The Good Cop

by Peter Steiner

  ‘And,’ the surgeon’s wife chimed in, ‘I wonder where the army will stand when inflation really becomes impossible. Seventy marks to the dollar is one thing – bad enough when we were at five marks a year ago. But where will the army stand when it’s seven thousand marks to the dollar and a loaf of bread costs two thousand marks?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘That will never happen.’

  Everyone scoffed at the idea that inflation could ever reach such levels. But someone else pointed out that as long as the government went on printing money, inflation would continue, and could go higher than anyone imagined, as eventually it did, rendering the mark essentially worthless.

  No, the army would certainly not stand by and watch forever. The army was run by the Prussian warrior class. They were heavily armed and were used to running things, as they had for the last fifty years. True, it was the army that had surrendered, but they hadn’t had any other choice, had they? And they had nothing to do with Versailles. That was certainly not their fault. That was all the Socialist government’s doing; ‘November traitors’ was what they were all right. And what if someone – this Hitler, say, or someone else like him – were to make common cause with the army – get Ludendorff or some of the other war heroes behind him? What then?

  ‘That can’t happen, can it?’ said Margarete, grasping her husband’s hand. ‘Ludendorff wouldn’t.’

  ‘No, Gretl,’ said Benno, ‘it can’t. He wouldn’t.’ He patted her hand reassuringly. ‘First of all, look at this Hitler fellow. He’s a penniless bum, a Viennese tramp, an ex-corporal, for goodness’ sake. An anti-Semite, an ignoramus about economics, a political neophyte. He’ll crash just as quickly as he rises – if he rises at all. And even if Hitler should gain some kind of following among the riff-raff, do you imagine anyone of General Ludendorff’s stature would ever even stand beside such a clownish figure, would even shake his hand? Make common cause with him? Never.’

  ‘And what’s more, Benno,’ said Gottfried Büchner, the well-known film critic, ‘don’t forget: we still have a society founded on law and order.’

  ‘And liberty and justice,’ said someone else. ‘Those principles are part of the grand German tradition. And now they’re encoded in the new constitution. Liberty and justice are the law of the land. And our legal system – we have a strong legal system of due process and courts and judges. If all else fails, our legal system will protect us against revolution and chaos.’

  ‘I don’t think it will,’ said a young man sitting beside the piano. He had a foreign accent. ‘I don’t think you can count on the German justice system. That’s just my opinion, of course.’ Everyone looked at him. The room went silent. Edvin Lindstrom was a Swedish consular officer stationed in Munich. It was his first time at the Horvaths’.

  ‘Explain yourself,’ said the essayist. He did not like the idea of being lectured to about German society by a foreigner.

  ‘Well,’ said Edvin, meeting the objection head on, ‘as a foreigner stationed here in an official capacity, I may have a better vantage point than you Germans do.’ There were a few indignant mutterings around the room, but Edvin forged ahead. ‘In my work I come in contact with the justice system at its various levels every day. I see the gears turning, and I see them being greased and manipulated. I watch cases being investigated. I see charges brought or not brought, cases tried or not tried, and in my experience your legal system is … unreliable. It has, in the few years since the war ended, become more and more politicized. Cases are decided more and more, not on the merits of a case, but on the political merits, on whose ox is being gored …’

  ‘Oh, come on!’ The man sitting next to Willi could restrain himself no longer. As Lindstrom had been speaking, the man’s already florid face had gotten redder and redder. His blond mustache bristled. He brushed it furiously with the back of his hand. Geheimrat Gerhardt Riegelmann had once been privy counselor to the Bavarian King Ludwig. And though the monarchy was over, at least for the moment, and Riegelmann now headed up an association of mining and smelting interests, he continued to insist proudly on his royal title.

  Geheimrat Riegelmann also had regular dealings with the legal system. He was quite certain his finger lay firmly on the pulse of the Bavarian nation. In any case, he knew better than any foreigner ever could how things worked. ‘Thankfully,’ he said, ‘I do not see the German legal system from outside, but rather from inside its beating heart, and on a daily basis. In my considered opinion, you are as wrong as anyone could possibly be.

  ‘Of course the legal system is infused with politics. It always has been. How could it be otherwise? It is made up of and operated by people with political convictions. However, I can assure you that we Germans are committed to seeing that the law is administered and carried out fairly and justly. Our officials – from the police all the way up to the attorneys and judges – lay their prejudices aside and bring cases and render judgments in an evenhanded way. I assure you, mein Herr, justice is blind.’

  ‘Maybe it’s a good thing justice is blind,’ said Benno. ‘She might not like some of the things done in her name if she could see them.’

  Several people laughed at the joke, but not Geheimrat Riegelmann.

  ‘What do you think, Willi?’ said Benno. ‘What’s your view of the German justice system? Willi is a detective,’ he added.

  Although Willi might not have agreed with Lindstrom’s dire judgment before the armory theft and the newspaper bombing, those two events had caused him to begin having his own doubts about the legal system. The armory theft had been short-circuited by the department’s chief of detectives to protect the actual thieves, who Willi suspected were army officers and members of a right-wing Freikorps, one of those private armies that were everywhere these days. The two night guards were scapegoats; they had been railroaded into long prison sentences in a rigged trial. And a similar subversion of justice was underway with the newspaper bombing. Willi had begun to wonder to what extent this corruption permeated the larger justice system. The Geheimrat’s too vigorous defense of the German justice system did nothing to reassure him. Willi smiled, shrugged, and remained silent.

  The Geheimrat forged ahead. ‘Overseeing justice means protecting society, or perhaps you don’t agree?’

  Edvin Lindstrom did not answer.

  ‘You may do things differently in Sweden,’ said Riegelmann. ‘But when our German way of life is under attack, the courts are there to assure that such attacks are unsuccessful. When society is undermined, the courts are there to see that the malefactors are brought to justice.’

  ‘Maybe, whatever we may think of Herr Hitler’s ways, we should pay attention to his call for a new idea of justice,’ said a youngish woman from across the room. ‘What’s wrong with a justice system that doesn’t treat those who want to destroy society and us decent, peace-loving citizens as deserving equal protection under the law? Maybe those who want to bring Germany to its knees should be punished. Maybe we decent members of society shouldn’t be punished for defending ourselves against these cultural enemies. Is it wrong to discriminate in the legal system against Bolsheviks and anarchists? I don’t think so. What do you think, Herr Geheimrat?’

  Riegelmann brushed at his mustache and decided that this was a moment for judicious discretion. ‘In my courtroom,’ he said, ‘anyone brought before me would always be treated with the utmost fairness. If I were a judge.’

  ‘That is reassuring,’ said Willi. He took a sip of his beer and smiled slightly. But he regretted having spoken at all.

  At that moment, on the street below, there was the crash of breaking glass, followed by shouts and cries. Willi was on his feet in an instant. ‘Everyone stay where you are,’ he said. ‘And lock the door behind me.’ He pulled a revolver from the pocket of his coat hanging by the door and went down the stairs three at a time. He heard someone clattering down the stairs behind him. It was Edvin Lindstrom, the Swede.

  A gang of young men in
brown shirts and armbands had surrounded a man and a woman on the stoop. Two men held the woman by the arms, while the others took turns punching the man. ‘Stop! Police!’ shouted Willi as he threw open the door. The men ran off, shouting curses that turned to laughter once they were a safe distance away. Sigrid and Peter Melzer had been on their way to the Horvaths’ when they had been chased and accosted by a half-dozen storm troopers.

  Willi and Edvin helped the Melzers into the lift and then into the Horvaths’ apartment, where everyone stood waiting by the door. Sigrid was more frightened than hurt; Peter was bruised and had a bloody nose. Peter sat at the kitchen table with his head back and a wet washcloth pressed against his nose. When they were able, Willi took statements from them. The other guests waited in silence in the drawing room, thinking about what had just happened but not knowing what to say.

  ‘I think,’ said Gerhardt Riegelmann finally, ‘this incident confirms my hopeful view of the German justice system, wouldn’t you say?’ He was speaking to everyone but looking at the Swede. ‘The police this evening, in the person of the detective here, restored order, and did so in a laudably quick and efficient manner. At this moment he is interviewing the victims of the crime, gathering information with which he can build a case. I have no doubt the malefactors will be sought, and when they are found, they will be brought to justice. They will inevitably end up punished for their crimes. What do you say to that?’

  Edvin Lindstrom had nothing to say, and neither did anyone else.

  THE MUNICH POST

  Maximilian started each day at the Post by scanning the wire to see what was going on. Then he set out walking. He drew life as he came upon it – early morning whores around the square, legless veterans, early bread lines, priests at first mass, Nazi rallies, marching storm troopers, picket lines, food markets with empty shelves, street waifs, rich businessmen in their Daimlers and Duesenbergs with fat cigars clenched in their jaws. Maximilian did not make judgments or editorialize in his drawings. He just drew Munich.

  One morning there was a letter waiting on his otherwise empty desk. He stared at it for a while. He didn’t know anyone who would write him a letter. Dear Mister Wolf, it said, I would like to talk to you about exhibiting your drawings. Please stop by the gallery. A business card was attached: Aaron Appelbaum, Appelbaum Gallery, Berlin / Munich / London / New York.

  Sophie found the letter in his jacket pocket a week later.

  ‘How long have you been carrying this around?’ she said.

  ‘Not long,’ he said.

  ‘Do you know who this is?’ she said.

  ‘I’m not sure I want to show my work,’ he said.

  ‘You’re not sure,’ she said, ‘so talk to him. See what he says.’

  Aaron Appelbaum was a small, roundish man, with a gentle, soft face and intelligent brown eyes. He took Maximilian’s hand in both of his and shook it. ‘I greatly admire your work,’ he said. He and Maximilian walked around the gallery together looking at the current exhibit – recent small paintings by Otto Dix.

  ‘Your drawings are very strong,’ Aaron said. ‘Like Dix. But Dix is hard. People don’t want to be confronted, you know. And yet he has several collectors. I don’t know whether I can sell your work. But I would like to try. They need to be seen in person and not just in the Münchener Post. They need to be matted and in frames, on people’s walls.’

  ‘I’m not sure I want to sell my work,’ said Maximilian.

  ‘Why not?’ Aaron said.

  ‘I’m afraid that will ruin it for me. The drawing, I mean.’

  ‘How might that happen?’ said Aaron.

  ‘I don’t want to feel torn between the drawing and the money.’

  ‘I understand what you’re saying. But …’ Aaron laughed lightly, a sweet, birdlike chortle, ‘… I don’t think you need to worry too much about that yet. As I said, these will be a hard sell. So, first of all, we have to get them seen. And you do want them seen, don’t you? And really, that’s what I want too.’

  Aaron offered Maximilian a show in December, which was several months away.

  ‘I can come to your studio and look over your work.’

  ‘I don’t have a studio; everything is at the Post.’

  ‘I can come to the Post then. Or you can bring some drawings – your favorites, and we’ll go through them together.’

  Maximilian agreed to bring some drawings. ‘But I’m still not sure.’

  ‘No,’ said Aaron, patting Maximilian’s shoulder. ‘I know. We’ll see.’

  Elizabeth Grynbaum installed Sophie in her bed after she came home from the hospital. And Elizabeth moved into Sophie’s room. ‘I can sleep on a narrow bed,’ she said. ‘I’m blessed with good sleep wherever I am.’

  Between Elizabeth, Maximilian, and Inge, Maximilian’s sister – Elizabeth paid her a little – Sophie always had someone at her side. Sophie got out of bed for the first time several months after the bombing. Her first few steps propped up by Inge and Maximilian were tentative. But she did exercises – squatting and then standing, stretching her legs behind her, and lifting her knees against her chest – and little by little her strength came back. She walked in the neighborhood, first to the corner and back, then around the block, then further and further afield.

  One Sunday she and Maximilian took the train to Bad Aibling, forty minutes southeast of the city. She had been there once as a child and remembered it as beautiful. They walked on tiny farm roads for two hours, passing wayside crosses, country churches, pastures, fields where the hay had been cut and stacked. They sat in the sun on the terrace of Zum Braumeister, a small Gasthaus facing the shimmering snow-covered Alps to their east and drank cold beer with lemonade. Then they walked some more and only stopped because the sun was setting.

  One day, a year and half after the bombing, Sophie said, ‘I’m going to look for work.’

  ‘Isn’t it too soon?’ said Maximilian. But Sophie needed to work. And yet Maximilian still tried to put on the brakes. She still had occasional dizzy spells, and sometimes she saw double. ‘That will always be with you,’ said the doctor. ‘It’s nerve damage. But you’re strong again and working will do you good.’

  ‘The doctor said that?’ said Maximilian.

  ‘He did,’ said Sophie. She touched his face and kissed him. She was going to work no matter what he or anyone else said.

  ‘Go to the Post,’ he said. ‘See Franz Ortner, the editor. They’re expecting you.’

  Franz Ortner read through Sophie’s clips. He showed them to the city editor. They offered her a job as a reporter. ‘I want you to work with Peter Danziger,’ Ortner said. Danziger was an ex-boxer, who was now a driver for the paper and also part of their security force. They needed one, thanks to their vivid opposition to fascists of every stripe, including Hitler’s party, the NSDAP.

  ‘I know what you’re going to say,’ said Ortner. ‘You want to work alone. But they know who you are. And don’t pretend you don’t know who I mean. They’re not going to let up just because you were injured. They’ll double down now that you’re at the Post.

  ‘So, that’s my condition. Follow Kahr, Lossow, Seisser.’ (Gustav Ritter von Kahr was the State Commissioner of Bavaria; General Otto von Lossow was the army commander and Hans Ritter von Seisser was the head of the state police. Together the three of them controlled Bavaria.) ‘Talk to them, if they’ll let you, which I doubt. Talk to the people around them; I can give you names. The situation’s fluid and there’s all sorts of loose talk. Do what you have to do. But wherever you go, whenever you go, take Danziger. We’re under martial law and the situation is dangerous.’

  ‘I know all that, but …’

  ‘No, there’s no “but”. That’s the way it is.’

  Peter Danziger had a battered nose, cauliflower ears, and a devilish gap-tooth smile. He took her hand in his gigantic paw. She looked at him warily. He could see what she was thinking. ‘Don’t worry, honey,’ he said with a laugh. ‘I’m more attracted t
o your boyfriend than I am to you.’

  THE PUTSCH

  Against all odds, Sophie landed an interview with State Commissioner von Kahr. His advisor, Egon Leitner, saw value in his talking to someone from the Post.

  ‘That’s ridiculous,’ said von Kahr. ‘It’s out of the question. That paper is the enemy. It’s a thorn in my side.’

  ‘Which is exactly why you should see her. She was blown up when her old paper’s offices were attacked.’

  ‘Which paper?’

  ‘Baron von Plottwietz’s Neue Deutsche Bild.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I remember. So, she’s at the Post now, but you’re saying she’s with us?’

  ‘No, she’s not with us. But she may be malleable. In any case, she’ll listen to what you say. You get to make your best case against Berlin. You’ve got nothing to lose and a great deal to gain.’

  The steps and entrance to the State Chancellery building were guarded by a squad of armed soldiers in battle gear, including a machine-gunner behind a wall of sandbags tucked in at the top of the stairs. After showing their papers, Sophie and Peter Danziger were admitted to the great hall, where they had to show their papers again.

  Peter waited on a bench beside the security desk, while Sophie was escorted into the commissioner’s office. The office’s dark paneled walls were hung with portraits of men – former governors and commissioners, all wearing black suits, some bedecked with ribbons and sashes. High above them was a lavishly decorated plaster ceiling with rosettes and other curlicues. An enormous crystal chandelier hung from a medallion above the commissioner’s massive desk and illuminated the portrait of Ludwig III, the former King of Bavaria. The commissioner snapped his heels together and shook hands with Sophie. His mustache was parted by what was meant to be a smile.