Vanished in Berlin: Kidnap suspense mystery set in 1930s Berlin (Berlin Tales Book 2)

by Christopher P Jones

  ‘I don’t think like that any more,’ Arno said, recalling some comments he made to his sister once. He wouldn’t repeat them, certainly not if Monika was around.

  ‘How’s your girlfriend?’ Thomas said, all too knowingly.

  ‘Monika doesn’t want to see me anymore. We went away together for a holiday, but we had an argument and she came back to Berlin without me.’

  ‘Oh Arno!’ Käthe said. ‘Why? What did you do this time?’

  ‘What makes you think I did anything? We had a disagreement, that’s all.’

  ‘Talk to her. Make things better again.’ Käthe took her husband’s hand and gave it a squeeze, as if to remember something private between them.

  ‘I can’t. I can’t find her. I don’t know where she is.’

  ‘Go to her home. She lives with her parents doesn’t she? Find her and talk to her. Or perhaps she is staying with friends.’

  Arno sat back and folded his arms. ‘Yes, it’s possible she’s with friends.’ He really didn’t want to admit that something much worse may have happened. His sister would blame him; he knew the way her mind worked. ‘There’s no hope for us anyway,’ he said. ‘I’m not Jewish. In her parents eyes, I don’t count.’

  Käthe and Thomas swapped glances and said nothing. In the silence, Arno looked about him, around the Café Bauer and its strange, ornate decoration. His eyes landed on a nearby table of four men in military uniform. They were chatting and smoking, laughing at a joke one of them had made. Arno wondered which side they were on. He couldn’t see their badges. Freikorps were everywhere around the city, many of them old army veterans who needed something to fill the void. Arno began to wonder if he’d been born a few years earlier and had fought in the war, whether he’d be a member of one of these private armies too.

  One of the men, he noticed, had a pistol in his belt. That caught Arno’s attention. He had a slim face, with wide eyes and short, cropped hair swept back from a high forehead. He was chuckling to himself, long after the other men had finished laughing. Probably he was drunk, Arno thought, or just happy to have a pistol in his belt.

  Arno’s mind turned back to the day before with the police agent. He wasn’t even sure what he’d agreed to or even if he’d agreed to anything at all. But now, sat with his sister and her husband in this ornate café, he felt a wave of gladness roll over him that at least he had something he could call his own. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t tell them about it. In fact, that made it all the more precious, because not only would they not understand, they weren’t allowed to understand. And seeing the four military men sat there, the way they laughed and looked so confident – he couldn’t help look for the pistols hanging from all the other belts too – they reminded him how it was better to be involved in some way rather than standing on the sidelines watching on, merely complaining, naive and impotent.

  ‘What are you looking at?’ Käthe asked him. ‘You know it’s rude to stare.’

  ‘I’m not frightened of them,’ Arno said back instinctively. A short time later, a plate of pâté with toasted bread and some salad leaves was placed on the table in front of him, and with it a cut-glass tumbler of cognac on ice. Through mouthfuls of food, he said confidently, ‘If Erich Ostwald attempts to make contact with you, you must tell me. It’s important that I know of any developments.’

  The party of three stayed at the café for another half-an-hour. They talked mostly about Käthe and Thomas’ plans to renovate their apartment, but Arno’s attention was elsewhere. He was still drawn to the table of men in uniforms and to the man with the high forehead in particular. He had a noble way about him, and Arno liked that. He wanted a noble forehead and a confident demeanour too. As they finished their drinks, the man stood and adjusted the red band on is left arm. When he had flattened it out, Arno could see the black hooked-cross symbol of the Nazi Party set against a white circle. The four men pulled circular caps on their heads and wandered off to the door. Arno’s eyes watched, knowing he would be back among their number soon.

  10

  After the Café Bauer, Arno walked the city alone. The meeting with his sister and her husband had put him in an oddly sullen mood. His sister was safe, for now at least, but he’d done nothing to prepare her for any dangers ahead. Already he was beginning to feel he was losing control of the situation.

  As he walked, he found himself returning to the quarters of the city where Erich Ostwald used to take him, as if retracing the steps of his old mentor. He went to the medieval Altberlin area and then onto Scheunenviertel, where they spent time making plans and writing out ideas for their propaganda pamphlets. Later he went to Erich’s old apartment building near the Tiergarten. He remembered being in the apartment and looking out through the tall windows, which were flanked by long red curtains with patterns of flowers. Then there was the leather armchair, an oak reading-table and a great carved bookcase. They were happy memories. He wondered what had happened to all those auspicious objects.

  And then, all of a sudden – though he couldn’t believe his eyes – he thought he saw the man himself. Across the road, no more than twenty paces away. The silhouette was the same, the bearing, the gait, that loose turn of stride.

  Arno questioned himself. It was too much of a coincidence, that on this very day he should see Erich Ostwald. He questioned his motives, the capacity of his imagination to invent what he secretly desired. But then, it would be just like Erich to organise such a coincidence. Perhaps it wasn’t a chance occurrence at all but an orchestrated event? The figure came and went in an instant, but something told Arno to follow, like that flash of recognition where the mind’s instinct is a beat ahead of the conscious thought.

  The figure moved towards a crowd and was consumed by a breaking wave of people. The crowd was in fact a long line of men queuing to buy sausages from a street vendor. Arno hunted among the straggling queue for the figure that had disappeared between it. A tram vibrated by as a stream of commuters flooded the square ahead of him from a nearby underground station. A fluttering panic of doves turned the sky into a percussion of rattling wings. Then Arno caught sight of the figure again, just as it passed beneath the archway of a shopping arcade. He moved faster towards the silhouette. A line of newspaper sellers with the daily editions pegged to their chests formed a sort of barricade along the roadside; an overweight man with a walking cane was browsing the headlines. Arno skipped to one side and moved past the fat gentleman. He paced across the square, waited for a line of motorcars to go by, momentarily hid behind an advertising column, then moved on, all the time keeping his eyes on the strolling man ahead of him.

  The figure never looked back, never broke his stride nor made any overt suggestion of wishing to be followed. And yet, with every glimpse he snatched, Arno felt more and more certain that it was his old mentor. The dark auburn hair was just as he remembered, and the light-coloured suit with long flapping pockets was just the style that Erich preferred.

  Arno passed beneath an overhead train line and saw the figure turn into a side-street. The narrow alley had cobbles underfoot and damp walls whose plaster rendering was falling off. There was a cripple selling vegetables from a wooden cart and four cats sleeping together in a ring. Finally, Arno saw the figure ahead of him glance over his shoulder. Their eyes connected for just a moment. It was long enough: it was undoubtedly Erich. There was no mistaking it.

  Yet, just as Arno was about to call out, just as he was expecting Erich to stop and allow him to catch up, the figure turned away and at twice the pace went through a slender archway under a wall.

  The archway led, unexpectedly, into a cemetery. There were gravestones and trees. The man moved deftly between the stones, even appearing to glide among them, persuading Arno to follow in a strange type of surrender. It felt less like following now and more like a sort of game, where the only rule was to stay a certain distance – neither too close nor too far away.

  Then, as they reached a leafy corner of the burial ground, where a
deep-green oak tree overhung and made shadows as dark as its boughs, Erich disappeared. By the time Arno reached the same opening, Erich was no longer in sight.

  Arno realised his heart was racing, not just from the chase but because he knew something fundamental had changed in the last few minutes. He didn’t know what it was, but he was powerless to resist its allure.

  He went home and spent the rest of the afternoon fixated by the memory of the pursuit. The rumours of Erich Ostwald were true. He was back in Berlin. And Arno knew he had to get closer to him.

  He slept off his lunch. It was a sleep that could have gone on for hours, but it was abruptly interrupted by a sharp banging on his attic hatch. When he didn’t rush to answer, the knocking came again, swiftly, more impatiently this time. He shuffled off his bed and went to hatch. When he lifted it back, he found a man with small ears and wide hazel-coloured eyes peering up at him.

  The man handed Arno a cardboard file.

  Arno took it, saying, ‘What is it?

  ‘It’s your assignment.’

  ‘From the police?’

  The man blinked. Then, with a perfunctory nod of the head, he disappeared down the staircase. Over his shoulder, he called out, ‘You begin tomorrow. Don’t be late!’

  PART II – MONIKA

  11

  Three days earlier, Monika Goldstein was happy. She was lying in a hotel bed and all she could hear was Arno’s breathing. It reminded her of the pendulum clock at her parent’s home. She enjoyed being there beside him, next to his warm body and his curious set of bodily smells. She glanced across the bedsheets and tried to distinguish between the landscape of mounds and ridges, the cotton swells of their overlapping bodies.

  She heard footsteps outside the locked door. Every so often there were more footsteps. She listened carefully. She guessed they belonged to other guests going to breakfast. She liked the feeling of being in the hotel room like this, listening from the comfort of the bed and waiting for the footsteps of strangers to pass.

  The hotel room was pretty and quaint, the sort of room her parents would appreciate. It was only the second time she’d ever stayed in a hotel. The first was in Paris when her parents decided – uncharacteristically – to celebrate her sixteenth birthday in style. That hotel room was wood-panelled and very small. This one was much larger, had a high ceiling and long, uneven walls. It accommodated their few belongings easily, as if they were hardly present at all.

  The room had its own bathroom too. That in itself was remarkable. In Berlin, she doubted they would get a single-bed with a shared washbasin down the hall for the same money. But in this quaint little town, with its old clock-tower with a mechanical show every hour, they had managed to rent this palace for the weekend.

  Every so often she wondered about the boy. She wondered if she could see a future with him. His prospects didn’t amount to much, that was true. Most of all, he wasn’t Jewish. That was probably the most insurmountable issue. But tradition wasn’t everything, and besides, she was a woman, so their children would naturally carry the lineage on…

  She dismissed the thought. To think like that bored her immediately. Life wasn’t about judging people’s religions or their career prospects, it was about letting the colours flow. Without him, she knew she wouldn’t be here in this hotel room. That was enough! Without him, she wouldn’t be away from her parents on this adventure. She would be at home instead, waking up in her old bedroom, listening to her parents moving around downstairs like two chess pieces in a game that had been going on for years, confined to her room with only her writing desk and candlesticks for company.

  Turning her head to look at him, she felt a tender affection for his sleeping face, his soft mouth inhaling the warm air of the room. He could be foolish sometimes. Whatever he’d done with their money – lost it, as he claimed, or else frittered it away on something else – so long as it wasn’t a brothel! – it didn’t really matter to her. The anger she’d shown had been an act. Mostly. Now it was morning, whatever temper she had summoned in order to make her point had drained away.

  She slipped out of the bed and crossed the room to the bathroom. The floor was warm beneath her feet from rays of morning sun. As she went, she heard knocking on the door. She stopped, frozen. It was only seven-thirty in the morning. A second knock came. She wondered if it was customary to answer a hotel door when someone knocked on it. She had no idea of the etiquette.

  She decided it was probably one of the hotel maids, so she wrapped a nightgown around her shoulders and went to answer it. As she eased back the door, she was suddenly aware that it might her parents on the other side. Had they discovered her whereabouts and now come to escort her home?

  To her relief, it wasn’t her parents but the face of a woman. A pretty woman. She was stood in the corridor holding a small attaché case to her chest.

  ‘Is it Monika?’ the woman said, smiling, half-whispering. She pushed a strand of hair behind one ear.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Monika Goldstein?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you have a moment to talk?’

  Monika didn’t know how to answer. She wasn’t ready to wake up yet.

  The woman continued in her hushed voice. ‘Please don’t be alarmed. I’m here as a friend. I have some information you may like to see, if I can take a few moments of your time.’

  ‘What’s this about? It’s very early.’ Monika glanced behind her to see if Arno had woken.

  ‘I’m sorry if I seem impertinent. Only, there is some urgency in what I have to tell you.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Shall we go somewhere more discrete?’

  Monika looked behind her again. She wanted Arno to wake but he wasn’t moving. She thought about calling to him, but it felt like the wrong thing to do. She turned back to the woman and nodded compliantly. Then she came back inside the room and quickly threaded herself into some clothes. She thought about brushing her hair. Instead, she brushed her teeth and put her hair into a bun.

  Together they walked the length of the hotel corridor in silence. ‘Am I in trouble?’ Monika asked as they reached the reception hall.

  ‘Not at all,’ the woman said, returning a gentle smile. ‘This is about your safety.’ When she smiled, her face seemed to expand with warmth. Monika wanted to tell her how very beautiful she was, but it seemed inappropriate to be so personal to a stranger. She was very beautiful though. It was rare to meet someone like that.

  They went to an alcove in the far corner where there was a faded tapestry on the wall and an iron candelabra hanging from the ceiling. They sat opposite each other, on two benches on either side of a wooden table.

  ‘Let me tell you what this is about,’ the woman said. ‘The man you are with. His name is Arno Hiller, is it not?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘How much do you know about him?’

  Monika was silent for a moment. She was trying to pin down the exact thrust of the question. ‘Some things,’ she said eventually, vaguely. ‘We’re not married,’ she added, as if to confess the fact before she might be accused.

  ‘We’re not worried about if you’re married or not. We’re only worried about you.’

  Monika was about to respond when she noticed a man arriving into the reception hall. He was coming directly towards them. She noticed the black suit he was wearing. She noticed how it didn’t seem to fit him very well, how it was sagging at the sleeves and was shiny over the knees. Without saying anything, the man manoeuvred onto the bench beside the woman. He had a big head, lumpy and covered in stubble. By contrast with her, he was no more beautiful than a sack of potatoes.

  Without introducing himself, the man took the lead in the conversation. ‘Arno Hiller is known to us as an agitator. Do you understand what I mean by that?’

  Monika shook her head. With two of them now sat in front of her, she felt suddenly vulnerable in a way she hadn’t only seconds before.

  ‘What I mean,’ the
man went on, ‘is that he likes to generate trouble. Political trouble. He has connections with people who are violent and corrupt. They are ambitious too. Do you understand what I mean now?’

  Monika gave a faint nod. Her heart began to beat harder.

  ‘Our concern is for you, Monika,’ the woman said, sensing the change of atmosphere.

  ‘Why me?’

  The man continued, ‘Arno Hiller may be a threat to you.’ He handed over a sheet of paper. Monika held it in her fingers and stared at it for a long time. Her fingers began to shake, so she laid the paper on the table. She didn’t quite believe what she was seeing.

  ‘Are you sure you’ve got the right person?’ she said, looking up. ‘I don’t believe this has got anything to do with me or Arno.’ She looked down at the piece of paper again. No matter how nervous she felt, reading the words printed on the page, trying to understand their meaning, she felt on safe territory. Nothing gave her more confidence than to sit and patiently read words on a page. Even if it was seven-thirty in the morning, her mind was razor-sharp when it came to written words.

  At this, she felt a tiny smirk creep onto her face. She couldn’t help it. It was the same sensation she remembered from school, that moment when she suddenly realised she had the answer to a question before anyone else, realising too that most people in the room were not as clever as she was.

  ‘Why do you say that?’ the woman asked.

  ‘I know Arno. I know he wouldn’t be involved in anything like this. I have a feeling you’ve made a mistake?’

  ‘This is no mistake,’ the man said gravely. ‘Do you know what you’re looking at?’

  ‘This is Nazi propaganda, isn’t it?’ she said assuredly. A girl from her background, with her education, had been taught to know these things and to speak plainly about them.

  ‘Is that so?’ the woman opposite questioned.

  ‘Nazi. Isn’t what people call them? Or is it Sozi now?’ She could feel her voice verging towards the impertinent. She didn’t mind sounding derogatory.