The Pale Criminal

by Philip Kerr

  ‘What charges are these?’ said Himmler with some distaste. ‘I know nothing of any charges pending against Weisthor. Nor even of any investigation affecting him.’

  ‘That is because there was no investigation of Weisthor. However, a completely separate inquiry has revealed Weisthor’s principal role in an odious conspiracy that has resulted in the perverted murders of seven innocent German schoolgirls.’

  ‘Reichsführer,’ roared Weisthor, ‘I protest. This is monstrous.’

  ‘I quite agree,’ said Heydrich, ‘and you are the monster.’

  Weisthor rose to his feet, his whole body shaking.

  ‘You lying little kike,’ he spat.

  Heydrich merely smiled a lazy little smile. ‘Kommissar,’ he said loudly, ‘would you please come in here now?’

  I walked slowly into the room, my shoes sounding on the wooden floor like some nervous actor about to audition for a play. Every head turned as I came in, and as fifty of the most powerful men in Germany focused their eyes on me, I could have wished to have been anywhere else but there. Weisthor’s jaw dropped as Himmler half rose to his feet.

  ‘What is the meaning of this?’ Himmler growled.

  ‘Some of you probably know this gentleman as Herr Steininger,’ Heydrich said smoothly, ‘the father of one of the murdered girls. Except that he is nothing of the kind. He works for me. Tell them who you really are, Gunther.’

  ‘Kriminalkommissar Bernhard Gunther, Murder Commission, Berlin-Alexanderplatz.’

  ‘And tell these officers, if you will, why you have come here.’

  ‘To arrest one Karl Maria Weisthor, also known as Karl Maria Wiligut, also known as Jarl Widar; Otto Rahn; and Richard Anders, all for the murders of seven girls in Berlin between 23 May and 29 September 1938.’

  ‘Liar,’ Rahn shouted, jumping to his feet, along with another officer whom I supposed to be Anders.

  ‘Sit down,’ said Himmler. ‘I take it that you believe that you can prove this, Kommissar?’ If I’d been Karl Marx himself he couldn’t have regarded me with more hatred.

  ‘I believe I can, sir, yes.’

  ‘This had better not be one of your tricks, Heydrich,’ Himmler said.

  ‘A trick, Reichsführer?’ he said innocently. ‘If it’s tricks you’re looking for, these two evil men had them all. They sought to pass themselves off as mediums, to persuade weaker-minded people that it was the spirits who were informing them where the bodies of the girls they themselves had murdered were hidden away. And but for Kommissar Gunther here, they would have attempted the same insane trick with this company of officers.’

  ‘Reichsführer,’ Weisthor spluttered, ‘this is utterly preposterous.’

  ‘Where is the proof you mentioned, Heydrich?’

  ‘I said insane. I meant exactly that. Naturally there is no one here who could have fallen for such a ludicrous scheme as theirs. However, it is characteristic of those who are insane to believe in the right of what they are doing.’ He retrieved the file containing Weisthor’s medical case history from underneath his sheaf of papers and laid it in front of Himmler.

  ‘These are the medical case notes of Karl Maria Wiligut, also known as Karl Maria Weisthor, which until recently were in the possession of his doctor, Hauptsturmfuhrer Lanz Kindermann–’

  ‘No,’ yelled Weisthor, and lunged for the file.

  ‘Restrain that man,’ screamed Himmler. Immediately the two officers standing beside Weisthor caught him by the arms. Rahn reached for his holster, only I was quicker, working the Mauser’s slide as I laid the muzzle against his head.

  ‘Touch it and I’ll ventilate your brain,’ I said, and then relieved him of his gun.

  Heydrich carried on, apparently undisturbed by any of this commotion. You had to hand it to him: he was as cool as a North Sea salmon, and just as slippery.

  ‘In November 1924, Wiligut was committed to a lunatic asylum in Salzburg for the attempted murder of his wife. Upon examination he was declared insane and remained institutionalized under the care of Dr Kindermann until 1932. Following his release he changed his name to Weisthor, and the rest you undoubtedly know, Reichsfuhrer.’

  Himmler glanced at the file for a minute or so. Finally he sighed and said: ‘Is this true, Karl?’

  Weisthor, held between two SS officers, shook his head.

  ‘I swear it’s a lie, on my honour as a gentleman and an officer.’

  ‘Roll up his left sleeve,’ I said. ‘The man is a drug addict. For years Kindermann has been giving him cocaine and morphine.’

  Himmler nodded at the men holding Weisthor, and when they revealed his horribly black-and-blue forearm, I added: ‘If you’re still not convinced, I have a twenty-page statement made by Reinhard Lange.’

  Himmler kept on nodding. He stepped round his chair to stand in front of his Brigadeführer, the sage of the SS, and slapped him hard across the face, then again.

  ‘Get him out of my sight,’ he said. ‘He is confined to quarters until further notice. Rahn. Anders. That goes for you too.’ He raised his voice to an almost hysterical pitch. ‘Get out, I say. You are no longer members of this order. All three of you will return your Deaths Head rings, your daggers and your swords. I shall decide what to do with you later.’

  Arthur Nebe called the guard that was waiting in readiness and, when they appeared, ordered them to escort the three men to their rooms.

  By now almost every SS officer at the table was openmouthed with astonishment. Only Heydrich stayed calm, his long face betraying no more sign of the undoubted satisfaction he was feeling at the sight of his enemies’ rout than if he had been made of wax.

  With Weisthor, Rahn and Anders sent out under guard, all eyes were now on Himmler. Unfortunately, his eyes were very much on me, and I holstered my gun feeling that the drama had yet to end. For several uncomfortable seconds he simply stared, no doubt remembering how at Weisthor’s house I had seen him, the Reichsführer-SS and Chief of the German Police, gullible, fooled, sold — fallible. For the man who saw himself in the role of the Nazi Pope to Hitler’s Antichrist, it was too much to bear. Placing himself close enough to me to smell the cologne on his closely shaven, punctilious little face, and blinking furiously, his mouth twisted into a rictus of hatred, he kicked me hard on the shin.

  I grunted with pain, but stood still, almost to attention.

  ‘You’ve ruined everything,’ he said, shaking. ‘Everything. Do you hear?’

  ‘I did my job,’ I growled. I think he might have booted me again but for Heydrich’s timely interruption.

  ‘I can certainly vouch for that,’ he said. ‘Perhaps, under the circumstances, it would be best if this court were postponed for an hour or so, at least until you’ve had a chance to recover your composure, Reichsfuhrer. The discovery of so gross a treason within a forum that is as close to the Reichsführer’s heart as this one will doubtless have come as a profound shock to him. As indeed it has been to us all.’

  There was a murmur of agreement at these remarks, and Himmler seemed to regain control of himself. Colouring a little, possibly with some embarrassment, he twitched and nodded curtly.

  ‘You’re quite right, Heydrich,’ he muttered. ‘A terrible shock. Yes indeed. I must apologize to you, Kommissar. As you say, you merely did your duty. Well done.’ And with that he turned on his not inconsiderable heel and marched smartly out of the room, accompanied by several of his officers.

  Heydrich started to smile a slow, curling sort of smile that got no further than the corner of his mouth. Then his eyes found mine and steered me towards the other door. Arthur Nebe followed, leaving the remaining officers to talk loudly among themselves.

  ‘It’s not many men who live to receive a personal apology from Heinrich Himmler,’ Heydrich said when the three of us were alone in the castle library.

  I rubbed my shin painfully. ‘Well, I’m sure I’ll make a note of that in my diary tonight,’ I said. ‘It’s all I’ve ever dreamed of.’

  ‘I
ncidentally, you didn’t mention what happened to Kindermann.’

  ‘Let’s just say that he was shot while trying to escape,’ I said. ‘I’m sure that you of all people must know what I mean.’

  ‘That’s unfortunate. He could still have been useful to us.’

  ‘He got what a murderer properly has coming to him. Someone had to. I don’t suppose any of those other bastards will ever get theirs. The SS brotherhood and all that, eh?’ I paused and lit a cigarette. ‘What will happen to them?’

  ‘You can depend on it that they’re finished in the SS. You heard Himmler say so himself.’

  ‘Well, how ghastly for them all.’ I turned to Nebe. ‘Come on, Arthur. Will Weisthor get anywhere near a courtroom or a guillotine?’

  ‘I don’t like it any more than you do,’ he said grimly. ‘But Weisthor is too close to Himmler. He knows too much.’

  Heydrich pursed his lips. ‘Otto Rahn, on the other hand, is merely an NCO. I don’t think the Reichsführer would mind if some sort of accident were to befall him.’

  I shook my head bitterly.

  ‘Well, at least there’s an end to their dirty little plot. At least we’ll be spared another pogrom, for a while anyway.’

  Heydrich looked uncomfortable now. Nebe got up and looked out of the library window.

  ‘For Christ’s sake,’ I yelled, ‘you don’t mean to say that it’s going to go ahead?’ Heydrich winced visibly. ‘Look, we all know that the Jews had nothing to do with the murders.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ he said brightly, ‘that’s certain. And they won’t be blamed, you have my word on it. I can assure you that–’

  ‘Tell him,’ said Nebe. ‘He deserves to know.’

  Heydrich thought for a moment, and then stood up. He pulled a book from off the shelf and examined it negligently.

  ‘Yes, you’re right, Nebe. I believe he probably does.’

  ‘Tell me what?’

  ‘We received a telex before the Court convened this morning,’ said Heydrich. ‘By sheer coincidence, a young Jewish fanatic has made an attempt on the life of a German diplomat in Paris. Apparently he wished to protest against the treatment of Polish Jews in Germany. The Fuhrer has sent his own personal physician to France, but it is not expected that our man will live.

  ‘As a result, Goebbels is already lobbying the Führer that if this diplomat should die then certain spontaneous expressions of German public outrage be permitted against Jews throughout the Reich.’

  ‘And you’ll all look the other way, is that it?’

  ‘I don’t approve of lawlessness,’ said Heydrich.

  ‘Weisthor gets his pogrom after all. You bastards.’

  ‘Not a pogrom,’ Heydrich insisted. ‘Looting will not be permitted. Jewish property will merely be destroyed. The police will ensure that there is no plunder. And nothing will be permitted which in any way endangers the security of German life or property.’

  ‘How can you control a mob?’

  ‘Directives will be issued. Offenders will be apprehended and dealt with.’

  ‘Directives?’ I flung my cigarettes against the bookcase. ‘For a mob? That’s a good one.’

  ‘Every police chief in Germany will receive a telex with guidelines.’

  Suddenly I felt very tired. I wanted to go home, to be taken away from all of this. Just talking about such a thing made me feel dirty and dishonest. I had failed. But what was infinitely worse, it didn’t seem as if I’d ever been meant to succeed.

  A coincidence, Heydrich had called it. But a meaningful coincidence, according to Jung’s idea? No. It couldn’t be. There was no meaning in anything, anymore.

  24

  Thursday, 10 November

  ‘Spontaneous expressions of the German people’s anger’: that was how the radio put it.

  I was angry all right, but there was nothing spontaneous about it. I’d had all night to get worked up. A night in which I’d heard windows breaking, and obscene shouts echoing up the street, and smelt the smoke of burning buildings. Shame kept me indoors. But in the morning which came bright and sunny through my curtains I felt I had to go out and take a look for myself.

  I don’t suppose I shall ever forget it.

  Ever since 1933, a broken window had been something of an occupational hazard for any Jewish business, as synonymous with Nazism as a jackboot, or a swastika. This time, however, it was something altogether different, something much more systematic than the occasional vandalism of a few drunken SA thugs. On this occasion there had occurred a veritable Walpurgisnacht of destruction.

  Glass lay everywhere, like the pieces of a huge, icy jigsaw cast down to the earth in a fit of pique by some ill-tempered prince of crystal.

  Only a few metres from the front door to my building were a couple of dress shops where I saw a snail’s long, silvery trail rising high above a tailor’s dummy, while a giant spider’s web threatened to envelope another in razor-sharp gossamer.

  Further on, at the corner of Kurfurstendamm, I came across an enormous mirror that lay in a hundred pieces, presenting shattered images of myself that ground and cracked underfoot as I picked my way along the street.

  For those like Weisthor and Rahn, who believed in some symbolic connection between crystal and some ancient Germanic Christ from which it derived its name, this sight must have seemed exciting enough. But for a glazier it must have looked like a licence to print money, and there were lots of people out sightseeing who said as much.

  At the northern end of Fasanenstrasse the synagogue close to the S-Bahn railway was still smouldering, a gutted, blackened ruin of charred beams and burned-out walls. I’m no clairvoyant but I can say that every honest man who saw it was thinking the same thing I was. How many more buildings would end up the same way before Hitler was finished with us?

  There were storm-troopers – a couple of truck-loads of them in the next street — and they were testing some more window-panes with their boots. Cautiously deciding to go another way, I was just about to turn back when I heard a voice I half-recognized.

  ‘Get out of here, you Jewish bastards,’ the young man yelled.

  It was Bruno Stahlecker’s fourteen-year-old son Heinrich, dressed up in the uniform of the motorized Hitler Youth. I caught sight of him just as he hurled a large stone through another shop window. He laughed delightedly at his own handiwork and said: ‘Fucking Jews.’ Looking around for the approval of his young comrades he saw me instead.

  As I walked over to him I thought of all the things I would have said to him if I had been his father, but when I was close to him, I smiled. I felt more like giving him a good jaw-whistler with the back of my hand.

  ‘Hallo, Heinrich.’

  His fine blue eyes looked at me with sullen suspicion.

  ‘I suppose you think you can tell me off,’ he said, ‘just because you were a friend of my father’s.’

  ‘Me? I don’t give a shit what you do.’

  ‘Oh? So what do you want?’

  I shrugged and offered him a cigarette. He took one and I lit us both. Then I threw him the box of matches. ‘Here,’ I said, ‘you might need these tonight. Maybe you could try the Jewish Hospital.’

  ‘See? You are going to give me a lecture.’

  ‘On the contrary. I came to tell you that I found the men who murdered your father.’

  ‘You did?’ Some of Heinrich’s friends who were now busy looting the clothes shop yelled to him to come and help. ‘I won’t be long,’ he called back to them. Then he said to me: ‘Where are they? The men who killed my father.’

  ‘One of them is dead. I shot him myself.’

  ‘Good. Good.’

  ‘I don’t know what is going to happen to the other two. That all depends, really.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘On the SS. Whether they decide to court-martial them or not.’ I watched his handsome young face crease with puzzlement. ‘Oh, didn’t I tell you? Yes, these men, the ones who murdered your father in such a cowardly fashi
on, they were all SS officers. You see, they had to kill him because he would probably have tried to stop them breaking the law. They were evil men, you see, Heinrich, and your father always did his best to put away evil men. He was a damned good policeman.’ I waved my hand at all the broken windows. ‘I wonder what he would have thought of all this?’

  Heinrich hesitated, a lump rising in his throat as he considered the implications of what I had told him.

  ‘It wasn’t — it wasn’t the Jews who killed him then?’

  ‘The Jews? Good gracious no.’ I laughed. ‘Where on earth did you get such an idea? It was never the Jews. I shouldn’t believe everything you read in Der Stürmer, you know.’

  It was with a considerable want of alacrity that Heinrich returned to his friends when he and I had finished speaking. I smiled grimly at this sight, reflecting that propaganda works both ways.

  Almost a week had passed since I’d seen Hildegard. On my return from Wewelsburg I tried telephoning her a couple of times, but she was never there, or at least she never answered. Finally I decided to drive over and see her.

  Driving south on Kaiserallee, through Wilmersdorf and Friedenau, I saw more of the same destruction, more of the same spontaneous expressions of the people’s rage: shop signs carrying Jewish names torn down, and new anti-Semitic slogans freshly painted everywhere; and always the police standing by, doing nothing to prevent a shop being looted or to protect its owner from being beaten-up. Close to Waghauselerstrasse I passed another synagogue ablaze, the fire-service watching to make sure the flames didn’t spread to any of the adjoining buildings.

  It was not the best day to be thinking of myself.

  I parked close to her apartment building on Lepsius Strasse, let myself in through the main door with the street key she had given me, and walked up to the third floor. I used the door knocker. I could have let myself in but somehow I didn’t think she’d appreciate that, considering the circumstances of our last meeting.