'The Killing of Gentle People', Michel Henri [ebook e reader .TXT] 📗

blond. You know what he’s like, Sergeant Gold. He did take you to dinner and you had drink or two. Well that’s what he told us at the social club. Was it true? Come on, Sergeant! You can trust us, with the running order.”
All the officers in the room laughed. But Becky just ignored the remark and the laughter. She had work to do. At that moment the photographer came into the computer room looking a bit flustered and asked:
“Has anyone seen this Abraham Golden? He’s the suspect, isn’t he? Who booked him in? Because he isn’t in the booking hall.”
Constable Reagan, who was busy putting information into the new computer system, realised what had just been said.
“Shit! I told him to sit out there and not to move,” and pointed out to the seats in the booking hall.
“Well, someone had better go and tell the Inspector that the suspect, Mr. Abraham Golden, has walked out and is nowhere to be seen. Move it, Constable!” said the Sergeant.
All the blood drained from the Constable’s pretty face. She stamped her foot on the concrete floor and shouted “fuck, fuck, fuck” then rushed into Inspector Mercedes’ office without knocking.
“Inspector! Inspector! I am very sorry, but the suspect Abraham, l mean Golden. Look; Abraham Golden has gone missing from the booking hall.”
The Inspector didn’t look up. He just shouted:
“Tell that stupid Jewish Sergeant Becky Gold to get in here! And quick!”


As the Sergeant walked in and the Constable sneaked out, the Inspector turned on Becky Gold with venom in his voice:
“What is this all about? Am l running the police headquarters’ or a kindergarten? I am told your suspect, an old decrepit Jew, has gone missing! Did he do a magical disappearing act like Harry Houdini? Or did he feel brave and just get up and casually walk out of my bloody Police Station?”
“I, I don’t know! I mean, I’m not sure, sir! I arrested him and read him his rights. Constable Maria Reagan bought him into the station, and told him to sit in the booking hall. She even told him which seat to sit on. Then you called everyone into your office. Now he’s gone, and that’s all l know.”
The Inspector wasn’t happy about that explanation. He got up and waved his arms about, then banged on the table with his fist and started to get nasty.
“So what you are saying, Sergeant Gold? Are you saying this shit is my fault? That I, Chief Inspector Victor Mercedes, with more than 30 years of experience, just let a suspect, who is an old and decrepit Jew, just casually walk out of Police Headquarters, just like that? Is that what you are telling me, Sergeant “Jewish” Gold, of this rustic community?”
“No, Inspector! It was your friend the photographer who found he had gone.”
“So wait! You are now telling me we don’t even have a picture of the suspect. Get me a compo artist, and the rest of you get out on the street and find for him. You, Sergeant, go back to The Dumb Cow or whatever it’s called and start from there. Get some officers to check every room in and outside this building, from the roof down to the cellars. Now get those lazy bastards on the job. I will want a personal chat with you later, girlie!”
The Sergeant got the jobs started, at the same time wondering what the personal chat would be all about. It sent a shiver down her spine.
Gustav Droysen took hold of her arm and stopped her, saying:
‘Becky! You can’t keep letting him talk to you like that! Well, we can’t keep letting him get away with his anti Semitic rants. It’s got to stop.’
‘Look, Gustav. I don’t want to lose my job! I worked hard to get to Sergeant. I don’t want to be
beating the streets again, do l? I have things to do! We will talk later.”

Abraham Golden: Somewhere in the suburb.
I got off the tram at the terminal, walked a couple of blocks, keeping out of the way of shoppers and pedestrians, when l saw this grubby looking greasy spoon café. ‘That will do for me’ l said to myself, and walked in.
Waiting in the doorway, looking at the dining room, l wondered if l should just sit myself down at an empty table when the waitress came over to me and took me by the arm, recognising me as a disabled person, and said into my ear:
“Over here, my dear. You just sit yourself down at this table and l will get you a menu.”
“May l have a cup of coffee before l make my order please?”
“Sorry, dear” she said softly. “We don’t just serve coffee, dear. You have to have a meal.”
“Yes, l want a meal, miss. It’s just that l want my coffee before my meal, that’s all.”
“Ok, sure” came her answer. “How do you want your coffee?”
“Black, no sugar. And strong please, very strong.”
I sat down at the table. The table cloth was whitish plastic. Well, most of it was white. Pepper and salt lay in the middle, with a table number. No napkins, but three bright red plastic flowers. This was a real greasy spoon! There were some local artists’ painting on the walls, covering dirty marks on the big patterned wallpaper that had seen better days. The few painting there were, I’m afraid, not very good. But nice, just to look at. Most of the local diners looked interesting; they were chatting, and seemed to be enjoying their food; and the atmosphere was very conducive. Yes, l was happy to be sitting there.
When the coffee arrived it was like dishwater. But who was l to complain? For someone like me this was as good as it gets. I needed the caffeine in my blood, and needed to stay in the café for as long as possible so as to stay off the streets and to rest my painful body.
“Here, sir, is the menu. What would you like? The daily special is meat stew.”
“Yes!” l said. “Let’s go mad today, miss, and we will have the daily special what ever it is, thank you very much!”


The waitress shouted aloud with a voice that could smash a pint glass:
“One special for table thirteen.”
Then she bent over, wiping the tablecloth down with an old dishrag which had seen better days, and walked back to the kitchen.
Sitting there at the empty table by myself l realised that l was in terrible trouble. For years l had put together my mission for retribution; to inflict as much pain on those monsters who had not only butchered my lovely parents and my innocent little sister but had also killed over six million gentle souls in the most barbaric of ways. This jolt of being arrested had made me realise that l was indeed walking in the footsteps of those monsters myself. It was confirming to my inner soul that l was no better. In fact, l was worse than they were. For l had, in my lifetime, experienced their extreme depravity and understood the pain.
Now l, me, Abraham Golden, was replicating their wickedness in my own way on other gentle souls. Sitting drinking this dreadful coffee, the café full of ordinary gentle people eating, chatting, and drinking: for the first time in my life, alone in this greasy spoon, in my distorted mind l was ashamed of myself and of my friend Heinz Stein. My dear mother and father would not have wanted me to spend my life finding and then killing these gentle people, who’s only fault was being the children or grandchildren of the evil monsters of the killing camps.
Sipping my very poor bitter coffee, my mind ran back over the years that l had been killing in retribution, and tried to count just how many people l had actually killed. As l counted back l realised that l was actually killing myself, something these monsters in the Auschwitz-Birkenau death camp could not do to me. Now at this very moment l knew l had to stop. My mind could not explain to my brain, or vice versa, why l had done this thing for so long. It then dawned on me that
l was actually enjoying this retribution, the killing of gentle people, like the SS officers and the guards at the camps did. Was l getting perverted pleasure, looking into the eyes of those gentle people l killed, and saying to them “l think l knew your father” before pulling the trigger and dropping them dead onto the ground?.


A sharp voice bought me back to sanity once again.
“Your special, sir! I hope you enjoy it!”
The waitress placed the plate of hot food on the table in front of me, then handed me a knife and fork wrapped in a white paper serviette.
“Sorry, but l have to take the money now, please sir.”
She stood there by the table with her hand open waiting for the money.
“That’s alright miss! l quite understand.”
I took my wallet out of my coat and handed her a large denomination note. It was all l had with me. My dear friend, saviour and benefactor had just that morning given it to me. He was earning a living which l was unable to. The brandies and the tram fare had taken my change.
She looked at the note, then with her hand on her hip and a disbelieving look, said:
“Sir, have you got anything smaller than this? We aren’t a hotel, you know! We are just a café, and as you can see a small café. We don’t keep a lot of extra money here.”
I looked again into my wallet then through my coat and trouser:
“Yes, there you are miss.” l had found a smaller note, “Keep the change.”
I thought that would bring a smile to her face. But she merely walked away without as much as ‘thank you’, as if my tip was just a pittance. Well, it may have been. But money was scarce in my pockets, and father always taught me: “to give a little was better than to give nothing at all”.
I guess to her it was nothing.
When l had finished my meal, putting my knife and fork on the plate, l sat back and consoled myself saying: ‘That was actually quite a good meal. Yes! I can say l enjoyed it, very much.’
Sitting alone at my table, looking at the other people eating and chatting to each other, my mind raced around again: What was l to do at this time?
Before l started my revenge killings twenty years ago l spent a long time researching the SS archives with my friend Heinz Stein about the personnel involved at the Auschwitz-Birkenau killing camp in order to maximize the effect of my retribution on those monsters. I thought that killing their children or grandchildren was the way to make them experience what emotional and

psychological as well as physical pain was all about.
Now what happens? l asked myself. Do l continue with my killings of these innocent people, or
finish with this gruesome retribution now? I’m not absolutely sure l believe in heaven. I do believe in hell, as l had lived in it. But heaven, forgiveness, and the Great Architect of the Universe?
I spoke out softly, leaning forward across the table to the empty chair opposite me, not knowing that l was speaking for everyone to hear:
“OK then, big man! What is forgiveness and heaven? Only an Angel could