Part 29 (1/2)

Franz spotted few other refugees on the street, but soldiers were everywhere, patrolling the roads in armoured vehicles and occupying intersections with machine guns. In the wake of the a.s.sa.s.sinations, fear of retribution had swept the community, and with good reason. Ghoya had closed the checkpoints and revoked all exit pa.s.ses. Overnight, people had been dragged away; raids were still happening. A firing squad had gunned down a pair of innocent spinsters who had panicked and tried to flee their home during a random raid. The Jewish community's mood was painfully reminiscent of Vienna in the days following Kristallnacht.

Keeping his head low and eyes to the ground, Franz hurried the three blocks over to Seymour Road, but he hesitated out front of the Ohel Moishe Synagogue.

Franz had always admired the red and brown brick temple. It had been built by Russian Jews in the early 1920s, before they abandoned Hongkew for Frenchtown. As always, its distinctive row of columned arches caught his eye. He had long wished to photograph it, but film was scarce and the risk of drawing j.a.panese suspicion with a camera was too great.

Franz had often accompanied Hannah and Esther to the temple on Sat.u.r.days and High Holidays. He enjoyed the ritual, but he had never been religious. As he stood staring at the carved wooden door, Franz realized that, for the first time in his adult life, he had come to a house of wors.h.i.+p in search of guidance.

Franz dug inside his coat and extracted a yarmulke. Adjusting the skullcap on his head, he pulled open the doors and stepped inside a cavernous room that was filled with rows of benches and ringed by an upper balcony. At the front of the room stood the ornately gilded doors of the ark of the Torah. The faint fragrance of melted wax drifted to Franz. He scanned the room but saw no one. He wandered toward the bimah, the decorative table on which the sacred scrolls of the Torah would be unrolled for readings. As Franz reached the first row of benches, he heard footsteps behind him and turned to see Rabbi Hiltmann walking toward him in a black suit and yarmulke.

”Good morning, Dr. Adler.” The rabbi chuckled. ”You do realize that today is not Sat.u.r.day?”

Franz smiled uncomfortably. ”I do, yes, Rabbi. I was hoping to speak to you.”

The rabbi eyed him for a moment and then motioned toward the benches beside them. ”Come, sit with me.”

Franz took a seat beside the rabbi, feeling out of place and suddenly regretting his decision to come. Embarra.s.sed, he studied the Torah's ark before them.

”So? What can I do for you, Dr. Adler?”

”I need . . .” Franz coughed into his hand. ”I was hoping for your opinion, I suppose.”

”Not medical, I hope,” the rabbi joked.

”I did something, Rabbi.” Franz could feel the flush crossing his cheeks. ”Something I am ashamed of. A sin.”

”I am not a priest.” Hiltmann smiled good-naturedly. ”You understand we rabbis are not paid to take confessions.”

Franz's face heated further. ”I need your advice.”

”Ah, advice. Of that I have loads to give.” The rabbi laughed again. ”After all, I am a Jew, am I not? So tell me.”

”I broke one of the commandments,” Franz said.

”Oh? Which one?”

”Thou shall not commit murder.”

The rabbi turned slowly toward him. ”You . . . you killed someone, Dr. Adler?”

”I did.”

Hiltmann did not move, waiting for an explanation.

”He was a patient, Rabbi,” Franz continued. ”A j.a.panese colonel, the head of the military police . . .”

The rabbi folded his arms across his chest and listened as Franz described what had happened in the operating room. Even after he had finished, the rabbi said nothing. Franz finally broke the silence. ”Well, Rabbi?”

Hiltmann shrugged. ”I am not a policeman. I am not a judge. You alone have to live with what you did. What else can I tell you?”

”You are a spiritual man, a rabbi,” Franz said, taken aback. ”It's a sin what I have done, surely. How would this appear in the eyes of G.o.d?”

”I try not to speak for G.o.d.” The rabbi sighed. ”I am, however, fond of reading his teachings and the Talmud's interpretation of them.”

”So you must have at least a theological opinion, no?”

”This j.a.panese colonel.” The rabbi looked at him gravely. ”He is the one who would have handed us over to the n.a.z.is last year?”

”Yes.”

Hiltmann nodded slowly. ”Before the operation, you said he threatened to harm the Jews again?”

”I believe so, yes. But he was not specific. He only said that he would 'put an end to it.'”

”Or, perhaps, an end to all of us?”

Franz shook his head. ”Perhaps, but he was critically ill at the time. Who knows what he might have done had he survived.”

The rabbi tilted his head. ”Let me ask you, Dr. Adler, did you act out of spite or vengeance?”

Franz considered the question carefully. He thought back to the week of torture he had endured in Bridge House at Tanaka's hands. More than the humiliation and agonizing pain, Franz remembered how deeply he had hated Tanaka when he had threatened Sunny. Given the opportunity, at that moment, he would have strangled Tanaka with his bare hands. But that incident never crossed his mind inside the operating room.

”It is a difficult question for you to answer, Dr. Adler?” Hiltmann prompted.

”No,” Franz said firmly. ”I was not thinking about revenge. I was only thinking about my family.”

”Hmm.” The rabbi stroked his silvery beard. ”In Leviticus, the Torah commands: telekh rakhiyl B'ameykha-”

”I do not speak Hebrew, Rabbi.”

”As a Jew, you really should,” Hiltmann said, sounding exactly like Rabbi Finkler, the perpetually disappointed cleric of Franz's youth. ”It means 'Nor shall you stand idly by while your neighbour's life is at stake.'”

”But how can I know that my neighbour's life was truly at stake?”

”The Talmud is also clear on this issue,” the rabbi said. ”In the six hundred and thirteen mitzvoth, or commandments, a faithful Jew is required to save a person who is being pursued. Even if it means killing the pursuer. The Torah further commands that one should not take pity on the aggressor. He is to be killed before he has a chance to kill the one he pursues.” He pulled his hand away from his beard. ”You understand? The Torah is endorsing a preventive strike under such circ.u.mstances.”

”I see,” Franz mumbled.

The rabbi shrugged again. ”That is only what I know from my reading, Dr. Adler. I am not your judge.”

Franz nodded. ”G.o.d is.”

”Always, I suppose.” The rabbi's eyes lit up with amus.e.m.e.nt. ”But, Dr. Adler, in this particular instance I was thinking of you, not G.o.d.”

As Franz headed back to the hospital, he felt only a small degree of consolation. Regardless of what the Torah commanded, his bible was still the surgical textbook. And nowhere inside it could he find justification for his actions.

A j.a.panese soldier was guarding the entrance to the ward with a rifle across his chest. Inside, people walked on eggsh.e.l.ls. No one was speaking. Nurses and patients exchanged nervous looks. Franz headed toward the bed in the far corner, which was s.h.i.+elded from the rest of the ward by curtains.