Sooner or later he reached the station at Kottbusser Tor and the elevated tracks that crossed the intersection of Skalitzer Strasse and Wiener Strasse. He had made it to the Kreuzberg district of Berlin. It was time to begin planning.
32
For half-an-hour, Arno scouted around the station. It was an iron and glass structure that straddled the crossroads like a spider over a web. Between the girders, steps led from street-level up to the station platform.
He pictured the direction the Goldstein car might come, slowing to its appropriate speed, moving toward the station and depositing the suitcase of cash. Except, it wouldn’t be cash inside the suitcase, it would be his Caravaggio painting.
He judged that by eight o’clock in the evening the street would be dark. There were lamps along the pavement, but these would give only a dim light and couldn’t be counted on to illuminate the finer details of the artwork. He pictured Hessen looking over the object. Where would they be? Huddled beneath the arches? Maybe Erich would be there too. Would they accept the painting instead of the cash? It was perhaps unlikely, except that – Arno tried to reason with himself – he was in a position of influence. He could get them to agree because they trusted his word. He would be there with them, encouraging, playing the role of expert. But would they be convinced? He’d managed to persuade Göring and his side-kick that the painting was genuine, but then again, they weren’t interested in what its actual value might be.
He shook the doubts from his mind. So long as no-one else was there, no-one like Göring who could see the duplicity of the exchange, then it was possible. It was daring and brave – and all these facets seemed to make it more possible still.
The clocks of the city struck five as he came in from the street. Inside his attic, he went straight to the window at the far end, and once there, soaked up the friendly and familiar view with great thirst. By five-thirty, Berlin City had his undivided attention. He drank a beer and allowed himself a moment’s rest. A choppy sea of rooftops and gables spread out before him. He realised how much pleasure this view offered. It was his own private window onto the city. He loved that attic room, however run-down it was. But staying here would be a mistake. So he finished his beer and went to Käthe and Thomas’ apartment two miles away.
‘Can a brother not drop in on his sister once in a while?’ he reasoned when Käthe answered.
‘Yes, but to stay? For how long?’
‘Until Friday, that’s all. After Friday, it’ll be back to normal.’
‘Two nights?’
‘That’s all I need.’
Arno noticed Thomas loitering in the background. He was listening in, judging Arno’s motives. Eventually he stepped forward.
‘Let him stay,’ Thomas said. ‘He can have the second bedroom. There’s plenty of room.’
‘I thought we had plans?’ Käthe said in return.
‘Arno is your brother. Let him stay.’
Arno was grateful to Thomas for his interjection. Perhaps he wasn’t the prude Arno thought him to be after all.
Later, as Käthe dressed for bed, Thomas took Arno into the second bedroom and showed him the order of things: the light switches, the electric heater if he got cold, the drawer he could use for his clothes.
‘Actually, there’s something I wanted to speak to you about,’ Thomas said, revealing ulterior motives. ‘Maybe you could shed some light.’
‘I’ll try,’ Arno replied.
‘I haven’t told Käthe because I didn’t want to alarm her, but I believe I saw Erich Ostwald a few days ago. He was here, in Berlin. I’m sure it was him. Do you think it could be?’
‘It’s possible. Where did you see him?’
‘Just on a street corner. I was shocked because he was wearing a Nazi uniform. Breeches and boots, the whole outfit. I thought it couldn’t be him, not dressed up like that.’
‘It’s possible,’ Arno said again.
‘I wanted to know, have you heard from him since the letter?’
Arno wasn’t sure how to respond. ‘Yes. I met with him actually,’ he said eventually. He didn’t mean to reveal it, but he no longer wanted to keep it all to himself either.
‘You have? When?’
Arno hesitated. ‘Actually, I’ve got a secret. I’ve got lots of them. I feel I need to tell someone.’
‘What is it? What’s happened?’
‘You mustn’t tell anyone. Please.’
‘You can tell me,’ Thomas said.
The two of them sat next to each other, perched on the edge of the bed. Thomas had the eager glow of someone about to be confided in.
‘I’m involved in something – it could be dangerous – I don’t know how it happened. Monika too. She’s involved.’ Arno pushed up his shirt sleeves and adjusted his spectacles. ‘The first thing was this: Monika and I went away for a few days, just like I told you about. We stayed in a hotel. Except, we had an argument and one morning I woke up to find she was gone. I looked for her everywhere. Then I thought she must have returned to Berlin, so I came back to the city all by myself. I still couldn’t find her. She wasn’t with her parents nor was she with any friends. The next thing I knew, I found myself being propositioned by the police. They wanted me to work for them. They knew all about me and Erich from years ago. Don’t ask me how. They were the ones who told me Erich was back in Berlin. That’s why they wanted to recruit me, because Erich and I have a connection.’
‘The police recruited you? And they told you about Erich? I thought he wrote you a letter?’
‘No, I made that part up. It was easier to say that rather than the truth.’
‘So Erich hasn’t made contact with you?’
‘No, but I have met him. Last night, I was with him all through the evening.’
‘You were with him last night?’ There was a shade of excitement in Thomas’ voice. Or was it fear? It was hard to tell.
‘He’s deep inside the party. I saw him at one of their warehouses where they store their cigarettes.’ Arno dug into his pocket and brought out his packet. ‘There’s a group of them there, running a whole operation. Including Erich. They have offices and bedrooms. Erich is involved with something else too, something called Vendetta.’
‘Vendetta? What’s that?’
‘I don’t know, but that’s what the police expect me to find out. They think there’s a revolution being planned.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘A putsch. A takeover of the government.’
‘That’s what Erich is planning? I don’t believe it.’
‘Erich is more deeply involved than anyone.’
‘What about Monika? Where is she now?’
‘That’s the other thing: I saw her too. She’s being kept at the warehouse. She was taken. A high-ranking General called Von Hessen is holding her there.’
‘At the warehouse? You mean she was kidnapped?’
Arno nodded. ‘They want a ransom for her. I’ve been speaking to her parents. They want to pay but they can’t afford it. I’m going to help them.’
‘My God. Is she hurt?’
‘No, not that I can tell. I know her, she’s strong. But she’ll be scared. I’m certain of that.’
Thomas sat back, trying to take it all in. He loosened his tie and opened his top button. ‘I don’t know what to say.’ He began to think of his old friendship with Erich and how, when the truth of things emerged, so little of his friend he really understood. He had come to recognise that other people are a mystery and we try to understand them at our peril. There was a great deal he didn’t understand back then. He supposed that time would resolve those questions, but now, with Arno’s urgent words raining down on him, he realised that the questions had simply been postponed – until now.
‘The point is, I need some help,’ Arno responded to Thomas’ silence.
‘How? What can I do?’
‘Monika is all I care about. The police can go to hell and Erich means nothing to me. Monika is the only
thing that matters. I don’t care if I’m in danger. I’ve got to get her out of there.’
‘I will help,’ Thomas eventually said. ‘What do you need me to do?’
‘I have a painting that I’m going to offer as the ransom. I need to collect it and move it across the city. You could help me by lending me your motorbike.’
Thomas began scratching his brow. ‘I don’t understand. A painting?’
‘I’ve been working as an art dealer.’
‘What?’ Thomas laughed. ‘An art dealer?’ His gaze turned to the window, as if some explanation lay in the far distance. ‘An art dealer?’ he repeated.
‘That’s right. I’ve convinced Hessen that I buy and sell art. I specialise in procuring paintings from Jewish families. That’s my cover-story.’
Thomas could hardly believe what he was hearing. Was this some sort of joke, a preamble to some other favour, to borrow money perhaps?
‘Where on Earth?’ Thomas began. ‘I mean, a painting? How much is the ransom supposed to be? And what about the police?’
‘It’s not what it seems,’ Arno said. ‘The police gave me the painting, but it’s a fake. A forgery.’
Thomas’ disbelief burst out. ‘A forgery! I don’t believe it. It’s incredible. Incredible!’
Arno tried to explain. In garbled sentences, he spoke about Lassner and the gallery, about the Caravaggio painting and the letters sent to the Goldsteins. As his explanation unfolded, he began to get agitated. Thomas was watching him, shaking his head, smiling and betraying his real thoughts: that Arno was a fool and it was only Arno himself who didn’t realise how ridiculous it all sounded.
‘Your jokes are wonderful, Arno, but really, it’s time to grow up. You had me convinced for a minute there. I really thought you were serious. But you can’t help yourself, can you? You always take it too far. I don’t believe you’ve heard from Erich Ostwald at all. You’re just trying to get attention. No wonder your sister is always worrying about you.’ Thomas stood up and went to leave the room.
‘I’m telling you, I’ve seen Erich Ostwald. I’m spying on him!’
‘Get some sleep now. You can stay tonight, but I think it’s best if you leave in the morning.’
‘What about the motorbike?’ Arno called out.
‘You can have it. I doubt it still works. It hasn’t been ridden in two years.’ Thomas left and closed the door, still shaking his head and grinning incredulously.
Arno flopped onto the bed. Should he take any notice? Not at all. He was more determined than ever.
33
A note was slipped under her door. She saw it from her bed. A square of paper resting on the floorboards – like the palm of a hand reaching towards her with a gift.
The pale rays of morning light lay on the walls in silent stretches, like shadows in reverse. She picked up the note and took it back to bed. She allowed herself several minutes to read its fifty or so words. It was such a strange letter. If it was from Arno then the boy she knew was hardly present in the words. It had warmth and was full of praise, but still it sounded false, almost abstract. There was no humour. Nothing to see him clearly with. If the rest of them teased you, I wanted to protect you. Did he really mean that? The mention of a hotel meant something, like a code. I cannot express myself fully – that meant something too. But what exactly?
The truest part was the handwriting. Here was something she did recognise. It was so sloppy and uneven. There was no disguising it. He’d once written her a poem on pink paper and the lettering was just the same. Arno. Her dear Arno. He was there in the handwriting if nothing else. What was he trying to tell her? Could she let herself trust him again?
She pushed the note beneath her pillow to hide it. When she lay down again, she turned her head to one side so that her ear lay pressed into the cushion. She listened for the letter. She hoped it would whisper its secret to her through the fabric.
Her breakfast came a short time later – a single fried egg on a white plate, as each of the past four mornings had been. The soldier boy was stood outside. The blood on his shirt had been cleaned, but a faint stain was still visible. It would stay there until he could afford to buy a replacement uniform.
‘What day is it today?’ Monika asked, trying to start a conversation with him.
The boy looked at her with a sneer. He seemed to have grown more bitter since his injury. ‘Every day is the same here,’ he said after thinking for a moment.
‘But what day of the week is it?’
‘You should eat your breakfast instead of asking so many questions. Hessen is coming to see you soon.’
‘Why?’
‘You’re being moved. Something has changed. Don’t ask me what.’ The soldier boy ran his hand through his blond hair as he walked away. ‘It’s Thursday, by the way.’
Shortly after, Hessen arrived without knocking, merely flung open the door and stood in the frame smiling.
‘Hello my ruby. I have some news. Your family have agreed to pay for your liberation.’
Monika looked up.
Hessen’s smile slipped away quickly. ‘The difficulty I face is that they have begun to connive. True to the form of your people, they have not offered what I asked for, but something else altogether. Just when I thought it was all going so smoothly, they do this. It is cowardly and dishonest, would you not agree, to try to fool me? But then, I don’t suppose you know what I’m talking about.’
Monika shook her head.
‘Your release payment. They are pretending that a painting they own is twice the value of my request. It’s hard to believe,’ – Hessen began to adjust his red armband – ‘that they would consider this a reasonable substitute. It’s rather like turning up to a roulette table with a handful of beans and saying they are magic. It’s just not the way things are done.’
Monika listened closely. She was tired and listless, but her intellect was not blunted. She tried to make sense of this turn of events. The more she could understand, the better chance she had. A painting? As far as she knew, her family owned precious little beyond a couple of worthless oil landscapes and a few black-and-white engravings, the sort that anyone could buy from a market stall.
Then she considered another possibility, that her parents had acquired such an object from a family friend. But then this would imply a debt to someone else, and she knew her parents would not be keen on that – surely no more preferable than paying the ransom themselves.
Finally, she remembered the letter from Arno. The last line, which hardly sounded like Arno at all: Only to say, art and life meet in your aspect.
Art and life?
Was he trying to tell her something? She braced herself as she made a decision. It was the only way to find out more. She spoke before she could change her mind.
‘One of your men sent me this note.’ She turned and reached beneath her pillow. Her heart began to pound uncontrollably. ‘I thought you’d better know. I think he admires me.’
Hessen took the note and unfolded it. His eyes scanned it quickly.
‘Who gave you this?’
‘One of the men here.’
‘Which one?’
‘I don’t know. Not one of the soldiers. He was at the party. He wore glasses. I’ve never seen him before.’
‘Ah!’ Hessen smiled. ‘The art collector. I see. He has a soft spot for you. Forgivable, if a little uncouth. But then what should we expect from someone who prefers painted images to real life?’
‘He’s an art collector?’
‘An ambitious young man trying to make as much money from your dirty people as he can. I admire that. But don’t trouble yourself with the details.’ Hessen held up the note. ‘I shall correct him on his mistake.’
Monika watched as Hessen tore up the slip of paper.
‘Now, tell me: It’s your people’s New Year celebration soon, isn’t it? I won’t be celebrating with you, of course, but I have organised for five-hundred of my best men to slap some faces as they co
me out of their synagogues. Which is exactly why you should feel better for being here.’
Monika wasn’t listening to Hessen’s threats. She was thinking about Arno. She knew there had to be a connection between him and the idea that her parents were attempting to use a painting as her ransom. She decided to take a chance.
‘My parents do own a very valuable painting, if that’s what you have been wondering?’
‘Is that so?’ Hessen replied.
‘It’s been in the family for generations.’
A few moments later, a Storm-trooper appeared at the door. ‘The clairvoyant is here to pick you up. His car is outside.’
Hessen suddenly adopted a self-conscious expression, a sort of dignified pondering. ‘Actually, the clairvoyant will come inside for a few minutes.’ He turned to Monika, feeling the need to explain. ‘Strange as it may sound, I take advice from a psychic medium. He is quite brilliant.’
‘Does he tell you what you should do with me?’ Monika asked, a little too impertinently.
Hessen considered. ‘That is precisely what I intend to ask him. He is Danish by blood, so he has Nordic insight. Not that you’d think so to look at him.’
Monika was taken from her room and led into a large office where Hessen’s visitor stood silhouetted at a window. He had broad shoulders and a rather over-sized jaw.
‘This is my spiritualist friend,’ Hessen announced. ‘Let me introduce you to Gustave Jan Ringel. I was hypnotised by him once, wasn’t I?’ Hessen smiled. He was visibly relaxed in the company of his friend.
Vanished in Berlin: Kidnap suspense mystery set in 1930s Berlin (Berlin Tales Book 2) Page 17
