Frameshift (UC), page 26
"Newsroom," said the male voice.
"Barnaby Lincoln," said Pierre into the phone. "He's a business reporter."
"He's out right now, and—oh, wait. Here he comes." The voice shouted into the phone; Pierre hated people who didn't cover the mouthpiece when shouting. "Barney! Call for you!" The phone was dropped on a hard surface.
A few moments later it was picked up.
"Lincoln," said the voice.
"Barnaby, it's Pierre Tardivel at LBNL."
"Pierre! Good to hear from you. Have you given some thought to what we talked about?"
"I'm intrigued, yes. But that's not why I'm calling. First, though, thanks for the pictures of Danielson. They were terrific."
"That's why they pay me the big bucks," said Lincoln, deadpan.
"I need you to do one more thing for me, though."
"Yeah?"
"Are you going to be interviewing Abraham Danielson soon?"
"Geez, I haven't interviewed the old man for—hell, must be six years now."
"Would he see you if you called?"
"I guess, sure."
"Can you arrange that? Can you get in to see him? Even for five minutes?"
"Sure, but why?"
"Set it up. But come by my lab on the way. I'll explain everything when you get here."
Lincoln thought this over for a moment. "This better be a good story," he said at last.
"Can you say 'Pulitzer'?" said Pierre.
The receptionist escorted Barnaby Lincoln into Abraham Dan-ielson's office.
"Barney," said Abraham, rising from his leather chair.
Lincoln surged forward, hand extended. "Thanks for seeing me on such short notice."
Abraham looked at Lincoln's outstretched hand. Lincoln left it extended. The old man finally took it. They shook firmly.
Pierre had been working in the den at home—it was awkward getting into LBNL these days, since Molly had to drive him. He decided to head up to the living room to replenish his Diet Pepsi. Coffee was too dangerous a way to get his morning caffeine; he overturned his drink at least once a week now, and didn't want to scald himself. And regular Pepsi contained all that sugar—it would ruin his keyboard or computer if he spilled it in there. But aspartame wasn't conductive; it might make a mess, but it wouldn't wreck electronics if spilled on them… Of course Pierre made a fair bit of noise going up the stairs, but the dishwasher was going, producing enough racket to drown out the sound. As he entered the living room, he saw Molly sitting with Amanda on the couch. Molly was saying something to Amanda that Pierre couldn't quite make out, and Amanda seemed to be concentrating very, very hard.
He watched them for a moment—and was pleased that, to some degree, at least, his jealousy of his wife's closeness to their daughter had passed. Yes, he still ached at not being able to communicate with her the way he'd like to, but he was coming to realize how important that special relationship between Molly and Amanda was. Amanda seemed totally comfortable with Molly's ability to reach into her mind and hear her thoughts; it was almost a relief to the girl that she could communicate without effort with another human being. And Molly's bond with her daughter went beyond even the normal closeness of mother and child; she could touch Amanda's very mind.
Pierre still thought mostly in French, and he knew, given that he virtually always spoke English, that he was doing this on some subconscious level as a defense against having his thoughts read. But Amanda had accepted her mother's ability from the beginning, and she erected no barriers between herself and Molly; they had a closeness that was transcendental—and
Pierre was, at last, glad of it. His wife was no longer tortured by her gift; rather, she was now grateful for it. And Pierre knew that after he was gone, Molly and Amanda would need that special closeness to support each other, to go on and face whatever the future might bring them together, almost as one.
"Try again," Molly, her back to Pierre, said to Amanda. "You can do it."
Pierre stepped fully into the room. "What are you two conspiring about?" he said lightly.
Molly looked up, startled. "Nothing," she said too quickly. "Nothing." She looked embarrassed. Amanda's brown eyes went wide, the way they did when she'd been caught doing something bad.
"You look like the cat who swallowed the canary," Pierre said to Molly, a bemused smile on his face. "What are—"
The phone rang.
Molly leaped to her feet. "I'll get it," she said, bounding into the kitchen. A moment later, she called out, "Pierre! It's for you."
Pierre made his way ponderously into the kitchen. The noise from the dishwasher was irritating, but it would take him several minutes to hobble down to the den or up to the bedroom to use a different phone.
"Hello?" said Pierre after taking the handset from his wife.
"Pierre? It's Avi."
Molly headed back to the living room; Pierre could barely hear her as she went back to talking to Amanda in conspiratorial tones.
"We've dug up Abraham Danielson's immigration records," continued Avi. "You're right that that's not his real name. Nothing unusual about that, though; lots of immigrants changed their names when they came here after the war. According to his visa application, his real name is Avrom Danylchenko. Born 1911, the same year as Ivan Marchenko—but, then again, so was Kli-mus, so that's hardly compelling evidence. He was living in Rijeka at the time he applied to come to the States."
"Okay."
"We can't find anything prior to 1945 about Avrom Danyl-chenko. Again, that doesn't prove spit. Lots of records were lost during the war, and there's tons of stuff from the old Soviet Union that no one has sifted through yet. Still, it is interesting that the last record we have of Ivan Marchenko is Nikolai She-laiev's statement that he saw him in Fiume in 1944, and the first record of Avrom Danylchenko is his visa application the following year in Rijeka."
"How far is Rijeka from Fiume?"
"I wondered that myself—couldn't find Fiume in my atlas at first. It turns out—get this—that Fiume and Rijeka are the same place. Fiume is the old Italian name for the city."
"Jesus. So what happens now?"
"I'm going to show the photo to the remaining Treblinka survivors. I'm flying out to New Mexico tomorrow to see one of them, and I'm off to Israel after that."
'Surely you could just fax the photo to the police there," said Pierre.
"No, I want to be on hand. I want to see the witnesses at the moment they first look at the photo. We were fucked over on the Demjanjuk case because the identifications weren't handled properly. Yoram Sheftel—that's Demjanjuk's Israeli lawyer— says in all his years in the business, he's never once seen the Israeli police conduct a proper photo-spread ID. In the Demjanjuk case, they used a photo spread that had Demjanjuk's photo mixed in with seven others. But some of the photos were bigger or clearer than the others, and most of them didn't bear even a passing resemblance to the man the witnesses had described. This time I'm going to supervise it all, every step of the way. There aren't going to be any fuckups." A pause. "Anyway, I've got to get going."
"Wait—one more thing."
"What are you, Columbo?"
Pierre was taken aback. At least it was an improvement over everyone assuming he was a salesman. "When you have somebody in custody, what kind of identification records do you keep?"
"How do you mean?" said Avi.
"I mean you must keep records, right? The whole idea behind Nazi hunting is proving identity. Surely if you have someone in custody, you must take pains to make sure you can identify the same person again years later if need be."
"Sure. We take fingerprints, even some retinal scans—"
"Do you take tissue samples? For DNA fingerprinting?"
"That sort of routine testing is not legal."
"That's not a direct answer. Do you do it? It's easy enough, after all. All you need is a few cells. Do you do it?"
"Off the record, yes."
"Were you doing that as far back as the 1980s?"
"Yes."
"Would you have a tissue sample from John Demjanjuk still on file?"
"I imagine so. Why?"
"Get it. Have it sent to my lab by FedEx."
"Why?"
"Just do it. If I'm right—if I'm right, I can clear up the mystery of exactly what went wrong at the Ivan the Terrible trial in Jerusalem all those years ago."
Chapter 39
The phone rang again the next day. This time Pierre was down in the den, and he got it there. "Hello?"
"Pierre, it's Avi. I'm calling you from O'Hare. I saw Zalmon Chudzik this morning; he's one of the Treblinka survivors who now lives in the States."
"And?"
"And the poor bastard's got Alzheimer's disease."
"Merde."
"Exactly. But, you know—this may sound cruel—but in this one case, maybe it's a blessing."
"Huh?"
"His daughter says he's forgotten everything about Treblinka. For the first time in over fifty years, he's managing to sleep through the night."
Pierre didn't know how to reply. After a few moments, he said, "When do you leave for Israel?"
"About three hours."
"I hope you have better luck there."
Avi's voice was weary. "Me, too. There were only fifty Treblinka survivors, and over thirty-five of them have passed on in the intervening years. There are only four left who hadn't previously misidentified Demjanjuk as Ivan—and Chudzik was one of those four."
"What happens to our case if we don't get a positive ID?"
"It evaporates. Look at all the evidence they had against O. J. Simpson—made no difference to the jury. Without eyewit-nesses, we're sunk. And I do mean eyewitnesses, plural. The Israelis aren't going to pay attention unless we get at least two independent IDs."
"Good Christ," said Pierre softly.
"At this stage," said Avi, "I'd even take his help."
Avi Meyer had spent the last few days wrangling back and forth over jurisdictional issues with Izzy Tischler, a plainclothes detective with the Nazi Crimes Investigation Division of the Israeli State Police. They were now ready to attempt their first ID. Tischler, a tall, thin, red-haired fellow of forty, wore a yarmulke; Avi was wearing a large canvas hat, trying to ward off the brutal sun. They walked down the narrow street, beside buildings of yellow brick with narrow balconies, packed one right up against the next. Two Orthodox Jewish men walked down the lane, and an Arab headed up the other way. They didn't look at each other as they passed.
"This is it," said Tischler, checking the number on the house against an address he had written down on a Post-it note in his hand, folded in half so that the adhesive strip was covered over. The door was set back only a meter from the road. Weeds grew out of the cracks in the stone walk, but the beauty of the ceramic mezuzah on the doorpost caught Avi's eye. He knocked. After about half a minute, a middle-aged woman appeared.
"Shalom, " said Avi. "My name is Avi Meyer, and this is Detective Tischler, of the Israeli State Police. Is Casimir Landowski home?"
"He's upstairs. What's this all about?"
"May we speak to him?"
"About what?"
"We just need him to identify some photos."
The middle-aged woman looked from one man to the other. "You've found Ivan Grozny," she said flatly.
Avi cringed. "It's important that the identification not be prejudiced. Is Casimir Landowski your father?"
"Yes. My husband and I have looked after him since his wife died."
"Your father can't know in advance who we're asking him to identify. If he knows, the defense lawyers will be able to get the identification ruled ineligible. Please, don't say a word to him."
"He won't be able to help you."
"Why not?"
"Because he's blind, that's why not. Complications from diabetes."
"Oh," said Avi, his heart sinking. "I'm sorry."
"Even if he could see," said the woman, "I'm not sure I'd let you speak to him."
"Why?"
"We watched the trial of John Demjanjuk on TV. What was that, ten or more years ago? He could see then—and he knew you had the wrong guy. They'd shown him pictures of Demjanjuk, and he'd said it wasn't Ivan."
"I know. That's why he'd have made a great witness this time."
"But it tore him up, watching that trial. All that testimony about Treblinka. He'd never spoken about it—my whole life, he'd never said a word to me. But he sat there, transfixed, day in and day out, listening to the testimony. He knew some of those who were testifying. Hearing them recount the things that butcher did—murder and rape and torture. He thought if he never spoke about it, somehow he could separate it from his life, keep it isolated from everything else. To have to live through it all again, even from the comfort of his living room, almost killed him. To ask him to do that once more—such a thing I'd never do. He's ninety-three; he'd never survive it."
"I'm sorry," said Avi. He looked at the woman, trying to size her up. It occurred to him that perhaps the man wasn't really blind. Maybe she was just trying to shelter him. "I, ah, I'd like to speak to your father anyway, if I may. You know, just to shake his hand. I've come all the way from the United States."
"You don't believe me," she said, in the same blunt tone she'd used before. But then she shrugged. "I'll let you talk to him, but you can't say a word about why you're here. I won't have you upsetting him."
"I promise."
"Come in, then." She headed upstairs, Avi and Tischler following. The man was sitting in a chair in front of a television set. Avi thought he'd caught the woman in a lie, but it soon became apparent that he wasn't 'watching the TV. Rather, he was just listening to it. A talk show in Hebrew was on. The interviewer, a young woman, was asking her guests about their first sexual experiences. The man was listening intently. In the corner of the room, a white cane leaned against a wall.
"Abba, " said the woman, "I'd like you to meet two people. They're just passing through town. Old friends of mine."
The man rose slowly, painfully, to his feet. As soon as he was standing, Avi saw his eyes. They were completely clouded over. "It's a great pleasure to meet you," said Avi, taking the man's gnarled hand. "A great pleasure."
"Your accent—you're American?"
"Yes."
"What brings you to Israel?" asked the man, his voice low.
"Just the sights," said Avi. "You know—the history."
"Oh, yes," said the old man. "We've got lots of that."
The phone in Pierre's lab rang. He hobbled over to answer it. "Hello?"
"Pierre?"
"Hi, Avi. What's the score?"
"Forces of good, zero. Forces of evil, two."
"No IDs?"
"Not yet. The second guy is blind. Complications of diabetes, his daughter said."
Pierre snorted.
"What's so funny?"
"It's not funny, really. Just ironic. The first guy had Alzhei-mer's and this one has diabetes. Those are both genetically related. As Danielson, Marchenko discriminates against people who have those same diseases, and now those diseases are saving him."
"Yeah," said Avi. "Well, let's hope things go better. We've only got two shots left."
"Keep me posted."
"Right. Bye."
Pierre went back to the light table, hunching over the two autorads. He kept at it for hours, but when he was done, he leaned back and nodded to himself in satisfaction. It was exactly what he'd expected.
When Avi got back to the States, Pierre would have one hell of a surprise for him.
Avi and Detective Tischler drove down to Jerusalem for their next attempt. All the buildings were made of stone—there was an ordinance that required it; at sunset, the light reflecting from the stone transformed Jerusalem into the fabled City of Gold. They found the ancient house they were looking for and knocked on the door. After a few moments a young man, perhaps thirteen years old, appeared, wearing a yarmulke and a Melrose Place T-shirt. Avi shook his head slightly. He was always surprised at how pervasive American pop culture was no matter where he traveled.
"Yes?" said the boy in Hebrew.
Avi smiled. "Shalom," he said. He knew his Hebrew was rough, but he'd told Tischler that he wanted to do all the talking. He couldn't risk the Israeli police officer saying anything that might contaminate the identification. "My name is Avi Meyer. I'm looking for Shlomo Malamud."
"He's my zayde," said the boy. But then his eyes immediately narrowed. "What do you want?"
"Just to speak to him, just for a moment."
"About what?"
Avi sighed. "I'm an American—"
"No shit," said the boy, making it clear that this had been obvious from the first syllable Avi had uttered.
"—and this man is an Israeli police officer. Show him," said Avi, turning to Tischler. Tischler pulled out his ID and held it up for the boy to see.
The boy shook his head. "My zayde is very old," he said, "and almost never leaves the house. He hasn't done anything."
"We know that. We just need to talk to him for a moment."
"Maybe you should come back when my father is home," said the boy.
"When will that be?"
"Friday, for Shabbat. He's on business right now, in Haifa."
"What we want will only take a moment." Through the doorway, Avi could see that an ancient man had appeared, oblivious of their presence, hunched over, shuffling toward the kitchen.
"Is that him?" asked Avi.
The boy didn't have to look back. "He's very old," he said.
"Shlomo Malamud!" shouted Avi.
The man slowly turned around, a look of surprise on his deeply wrinkled, sun-battered face.
"Mar Malamud!" Avi shouted again. The man began to shuffle toward them.
"It's all right," said the boy, trying to stop his grandfather from coming nearer. "I'm taking care of everything."
"Mar Malamud," said Avi over the boy. "I've come a long way to ask you just one question, sir. I need you to look at some photographs and tell me if you recognize anyone."
The man was moving slowly toward them, but the boy was still blocking the entrance with his body. "You're wasting your time," said the boy. "He's blind."
