The Constant Man

by Peter Steiner

  Dachau the camp, in the village of the same name, had been opened in 1933 in a refurbished munitions factory. At first it was a ‘labor camp’ for career criminals, political criminals, the so-called ‘work shy,’ Jehovah’s Witnesses, and other general misfits. There were few Jews at first. And in the beginning some inmates were released once their sentences were done. Some prison guards had even showed sympathy toward the prisoners, but those days were over.

  In addition to the new barracks, the prisoners were building roads and other facilities, including a swimming pool for the resident SS officers. They were preparing the fields around the camp for cultivation. It was all being done at a punishing pace. SS Reichsführer Heinrich Himmler had taken over the running of Germany’s prisons and prison camps and he had come up with a brilliant plan. Himmler realized you could house prisoners in inadequate quarters, feed them starvation rations, work them without mercy, and as they died, you could replace them with new ‘workers.’ The prisoners would be building the camp while at the same time ridding German society of its worst elements. There was an almost unlimited supply of disposable labor, especially once foreigners and Jews started showing up.

  Of course, the success of Himmler’s plan depended in large part on a new generation of guards, the SS Death’s Head units, who could be trained to be merciless and brutal. They were not necessarily hardened sadists to begin with. But having been recruited as impressionable and insecure young men, boys even, they were malleable and, with the proper training, could be turned into killers.

  Hans Loritz had recently taken over as Dachau’s Oberführer, its commandant. He liked to assemble the young guards and officers from time to time for a motivational speech. They stood at attention in their grey uniforms, jodhpurs tucked into their heavy boots, the death’s head on the collars of their smart tunics, their fresh faces eager, their eyes shining.

  Loritz stood facing them, feet wide apart, hands on his hips, his senior staff lined up behind him. ‘Comrades of the SS!’ he said. ‘You are here because you are the Reich’s future, its promise, its best hope. And your mission is to assure the Führer’s vision for Germany.

  ‘Always remember, your assignment here will place you among the dregs of human society, the worst of the worst: criminals, Jews, traitors, pig dogs all. Do not be fooled by what looks like a gentle face. Behind it lurks the heart of a pig. Stand fast, hold firm. Do not allow your decent German spirit to be misled.

  ‘There is no room here for sympathy or kindness or patience toward these pig dogs. Always remember that there are no human beings here, only swine. If any of you does not wish to see blood, you should go home immediately. And most of all remember this: no one who does harm to a prisoner need fear reprimand. After all, the more you shoot, the fewer we have to feed. Also, I am opposed to torture for the Jews. Bugs are not exterminated by tearing out their legs, but are stamped upon.’

  The young SS guards lived in close quarters in special barracks. They trained together, had their meals together, socialized only with one another, and, at the same time, competed with one another for the favor of their officers. To win favor you had to be the hardest, the most brutal, the most relentless. You had to drive every sense of mercy and kindness from your mind. There was only room here for the merciless, the unforgiving.

  If a prisoner fell, he was to be beaten until he stood. And if he couldn’t stand, you could beat him to death. Those SS men who weren’t hard enough, who showed even the faintest traces of sympathy, the slightest hesitation at committing meaningless and horrifying violence, would be ridiculed, held in contempt, and driven from the ranks in disgrace.

  Outside

  Hans Bergemann had arrived at the office early. He was busying himself with the contents of his briefcase, looking for his latest notes on the serial-killer case, when Sergeant Gruber came marching in.

  ‘Well, Bergemann,’ crowed Gruber. ‘Guess what.’

  ‘What, Sergeant?’

  ‘I caught Geismeier.’

  Bergemann had known all along that this might happen, and if it did, it would happen suddenly, when he least expected it. Willi was shrewd and clever, but his pursuit of the serial killer had been reckless. He had been obsessed. He wouldn’t let go of the thing until he caught the killer or was caught himself. Bergemann had been bracing himself for a long time against just this moment.

  Still, there was no way he could have been ready. He had seen Willi only the day before. He certainly hadn’t thought it could be Gruber who caught him. He continued rummaging through his papers and dropped his head even lower while he gathered himself. He managed to say, ‘What do you mean, Sergeant?’

  ‘I caught that bastard, Bergemann. He’s finished, done for! Gone!’

  Hans was finally able to look up. Gruber was almost dancing in triumph.

  ‘How’d you do it, Sergeant?’

  Gruber didn’t want to admit to Bergemann he had gotten lucky. ‘I just nailed that asshole,’ he said with a grin. ‘Last night.’

  ‘Geismeier?’ Bergemann said again, just because he couldn’t come up with anything else to say.

  Other than Gruber, Bergemann was the only detective in the office who had known Willi. But the younger detectives had all heard of him and his reckless exploits. They listened in astonishment as Gruber told how he had wrestled Geismeier off his stupid bike, cracked his head against the pavement, not once but twice, punched the bastard hard in the ribs again and again to quiet him down, once and for all.

  Geismeier was pretty groggy when they loaded him into the car for the drive to the station. Every time he seemed about to get a little frisky, Gruber let him have it again. ‘He’s not such a tough guy,’ said Gruber, holding up his massive fists. They were bruised and raw. ‘He didn’t get in one good punch. Not one.’

  Gruber could hardly wait to report to Captain Wendt. Detective Sergeant Hermann Gruber, and nobody else, had singlehandedly brought Willi Geismeier’s reign of insurrection and mischief to an end. There would be a medal for sure. If there wasn’t a promotion in it for him, he didn’t know what it would take.

  Bergemann didn’t say anything more. Willi was in Dachau now. Bergemann had to go about his business with extreme caution as though nothing were different. Gruber had always been a little suspicious of him. If anyone was ever able to make the connection between him and Willi, it would mean the end. The slightest misstep could mean Dachau for him too. And that wouldn’t do Willi or Lola or anyone else any good.

  Over the next few days, Bergemann set about notifying people of Willi’s arrest and imprisonment. Some of them already knew. The police grapevine was buzzing, so Benno Horvath, who still had police contacts, had already heard. Benno notified Edvin Lindstrom, the Swede, but Edvin had also heard already. Bergemann let Frau Schimmel know, but even she had already worked it out somehow. Willi was right about her: she had connections only she knew about and an uncanny understanding of what was going on almost before it happened. And Lola was already in hiding somewhere. Bergemann didn’t know where, and it was best that way.

  Sofia Bergemann could see that Hans was troubled. But she didn’t ask him why. He got upset if she asked too many questions about what he was up to, what he called his ‘work,’ by which he didn’t only mean his job as a policeman. Willi Geismeier had been outside the law for some time, and she knew Hans still had some sort of relationship with him. But she didn’t know anything about it – for her own good, is what Hans said.

  The first few times Sofia had met Willi – that had been years ago now – she had found him arrogant and aloof. He seemed to almost make a point of avoiding her. She eventually came to realize his aloofness was a necessary precaution, for him and for her. Then once, after she thought she understood him, he had showed up right before Christmas with a big box for the boys. It was a wooden train set that had been his as a boy. Willi had sat down on the floor and helped them set it up. It had bridges and tunnels, a station with a stationmaster and semaphore signal. It took more than a
n hour and Willi had lost himself in the task.

  From little things Hans said, she knew Willi lived dangerously. And Hans himself did things that, if discovered, could place her and the boys in danger. So she had learned never to ask. That’s how it was now. If you didn’t accept the fact that someone close to you – a husband, a colleague, a friend – might end up in prison, you were living in a fools’ paradise.

  Keeping your head down, walking the straight and narrow, was no longer enough to keep you safe. And Bergemann was in the difficult position of investigating a very high-profile case whose clues – those gathered by Willi and a few additional clues Bergemann had uncovered on his own – led straight to the door of the Gestapo.

  Bergemann’s earliest, tentative inquiries in that regard had been met with stony resistance. But eventually Captain Wendt had authorized an interview with the Gestapo official responsible for police relations. Bergemann sat waiting in a sparsely furnished office in Briennerstraße. It was his first time in the building, and he was struck by the empty silence of the place. His footsteps had echoed down the empty hallway. The venetian blinds had been lowered in the office where he waited, but were open just enough so that he could see the iron bars over the windows and the traffic beyond them moving by in all innocence.

  The door opened and a short, chubby, middle-aged man came into the room. He wore a gray suit and tie. His round head was bald with a well-trimmed fringe of mouse-colored hair. His prominent nose held his small, rimless eyeglasses away from his face, so that when he looked at you over his glasses, which he often did, you saw his eyes both on his face and refracted in his glasses. It looks like he’s got four eyes, thought Bergemann, like he’s seeing twice as much. His handshake was firmer than Bergemann had expected.

  ‘Herr Braun,’ he said by way of introduction, and gestured for Bergemann to take a seat. ‘I understand you are investigating the serial killer,’ he said. ‘A terrible case. Terrible.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Bergemann. ‘I assume the Gestapo is looking into it too.’

  Herr Braun ignored Bergemann’s implied question. ‘How can I help you, Detective?’ he said.

  ‘Well, I’m not sure you can,’ said Bergemann. ‘But I wanted to alert you to something that could concern you.’ He waited for a response, but Herr Braun just peered at him with his four eyes. ‘We don’t have that much to go on, of course,’ Bergemann continued. ‘The killer has been careful and has left very few clues. But one thing does point to the possibility that he is somehow connected to the SS.’

  ‘Really?’ said Herr Braun. ‘I’m surprised.’ He did not sound surprised. ‘And what is that one thing?’

  Bergemann told Herr Braun about the drug exemption and the SS number and the killer’s likely addiction. He did not mention the intersecting streetcar lines or Doctor Rosenberg or nurse Grosz or the killer’s Gestapo alias Friedrich Grosz.

  ‘I see,’ said Herr Braun. He did not ask Bergemann how he had come by that number or whether he knew whose number it was. Bergemann concluded from this that it was likely that Braun and the Gestapo were already aware of these facts. ‘Thank you, Detective, for bringing this to our attention. We will certainly look into it,’ said Herr Braun.

  Bergemann had come intending to push Herr Braun for information if it seemed opportune to do so. But Braun’s lack of curiosity about Bergemann’s information suggested that, if the Gestapo knew more than Bergemann had told him, they weren’t going to give anything away. Herr Braun had also convinced him, without saying so, that the Gestapo did not want the police to pursue the case. If there was an SS connection, as seemed likely, the Gestapo would likely want the investigation closed down and covered up. They might shut down the case and yet still go after the perpetrator, find and punish him. It was not in their interest to have a serial killer on the loose. But whatever they did, Bergemann thought it certain that none of it would ever be known to the public or to the police.

  In fact, when Bergemann got back to his office, Gruber was waiting with the news. ‘You’re off the case, Bergemann.’

  ‘All right, Sergeant,’ said Bergemann.

  ‘And no arguments, Bergemann. You hear me? It’s not my decision.’

  ‘Yes, Sergeant,’ said Bergemann. ‘I understand.’

  No arguments? thought Gruber. What the hell is he up to now?

  Bergemann was not up to anything. He was just making necessary adjustments, taking prudent precautions. Being taken off the case was a relief. It was a dangerous case, after all. His visit to Briennerstraße would have brought that home if he hadn’t already known it. In fact, being taken off the case was a sort of warning. It meant the Gestapo was now aware of him, if they hadn’t been before. And even though he was no longer officially investigating, they knew he knew something, and they would be watching him.

  Since the Anschluß, since Austria had ‘rejoined’ the German Reich in March, the Gestapo was more active than ever. This had to do with the Führer’s decision to prepare for war, and the opposition coming from his generals. They were either scheming traitors or short-sighted weaklings. The Führer saw betrayal and defeatism around every corner, so of course the Gestapo was busy.

  This included them interfering in what until now had been strictly police business. Two Gestapo had shown up one hot July day to talk to Gruber. Why do they always come in twos? Bergemann wondered. Are they always checking on one another?

  He could tell from the look on Gruber’s face that this visit was unexpected and unwelcome. They were in his office for a good hour. No voices were raised, but there were no smiles either. Once they had gone, Gruber came out mopping his brow.

  ‘What did they want?’ said Bergemann.

  ‘I’ll be damned if I know,’ said Gruber, and Bergemann believed him. ‘Damn it, Hans, someone has poked a stick in the hornets’ nest.’

  Schleiffer in Trouble

  The Gestapo also came one day to question Heinz Schleiffer. Over the years Heinz had dutifully done his part, been watchful and responsible, trying to help the Führer keep order, doing, he thought, his patriotic duty. And yet there they were early one Sunday morning. Heinz answered the door still in his pajamas with a piece of buttered toast in his hand. It was Sunday morning after all.

  This was not too long after Willi’s arrest, and the two men, one short, one tall, both wearing ill-fitting suits, were interested in understanding Schleiffer’s interest – what seemed to them undue interest – in Willi Geismeier, aka Karl Juncker.

  ‘We’re just trying to get the whole story,’ said the tall one as they stepped past Heinz and into his apartment.

  ‘But I didn’t even know his real name,’ said Heinz.

  ‘No? So you say.’

  ‘All I did was identify him … for your colleagues from photos they showed me. I thought they …’

  ‘Yes, you identified him. But you denied that he was a policeman.’

  ‘I didn’t deny it. I just didn’t know it,’ said Schleiffer.

  ‘He wore a police rosette in his lapel,’ said the first man, the tall one. He kept his hat on. ‘Why the devil do you think he did that?’

  ‘You seem to know almost nothing about this man,’ said the short man. He kept cracking his knuckles. ‘And yet you filed numerous reports about him.’

  ‘Yes. I didn’t know. I thought he acted suspicious, that’s all,’ said Heinz.

  ‘So, how could you file so many complaints and know so little?’ said the first man. ‘You filed your complaints based on what?’

  ‘My suspicions,’ said Heinz.

  ‘I see. Your suspicions,’ said the tall man. He began walking around the room, looking at the furnishings, lifting a magazine from the table as though he expected to find something illicit under it, opening a cupboard. Of course Heinz had nothing to hide, but when someone started opening cupboards, you didn’t know what they might find that could arouse their suspicions, even if you were perfectly innocent. Then you started acting nervous, giving wrong answers, se
eming guilty. That was how they worked.

  ‘All right,’ said the short man, leaving his knuckles alone and opening his notebook, touching his pencil to his tongue, as though he were about to get to the heart of the matter. ‘So, tell us what you know about his associates.’

  ‘His associates? I don’t know anything about his associates.’

  The man lowered his pencil and looked at Heinz in astonishment. ‘Did he have visitors?’

  ‘I suppose he did, but I didn’t see them.’

  ‘You’re the building supervisor,’ said the man. ‘How is it possible that you never saw his visitors? Didn’t you notice anyone?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. I never saw anyone,’ said Heinz.

  The man spoke as he wrote: ‘Says … he … never … saw … anyone. What about friends? Did you ever see him with friends?’

  ‘I don’t remember ever seeing him with friends,’ said Heinz.

  ‘Herr Schleiffer, you are a loyal Party member, aren’t you?’ said the tall man while the second man continued making notes. He stepped up to Heinz and loomed over him.

  Heinz regretted being in his pajamas and not in uniform. Still, how could they doubt he was a loyal Party member after everything he had done for the Party? ‘Yes, of course I am,’ he said indignantly. He wondered whether he should salute and say ‘Heil Hitler!’ to prove it.

  ‘I’d watch my tone, if I were you, Herr Schleiffer,’ said the short man, as though he had read his thoughts. ‘You’re on thin ice here.’