The Linz Tattoo by Nicholas Guild Page B

that had once
been their homes. “I don’t want to live under the
Russians—they’re as bad as the Nazis, almost.” “Everybody I knew in
Lodz went up the smokestacks at Treblinka. Why should I care
anything about Lodz?” People had to be clothed and fed and
housed. Something had to be done about them. It was a long time
before any coherent, organized attempt was underway to find out who
had lived and who had gone into the incinerators.
    It wasn’t as bad as that now, but it was bad.
Finding Esther Rosensaft wasn’t going to be easy.
    Because a lot of peculiar things were
happening. People were disappearing into Russia without leaving a
ripple, a lucky soul here and there had relatives in England or the
United States who were willing to take them in, and the Jewish
organizations were running a regular underground railroad for
illegal immigrants to Palestine. The fact that Miss Rosensaft was
Jewish complicated things considerably. It meant she could decide
to go almost anywhere. And it meant that she might simply have
vanished into the Bricha escape pipeline. Christiansen could
talk to the U.N. people or the Quaker relief organizations, but the
Jews had their problems running the British blockade and weren’t
disposed to be trusting. If she had gone that route, it might even
be necessary to travel to Palestine and look for her there.
    But first things first. There were still a
lot of rocks to be turned over in Europe.
    As he buttoned the tunic of his uniform,
Christiansen’s eyes settled on the black leather cello case that
was resting on its side next to the closet door. He had sold his
double bass in Havana to help pay for the ship tickets to Le Havre.
That part of his life was over—he was through playing in fifth-rate
jazz groups just to make enough money to keep moving—but nothing on
God’s earth would get him to part with his cello, even if he didn’t
have the fingers to do it justice anymore. If there was anything
left in him worth saving, it had something to do with that
cello.
    Perhaps he should have checked it with the
concierge, just to make sure no one nipped in and stole it while he
was gone. Perhaps he would yet. Yes. Safe was safe.
    “Your honor is a musician?”
    Plump, well-cared-for hands reached out to
take the case from him and set it down beside the great grid of key
boxes that took up most of the wall behind the front desk. There
was something reassuring, almost caressing, about the way the man
allowed his fingers to slide over the shoulder of the lid, as if he
understood all about the romance between owner and instrument.
    “I try.” Christiansen lit a cigarette, more
out of nerves than anything else. He felt as if he were in
disguise. “Could you just put it somewhere out of the way, so
nobody will bump into it?”
    “Certainly. Of course. The walls here, by the
way, are very thick, so your honor would be disturbing no one if
you wished to practice later in your room. Is your honor, by the
way, familiar with the Saint-Saens concerto? A beautiful piece,
very moving.”
    Christiansen smiled—the man hardly even
expected an answer—and started on his way across the lobby to the
big revolving front door. Saint-Saens. The Germans always assumed
they were being excessively diplomatic and cosmopolitan to admit
that any foreigner, let alone a Frenchman, was fit to write
anything except exercise pieces for children.
    With his hands in his pockets and the
cigarette pushed into the corner of his mouth, Christiansen began
making his way along the side of the street— only the streets were
clear; the sidewalks were still covered with rubble—in the general
direction of the Marienplatz. It was a cold morning. The sky was
the color of lead, and patches of frost sheltered against the
broken stone. It must have rained the night before because pools of
dirty water had collected between the cobblestones. Almost no one
else was out.
    The great square of the Marienplatz was now
simply a cleared space