by Michael Dean
The face on the wall labelled Rathenau had been given a Jewish skullcap and ringlets. The artist was clearly under the impression that Erzberger had been Jewish, too, as he had been adorned with the same crudely exaggerated Semitic features as Rathenau. Erzberger was a Protestant – co-founder of the Christian Trade Union in Mainz.
Outside the Administration Building, two bored-looking men in bits of brown and green uniform, with yellow armbands and black forage caps, were smoking and chatting. Both of them could do with a shave. It was not clear whether they were guarding the place or not.
Glaser identified himself. The men, without breaking off their conversation, nodded the lawyers through.
The Commandant’s name, Hilmar Wäckerle, was painted on the glass door of a breeze-block office. It was empty. Glaser looked at his watch. It was ten minutes after three o’clock. He sat heavily at Wäckerle’s desk, while von Hessert went back outside and asked the guards to fetch Kunde.
‘He’s in the carpentry workshop,’ von Hessert reported to Glaser. ‘One of the guards has gone to get him.’
Kunde appeared quickly, flanked by the two guards, who dwarfed him. He was wearing the camp white linen jacket and trousers and his head was shaved.
‘Wait outside, please,’ Glaser said to the guards. To von Hessert’s surprise, they obeyed.
‘Grüss Gott, Herr Kunde,’ said Glaser, from behind Wäckerle’s desk. ‘I am Public Prosecutor Glaser, attached to Munich Police District II. This gentlemen is Probationer von Hessert. We are here to assess whether there are grounds for a formal indictment against you, for the murder of Ascher Weintraub. Do you understand? Please sit down.’
‘Grüss Gott,’ Kunde replied, sitting. ‘Yes, I understand. Are you Swabian?’
Glaser hesitated, but Kunde’s confident charm won him over. ‘Yes,’ he said. Glaser’s light Swabian accent was mainly noticeable by the shushing of the s sounds.
‘I’m from Poppenweiler,’ Kunde said with a grin, breaking into the broadest Swabian dialect. ‘And where were you born?’ This, still in thick, rural dialect, was cheekily in the du form – Und wo bisht du gebore?’
A smile broke from Glaser before he could stop it. As a boy, he used to run to Poppenweiler through the maize fields. He slept in a hayloft overnight, and got a hearty breakfast from Herr Ströhle, the farmer, before hurrying back next morning, in time for school.
‘Not far away,’ he said. ‘Ludwigsburg.’
Kunde looked delighted. ‘Fancy that! Small world, eh, comrade?’
Glaser absorbed the man. Sepp Kunde had remarkable fingers, thin and very long.
Apart from his thick moustache, he resembled Lenin. His small muscular body was in good condition. The compact, self-contained confidence he exuded was typical of a skilled craftsman. Glaser knew the type well. Swabia teemed with small backstreet workshops, run by independent-minded men like Kunde.
Kunde burst out coughing, doubling over in his chair.
‘Are you all right?’ Glaser said, concerned.
Kunde nodded through the coughing, then stopped as suddenly as he had started. ‘Sorry, about that,’ he said, on an in-breath, as he straightened up. ‘It comes and goes. Souvenir of Dr Lange’s coal gas experiments.’
Glaser shook his head, in angry disbelief at Lange. But it was time to start: ‘You found Herr Weintraub’s body?’ he said conversationally.
‘Yes.’
‘Your fingerprints were on the gun.’
‘I moved it. I wanted to put Herr Weintraub onto his back. See if I could save him. The gun was on the floor. In the way.’
‘Do you remember how you moved it? Did you pick it up and put it down somewhere else, for example?’
‘No.’ Kunde thought for a moment. ‘I lifted it by the barrel.’
Glaser nodded. Kunde’s prints – fifteen points of resemblance found, just short of conclusive – were on the barrel, not the grip of the gun.
‘Did you kill Herr Weintraub?’
‘No.’ Kunde sounded slightly impatient. His dark eyes never left Glaser’s face. ‘Why would I do that? His death cost me the only job I’m likely to get. My own business went bust. No employer will touch a communist.’
‘You could have killed him to steal and sell Blue Horses.’
‘Blue what?’
Glaser shot a look at von Hessert. There was nothing to connect Kunde with either the stolen Marc painting or Hitler’s drawings of Geli.
‘Did you see anybody near the Weintraub Gallery, about the time of the murder?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why did you answer no when Chief Inspector Sauer put the same question to you?’
‘I didn’t. I told him who I saw.’
Glaser shot another look at von Hessert. Both knew this wasn’t in Sauer’s report.
‘Go over it again,’ Glaser said. ‘Start from the last time you saw Herr Weintraub alive.’
Kunde nodded. ‘Herr Weintraub was working late. He sent me out to get some supper.’
‘Where?’
‘The Krone – Pacellisstrasse.’
‘Go on.’
‘I saw two men, coming towards me, outside the gallery. The first one was old. Grey hair, neat sort of chap. He had a limp. I saw him try the door of the gallery, but it was locked.’
‘Who locked it, if you’d just left? You?’
‘No. I didn’t have a key. Herr Weintraub must have locked it behind me. As usual.’
‘What did the second one look like?’
Kunde sighed. ‘You’re going to think I’m barmy.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that.’
Kunde shrugged his compact shoulders. ‘OK. It was Hitler.’
Von Hessert laughed. Glaser shot him a furious glance. ‘Hitler? Adolf Hitler?’
‘Well, I don’t mean his mother. I told you you’d say I was nuts.’
‘Did you tell Chief Inspector Sauer this?’
‘No. I just said I’d seen two men.’
‘Why?’
‘Instinct.’ Kunde touched his fingertips together – meaning ‘fingertip feeling’.
Glaser suppressed a smile. ‘Go on.’
‘He was carrying a bag.’
‘Hitler was?’
‘Yup. Workers’ bag. Canvas with leather handles. He was passing it from one hand to the other, as he walked along.’
‘Why?’ von Hessert said incredulously.
Kunde shrugged. ‘Not sure. I think he was scratching.’
‘Scratching?’ The probationer started to laugh, then suddenly stopped. He looked thoughtful.
‘Scratching his hands.’ Kunde spoke defiantly.
‘How big was the bag?’ Glaser asked.
‘Big.’ Kunde showed him, spreading his arms. It was big enough for safe blowing equipment and a cushion.
‘What was he wearing?’ Glaser asked. ‘This second man.’
‘Leather coat.’
‘Brown?’
‘Black. Collar turned up.’
There was silence in Wäckerle’s office for a moment.
‘So ...’ Glaser said. ‘The older of the two men tried the door ...’
‘That’s right. I stopped and watched. They both went in. I thought Herr Weintraub was expecting them and let them in. Didn’t think much of it.’
‘Go on.’
‘I went to get Herr Weintraub his food. But as luck would have it they took a real long time making what he wanted.’
‘Which was?’
‘Frickadellen and French fries. They had to fry the meatballs fresh. They’d just run out. Then when I got back to the gallery the door was locked.’
‘What did you do?’
‘Banged and hollered. Nothing.’
‘Nobody answered?’
‘No. I didn’t like the look of it. I couldn’t see Herr Weintraub sending me for food, then leaving the gallery. I thought maybe they’d taken him away. But anyway, the main thing was to get in.’
‘So you jemmied the door?’
/>
‘Yeah, but I had to run back to my room for the jemmy.’
‘What did you do with the food?’ von Hessert asked.
‘Left it in the doorway. Until I got back.’
‘And when you got into the gallery ...?’ Glaser said.
‘Herr Weintraub was dead on the floor. The gun was half under him. The safe was blown.’
‘And the two men?’
‘Gone.’
‘Is there a back entrance to the gallery?’
‘No.’
‘Windows?’
‘Not big enough to climb out.’
‘So how did they get out? If the door was locked?’
Kunde met his gaze. He paused, then defiantly emphasised each word. ‘I – don’t – know,’ he said.
But Glaser did. Herr Weintraub’s keys were missing. The apparently irrelevant fact was crucial evidence in favour of Kunde’s story. The two men had taken the keys from Ascher’s pocket, as he lay dead on the floor, putting the gun down to do it.
They were amateurs, probably in a panic. They had blown the safe, taken the contents and forgotten the gun, half-hidden by Ascher’s body. Either that or they didn’t care about leaving it. They had locked the door after themselves, no doubt throwing away the keys, then fled. The workman, sitting compact and composed in front of him, was an innocent man.
Just as he thought that, Rudi asked to speak Glaser alone. They stepped outside. The two guards were nowhere to be seen.
‘Those two men Kunde was describing,’ Rudi said. ‘I know who they both are. Kunde’s innocent.’
Chapter Five
Inspector Forster burst into Glaser’s office, his brown mac flapping round his legs. He looked for a chair in front of Glaser’s desk, in the cubicle. There wasn’t one. He waved a carbon copy of a report at Glaser, from a standing position.
‘Have you taken leave of your senses, Dr Glaser?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You can’t have Kunde released, he’s a communist.’
‘That’s as may be, but there’s not a shred of evidence that he killed Herr Weintraub.’
‘What do you mean, “that’s as may be”? Dr Glaser, were you perhaps on holiday during the revolution?’
‘The revolution?’ Glaser said. ‘What revolution? Do you mean the day the Nazis seized all the ministries, after our esteemed Chief of Police, Herr Pöhner, withdrew the police guards the elected and now deposed Minister President had placed there? Are you perhaps referring to the day Mayor Scharnagl was thrown out of the Town Hall, and made to run an SA gauntlet, while that Nazi Fiehler was installed in his place? Then a Blood Flag was run up over the Town Hall, I do believe. To the great joy of a baying mob in Marienplatz, all singing the national anthem the while. And that would be the day, would it? that the Seventh Army sat on their collective backsides in their barracks, because the seizure of Munich was held in Berlin to be a local, Bavarian matter? That’s what you call a revolution, is it? I’d call it a takeover by armed thugs.’
Forster looked stunned. ‘I’ll pretend I didn’t hear all that. Dr Glaser, Kunde is an enemy of the Third Reich. Whether he did or did not kill some Jew art dealer is neither here nor there.’
Glaser stared at him. ‘This is still the Ministry of Justice, Forster. Get out!’
‘You can’t order me out of ...’
‘Oh, yes I can.’
Glaser stood at his desk. Forster started to leave, shaking his head. Glaser spoke again. ‘No, wait. Listen a moment.’ Forster turned at the door. Glaser was shaking with rage. ‘My report, which I see you have in your hand, requested the resumption of the investigation into the death of Herr Weintraub. It requested that two men seen near the scene of the crime be sought. A detailed description of those two men was provided.’
Glaser drew a deep breath. This was the line ... but he had already crossed it. ‘I will now tell you, although it is not in the report, who those two men are: I have reason to believe that they are Julius Schreck and Georg Winter.’
Forster was staring at him, his mouth open.
Glaser continued, jabbing a forefinger at Forster: ‘I charge you, Inspector, with questioning Schreck and Winter at the earliest opportunity. You will report to me as to the result of this questioning. I will be awaiting your report, sooner rather than later.’
Forster started to say something, thought better of it, then left. As soon as he was out of the room, Glaser picked up the telephone. He asked the switchboard to connect him to the camp at Dachau. When he was put through to Wäckerle, he asked for confirmation that Sepp Kunde had been released from the camp. He was told that he had been.
Chapter Six
That evening saw the last ever gathering at what had once been the Social Democrat Stammtisch at the Café Heck.
Glaser sat down next to Rinner, Hoegner and Auer. Edmund Goldschlag, the Münchener Post reporter, had disappeared. Such disappearances were common in Munich these days. Glaser glanced at the absent Führer’s regular chair at the Heck, as Ascher Weintraub had once done. ‘Down to business,’ he said, with a touch of bitterness. He was addressing Rinner.
With Otto Wels and most of the Social Democrat leadership now in exile in Prague, Erich Rinner, despite his comparative youth, was in control of party affairs in South Germany. He had been given 30,000 Reichsmarks from the party’s funds, with a brief to subvert the Third Reich from within.
Rinner told the others that some of the former Münchener Post employees had been taken into protective custody – the Nazi term for imprisonment in Dachau. Julius Zerfass, the Post’s former articles editor, was among them. Zerfass’s wife had received a postcard from him, sent from the Dachau camp. Rinner wordlessly passed the postcard over.
Glaser examined it. Printed on the front, halving the space for the address, was Concentration Camp Dachau in Gothic script. Beneath were printed regulations about what could and could not be sent into and out of the camp, above the authority of the Camp Commandant. Glaser noticed that money could be sent in to the prisoners.
‘Let’s get that organised,’ he said, bashing the postcard with the back of his hand. ‘We’ll take him some money and whatever he needs. As a public prosecutor, I have access to the camp. I shall visit Julius as soon as possible.’
‘Good!’ Rinner said. ‘He also asks for cigarettes, notepaper, stamps and matches.’
He indicated Julius’s two-line message to his wife on the postcard.
There was silence at the table. They all pictured the floppy-haired, handsome, cultured Julius Zerfass in their minds. There was nothing more to say on the subject.
‘Thomas Wimmer’s been arrested,’ Hoegner said, in the manner of one giving an update on the football results.
Glaser nodded, puffing at his pipe. He already knew that.
‘Dragged out of his bed in the early hours by the Political Police,’ Hoegner continued in the same flat tone. ‘They’ve taken him to Landsberg.’
There was a moment’s silence, but they all knew there was nothing they could do to help the Chairman of the Munich Social Democrats.
‘Apparently, they went to my place, too. Middle of the night,’ Auer said, knocking back a good swallow of beer and some schnapps chaser. ‘I’ve sent my wife to her brother’s in Karlsruhe, so there was nobody there but the maid. They took her to the Brown House.’
‘Any news of her?’ asked Glaser.
‘No.’
‘Any damage?’ Hoegner asked. ‘To the flat, I mean.’
Auer shrugged. ‘I put my head round the door before I came here. They’ve thrown my dirty washing all over the place. Taken a bust of me. The one the trade unions presented me with.’ He hesitated. ‘They’ve broken that old iron-bound chest of mine, and destroyed all the documents in it from the Councils Republic.’
There was silence for a moment. ‘I’m sorry,’ Glaser said flatly.
Auer shrugged again.
‘They went to my old flat,’ Hoegner said. ‘Where I used to live, in
Tengstrasse.’
Glaser knew that Hoegner had moved out of the family apartment, a common first step to protect loved ones.
‘Heydrich has signed an arrest warrant for me,’ Hoegner was saying. ‘But, fortunately, their records don’t seem to be up to date.’
Erich Rinner had some political news. Von Epp had been created the first holder of a newly invented post, Reichstatthalter of Bavaria. His first act had been to order the destruction of the SPD and Münchener Post offices, but now he was well into his stride: Jewish homes had been broken-into and robbed; the owners badly beaten up. There was a story that the SA had thrown a rabbi into a gravel pit at Oberwiesenfeld. Round the table, they received these stories in grim silence. Rinner was the only one not drinking heavily.
Glaser grimly quoted Kant: ‘It is not worth living, if there is no more justice on earth.’
‘They have made their revolution with the weapon of state violence,’ Hoegner said. ‘But they haven’t won yet.’
‘I’ve got a plan,’ said Auer. Hoegner’s bushy eyebrows went up in wry amusement. Auer always had a plan. ‘Tomorrow we call a meeting of the Printers and Journalists Works Council,’ the old volcano went on. ‘The Nazis will see how many men they have made unemployed. And we keep calling these meetings. How are the Nazis going to deal with this unemployment? Eh? Eh?’
Glaser looked at Rinner, who motioned him to silence. Hoegner smiled faintly. He put his arm round Auer’s still massive shoulder. ‘Come old friend,’ he said softly. ‘The battle has been long, has it not? But now I think it may be over. You will stay at my flat. With any luck our friends will not have found it yet.’
He led the old man, unprotesting, out the back way of the Café Heck. There were no goodbyes. When one did know if every meeting with friends would be the last, one no longer bothered with goodbyes. Glaser and Rinner sat in silence for a while, Rinner finishing his beer, Glaser his wine. And then eventually they left, too.
Part VI - Summer 1933
