The Night of Shooting Stars

by Ben Pastor

  His worries were, paradoxically, those of a fly that fears it may miss the spider’s web. At the service entrance, in his senior officer’s uniform, Arthur Nebe himself was waiting for him.

  He invited him in with a nod, turned and walked back in. In ten seconds or so Bora had reached the threshold. Finding himself in an empty workplace, to all appearances a secretary’s room, he recalled Bruno’s words about a trap; but it was too late to do anything about it, so he took a deep breath and remained standing there. If I’m lucky, they’ll shoot me straightaway.

  But Nebe was looking out from a second doorway, which opened on an inner office, as if wondering why Bora hadn’t promptly followed him inside.

  “What are you waiting for? Do come in, Colonel von Bora.”

  As soon as Bora entered, the Chief of Police turned the key in the lock behind him. “That was a nasty boom, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  At first sight, there was nothing martial or police-like about Nebe’s features. As far as Bora knew, he belonged to the middle class, yet his careworn face reminded him of certain proletarian non-coms, whose hard daily lives were imprinted across their brows. He was gaunt and dark-haired, and his prominent nose looked squashed, as if it’d been broken and never quite regained its shape. At this moment, the misshapen cartilage cast a shadow over stretching lips, the ghost of an arch smile.

  “Please.” Nebe pointed to a chair, and took his place at his desk. This display of courtesy after being locked in only succeeded in troubling Bora even more. Once he sat down, he’d be with his back to a third door, and he wouldn’t be able to keep an eye on it. He sat down, ready for anything. And at that “anything”, his heart bled at the idea that he might never see Nina again.

  “You and I have something in common, Colonel.” Nebe turned a framed photo towards him, in which he was mounted on a horse, about to leap over a hurdle. “Marvellous sport. Here you see me in action. I was in the Eternal City, the year you received the Roma riding award from Il Duce’s own hands, and – if I’m not mistaken – also the Premio Speciale Arnaldo Mussolini.”

  So? Bora nodded, but remained suspicious. This wasn’t the first time he’d faced SS personnel who smiled at him as they sprang the trap. His award-winning year of 1935 coincidentally marked the time when General Sickingen had displayed his antipathy for the regime, by resigning his command of the 14th Infantry Division, Gruppenkommando 3 – Dresden, along with his commission, greatly upsetting his sons. Especially Peter, who was still in school and sought refuge in his brother’s room to weep, from anger and shame. Bora expected nothing less from his contrary stepfather, and had swallowed the bitter pill. To academy comrades who enquired about it, he drily answered, “You’ll have to ask the General,” and that was that.

  Nebe kept staring at him. A desk lamp cast a milky glare on him through the greenish opalescence of its glass shade. From outside came the muffled wailing of ambulance and fire engine sirens racing west towards the evacuated, cordoned-off blast area. Probably too many vehicles for an isolated incident, but bombs always unnerve politicians, who would like to see themselves as immune in their palaces. Nebe, however, was indecipherable, focused.

  Under his scrutiny, Bora wondered how much the tense officer sitting in these boots resembled the one who’d just spoken to Nina, and before that to Lattmann, Olbertz and the Berliner co-pilot. Am I really the same man whose heels the police dog sniffed at four hours ago? It surprised him that it had all belonged to the same day, which, however, was not yet over (Noctem quietam et finem perfectum … even the old Catholic prayer, asking for a peaceful night, admits that to its very end a day can bring surprises). What if Nebe brought up Dr Reinhardt-Thoma’s “not so voluntary” death? Would the Reich’s chief criminal investigator choose to meet after hours to discuss it? Bora could not forget that, on this man’s authority, death squads carried out exterminations in the East. Christ, in the course of two years on that front I reported every episode I learned of to the German War Crimes Office …

  Nebe punctiliously folded and put away a typewritten sheet. Deliberate gestures, Bora knew from his days as an interrogator, are a way of making your counterpart aware that you have all the time in the world to make people cave in and confess.

  “Do you believe in the stars?”

  “In the stars, Group Leader?” Bora repressed a nervous need to smirk.

  “In the stars, yes. In the heavenly orbs. In destiny.”

  “Not much, to tell the truth.”

  “That is perfect.”

  Not knowing where to look without seeming impudent, Bora contemplated the photo as if waiting for Nebe’s horse to jump over the hurdle at last.

  “I am telling you this, Colonel, because it is my intention to introduce a topic that requires scepticism.”

  Bora raised his eyes to the general. “I should premise that I am not exactly a sceptic, Group Leader.”

  “I know, you were raised a Catholic. But you do not believe in the stars.”

  “No.”

  “Then you can investigate the death of Walter Niemeyer, whose name you probably haven’t heard before.”

  Straight-backed in his armchair, Nebe had the slightly laborious breathing of someone who has been ill, or functions under great psychological pressure. Both things could be true. Bora stared back at him. Investigate? What the devil …?

  “I haven’t,” was all he said.

  “But are you familiar with Magnus Magnusson?”

  “Not at all.”

  “What about Sami Mandelbaum?”

  “Less than less, Group Leader.”

  “All dead.” Nebe placed the photo back its original position on the desk. “But in fact they comprise a trinity; they are three in one and one in three, two aliases of Niemeyer’s. Thus, there is just one corpse. It simplifies matters, in a murder case.”

  “I am not sure I understand, Group Leader. My flying visit to Berlin is due to a sad loss in the family.”

  “I know why you are here. And it’s because you’re already in Berlin that I have summoned you.”

  Bora asked none of the questions that crowded his mind. From his confusion a vague glimmer of interest slowly surfaced, which was so unwelcome here and now that he grew apprehensive again.

  Whether Nebe, as an expert in crime, saw through his puzzlement, or merely took for granted that he would accept the task, he continued: “In case you’re wondering what the victim’s profession was – Mandelbaum was an Ostjude, a third-rate actor from the depths of Galicia. Magnusson was of Scandinavian descent and earned his fame as an astrologer. And Niemeyer, finally, was none other than the Weimar Prophet.”

  The Weimar Prophet – it rang a bell. Bora might have read the name on placards or in the press when he attended the Military Academy in Berlin. The temptation to feel relieved because he was not himself under investigation gave him a thrill that bordered on pleasure, but God only knew if it was well founded.

  Did Nebe know he’d snared him? He squinted as though he were satisfied. “Niemeyer was found dead as a dodo at his sprawling mansion in Dahlem a week ago, blasted twice through the upper body with a twelve-gauge hunting rifle.” The jargon grated on Bora’s nerves, reminding him that he was in a police station, in the presence of Germany’s leading detective. “No eyewitnesses, although there are some potential suspects. You were too young when our man rose to fame, but piles of newspaper articles were written about him, and there are his two lengthy autobiographies.”

  Despite himself, Bora began to feel curious.

  “Plus a few police reports, no doubt.”

  “Those are available to everyone, Colonel. Me, you.” Nebe turned on the intercom and spoke into it: “The Niemeyer folder.”

  Whoever was at the other end of the wire must have had it in their hand, because almost immediately the door behind Bora opened and a non-com walked in with the folder. “Give it to the colonel,” Nebe said.

  Bora saw the dossier slide onto the desk in f
ront of him like a menu – at a restaurant where they could feed you or poison you. He waited before he flipped it open.

  “Am I allowed to ask questions?”

  After the non-com had left the office, Nebe stood up and went to lock that door as well. “All but one. Go on, ask.”

  “Why hasn’t the case been assigned to someone in the Criminal Police?”

  “That is precisely the one question you will receive no answer to.”

  Imagine that. Bora watched Nebe return to his desk. “I expect it would be pointless for me to mention that my regiment is under attack every other day, Group Leader.”

  “It would be pointless. Besides, a week will make no difference. Who cares about the Italian front? Italy is lost anyway.”

  “We dare to think that it may not be. Not yet, at least.”

  “Leave it, Colonel. Do as you’re told.” Nebe had abruptly become cross. “What is it with these young colonels, who dig their heels in like schoolboys?”

  This bad-tempered reproach is meant for someone else, Bora told himself. Not for me. I wonder whom he’s thinking of. Without observing that he wasn’t in the least digging his heels in, he said, “Forgive the banality, Group Leader, but why choose me?”

  “Because you were recommended to me.”

  Bora bit his tongue. Whatever was behind this, someone other than Goerdeler must have mentioned him to the head of the Criminal Police; when Goerdeler was mayor of Leipzig, he had resigned over the removal of a “Jewish monument” (Mendelssohn’s statue) from a city square. Colonel Kinzel, his Abwehr superior in Leipzig and Paris? He had since conveniently transferred to Kaltenbrunner’s RSHA. Familiar with his lack of scruples and his maliciousness, Bora’s mouth went dry at the thought of having to deal with him again. No. It wouldn’t be Kinzel, he would have summoned me directly to Prinz Albrecht Strasse. Could it be the head of the Berlin police, Heldorff? Bora didn’t know him at all. Nonetheless, he said, “Won’t enlisting an army officer in a police inquiry be seen as undue interference by Count von Heldorff?”

  “This is a criminal case, Colonel von Bora. Limit yourself to carrying out your orders. Be discreet; should you run into any significant hurdles, you will report only to me.” Nebe pushed a calling card with his private phone number across the desk towards Bora. He then opened and closed a drawer without taking anything out of it. “You are fortunate, because you will enjoy privileges that not even millionaires can afford in today’s Berlin. You’ll have a car at your disposal, a driver, and nearly unlimited access to fuel. Do not overdo it, but make whatever use of it you must. The driver is one of my own, a faithful Old Warrior who will follow you like a shadow.”

  “Shadowing” was an expression Bora disliked. They’d “shadowed” him day and night in Moscow, before the war against the Soviet Union began. Whether it was a Soviet or a National Socialist, it meant constantly having someone at your heels. As for Old Warriors, street thugs from the early days, there was scarcely one among them who hadn’t personally committed murder, political or otherwise.

  He continued to gaze at the closed folder. The case must be a controversial one, an important one. Is this the storm I felt in the air? Much as I’ve been grieving for my uncle, I suspected there was something else all along: pulling a regimental commander out of a war zone, for whatever reason, is unusual.

  In the blinding sunlight of the heights north of the Arno, Bora had shared with his staff the urgent summons signed by Lieutenant General Greiner, head of the 362nd Infantry Division. Scrambling to secure transportation to the valley, and from there to the nearest airstrip, he’d delegated Major Luebbe-Braun, who was faithful but like the rest worried sick by this sudden recall to Germany.

  “I must send a personal message to my second in command.”

  Nebe impatiently tapped the top of the desk with his open hand. “Yes, yes, whatever. You can notify your second in command or whomever you want. Open the folder.”

  Bora obeyed. On top lay a direct order signed by Field Marshal Kesselring, commander of the German army in the Mediterranean, countersigned by no less than Field Marshal Keitel, commander-in-chief of the OKW. “See, Colonel? We all knew, except you.”

  Bewilderment and having gone nearly twenty-four hours without food dulled his senses, but not to the point that Bora couldn’t stake a small claim of his own. He placed the calling card in his left-hand chest pocket. “I will do as I am ordered, Group Leader. Naturally, solving a murder case in a week might not be easy.”

  “I’d say it’s rather impossible, from my professional point of view. But I expect you to give it your best shot. If your final report reaches me after you’ve left Berlin, so be it.” This sounded mysterious: he was given a week’s time, but invited not to rush? The phrase “so be it” was out of place in a policeman’s mouth. And why did Nebe say “left Berlin” and not “returned to your post”? Was he implying something?

  By the end of the meeting, an overwhelmed Bora knew that two boxes of documents (including newspaper and magazine clippings, plus the magician’s two autobiographies and unspecified “other items”) awaited him in the boot of the car.

  “You will receive further instructions tomorrow at 8:00 a.m., when your driver will report for duty. His name is Florian Grimm.”

  “Is he at all acquainted with the case, Group Leader?”

  “He found the body.”

  Nebe accompanied Bora to the same door through which he’d let him in, and unlocked it with a jailer’s swift turn of the key. “Do you have all you need, Colonel?”

  “Yes, for the moment.”

  “Not true.” From his pocket, Nebe took out a bottle of blue Pelikan ink, which he put in Bora’s hand.

  9:38 P.M.

  Bora made his way back to the hotel in a field-grey Mercedes, imposed on him notwithstanding the short distance, with the boxes of documents and “other items” in the boot – which would stay there until morning, because it hadn’t been decided whether he’d stay on at the Adlon or not. The man at the wheel was not Florian Grimm; he would join him the day after. The sun had just gone down; shortly after sunset, the first stars pierced the muted blue. An immense ruin punctuated the avenue of the East-West Axis, which was wider than most runways: at its Pariser Platz end, the Brandenburg Gate, with its camouflage netting, seemed distant and forlorn. As they drove past the checkpoint by the Interior Ministry, the burnt, metallic odour of the explosion hovered in mid-air like an invisible mist.

  Thanks to the police’s sophisticated equipment and his high-priority clearance, Bora had been able to radio his regiment from Nebe’s headquarters. Luebbe-Braun, loyal to a fault, sounded as if he was acutely aware that there had to be a pressing reason for the commander not to return as planned. In fact, given this rather official journey back to the hotel (even the SS let the car through without stopping it), why the farce of secrecy surrounding his summons? There had to be more to all this.

  Through the open car window, he looked up. Above a gaping, jagged skyline worthy of a Caspar David Friedrich painting, there really was no sign of coming rain; the stars weren’t hazy, like they are when moisture fills the air. Can a storm brew unseen?

  Pragmatism set in. He had orders, he’d follow them. Luckily, Sergeant Major Nagel had insisted that he bring along two uniforms. Ever since Stalingrad, Nagel had been not only a trusted non-com, but also the personal guardian of his commander’s impeccable attire, which went well beyond decorum; it was the very sign that all was under control.

  At the moment, all I have control over is the fact that I brought along two uniforms. When they reached their destination, Bora did not wait for the driver to open the door for him. He ordered him to unlock the boot so that he could grab the topmost folder from one of the boxes, and walked into the Adlon with it under his arm.

  No messages for him at the desk, either from Salomon or from Lattmann. Not even from the Schönefeld airfield – but Bora now knew why. He wolfed down a sandwich before joining Nina upstairs for a late din
ner, because he was too embarrassed to show her how hungry he really was.

  She’d been very anxious about him. When he said, “All’s well, simply routine,” she accepted his brevity; although in the course of the meal, Bora in a roundabout way broached a subject he very much wanted to discuss but had saved for last: the suggestion that the entire family spend the rest of the summer in Munich.

  “How long since you last stayed at the house there, Nina? It would be a nice change. And since you keep in touch with the Modereggers, why not let them know they would be better served being with their sons in Königsberg – and more comfortable – rather than all the way out in Trakehnen?”

  Implying that Leipzig, not to mention East Prussia, was no longer “comfortable” was Bora’s way of telling her how serious the situation was on the Eastern front. Normally he would trust the General’s foresight in military matters, but the latest developments may have escaped the man in his distracted state.

  Nina smiled. She calmly told him that as far as her parents were concerned, they would not leave their home in Probst-Heida. “It’s not because of the works of art or the property, Martin. They simply decided that they will both stay. We have refugees staying with us at Borna, and I already invited Irma Moderegger to join us on Birkenstrasse … we’ll see if she accepts. As for your father, he is a Prussian general.”

  “Tell him to take you to Munich, Nina. Or go on your own.”

  “We’ll see.”

  The end of the evening threatened to turn sad, so Bora told his mother about the sleepy air-force driver racing towards Berlin as if his tail was on fire, and whatever else came to mind that was light-hearted. Before retiring, he asked if he could have breakfast with her in the morning, and said he’d already booked a taxi to the train station.