?”

  “Are you surprised?” Aaron asked back.

  “Well, yes,” the rabbi said somewhat uneasily. “So many were taken in the last few weeks.”

  “You’re still able to put together a minyan, I see.”

  “The Lord has been kind. Still, we have sustained our share of losses.”

  The rabbi bowed his head.

  “I’m sorry to hear it,” Aaron said with no obvious sign of grief.

  “I would be somewhat surprised to see you here in my shul again, regardless, Mr. Kaminski. When we spoke before, you showed no religious interest, and I’m uncertain what else would bring you to me.”

  “Well, you’re right that I’m not very religious, myself. I’m afraid I see hypocrisy everywhere I look in religion,” Aaron said. “But that
doesn’t mean I don’t have an interest in religious figures.”

  “What does that mean?” the rabbi asked, an edge of annoyance in his voice.

  Aaron pointedly looked down at the desk in front of the rabbi.

  “Would it be possible to see your notebook?”

  It sat quietly at the center of the cluttered rectangle, closed up in its warm leather binding.

  “Why on earth do you want to see it?” the rabbi asked, seeming genuinely puzzled.

  Before Aaron could answer, Avraham arrived with the tea. He served the rabbi first, naturally, and only grudgingly handed the other cup to Aaron.

  “Is there anything else I can do, rebbe?” Avraham asked, by which he meant could he perform physical violence on Aaron’s person?

  “No, thank you,” the rabbi replied stiffly. “You may go.”

  Avraham exited reluctantly.

  Once the door was closed, Aaron blew on his tea, acting the part of a man who had all the time in the world. The rabbi didn’t wait, taking a sip immediately. It was very hot and Aaron could see the man instantly regretted it.

  “The notebook, please,” Aaron said. “If it makes you feel any better, I don’t plan on reading it.”

  The temperature in the little room dropped until it was colder than it had been in the Kronberg labor camp.

  “You may not!”

  “You know what I’m looking for, don’t you?”

  “Of course not,” the rabbi said with a thin veneer of indignation. “But it is private. I will not have someone as profane as yourself trying to peer into my thoughts.”

  “Right at the moment, I couldn’t give less of a shit about your thoughts,” Aaron said, proving his profanity.

  The rabbi looked like he’d never heard the word and was shocked to hear it now. Aaron guessed it was possible that no one had ever cursed in front of him, considering his role in village life before he was brought to the ghetto. The little prince with the word of God on his lips.

  “Give me the notebook,” Aaron said. His voice was low but tipped in steel.

  “No!” the rabbi said, beginning to sound petulant.

  “I don’t think it’s such an unreasonable request, rebbe, considering all the trouble I’ve been through thanks to what you wrote in it.”

  Aaron smiled. It was an ugly smile.

  “What could I possibly have written that would cause you trouble?” the rabbi said dismissively. “The study of God’s law hurts no one.”

  Aaron left that alone for the moment and shifted gears.

  “You remember Lev Berson, don’t you? A Jewish policeman, a member of your congregation?” Aaron spread his hands in mockery. “About so tall?”

  The rabbi’s frown became a scowl.

  “You gave Berson a note to deliver,” Aaron said, “but, unfortunately for him, he must have opened it.”

  The rabbi stared at Aaron, eyes wide and filled with malevolent intent.

  “You know what?” Aaron said, rubbing his chin. “Maybe I don’t need to thumb through your notebook, after all. I’m pretty sure I know what I’d find: a ragged edge where a page was torn out. Would you like to guess where I found the rest of the page?”

  Nothing.

  “I saw the tear along the binding on my first visit with you, though I didn’t realize that’s what it was at the time,” Aaron said. “I couldn’t help noticing how thick and creamy the notebook paper was — you rarely see anything nice in the ghetto, anymore.

  “When I thought about what I’d seen a little later, it struck me as strange that someone would rip a page out of a book like that. Still, I didn’t put the pieces together — so to speak — until much later.”

  The rabbi still said nothing.

  “I also suspect that if I saw your handwriting again, it would match nicely with what I saw in the note intended for Hermann Clausewitz. The one I found on Lev Berson’s body.”

  “You keep talking about a note. What note? You don’t have any note,” the rabbi said, finally breaking his silence. There wasn’t much conviction in his voice.

  “How would you know that for sure?” Aaron replied. “Because you’re innocent? Or because you know Clausewitz took it from me?”

  The rabbi was silent, his face closing like a flower at dusk.

  “Perhaps you chatted about it just now?” Aaron pressed. “I saw his car on the way here.”

  More silence.

  “This is excellent tea, by the way. Where do you think it’s from? Ceylon? China?” Aaron asked, staring into the caramel-colored contents of his cup. “But I’m not sure it’s so good that it’s worth betraying your own people for.”

  That did it.

  “How dare you! You think that what I did, I did for tea? Or chocolate? Or even for my life? What I did, I did for God and His Chosen.”

  “What do you mean His Chosen? Everyone in this fucking ghetto is one of His Chosen,” Aaron snapped back.

  “That is not true. You need to understand this,” the rabbi said, his voice urgent but more quiet.

  He leaned in toward Aaron, and spoke in a conspiratorial tone.

  “Why do you think God has caused all this to happen?”

  Levinsohn spread his hands to encompass the war, the ghetto, and maybe the world as a whole.

  “Because His Chosen People have failed him! Have sinned, forsaken his Commandments and gone into the world as if they were ordinary men! They no longer even look like Jews. They have discarded the tallis, payos and even the keepah, baring their heads before God.

  “How many have walked away from the villages and their rabbis in the last century? Into godless towns like Miasto or Warsaw or Krakow?

  “Jews thinking nothing of marrying into gentile families. Some of our men have renounced God himself, worshipping the false messiah of the Christians. How can there be any wonder at what has happened? That the Germans have come?” the rabbi said, concluding his sermon and his case.

  “And you, I presume, are among the righteous?” Aaron asked.

  “No! I lead the righteous!”

  “Are you saying you’re the moshiach?”

  “You have said it,” was the rabbi’s only reply.

  “You?” Aaron said, with an unconscious laugh. “Seriously?”

  “Enough!”

  The rabbi slammed his desk with open palms.

  A knock on the door.

  “Rebbe,” Avraham’s voice asked. “Are you all right?”

  “Does your little flock know what you’ve done?” Aaron asked softly.

  “Avraham, stop worrying!” the rabbi shouted. “I will come to you soon.”

  They heard footsteps retreat.

  “I’ll take that as a no,” Aaron said.

  “What they need to know is that I’ve saved them. That’s all.” The rabbi was dismissive.

  “How many Jews have you betrayed?” Aaron asked.

  “I have betrayed no one,” Levinsohn said. “I have only passed along God’s judgments.”

  “And he judged Lev Berson and found him wanting?”

  “Lev broke my trust and thereby God’s. He was told to hand the note to the German guards unopened.”

  “But he opened it?” Aaron asked.

  “Yes. He asked to speak to me about it. I met him and did what needed to be done.”

  “You killed him yourself? With your own hands?”

  “As guided by God.”

  Aaron sensed no self-doubt, no regret coming from the rabbi. Was it pride instead?

  “And when you handed me over to the Germans, that was according to God’s will, too?” Aaron asked.

  “I can act in no other way.”

  “The little girl was yours, then?”

  “She worked for me, yes.”

  “How did she know to follow me?” Aaron asked.

  “I thought someone might show up, looking for information. People knew that Berson attended shul here,” the rabbi said with a shrug. “The girl’s job was to look out for strangers who wer
en’t here to attend funerals. People don’t often come here for any other reason. When you and I were walking into the shul, I signaled to her.”

  “You must not have paid her very well. She tried to steal from me before you arrived,” Aaron said.

  The rabbi shrugged indifferently.

  “You told her to find Clausewitz on the night I was arrested?”

  “Yes. It was best to be safe.”

  “And my wife?”

  “What wife?” the rabbi asked with blatant sincerity.

  “A blond woman, Yelena Gorska? She worked from the Polish side.”

  “You married outside the faith?” The rabbi was horror-struck.

  “Well?”

  “I have no idea. All I know is that you were arrested. I assumed you would be killed. I know nothing about your ‘wife,’” the rabbi said.

  Thank God for that, Aaron thought.

  “And the little girl? What happened to her after I was arrested,” he asked.

  “It doesn’t matter. Maybe the Germans took her away. She wasn’t a particularly godly child, just a hungry one.”

  “You’ve condemned her, too,” Aaron said in wonder.

  “I’ve condemned no one. It is God who judges. My place is merely to be the instrument of his judgment on earth,” the rabbi explained. Aaron could tell the old man was trying to sound reasonable, but the ring of mania was in his voice.

  “How many?” Aaron asked.

  “How many?”

  “Yes, how many have you saved? How many are among the righteous? How many people have the Germans allowed you to keep?”

  Levinsohn sighed.

  “So few have been able to keep the faith in the face of such fearsome punishment.”

  The rabbi shook his head sadly.

  “How many?” Aaron asked again.

  “We are the minyan you have already seen. We will survive all this and will find our home in Palestine, in Jerusalem itself. And God’s scourge will make it come to pass.”

  “The Nazis are taking you to Jerusalem?” Aaron asked, incredulous. “You really think that?”

  “What other purpose could they serve?” the rabbi asked with a shrug. “God would never allow such evil if it didn’t directly serve his purposes. That is the role they play. And when we are in Jerusalem, their part will be done.”