The Russian prosecutor then switched, oddly, to a detailed account of Renate’s own capture, the manhunt that finally ran her to ground in a basement in Wedding. For a moment Jake thought the Soviets were simply congratulating themselves for the press, now busily taking notes. Then he noticed Bernie in a lawyer’s huddle, heard Gunther mentioned by name as the hunter, and saw that it was something more-the old DA’s ploy, establishing your witness, the good guy in the neat jacket and tie. He needn’t have bothered. The story, with its breathless chase, seemed lost on the first judge, who shifted in his seat and lit a cigarette. The Russian next to him leaned over and whispered. The judge, annoyed, put it out and gazed at the window, where a standing fan was lazily moving the stuffy air. Apparently an unexpected western custom. Jake wondered how long it would take to call a recess.
He’d assumed from the buildup that Gunther would be the star witness. Who else was there? The records supplied the mechanics of the crime, but its victims were dead, no longer able to accuse. Gunther had actually seen her do it. And a DA always started with the police, to weight his case at the beginning. The first person called, however, was a Frau Gersh, a more theatrical choice, a frail woman who had to be helped to the witness chair on crutches. The prosecutor began, solicitously, with her feet.
“From frostbite. On the death march,” she said, halting but matter-of-fact. “They made us leave the camp so the Russians wouldn’t find out. We had to walk in the snow. If you fell, they shot you.”
“But you were fortunate.”
“No, I fell. They shot me. Here,” she said, pointing to her hip. “They thought I was dead, so they left me. But I couldn’t move. In the snow. So the feet.”
She spoke simply, her voice low, so that chairs creaked as people strained forward to hear. Then she looked over at Renate.
“The camp where she sent me,” she said, louder, spitting it out.
“I didn’t know,” Renate said, shaking her head. “I didn’t know.”
The judge glared at her, startled to hear her speak but unsure what to do about it. No one seemed to know what the rules were supposed to be, least of all the defense attorney, who could only silence her with a wave of his hand and nod at the judge, an uneasy apology.
“She did!” the woman said, forceful now. “She knew.”
“Frau Gersh,” the prosecutor said deliberately, as if the outburst hadn’t happened, “do you recognize the prisoner?”
“Of course. The greifer.”
“She was known to you personally?”
“No. But I know that face. She came for me, with the men.”
“That was the first time you saw her?”
“No. She talked to me at the shoe repair. I should have known, but I didn’t. Then, that same afternoon-”
“The shoe repair?” one of the judges said, confusing the past with the crutches now on display.
“One of her contacts,” the prosecutor said. “People in hiding wore out their shoes-from all the walking, to keep moving. So Fraulein Naumann made friends with the shoe men. ‘Who’s been in today? Any strangers?’ She found many this way. This particular shop-” He made a show of checking his notes. “In Schoneberg. Hauptstrasse. That’s correct?”
“Yes, Hauptstrasse,” Frau Gersh said.
Jake looked at Renate. Clever, if that’s what you were after, collecting items from cobblers. All her news-gathering tricks, offered to murderers.
“So she talked to you there?”
“Yes, you know, the weather, the raids. Just to talk. I didn’t like it-I had to be careful-so I left.”
“And went home?”
“No, I had to be careful. I walked to Viktoria Park, then here and there. But when I got back, she was there. With the men. The others-good German people, helping me-were already gone. She sent them away too.”
“I must point out,” the defense lawyer said, “that at this time, 1944, it was against the law for German citizens to hide Jews. This was an illegal act.”
The judge looked at him, amazed. “We are not interested in German law,” he said finally. “Are you suggesting that Fraulein Naumann acted correctly? ”
“I’m suggesting that she acted legally.” He looked down. “At the time.”
“Go on,” the judge said to the prosecutor. “Finish it.”
“You were taken away then. On what charge?”
“Charge? I was a Jew.”
“How did Fraulein Naumann know this? You hadn’t told her?”
Frau Gersh shrugged. “She said she could always tell. I have papers, I said. No, she told them, she’s a Jew. And of course they listened to her. She worked for them.”
The prosecutor turned to Renate. “Did you say this?”
“She was a Jew.”
“You could tell. How?”
“The look she had.”
“What kind of look was that?”
Renate lowered her eyes. “A Jewish look.”
“May I ask the prisoner-such a skill-were you ever mistaken?”
Renate looked at him directly. “No, never. I always knew.”
Jake sat back, feeling sick. Proud of it. His old friend.
“Continue, Frau Gersh. You were taken where?”
“The Jewish Old Age Home. Grosse Hamburger Strasse.” A precise detail, coached.
“And what happened there?”
