by Anna Patrick
‘Go on.’
‘It said: “To my beloved. In memory of days I will never forget.” And that was it.’
‘What’s wrong with that?’
‘Well, perhaps it’s because I’m a woman, but I wouldn’t choose an inscription like that. It would have my name on it or at the very least my initials.’
Lacking a response, she elaborated.
‘Look, if he’s the love of my life and I want him to remember the precious times we spent together, then I’ll make sure he remembers we spent those moments together.
‘On the other hand, if the world frowns upon our love, then I would seek to protect him by leaving out my name, and I would hesitate to add my initials in case there was already any suspicion of our relationship and the initials provided further evidence.’
She sat back triumphant at her clever bit of detective work. Then remembering the second twitch, remarked:
‘I suppose it’s the sort of thing rich people do automatically.’
‘Describe this man.’
Yes, you petty official, joining the Gestapo made you important and now you’ve swallowed my bait.
‘He is the Aryan ideal: tall, blond, blue eyes. No distinguishing features I can remember, no scars or anything like that. A strong face with a fairly high forehead, quite a prominent nose and thin lips. A manly look, not at all babyish.’
Marta looked into the middle distance and frowned slightly as if trying to conjure up an image.
‘Sorry, is that helpful? I can visualise the man clearly and if I had any talent I could draw a picture?’
Unlike his boss, Friedman made no notes, and this unnerved her almost more than anything else about him. He was waiting for something and she didn’t know what.
‘Actually, he used to remind me of that English actor, the one who starred in “Gone With The Wind”, but what was his name?’ She bit her lower lip and played for time.
‘No, it’s no good. What was he called? Ashley, Ashley Wilkes, that’s it. That was the character he played, but that’s not his real name. They say it was a marvellous film, did you ever see it? I’ve only read the book but all the stars were featured in a German magazine once and they struck me as exactly the right people to play those characters.’
She looked enthusiastically from Friedman to Bauer but one merely narrowed his eyes while the other continued to stare out of the office window. There was a knock, and a secretary came in with coffee.
‘Thank you, Brigitta, this interruption is most welcome, I must say. Please leave the tray on the desk.’
Marta folded her hands and gazed down, making herself as insignificant as possible. She need not have bothered; neither man paid attention as they stirred sugar into their coffee and conversed about their weekend activities.
The constant questioning throughout the morning had been exhausting, but she didn’t dare lose concentration now and listened, careful not to show any reaction or interest. They formed a strange pair: Bauer with a slight paunch and avuncular manner was at ease with himself while Friedman, towering over him, inwardly seethed with a nervous energy that betrayed itself with bursts of foot tapping or knuckle-cracking. As if his body rebelled against the unyielding features of his face.
The smell of coffee set her stomach rumbling. Eventually, Bauer called his secretary to remove the tray and asked if she had seen “Gone With The Wind”.
‘Yes, I saw it with friends. Actually, I went to see it three times in as many weeks. Every time another friend wanted to see it, I would volunteer to go as well. What a wonderful film. Even Hitler said it was brilliant.’
‘Really, I didn’t realise you were so close to our beloved Fuehrer.’
‘Oh, Inspector, don’t tease me.’ Brigitta turned serious.
‘The newspapers reported Hitler’s love of the film and then those stupid Americans joined the British against us and so they banned it from the cinemas.’
‘And do you remember the actors and actresses in it?’
‘Yes, yes, there was Vivien Leigh – she was Scarlett O’Hara; there was Clark Gable – he was Rhett Butler; there was Olivia de Havilland – she was Melanie Hamilton; and Leslie Howard – he was Ashley Wilkes. Those were the main characters.’
Bauer glanced at Marta.
‘Thank you, Brigitta, you have been most helpful.’
‘Thank you, Sir, then perhaps you might also like to know that, only last year, our boys in the Luftwaffe shot down a plane returning to England from Lisbon and among the fatalities was Leslie Howard.’
Bauer burst out laughing.
Brigitta looked puzzled.
‘Oh nothing, Brigitta, just a coincidence that amuses me. Thank you once again for sharing your knowledge with us. Actually, there is one more thing, could you get a picture of this Leslie Howard? It might prove helpful in our enquiries.’
‘Yes, Sir, I’ll do my best.’
Bauer shook his head as he contemplated the prisoner. She really was the kiss of death for everyone she mentioned in her evidence. He looked at Friedman who stared back, face devoid of emotion.
‘Would you like to continue? You were in the middle of collecting information about a German officer.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
Friedman resumed his seat opposite the prisoner.
‘This German officer… what is his rank?’
‘First Lieutenant.’
‘How do you know this?’
‘At one of restaurants we frequented, the maitre d’hotel welcomed him with ‘Good Evening Herr Oberleutnant.’
‘And how did he react?’
‘He didn’t. Oh, you mean was he troubled by the reference to his rank in front of me? No, not at all, but then we had known each other for a long time so he knew he could trust me.’
‘And when did you last see him?’
‘Oof. I’m not sure. Let me think.’
She tried to remember information Ludek had revealed about troop movements.
‘Well?’
‘Probably six months ago, shortly before they moved him to Warsaw.’
‘He told you he was being transferred?’
‘Yes, why shouldn’t he? Like I said, he could trust me.’
‘But not enough to give his real name.’
Let him have his little victory.
‘You are right. Perhaps he didn’t trust me as much as I thought.’
The Inspector ended the interrogation and called a guard to take her back to Montelupich.
* * *
Both men gathered up their papers and Bauer filed his away.
‘So what are your initial impressions?’
‘Of the prisoner, Sir?’
‘Yes, Friedman, of the prisoner.’
‘Stupid and morally disgusting but then I wouldn’t expect anything else from a Slav.’
‘And your thoughts on how best to proceed with the enquiry?’
‘This German officer is our first priority. There isn’t a great deal to go on, but we can’t have homosexuals tainting the Fuehrer’s army. The Polish bitch can wait.’
‘Friedman, such dedication to the Fuehrer’s wishes does you credit. What you propose would be an excellent use of your time.’
‘Thank you, Sir. Heil Hitler.’
‘Heil Hitler.’
Bauer responded with little enthusiasm. He disliked Friedman the instant he met him and hadn’t increased his liking since.
He would have much preferred to deal with this investigation on his own, but Fuchs had been clear on Friedman’s involvement. Perhaps he was his protégé? Maybe this search for a homosexual officer would keep him out of the way, at least for a while.
13
Bauer’s face was as slack as a flat tyre; he rested his head against his palms and pushed thoughts to the back of his mind with a ste
ady pulsing motion. Since the Allied invasion of France a sense of foreboding clung to him like damp clothing. The end was coming and there would be a reckoning; there always was. How would he fare? He tried to do good but the need to protect his family steered him back into the fold again and again. So many opportunities wasted and now it was too late. But what choice did he ever have?
The photo of his wife’s carefree face softened the edges of his despair. He remembered taking it in the early days of their marriage: playing with a neighbour’s dog, throwing sticks and laughing, she never noticed him standing behind a tree. The photo captured her essence, and he had it framed without showing her, knowing she would criticise her hair out of place and undignified pose. She would have insisted he take one of the studio shots they had done after their marriage and which she displayed in the centre of the credenza.
He met Henni Hoffmann on holiday when he was in his forties and fell in love. The daughter of a Bavarian farmer, she was easy-going, quick to smile and make the best of any situation, and for reasons he could only guess at, delighted to be with a man fourteen years her senior.
They married the year Hitler came to power and Henni produced three children in the first five years of their marriage. Two girls and a son filled the family home with laughter and fun; he could not imagine life without them.
The household was Henni’s domain, and he never stopped being grateful for the haven she created for him. He knew from the mutterings of other men that a wife could make life hell, forever griping about some perceived failing, or pushing their husbands to go for promotion or demanding a move into better accommodation. The list of complaints seemed endless; he was a lucky man.
‘Henni, you must miss the mountains,’ he said, early on.
‘Oh, we are where we are, Heinz,’ she replied, stroking his arm, ‘but thank you for noticing their absence.’
It seemed such a funny thing to say, but the remark often came back to him in the middle of an investigation; noticing an absence could be just as important as seeing what was in front of him.
They were still in the honeymoon months of their marriage when Henni’s beloved younger brother Albrecht caused their one and only row. Impetuous, passionate and argumentative, he had been an early recruit to the National Socialist Party and as eager to recruit others as he was to rise in the ranks.
Bauer trod carefully and rather than express misgivings, explained that it was illegal for a policeman to be a member of any political party.
‘No longer,’ cried Albrecht holding up his arms in a Victory V. ‘That’s all changed under the Fuehrer. You can belong and you should. This is the future for all of us.’
‘Maybe you’re right. I’ll check it out.’
‘And you, Henni, you agree with me, don’t you?’
‘Of course I agree, my darling little brother, but there is something even more important than the Party.’
‘What is that?’ asked Albrecht, wondering if he had missed something and hating the prospect of his sister pointing it out.
‘Another piece of strudel with lots of that heavenly cream. This is where my immediate future lies,’ she said, laughing and patting her already swollen stomach.
Her mother, Lottie, who had been sitting darning socks, busied herself cutting another piece of strudel and ladling a generous quantity of thick cream onto it. She smiled proudly at her daughter as she handed her the plate. Bauer, too, had beamed and gone over to hug his wife; only Albrecht had remained stern faced throughout. What a humourless prig.
Henni’s attempt to change the subject proved unsuccessful and Albrecht droned on about the Party and Hitler’s plans for Germany and the great future that lay just ahead of them. The longer he spoke, the more strident his tone became and the more disturbing the ambitious plans he outlined.
A rant not dissimilar to one of Hitler’s. Would he ever shut up? Albrecht only halted when he needed to attend his local Party meeting; he stood to attention, clicked his heels and gave a Heil Hitler salute before kissing his sister goodbye and shaking Bauer’s hand with a powerful grip.
‘Don’t forget what I said, will you?’
‘No, Albrecht, I won’t forget,’ replied Bauer, fighting a sudden desire to punch his bumptious brother-in-law in the mouth.
With Albrecht gone, the atmosphere in the room lightened, and Lottie chatted about domestic matters and asked about their plans. When Henni’s father, Gunter, came in from milking, the women disappeared to prepare the meal, chatting and laughing together. The evening passed with good solid food and plentiful beer for Heinz and Gunter and several games of rummy before they all retired to bed.
Early next morning, with Albrecht nowhere to be seen, the couple said their goodbyes and headed back to Berlin.
‘You don’t like Albrecht, do you?’
‘Oh Henni, he’s just young and full of himself. What is he now? Eighteen? Nineteen?’
‘Nineteen, nearly twenty.’
‘I’m sure I was the same at his age.’
‘But he’s right, don’t you think, about Hitler and Germany’s future?’
‘No, I’m not sure he is. We have all been through hard times. The war was a terrible time and we’re still suffering the effects. Look at your parents – they lost three sons which must have been heart-breaking for all of you. Gunter struggles to manage the farm and Albrecht doesn’t seem keen to help.’
‘No, he’s set on a career in the Party. What will Papa do without him?’
They drove in silence for a while.
‘What was it like here during the twenties?’
‘We were very lucky. The farm has belonged to my father’s family for generations so we had that financial stability and Papa never wastes money on new equipment so we had no loans to pay off. When inflation soared, we avoided buying anything. We didn’t eat a loaf of bread for a long time but we never went hungry. We had our own vegetables and eggs and milk and we ate an awful lot of rabbit stew.
‘Theft was a terrible problem, though. We had always had one or two dogs on the farm to keep the rats down but my father decided we needed two proper guard dogs. He trained them himself and he wouldn’t allow us to treat them as pets. I found them frightening, actually, but they kept strangers off the land.’
‘I remember those times so clearly. Money ceased to have all meaning. How can you take a banknote seriously when you need a suitcase to take home your weekly pay and you can’t even buy a loaf of bread with it? And I was one of the lucky ones because I kept my job. Millions didn’t, and they went through hell.’
‘That’s why I think Hitler is right because he wants to make sure we never suffer like that again. We need to be self-sufficient; we need to get unemployment right down and we need to have a strong army to protect ourselves.’
‘Well, I don’t disagree with any of that but when you hear Albrecht go on and on about the Jews being to blame for everything it strikes me as simplistic.’
‘And yet they don’t seem to have suffered as much as the rest of Germany. Look at all the businesses they own and the big houses they live in.’
‘Oh, Henni, of course they suffered. Jews lost their jobs in the Depression like everybody else. Inflation hit them as badly as the next man and they fought in the war just like all Germans did and their families had as many losses as anyone else. And…’
Bauer hesitated; he wanted her to understand, but this wasn’t a tale to tell in anger; so he said nothing and gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles.
‘Anyway, they killed Jesus.’
‘What?’
‘The Jews killed Jesus. That’s what our Pastor says, anyway.’
‘Technically, I think the Romans crucified Jesus.’
‘Oh, now you’re making me angry.’ She remembered more of the Pastor’s sermonising.
‘The Jewish High Priests handed him over to Ponti
us Pilate and then the crowds, who were Jews, called for them to crucify him.’
‘If so, they killed one of their own.’
‘What?’
‘Jesus was a Jew.’
‘A Jew? No, no, no. Jesus was Christ, the Son of God, the very first Christian.’
‘Born into a Jewish family; circumcised; an expert on Jewish law; a worshipper at the Temple. What more evidence do you need?’
‘Well, that’s like a Christian baby being adopted by a Jewish family. He would have to follow their customs but it doesn’t make him a Jew.’
They drove on in silence. Bauer hated this animosity between them. He didn’t care for politics and even less for religion. Now both were causing this unnecessary friction. Although he listened to the news on the radio, he seldom picked up a newspaper, having more than enough to read with case notes and police reviews. If he had a philosophy outside work, then it was to live and let live; after the brutality of trench warfare it seemed a worthy aspiration.
When he returned to his police studies after the war, he knew his colleagues regarded him as a loner. Perhaps it was true; he didn’t initiate social gatherings although he always responded to invitations and played his part as a guest with genuine warmth. He remembered the things people told him and was never at a loss to ask questions and listen to the replies.
In his spare time, he enjoyed walking and when forced on annual leave, always headed for the mountains of Bavaria. On one of these holidays he stopped in Munich; two young men waving swastika flags and distributing leaflets accosted him as he headed out for a beer.
‘Join us and listen to our great leader Adolf Hitler. He will address us in the beer hall across the road there in just a few minutes.’
Well, why not? He would have a beer and see why people made all this fuss about him.
The meeting proved a revelation; supporters packed the hall and there was standing room only. Bauer positioned himself near the side exit and looked over the crowd which bubbled and frothed like the beer he had anticipated. When Hitler walked onto the makeshift stage, thunderous applause and the stamping of feet vibrated through the air for several minutes. A signal silenced the crowd and Hitler spoke, at first so quietly that everyone, including Bauer, leaned forward to catch the words.
