by DS Holmes
“What the hell! If that is really the owner’s name, I wish I hadn’t.” Werner shook his head. “I’m not going to ask how you got it, Rost. I don’t even want to know.”
“What are we doing here in the middle of the night?”
Werner swung open the gate. “Here, we are in the Scheunenviertel, once the capital’s largest Jewish district. But not anymore. Dr. Goebbels has seen to that. This neighborhood is now mostly inhabited by Nazis.”
“Then why, in God’s name, are we here?”
“Would you prefer a remote farmhouse someplace south of Zehlendorf or Marienfelde?”
“As a matter of fact, yes.”
Unexpectedly, Werner cracked a smile. “Our enemies can’t imagine us so close to the Museuminsel. You go ahead, into the church. The front door is unlocked.”
Was it a trap? Thomas wondered.
As if reading his mind, Werner said, “I didn’t save you tonight just to turn you over to another agency. You’ll have to trust me.”
Thomas grabbed his coats off the back seat and went slowly up the cobbled lane, pulling on his sport coat. With the overcoat folded over his left arm, he climbed the steps and slipped inside the three hundred-year-old church. The narthex was unheated and smelled musty. He pushed open the doors to the nave. At the far end, a pair of thick white candles burned on the altar.
Suddenly a distinguished-looking gentleman in a dark wool suit crossed the tiles of the chancel, descended the steps to the nave and walked quietly down the center aisle. When he reached the last pew he paused. “Come forward, Herr Rost. You brought the item retrieved from your family’s home?”
Thomas hesitated. “Do I have a choice?”
“Yes,” the man said softly. “That is the difference between us and the followers of Hitler.”
“Who are you?”
“My name is Hans von Dohnanyi. I believe my name is on the list your father kept for us.”
“Indeed, it is.” Thomas strolled beside the lawyer up the aisle. “I am aware of your work. You cleared the Army’s Commander-in-Chief, General von Fritsch, of a homosexuality charge in 1939. For that, Bormann had you dismissed from the Ministry of Justice. If I am not mistaken, you presently work for the Abwehr.”
“As a journalist, your sources are probably better than mine.” Von Dohnanyi extended a hand. “Welcome to Sophienkirche, Herr Rost. Tonight you are our guest of honor.”
After shaking the attorney’s hand, Thomas looked around. He saw no one else. The interior was illuminated solely by the two candles,which threw moving shadows across the walls and stained glass. He pulled the metal tube from his pocket. “I’m not sorry to give it up.”
The lawyer accepted the cigar case, opened it and, after withdrawing the roll of paper, glanced at the contents. Then he placed the paper back in the tube, closed it, and raised his free hand. “The Oberstleutnant will see that we are not disturbed.”
“A lieutenant colonel?” Hearing light footsteps behind, Thomas turned as a man in uniform left the nave and entered the narthex, closing the doors behind him.
“All in our group are acutely aware of the danger around us. The risks we take are for the love of our country. You are doing your part.”
“What will you do with it?”
“Keep it or destroy it? Let that be my problem.” The lawyer shrugged. “At this point, a man’s memory may be a safer place to store information...though one can only hold up so much under torture.” He tapped the tube on an open palm. “Did you read it?”
“Yes,” Thomas confirmed.
“Your recent association with the Sicherheitsdienst has not gone unnoticed. The ride to SD headquarters, your meal at the Adlon with General Heydrich—I don’t think you were interviewing him for your newspaper.”
“It was personal.”
“Not for Reinhard Heydrich. Human affairs are of no interest to him. People are only useful to him as a means to increase his own power and influence.”
“I meant that it was personal for me.”
The lawyer inclined his head. “This morning you rode with his adjutant, Brandt.”
“So it was your people in the Horch?”
Von Dohnanyi smiled. “What does the Protector of Bohemia and Moravia wish done by a book critic, the son of Peter Rost?”
Thomas shifted uncomfortably. “I am not an informer, if that is what you are inferring.”
Chapter 7
“NOR A COLLABORATOR,” a voice announced from the pulpit. “If we suspected that you were, you would not be welcome among us. Thomas Rost, we need to know how far suspicion of those on the list has progressed.”
Thomas recognized the man towering above the chancel—the rimless glasses, thinning hair and gentle features...and a voice that spoke with authority. The speaker wore a three-piece gray wool suit. He was Dietrich Bonhoeffer, an ordained Lutheran minister and the brother of Hans von Dohnanyi’s wife.
With contacts established from many years of theological education in New York and a ministry to students in London, Bonhoeffer could have avoided direct conflict with the Nazis; instead, he chose to return to Germany in 1935. The seminary he had presided over in Stettin had been closed by order of the Reichsfuehrer, who also banned the young pastor from Berlin. In time, his influential family managed to get the ban lifted, though he was restricted from preaching.
“Gen. Heydrich had my father arrested. He is presently in Sachsenhausen and in failing health.”
“Yes, we are sorry.” Bonhoeffer leaned forward, rested his elbows on the pulpit. “Peter Rost is strong where it counts. He will not talk about our group...or our plans. But his disappearance and imprisonment suggests that the secret police are changing their tactics. Whereas before they were content to observe those suspected of plotting against the regime, they are now taking some of our colleages into custody.”
“Do the authorities keep watch on the churches?”
“Hopefully not late on Sunday nights,” von Dohnanyi broke in. “Sometimes we’ve found that the best place to hide is in plain sight.”
“How can I help?”
Bonhoeffer replied, “The persecution of the Jews, the concentration camps, the war on Russia, it’s only the beginning.” The pastor left the pulpit, descended the steps and stood beside his brother-in-law. “Years ago, your father quoted a saying by Goethe, ‘The story of people on Earth is about the war between God and the Devil.’ Turns out Goethe was right. Adolf Hitler, under the banner of National Socialism, seeks to become a Teutonic god. To achieve that end, he will attempt to destroy Christianity. That, and the destruction of the human spirit, is his ultimate goal.”
“Is such an outcome possible in the 20th century?” Thomas asked.
“Consider the apostates: Hitler, Himmler and Goebbels, all of them lapsed Catholics who’ve sold their souls to embrace an ideology of hate and lies.” The pastor pointed to the altar. “When the time comes, Thomas, I trust you will seize the opportunity to serve God and your country, even as you have done tonight.”
The sound of leather soles on a hard, cold floor echoed in the sanctuary and Thomas turned and looked down the aisle. “Pastor Bachmann!”
“Out of prison,” Bachmann said, “thanks to you.”
“When were you released?”
“Hours ago, in the darkness. I called your apartment but no one answered. The chaplain at Chariteʹ gave me Johanna’s number. When she mentioned where you had gone...well, it was my duty.”
“He notified us,” von Dohnanyi explained. “We knew the house was under watch, day and night; otherwise we would’ve searched for the list ourselves. We were unable to contact your father, the secret of its hiding place remaining with Herr Rost. That is, until you were spotted leaving the camp. After Pastor Bachmann contacted one of our group, Werner was dispatched.”
The doors to the narthex opened and Thomas saw the Oberstleutnant conferring with Werner. Then the ex-soldier strode forward. “We’ve got company,” he told von Dohnanyi. “Gestapo
. They’re assembling by the gate.”
“Are we surrounded?” Thomas said.
“Relax,” Werner replied evenly. “Remember the Black Maria?”
“You did that?”
“British-made limpet mine, magnetic, captured from an SOE-supplied Resistance unit in Belgium. I stuck it on the undercarriage at the train station, set a delayed-action fuse.”
“It nearly killed me.”
Werner shrugged. “You’re still here, aren’t you? Anyway, it wasn’t meant for you.”
“Uta Perle said she was Gestapo.”
“A cover. Actually, she was SD and under Heydrich’s direct command. Not that it makes much difference.”
Thomas said, “Brandt is sending someone to handle any dirty work for me.”
“Helga Schmitt,” Werner said flatly.
“How did you know that?”
Werner shrugged. “She’s an assassin. Oftentimes she works for Gen. Heydrich, though she isn’t particular who she kills for.”
“The church is now empty,” Bachmann interrupted, “except for us.”
Thomas looked around. Bonhoeffer and von Dohnanyi had slipped away unnoticed. “Where did they go?”
“We always plan for moments such as this.”
Bachmann asked, “Are the police moving in yet?”
“Let’s have a look.” Werner grabbed Thomas by an elbow and led him back to the narthex. “By the way, Helga is Uta Perle’s sister. Nice family.”
Peering through a small hole in a stained glass window, the Oberstleutnant said, “Lucky for us, they’re in no hurry.”
“Rost, just play along with Helga,” Werner advised. “Give nothing vital away. Keep in mind she has to file reports, so feed her some crumbs once in a while.”
“Easy for you to say.” Thomas took a turn at the peephole. “They’ve just drawn their weapons.”
“Better kiss the floor,” Werner warned, staring at his watch. “Five-four-three-two—’’
The Volkswagen parked by the gate lifted off the cobblestones and, while Thomas watched transfixed, the small car exploded in an ear-splitting roar. Fragments of steel and glass showered onto the nine or ten policemen, while the force of the blast threw them against the iron gate like small trees uprooted in a violent windstorm. The long leather coats of the fallen Gestapo detectives covered the unmoving bodies like makeshift burial shrouds, while their fedoras skipped along the pavement as if flung by invisible hands. Unused handguns and machine pistols littered the bleeding walkway.
As Thomas’ eardrums resonated dully he heard himself asking, “You booby-trapped Eva Braun’s car?”
“Nothing as crude as that. I used a timer.”
“What if the secret police hadn’t shown up?”
“I set the fuse. I can disable it, too.”
“You always think of everything?”
Bachmann rose from the hard floor. “It’s the military mind, planning for every contingency. Fortunately for us, Werner’s on our side.”
“Germany’s side,” Werner corrected. “Now, it is best that we leave the district.”
The Oberstleutnant said, “The back door is safe.”
Werner straightened to his full height. “The Gestapo were overconfident, as usual. At least we can always count on that from our enemies.”
December 22
Chapter 8
RED SKY IN THE EAST, a harbinger of stormy weather. Along the banks of the Spree, the only noise audible was the slap of water from a passing barge. In the public park around Monbijou Palace, tall evergreens stood sentinel, in colorful contrast to the denuded birch and oak trees.
“Show me where Pastor Witte and the other man were,” Thomas told Ingrid.
“By the bench near the water.” She nodded her head in the direction of the river. “Beyond them I saw the rounded front of the Kaiser Friedrich Museum, lighted windows and all. The museum’s dome was lost in the darkness and falling snow.”
“I’m surprised you could see much of anything in the twilight.”
Tugging a wool scarf around her neck, she moved toward the bench. Suddenly she stumbled and jumped back. “Oh, God,” she cried.
The woman was lying facedown in the snow, blonde hair splayed. Her legs were sheathed in silk stockings, a rabbit skin coat hiked up to her buttocks. Three feet away, a pair of navy blue high heel shoes rested in the slush, poised to carry their owner on some final journey. Her left hand clutched a crushed pack of Chesterfields.
Thomas knelt, brought her stiffened arms to her sides and rolled her over. It’s like turning a cold log, he thought grimly. Now lying faceup, her red lipstick was cracked, mascara streaked down her puffed-out cheeks and, to complete the grotesque mask of death, her right eye had been damaged so much he had to turn away from the frozen corpse in order to collect himself.
“You knew her, didn’t you?” Ingrid said tonelessly.
He stood up, his back turned to the body. “Gerda Schacht, a working woman who deserved a better life and a more dignified death. She never had a chance.” With trembling fingers he lit a cigarette while staring at the high heels. “She died because of me.”
“I should run away...again,” Ingrid said. “Instead, I will find a telephone, call the police.”
It seemed like hours had passed since the discovery of the dead woman but, in fact, only twenty minutes had passed since calling it in. The Kripo’s photographer was busy snapping pictures—close-ups of the victim, shots from a distance with the palace in the background. Rutger Beck paced around the crime scene in his old overshoes, now and then staring impatiently at the Kriminalpolizei’s physician who was meticulously examining the still-clothed body.
“Friend of yours?” Beck asked Thomas.
“I met her only recently.”
“No wonder you’re divorced, the company you keep.” The investigator paused in mid-stride. “Sorry, that wasn’t fair at all.”
“Now even innocent bystanders are being killed! Damnit, Rutger, I just write about books.”
“Innocence is not a word I’d associate with this lady’s line of work.” Beck lit a Belomor and passed it over. “Are you sure she’s the one you spoke with in Kreuzberg?”
The harsh Russian tobacco caught at the back of Thomas’ throat. “Right before the shootout in the street,” he said, and coughed.
“Johnny Flowers owns a Horch 951.”
“His isn’t the only one in Berlin.”
“But he had a reason to wipe a talkative whore off the map. That alone ties him to the crime.”
Thomas shook his head. “She makes money for him. He’s a businessman. Why would he kill her?”
“A colleague in the sex crimes unit told me of five instances where Flowers has gotten rough with one of his girls. Each time, a girl ended up in the hospital. That’s the only way it ever comes to our attention. The girls won’t say anything or press charges. They’re scared to death of him.” He indicated the body. “And they should be.”
“How does Flowers get away with it?”
“Same old story. He has powerful friends.”
“Such as?”
Beck led Thomas away from the physician and Ingrid. “Bormann,” he said quietly.
“That doesn’t explain Gerda’s death.”
Beck lit another Belomor and inhaled deeply. Finally he said, “We like to think of ourselves as a civilized nation, but brutality is creeping into every facet of German life. Look at the Wehrmacht, where young men are trained to kill for their country and honored with an Iron Cross when they succeed on the battlefield under the harshest conditions. Then, on leave, they are supposed to put aside every instinctive response that their training has instilled in them and behave like perfect, cultured gentlemen.” He flicked ash off the cigarette. “We’re seeing more and more crimes of passion. Chances are, this victim was raped.”
“She was in the business of selling herself to strangers. Why kill her for sex?”
The investigator stared at the burning e
nd of his cigarette. “Combat changes some people. I wouldn’t be surprised if the killer had recently returned from the Russian Front.”
“Ordinary soldiers don’t use ice picks.”
“Inspector,” the doctor called, one hand on a round wooden handle that projected from Gerda Schacht’s right eye socket. “The sharp end was driven upwards through the pupil and the orbital bone into her brain. I’d say the killer moved the pick back and forth after she went down.”
“She didn’t fall on her face then.”
“She was on her back for awhile,” the doctor explained, “probably struggling to escape. See the marks in the snow, the mud under her fingernails? And look at the shoes, she crawled right out of them.”
Thomas asked, “How could she survive an attack with that weapon?”
The doctor rose, brushed the snow off his coat and trousers, stamped his shoes. “Tentatively, I’d say she did not die immediately but was left to suffer. Helpless and confused, she likely succumbed to the freezing conditions last night. Death by exposure.”
“Confused? What do you mean?” Beck demanded.
“A similar technique is employed in psychosurgery, also known as a lobotomy. It’s a common procedure in American mental hospitals. The patient lives on, minus the personality that formerly distinguished him or her as an individual.”
“Sounds a lot like what the Nazis are doing to our country,” Thomas muttered.
“Excuse me?” the doctor said.
Beck intervened. “This citizen is still feeling the shock of coming upon such a grisly scene. We need to make some allowances for him.”
“Well,” the doctor closed his black bag and stepped back while ambulance attendants lifted the body onto a stretcher, “he should learn to keep his mouth shut. Safer that way.”
“You’re absolutely right, Doctor. Thank you,” Beck said, and watched the physician trudge through the snow alongside the stretcher. “Thomas, what the hell were you thinking? Do you have a death wish?”
“Not me,” he insisted. Never mind that I’ve seen more dead bodies this week than in my entire life...a thought which he kept to himself. Then he looked around for Ingrid and saw her, escorted from the park by a female detective. “Why are you taking her in?”
