He put the sap back into his pocket, embarrassed that he’d almost used it on an old man, aware that the hand that was holding it was shaking a little.

He wanted a drink.

The car windows had misted, and he had to use the back of his hand to clear a four-inch-wide smear on the windshield. It distorted the view of the world outside, and the lamps of the yard became exaggerated stars. The train was already out of sight on its way to the docks. He thought about what Galkoff had said and shuddered again. The little car coughed into life as the troop trucks, their cabs shiny with rain, bounced past him across the rough freight yard to the exit.

Rossett lit another cigarette, suddenly realizing how many he smoked on mornings like this, and made a decision to try to ease up. He checked his watch. Seven thirty, bang on schedule, just as usual.

ON THE TRAIN, amid the crying and the clanging, Israel Galkoff leaned his head against the coarse wood of the doors and said a little prayer that his treasure would be safe; it was all he had.

His only hope.

 

Chapter 4

BY THE TIME Rossett got back to the house, light was breaking through the early morning cloud and the streets were starting to fill with commuters. The drive across town had taken longer than expected, but he was glad for the traffic; it had given him some time to settle his nerves. The encounter with the old man had shaken him, made that morning’s work seem more personal.

He thought about the old man’s shop, nondescript, just like all the other shops he had followed his mother in and out of when he was on his school holidays. He’d never given Galkoff a second thought back then. He wondered why he was such a threat to society now. The old man hadn’t changed, thought Rossett as he sat at a traffic light and looked at the banner of the Führer shaking hands with King Edward that covered half of the building across the road.

“The old man hasn’t changed, we have,” he said to himself as the traffic light changed and he moved on.

When he arrived back at Caroline Street, the two bobbies at the front door of the house straightened up and took their hands out of their pockets when they saw him.

“Has anyone been in?” he asked as he slammed the door of the Austin.

“No, Sarge,” said the younger one.

“You, come with me,” said Rossett, pushing open the door. “What’s your name?” he said over his shoulder as they marched up the stairs.

“Baker, Sarge.”

“Is your notebook up to date, Baker?”

“Yes, Sarge.”

“Good.”

He’d normally have left the search of the house to the removal team that would turn up a few hours after the Jews had left. The team, usually led by a retired bobby or a German civil servant, would inventory the house, take anything valuable, then lock up the property until there were workers who needed accommodation. The landlord would receive a peppercorn rent and a warning about renting his houses to Jews in the future.

Often, the best-case scenario was that the building was owned by one of the Jews in the first place, in which case the property would have already been signed over to the state on the grounds that since the Jewish Acts in Parliament, Jews were no longer allowed to own property. Rossett knew it was an unfair system but excused it on the grounds that it stopped them sleeping rough and having to be cleared up if they died of the cold on the streets.

“Don’t we normally wait for the removal lads, Sarge?” Baker said, taking off his helmet to prevent its hitting the low ceiling on the stairs.

“Not this morning. I want you to witness something.”

“Witness something?”

“There are only two things that will get you sacked in this job, son: women and property. You need a witness when you handle either of them; never forget.”

“Yes, Sarge,” replied Baker, now a little nervous.

Rossett didn’t know if anyone else had heard Galkoff talking about “treasure” when they had been on the ramp, but he didn’t want to take the risk of word getting to the cleanup team and someone getting sticky fingers. He also didn’t want anyone accusing him of taking whatever was behind the bookcase. Theft from the state carried a death penalty. Whatever was up there belonged to the state, and Rossett intended to see that the state got its due.

They entered the room, and Rossett noted the upturned chair and bedding thrown across the floor, a broken water jug lying on the bed, and the lock of the door splintered on the inside. The old man hadn’t gone quietly.

Against the far wall stood a wooden bookcase. It was heavy and old and must have taken four men to carry it to the third floor. Its shelves were less than half full.

“They must have burnt the books to keep warm,” Baker said, reading his mind and filling in the gaps.

Rossett nodded. It was a fair deduction except for one thing.

There wasn’t a fireplace in the room.

“Give me a hand. They might have hidden something behind it.”

They both took a hold on the same side, looking to lift one corner away from the wall and pivot it around.

“What if it’s a booby trap, Sarge? I heard one house up north was rigged with explosives by a load of communist Jews.”

“Just lift it.”

The bookcase creaked but moved easily on the bare floorboards. Rossett realized the old man had planned it that way; he’d have known they’d be coming eventually, and had chosen the last room they’d get to so as to have time to hide his secrets from the initial search.

Behind the bookcase, Rossett could see a hole in the wall where a fireplace had once been. He lifted the bookcase farther out and then squeezed into the gap, bending from the waist and twisting himself to peer into the darkness.

“Fetch me a candle. I can’t see a thing,” he said, arm reaching behind him, fingers snapping.

Baker grabbed a candle from the floor next to the bed and lit it quickly. He passed it to Rossett, who, holding it next to his face, pushed farther into the gap.