Limbo Zone. Chapter 12. Tango

The morning was transparent.

That particular kind of November morning when the air is glass, and in the glassy air every sound is distinct, every contour sharp, and the world seems clear, washed clean—like after a long illness when the fever has broken.

Fritz descended the steps into the half-basement. Knocked.

The smell — tailor’s chalk, heated wool, kerosene from the lamp. Fabric scraps on the floor. Spools of thread on the shelf. Patterns on the walls. Warmth.

“Good morning, Herr Weber.” Goldstein sat by the lamp. His hands were moving. The needle entered the fabric. Exited.

“Were you at the station?” the tailor asked, without raising his head.

“I was. Mine weren’t there.”

Goldstein nodded. Slowly. Without comment.

“The suit is ready.” He stood up, walked over to the mannequin by the wall. Took down the suit — dark gray, inconspicuous, with narrow lapels. A suit in which one could be anyone. Smoothed it out, folded it. “Pre-war fabric. Good twill. Will you try it on?”

“No, thank you. At the hotel.”

“As you wish.” Goldstein laid the suit on the counter. Stopped. Looked at Fritz over his glasses. “With this suit, you need a sweater. A warm one. Winter is coming.”

He took a sweater from the cabinet — light gray, chunky knit, soft.

“At least try this on. I need to be sure about the shoulders.”

Fritz looked at the sweater. Looked at Goldstein.

“Noah, there is no need.”

“Try it on,” the tailor repeated, and in his voice was that sartorial insistence that brooks no argument.

Fritz took off his overcoat. Unbuttoned his shirt. Pulled it off over his head. Raised his arms to put on the sweater.

For a second his left arm was bared — the soft inner side, where the arm meets the armpit. On the pale, untanned skin — a tattoo. Small, black, neat. Blood group. Two letters and a number. A mark. Which cannot be taken off like a uniform. Cannot be burned, the way things are burned in a furnace.

Fritz pulled the sweater on. Quickly. The wool hid the arm, hid the mark.

But Goldstein’s gaze — that gliding, momentary gaze over his glasses — lingered. For a fraction of a second. There was neither fear nor hatred in it. There was the millennial, ice-cold, unbearable weight of absolute knowledge.

“It fits,” Goldstein said. “Will you take it?”

“How much?” Fritz asked.

“The sweater?… A gift.”

He said it simply. Without emphasis. The way one speaks of the weather.

Fritz nodded.

Goldstein wrapped the suit and the sweater in grayish-brown wrapping paper, tied it with twine. His fingers moved precisely, habitually. The parcel rested on the counter — neat, rectangular.

“Thank you, Noah,” Fritz said. Took the parcel. Turned toward the door.

“Herr Weber.”

Fritz stopped. His back to the tailor.

“Good luck to you. Find your family.”

Fritz did not turn around. Walked out.

On Bahnhofstraße, from a junkman’s stall, he bought a suitcase. Small, scuffed, vulcanized fiber, with scratched locks. A suitcase that had passed through many other hands.

In the lobby of the “Kaiserhof,” the clerk looked up from his newspaper. His gaze slid over the suitcase.

“Planning to leave, Herr Weber?”

“Tomorrow. Probably tomorrow.”

He went up to his room. Placed the parcel on the bed. Unwrapped it. The suit — gray. The sweater — soft, light gray. Packed them into the suitcase. The locks clicked.

Sat on the bed. Then—lay down.

The ceiling — white. A crack — no, without a crack. The ceiling of room twelve.

He saw.

The thought came not from the head — from the nape, from the place where the spine connects to the skull. From an animal, ancient place that does not think, but knows.

Goldstein saw the tattoo. The gaze — momentary, gliding — but sufficient. He knows. He knows that Weber is not Weber. He read the body the way a tailor reads fabric: by the seams, by the snags, by the traces.

And what now? Will he tell?

The patrol? The British? Those looking for “certain types”? Or will he stay silent? Because he is tired? Because it’s winter? Because of the gift?

In the silence of the room, right inside his cranium, a sound began to be born. At first, it was just the pounding of blood in his temples. But then the pounding took form.

The music, that very same one — sharp, nervous. A bandoneon. An instrument that doesn’t play, but breathes, and the breathing is ragged, feverish. A tango turned inside out. A tango without a partner. A tango where fear takes the lead. The rhythm was uneven, syncopated — not the three-quarter time of a waltz, but something jagged, harbor-like, from a city he had never seen, from a port on the other edge of the earth.

Violins sliced the air with short strokes. The bandoneon howled ever more piercingly. The walls of room twelve were closing in. Fritz lay there, and the ceiling swam, and the music swelled — striking exposed nerves — and the thought, not a thought, but a pulse, repeated:

He knows. He will tell. He…

The music cut off. Silence. The ticking of a clock — from where? From the wall? From his head?

Fritz fell asleep.

He woke up in the dark. Evening dark, thick. Outside the window, a streetlamp, rusty orange. The shadows long. The silence that occurs between seven and eight o’clock, when the daytime people have gone, and the nighttime people have not yet come out.

Fritz stood up.

His movements were economical and mathematically precise. His pulse — steady. His breathing — calm.

He got dressed. Suit jacket. Overcoat. Laced his boots neatly, with a double knot. Walked over to the bed. Took the edge of the washed-out sheet and, with a strong yank, tore off a long, narrow strip. Folded it and tucked it into his pocket.

Walked out.

The corridor is empty. The staircase is empty. The lobby is empty. The clerk is gone. The clock on the wall ticks.

The street. Hanover at night, wet. Every other streetlamp lit. Fritz walked — and his gait was different: not stooped, not cautious — straight, measured, the gait of a man who is going to execute a task.

A hardware store on Kurzestraße. A wooden door. A lock that wouldn’t have withstood a child. Fritz hit it with his shoulder. The door crunched. He stepped into the darkness, smelling of soap and chemicals. Found a canister — tin, full. Took it.

Walked out. Did not look back.

Bahnhofstraße. The building. The steps down.

The half-basement window was lit. Warm, yellow light on the wet asphalt. No movement was visible behind the glass. Or there was. Fritz didn’t peer closely.

He unscrewed the cap of the canister. The smell of kerosene — thick, oily — hit his nostrils.

Splashed it onto the door. The kerosene ran down the green paint, down the wood, toward the threshold. Splashed it onto the window frame. Onto the wall. Set the canister down by the steps. Took out the rag. Soaked it.

Took out matches. Struck one.

A small yellow flame flared instantly. Touched it to the rag. The fabric caught. Threw it under the door.

The fire touched the kerosene and roared, rose, swallowed the frame. The wood crackled. The paint blistered. Smoke went up — black, thick.

Fritz stepped back a few paces. Stopped at the edge of the sidewalk. Hands in the pockets of his overcoat. Stood and watched.

The fire grew. The letters on the sign — “N. Goldstein. Tailor” — blackened, writhed. The smoke rose. Black. With black flakes.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a movement. On the opposite side of the narrow street, on the second floor of a dark building, a window lit up. Fritz slowly turned his head.

A woman.

She stood by the window. In a blue dress with a white collar. Her face pale, illuminated by the reflection of the fire. A face he knew. No — a face that was similar. To Helga. To the woman in the garden. To everyone. To no one.

She looked at the fire. Then she looked at him.

Then she raised her hand and, with a slow, merciless movement, drew the heavy dark curtain shut.

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