Authors: Joseph Kanon
“You’re surprised? People do worse for less.”
Leon looked up. “Not worse.”
“And they believed him? This story?”
“It was easy to believe. The Romanians? Look what you’d already done.”
Alexei tapped Tommy’s passport, then handed it over to Leon. “And you.”
There was no one following on the tram back to Taksim, but to make sure Leon got off just before the French Consulate and used side streets to approach Denizbank from behind. The same manager, still eager to help, not surprised by Leon’s explanation of a mix-up in his notes. Ergin again waited outside the door. Leon hesitated for a second, staring at the neat stacks in the box. He glanced up to see if anyone was watching. No one. He snatched up the bills in
batches, slipping them into his briefcase. Another second, looking at the empty box, then he closed it, taking a deep breath. Now robbery, a criminal act. But stealing from whom? Blood money.
He called Ergin and watched him turn the key to lock the box. Would the weight of it feel different? When he thanked the bank manager, he felt his briefcase somehow glowing, the stolen money like a light inside that everyone could see, waiting to set off an alarm at the door. He imagined tellers with their hands in the air, getaway cars, police waiting. But no one in the street seemed to notice him, know that a crime had taken place. He took a taxi from a hotel rank.
He turned and looked out the back window as they left the square, down the sweeping curve of Aya Paşa. The usual traffic. How much time did he have? He had to get Alexei out of Marina’s by nightfall. And stash him where? Now past the Park Hotel, the old German Consulate, the island of plane trees curving toward the Cihangir Apartments where Mr. Cicek listened to ringing phones. He thought of his picture window, the water view, and wondered suddenly if he would see it again. Something he hadn’t imagined before, not being able to come back, the door closed behind him. Was anyone watching? Some car across the street with a bored policeman, smoking? Not even looking twice at the taxi, a man in back with twenty-five thousand dollars in his lap. Crossing another line.
BÜYÜKADA
M
IHAI WAS OUT OF
the office, down at the Hasköy docks, but Leon had kept the taxi and they were there in minutes.
“Just wait. I shouldn’t be long.”
“With the meter? You’d be better off with an all-day rate.” A higher fare.
“All right,” Leon said, not wanting to argue, someone with money in his pockets. He looked down the street. No cars idling. Unless the taxi itself were the tail, now tracking his every movement. But it had been a random pickup, hadn’t it? What it felt like, always looking over your shoulder.
There were health quarantine signs posted, but no barriers. The
Victorei
, listing slightly, was eerily quiet, as if everyone on board really was sick or some ghost ship had drifted into the Golden Horn. There were patches of rust on the hull and makeshift clotheslines strung up across the top deck, laundry flapping like ragged sails.
“It’s not permitted.” A harbor policeman, coming from behind. “Passengers are not permitted—”
“I’m not a passenger,” Leon said, flashing the front of Tommy’s passport. “Captain’s expecting me.”
The magic of an American passport. The guard nodded to the gangplank. Leon started up, noticing the garbage in the lapping water alongside, peels and eggshells that hadn’t yet flushed away. There were sounds now, ropes creaking and voices from inside the ship, a baby, but still subdued, saving strength, the lassitude of a hospital ward. Up top, people wrapped in shawls and blankets were huddled on benches, facing the weak winter sun. There was a flutter of interest when they saw Leon, someone from the outside, maybe news. Sitting up, but their posture still wary, people who knew everything, who had been in the camps. Sallow skin, drained and skeletal, the faces Anna used to see.
Mihai was with the captain and a boy volunteered to get him. While he waited, Leon walked across the deck. Low murmurs in a language he didn’t know, presumably Polish, open stares. On the other side of the water, Süleyman’s Mosque rose up the hill in a cluster of swelling domes, the old picture-book city a kind of mirage. The end of the Black Sea crossing, everything foreign now, home gone for good.
“So. What’s so important you risk typhus?” Mihai said.
“They look all right,” Leon said, nodding to the passengers.
“You should see down below. We send them up in shifts, so everyone gets some air. Down there it’s—so never mind. What do you want?”
“Is there somewhere we can go?”
“What, here?” Mihai said, looking at the deck. “For a
kaffeeklatsch
? Find a square inch.” He checked his watch. “They go back down in fifteen minutes. Just try moving them early.”
“I’m serious. Off the ship, then.”
“All right, come on,” Mihai said, leading him toward the bridge. “What’s the occasion? What happened at the consulate? You didn’t shoot him, I hope.” Airy, but looking at Leon from the side.
“You heard?”
“Everybody’s heard. It’s Istanbul. Anything to do with your Romanian friend?”
“In a way.”
“What way?”
“It’s a long story. I’ll tell you later. I see the quarantine signs are still up.”
“Bastards. A few more days we really will have typhus. Living like this—” He peered at him. “I thought you were making a trip. A little drive to the country.”
“I changed my mind.”
“Just like that?”
“I’ll tell you that later too.”
“Everything later. And the boat in Antalya?”
“Who is he?” one of the passengers asked Mihai in Romanian. “A British? He wants to stop us here?”
“American. A friend.”
The man snorted. “Whose? Ours? So when do we leave?”
“Soon.”
The man waved his hand down in disgust.
“They’re all afraid of being sent back,” Mihai said as they walked away. “We should have been there by now.”
Leon looked again across the Horn, the pincushion of minarets. “What do they think it’s going to be like? Like Poland?”
“That one lost his whole family. The pogrom in Jassy. Big open grave. He thinks it’s going to be better than that, that’s all.”
In the bridge cabin, a man was leaning over a chart spread across the table, the Sea of Marmara, the thin bottleneck of the Dardanelles, then the open water, filled here with numbers and channel markers, the orange trees somewhere in the imaginary distance.
“Ah,” he said, looking up, “the new rations. Finally. Did you have any trouble with the harbor police? Unloading? We had to pay extra for the water.”
“No,” Mihai said, shaking his head, “not the rations yet. A friend. David, our captain.”
“Oh,” David said, ignoring Leon, disappointed. “When? Mihai—”
“I know. The truck will be here. Aciman promised.” He nodded to Leon. “A social visit. We can have a few minutes?”
David hesitated, then realized he was being asked to leave, and nodded awkwardly. He moved away from the map. “You heard there was more trouble with Pilcer, the rabbi? The one suitcase allowance. He wants an exception, for the synagogue. How can he leave the menorah? You know. Like before.”
“Tell him to throw his clothes over then. One suitcase. The extra fits another child. He can get new once we get there.”
“He says it’s special to them.”
“One suitcase.”
The captain shrugged, leaving. “He says that’s what the Nazis said, for the train.”
“And he’s the one who survives. Tell him he calls me a Nazi again, I’ll personally throw him over. And the menorah.” He flicked his hand, a gesture of contempt. “The Orthodox.” He turned to Leon as the captain left. “Just what Palestine needs. More Torah scrolls. Haganah asks for young people and who do they send? Make a soldier out of that. They want to bring Europe with them. What Europe? The ovens? A bullet in the head? My father was the same. And my uncle. Every day, in shul, hours, and outside you could see what was happening. Come with me, I said, get out now. No. We’re too old to make a new life.” He paused. “So they lost the old one. My sister at least listened. Now, Haifa. She helps meet the boats. Pull people out of the water before the patrols get them. And he wants to bring menorahs.” He looked up, aware that he had been rambling. “So what’s so important? What do you want?”
“To help get you out of here.”
“Oh, Moses. You want to part Galata Bridge?”
“No,” Leon said, opening the briefcase. “Go out when they raise it this morning. Now that everyone’s feeling better.” He handed over two stacks. “Ten thousand dollars. That’s what you said, wasn’t it?”
Mihai lifted the money, as if he were weighing it, then looked at Leon. “Where did you get it?”
“Who’s going to ask? The harbormaster? The health officials? You can go tonight.”
“I’m asking.”
“Don’t.”
“Another long story?”
“It was money to help Jews. Now it will.”
“But not the same ones.”
“Use it,” Leon said, looking directly at him. “No one knows. Leave tonight. Before they ask for more.”
“An overnight recovery. From typhus.”
“Insist. You can’t stay here much longer. How long would it take? To pay them off.”
“Not long.”
“When do they raise the bridge?”
“Three thirty, something like that.”
“Not sooner?” Leon said, thinking.
Mihai peered at him. “What do you want?”
“Nothing,” Leon said.
“Ten thousand dollars for nothing.”
“They were going to buy Jews out with it,” Leon said. “So buy them out now. No strings.” He reached for another stack.
“And that?”
“Two places. On the boat. Five thousand dollars. However you want to use it.”
“There are no places on the boat.”
“Standing room.”
“So,” Mihai said. “Money to help the Jews.” He lifted a stack.
“And money to help a killer of Jews?” Raising his eyebrow toward the other stack. “That’s who it is? Two places? Who’s the other one?”
“Me.”
“You,” Mihai said slowly. “You want to take the butcher to Palestine. On this boat.”
“Just hitch a ride. For part of the way.”
“And you think I would do this?” He held out the money. “There are no places.”
Leon shook his head. “The money’s yours. It’s not a condition.”
“No, an obligation. What made you think I would take this?”
“I thought you’d want to get them out of here.”
“Not for this price.”
“Hear me out. One minute. You leave tonight. There might be an inspection, so we won’t leave with you. He’s traveling as a Turk. All the boats come out of the Horn at once, it’s busy. When you’re out of the city, past the Princes’ Islands, you pick us up. I have a boat arranged. The other passengers don’t have to know who. Two more. We’ll stand if we have to. Near Cyprus, the boat from Antalya picks us up. We’re gone. As far as you’re concerned we were never here.” He stopped. “It’s the last place they would ever look.”
“For him? Yes,” Mihai said. “And you were never here. Is that how you arrange things for your conscience these days? Pretend they never happen?” He put the money on the table, then looked up at Leon. “Why are you doing this?” he said, his voice softer. “Do you know anymore? For your country? The one you don’t live in?”
“Why do you?” Leon said, nodding to the boat.
“A house is burning, someone jumps out. What do you do? Keep walking? Not try to help?”
“Then help them.”
Mihai looked down at the money. “The devil bargains this way.”
“The devil.”
“You don’t see yourself. Come to this side of the table.”
“I have to get him out.”
“And that makes it all right.”
“He’ll die.”
“Well, people do,” Mihai said, his voice hard. He went over to the window. “Millions. No deals.” He looked down at the deck. “These people,” he said, waving his hand, brooding. “Who knows what they did to survive?
Sonderkommandos
maybe, some of them. You don’t ask. If you weren’t there, you have no right. The Romanian you met? On the deck? He told me what they did at Jassy. People like your friend. They tortured families together, to find the others. They didn’t beat you, they beat your wife. Made you watch. If you’d like us to stop—like that. They raped a girl, in front of her father. A mistake. He never told them anything—he went mad. So a waste. Except for whatever pleasure they took.” He looked away, toward the deck. “They all have stories like this. So who knows what bargains they made? And all you want me to do is take some money. I keep my soul. But I help the butcher. That’s your idea?”
“Jianu doesn’t matter anymore. They do.”
“And what happens after you get him out? He tells your people things about the Russians. Maybe even true. So they know something for a while. So the Russians change them. And the game goes on. But he’s out of it. He goes free. And you want me to help. That’s the business you’re in now? And what do I get? A boat so old maybe it sinks. But maybe it gets them there.” He stopped, looking down on the deck, the flapping laundry, quiet for a few minutes. “So I answer myself. To get these people to Palestine—what would I do? Is it even my choice?” He picked up the money, absentmindedly flipping the corners, then looked up at Leon. “But I don’t forget you did this. Arranged such a bargain for me. The debt’s canceled. We’re quits.”
“What debt?”
“Whatever debt there was between us. It’s paid.” He put the
money in his pocket and reached over for the other stack. “How far past the Princes’ Islands?”
Leon didn’t say anything for a second, dismissed. Mihai waited, the silence a kind of prodding.
“Off Büyükada. We’ll signal. The other ships will be heading for the main channel. Harbor police too. Just have the captain go slow.”
“Don’t worry, that’s the only speed he can go. If you’re not there, we won’t wait, understood? Your friend’s a Turk now?”
“A Turkish Jew.”
Mihai looked up. “You think of everything. I’m assuming the deal is we get him there alive. That’s why you’re going? The bodyguard?”
“No, I have to leave too. The police are looking for me.”
Mihai went still. “Why?”