The Odessa File

‘Very old. Lot of white hair.’

Miller tossed him the coin, convinced it had been a wasted gesture. But he walked to the river and stared down the length of the grass bank in either direction. There were a dozen benches along the bank, each of them empty. In summer there would be plenty of people sitting along the Elbe Chaussee watching the great liners come in and out, but not at the end of November.

To his left along the near bank lay the fisher port, with half a dozen North Sea trawlers drawn up at the wharves, discharging their loads of fresh-caught herring and mackerel, or preparing for the sea again.

As a boy he had returned to the shattered city from a farm in the country where he had been evacuated during the bombing, and had grown up amid the rubble and the ruins. His favourite playing place had been this fisher port along the river at Altona.

He liked the fishermen, gruff, kindly men who smelt of tar and salt and shag tobacco. He thought of Eduard Roschmann in Riga, and wondered how the same country could produce them both.

His mind came back to Tauber and went over the problem again. Where could he possibly have met his friend Marx? He knew there was something missing, but could not put his finger on it. It was not until he was back in his car and had stopped for petrol close to Altona railway station that the answer came. As so often, it was a chance remark. The pump attendant pointed out there had been a price increase in top-grade petrol and added, just to make conversation with his customer, that money went less and less far these days. He went to get the change and left Miller staring at the open wallet in his hand.

Money. Where did Tauber get his money? He didn’t work, he refused to accept any compensation from the State of Germany. Yet he paid his rent regularly and must have had something left over with which to eat. He was fifty-six years old, so he could not have had an old-age pension, but he could well have had a disability pension. Probably did.

Miller pocketed his change, gunned the Jaguar to life and drove round to Altona post office. He approached the grille marked ‘Pensions’.

‘Can you tell me when the pensioners collect their money?’ he asked the fat lady behind the grille.

‘Last day of the month, of course,’ she said.

‘That will be Saturday then?’

‘Except at weekends. This month it will be Friday, the day after tomorrow.’

‘Does that include those with disability pensions?’ he asked.

‘Everyone who’s entitled to a pension collects it on the last day of the month.’

‘Here, at this grille?’

‘If the person lives in Altona, yes,’ replied the woman.

‘At what time?’

‘From opening time onwards.’

‘Thank you.’

*

Miller was back on Friday morning, watching the queue of old men and women begin to filter through the doors of the post office when it opened. He positioned himself against the wall opposite, watching the direction they took as they departed. Many had white hair, but most wore hats against the cold. The weather had turned dry again, sunny but chill. Just before eleven an old man with a shock of white hair like candy floss came out of the post office, counted his money to make sure it was all there, put it in his inside pocket and looked round as if searching for someone. After a few minutes he turned an

d began to walk slowly away. At the corner he looked up and down again, then turned down Museum Street in the direction of the river bank. Miller eased himself off the wall and followed him.

It took the old man twenty minutes to get the half-mile to the Elbe Chaussee, then he turned up the bank, crossed the grass and settled himself on a bench. Miller approached slowly from behind.

‘Herr Marx?’

The old man turned as Miller came round the end of the bench. He showed no surprise, as though he was often recognised by complete strangers.

‘Yes,’ he said gravely, ‘I am Marx.’

‘My name is Miller.’

Marx inclined his head gravely in acceptance of this news.

‘Are you … er … waiting for Herr Tauber?’

‘Yes, I am,’ said the old man without surprise.