I spent the night in Nuremberg. The following morning I set out early and was in Schwetzingen by eleven. Until seven I sat around in various cafés, keeping my eye on the bank. A few cars, a few clients on foot, a few employees who sat down on a bench on the square at lunchtime and who at six said their good-byes in front of the gate-that was all.

As I sat in my office that evening, Brigitte called and asked if my trip had been a success. Then she asked: “Does this mean your case has come to an end?”

“Almost.”

While I was jotting down what I knew and didn’t know, what still had to be done and still might be done, there was a knock at the door. It was Georg.

“I happened to be walking by and saw you at your desk,” he said. “Do you have a moment?”

He had been riding his bike and now cleaned his glasses. Then he sat down opposite me in the cone of the desk lamp. He eyed the half-empty wine bottle. “You’re drinking too much, Uncle Gerhard.”

I poured myself another glass and made him some tea.

“There must be a file at the Restitution Office,” he said. “The nephew’s son who emigrated to London and died there in the 1950s must have put in a claim after the war for the restitution of the family fortune. The Nazis wrecked and ravaged his home so completely that his parents killed themselves. Maybe the son knew something and mentioned it.”

I needed a few moments to see where he was heading. “You’re talking about the silent partnership? Nobody here’s interested in that anymore. Nobody was ever really interested in it; my client wasn’t, and I wasn’t. It was just that it took me a long time to realize what it was a pretext for.”

But Georg was on a roll. “I looked further into the matter. In the fifties, restitutions were a big thing, and there was one case after another. Lots of minor cases, but also really major ones. Jews who’d been forced to sell factories, department stores, or land for next to nothing, who either wanted their property back or compensation. Don’t you remember all that?”

Of course I remembered. Particularly the expropriations of Jews. There had been a naive Jew who didn’t want to sell, and when his business partner extorted him he turned to the public prosecutor’s office. When I started as a public prosecutor in 1942, this incident already lay some time back but still made for a good joke.

“Aren’t you interested in what happened?” Georg asked.

“Why would I be?”

“Why would you be? I want to know,” Georg said, staring at me obstinately. “I’ve tracked down the silent partner. I know what kind of guy he was. He was conservative and liked to listen to music, drink wine, and smoke Havanas. He’d been awarded a pile of medals, made a fortune providing expert legal advice to the nobility, and was a modest man who invested all his money for his niece and nephew. As far as I’m concerned he’s alive and kicking.”

“Georg-”

“He’s dead, I know. It’s just a way of putting it. But I find Laban interesting enough to want to know everything. What are you paying me, by the way, for the research I’ve done up to now?”

“I was thinking a thousand plus expenses. Speaking of which…” I wrote him a check for two thousand marks.

“Thanks. That’ll be enough for me to get to Berlin and dig through the files. I’ve still got a few days until my job begins. I’ll let you know what I find out.”

“Georg?”

“Yes?”

I looked at his slim face, his serious, alert eyes, his lips that were usually lightly parted as if he were surprised.

“Keep an eye out for those skinheads.”

He laughed. “I will, Uncle Gerhard.”

“Don’t laugh. And keep an eye out for those other guys, too!”

“I will.”

He got up, still laughing, and left.

On Monday I called Philipp, but he didn’t want to phone Dr. Armbrust on the doctor’s first day back from vacation.

“You can’t imagine how hectic things are here,” he told me. “Give me till tomorrow, or better, Wednesday.”

On Wednesday he dropped by my office.

“As I don’t have much to report,” he said, “the least I could do was come and tell you in person. This Doctor Armbrust is a very nice fellow. It turns out he’s referred several patients to me over the years.”

“Well?”

“I asked him if Schuler had asthma or any allergies. The answer was no. The only things wrong with Schuler were his high blood pressure and heart problems. He was taking Ximovan for insomnia, which doesn’t make you drowsy the next day. He was taking an ACE inhibitor, Zentramin for his heart, and a diuretic. He was on Catapresan for blood pressure, a great medication as long as you don’t stop taking it abruptly-if you do, you run the risk of blackouts.”

I recognized the medications. They were among those I’d taken from Schuler’s bathroom so Philipp could tell me about Schuler’s possible condition. I had even started reading the package inserts. “Blackouts?”

“While driving, talking, doing anything that involves concentration,” Philip said. “That’s why we don’t prescribe it to people who are scatterbrained, confused, or forgetful. Armbrust described Schuler as a somewhat odorous but exceptionally alert elderly gentleman.”

“That was my impression, too.”

“That’s not to say that he might not have forgotten to take his pills. On the first day you stop, things are still fine. On the second day, too. But on the third day, significant blackouts can occur. Think of it in these terms: on day one and day two he wouldn’t have felt all that well, thinking it might be the weather or the extra glass of beer he’d had the night before, or just that he was having a bad day, the way one sometimes does. On the third day, he wouldn’t have been in a state to think a lot.”

“Do you think that’s what happened?”

“What?”

“That someone who takes a medication year after year might suddenly forget to take it.”

Philipp threw up his hands. “If there’s anything you learn as a doctor, it’s that patients come in all shapes and sizes. Perhaps Schuler had had enough of his medications, or he’d been feeling so well taking them all that time that he felt he didn’t need them anymore, or he took the wrong pills by mistake.”

“Or none of the above.”

“Sorry, but that’s the way it is. Maybe Schuler took his pills day in and day out and simply drank too much beer in the evening. Don’t start going after false leads, Gerhard! And take care of your heart!”

10 Old poop

Then Georg came back from Berlin. He had managed to keep out of the way of the skinheads, and of the others, too. And he had found the restitution file of Laban’s nephew.

“Putting in a claim for restitution was almost as painful as losing the things one was putting in for,” Georg said. “Two silver candelabras, twelve silver knives, forks, soup and dessert spoons, twelve soup plates and twelve dinner plates, a sideboard, a leather sofa and armchairs; estimated value, date of purchase, length of use, receipts or other documents of proof of ownership, witness statements, explanations as to why the estimates are being furnished in this manner, why the property was relinquished, are there witnesses that the apartment was ransacked during Kristallnacht, were the losses reported to the police, to the insurance company-perhaps there was no other way, but this was terrible. And yet Laban’s nephew seemed to have done rather well in London. He had a place in Hampstead and a gallery that still exists and has a good name.”

We were again sitting in my office, across from each other. Georg’s face was beaming with enthusiasm. He was proud of what he had discovered and wanted to stay the course, find out more, find out everything.

“What more can there be to know?” I said.

He looked at me as if I had asked a foolish question. “Things like where he got the money to live in London in style, what happened to his sister, what happened to his great-uncle’s estate? There was once a bust of Laban at the university in Strasbourg, which a professor I spoke with there is also trying to locate-imagine if I should come across it in a junk store in Strasbourg or somewhere in Alsace. One thing’s for sure: I know where I’m going for my next vacation.”