by DS Holmes
“The Kripo has jurisdiction over Gypsies. If I don’t put her in protective custody now, the Gestapo will sweep her up and she will disappear forever. Is that what you want?”
“I’ve got to get her out of Berlin.”
“Scared of the Gestapo? Smart. Very smart.” Beck sighed. “Remember those late night study sessions at the university? I know how you think, Thomas. You came here because the girl saw something. She knows a lot, doesn’t she?”
“So you’re arresting her?”
“Come to Werderscher-Markt before noon.”
As his old friend walked to the police car holding Ingrid, Thomas shuddered, and not from the cold. Werderscher-Mark was the headquarters building of the Kriminalpolizei. Rutger’s office was on the second floor. He had long made it a point to avoid the six-story structure, the sheer numbers of uniformed and plainclothes policemen an unwelcome reminder of life in a police state.
Chapter 9
FROM BEHIND, A WEIGHTLESS hand fell onto his right shoulder. He spun around and found himself gazing into the bluest eyes he had ever seen. “What do you want?” he managed to say.
“You’ve caused me a lot of trouble lately, Rost,” the lady said. “Obersturmfuehrer Brandt told me I’d find you at your apartment.”
She was the image of Marlene Dietrich. Or Uta Perle. But Uta had melted in the fiery furnace of a burning Black Maria. “I’m for the scenery, the fresh air.”
“Rost, you have the nose of a reporter and are developing a fine sense for the macabre. I just came from the ambulance, where I pulled back the sheet covering your whore friend.”
“One last look before she goes?”
“Don’t be too clever.”
“I only meant that you were indulging in professional curiosity.”
“My, the general was right. You are a brave one.”
“Should I fear you, Helga Schmitt?”
“Most people do.” She turned to watch the ambulance pull away from the park. “The way she died, that’s how the Communists liquidate their enemies.”
“Communists murdered a streetwalker?”
“Odd, isn’t it? I mean, killing a working girl? The Reds are supposed to be champions of the working-class.” She placed a long finger to her chin, contemplating the political question. “No, the National Socialists are for the workers of Germany. You should not forget that.”
“So now it’s Russian agents cleaning up the German capital?”
“Oh, we have plenty of home-grown leftists. Fewer than before Doctor Goebbels organized the workers to fight the Reds in our streets, but some troublemakers went underground.” She put an arm around Thomas’ shoulders and walked him past the bare oaks and birches. “You see, the Rota Kapelle are still active in the Fatherland. The SD estimates there are as many as one hundred unauthorized transmitters in greater Berlin, sending information on our armaments industry back to Mother Russia.”
Thomas slipped her arm off. “Assuming you are not simply making a joke at my expense, why would the Red Orchestra go after a prostitute?”
“They resent it when a member of the working-class rejects Marxism-Leninism.”
The sun appeared above the iconic steeple of the Marienkirche off the Alexanderplatz. Sounds of the city intensified—car horns blaring, streetcar wheels screeching on steel tracks. The smell of diesel drifted on the wind as they left Monbijou Park.
“Enough of politics,” he said. “A woman died back there.”
“How do you think Comrade Trotsky met his end last year?” She grinned, revealing even rows of white teeth. “Ice pick to the brain.”
“So it’s the Russian angle again,” Thomas noted, nearly slipping on a piece of ice.
“You think my outlook is too doctrinaire,” she said, and caught him by the arm. She steadied him until, once more, he pulled free. “It was Beria’s assassins that got to Stalin’s old rival. They caught up with Leon in Mexico. The Bolshevik’s great promoter of worldwide revolution was tracked down by the NKGB.”
“An efficient bunch. Kind of like our...oh, forget it. I’m supposed to watch what I say.”
“You can speak freely around me,” his escort said soothingly.
“So, the Teutonic Superwoman has been appointed to watch over me. At last, I can feel safe.”
“I’m glad you understand the situation, Herr Rost, but I have never compared myself to the great heroes and mythical figures of our nation’s past.”
“Occasionally, I exaggerate.”
“Hyperbole?”
“Literary license, one of my weaknesses.”
“Thomas, just think of me as your shadow.”
“Really? We’ll be that close? Almost like being married.”
Helga laughed. “I know just how you feel.”
Chapter 10
“I WILL WAIT OUTSIDE for you,” his bodyguard said. “Maybe I’ll get a bite to eat, drink some coffee.”
Thomas entered the Stadtgericht, its dour exterior giving way to an architectural fantasyland of marble floors, glittering chandeliers, and a white, wrought-iron balustrade that rose upward along a tiered staircase that led to sinuously-formed balconies on the upper floors, sections of which jutted-out over the main lobby where, on a Monday morning, black-uniformed Gestapo officers mingled with plainclothes detectives. Here and there small groups of men huddled in hushed conversations under the sobering influence of the Courts of Justice.
Once in the lobby, Thomas was approached by a solidly-built man wearing the black uniform of an SS officer. “No need to check his papers,” the officer told an SS guard by the doors. “He’s with me.”
“Yes, Hauptsturmfuehrer,” the guard said, and took a step back.
Thomas followed the officer up the stairs to the second floor and into a corner office, one with a window that looked out onto a courtyard. Gesturing to a wooden chair by a desk, the officer waited until Thomas sat down. “Wait here,” the officer ordered, and left the office.
Thomas stood up, removed his overcoat and hung it on a metal rack next to a trench coat. He settled back onto the chair but could not get comfortable in the policeman’s office. Maybe that was the idea, he thought, and looked around the room. It contained the obligatory metal filing cabinets and government office furniture. Framed photographs of Hitler and Himmler adorned the walls. A two-shelf bookcase behind the desk contained city directories, statutory guides, legal books, and maps that were folded carefully. A black telephone and a grey typewriter occupied the wooden desk, the phone set next to a metal nameplate.
The officer returned and handed him a cardboard cup of coffee. “It’s real coffee.”
“Thank you, Hauptsturmfuehrer Ulbricht.”
“You can skip the rank. Let’s keep things informal, okay? Call me Ulbricht.”
“How long will this take?”
“Take it easy. Personally, I’d rather talk with you in this office than in that drafty hut at Sachsenhausen. Have you given any thought to what I said there?”
“My father remains in custody.”
“Tell me what I don’t know. Listen Rost, I don’t control the keys to the camp. Your cooperation will be noted and will reflect favorably on your family. That may not seem like much, but it’s all I can promise.”
“What do you want?”
‘It’s a good thing you came here when you did. I was about to send a car to bring you in.”
Where is this going? Thomas asked himself. “Well, something came up.”
“Another dead body?”
Thomas spilled the hot beverage. “How did you know that?”
“Friday afternoon a Sturmbannfuehrer floated down the Spree, then a detective was blown apart at your apartment, losing the Gypsy girl he was transporting. Last night two policemen were assaulted outside your father’s house; one sustained a concussion severe enough that he can’t seem to recall anything that happened. There is also today’s discovery of a murdered prostitute not far from here.”
Ulbricht sipped his
coffee, set the cup on the desk. “Now, I understand you had nothing to do with the explosion outside the Sophienkirche and you didn’t arrange for the British bomb at Potsdamer Platz, but can you blame me for imagining a connection between you and a remarkable series of events the past 3 or 4 days?”
Thomas shrugged and finished his coffee.
“I’m dying to hear in your own words, just what the hell is going on in Berlin?”
“It’s been an unusual weekend,” he conceded.
Ulbricht crushed the cardboard cup, tossed it in a wastebasket and sat back. “More like unbelievable. I ought to arrest you right now.”
“Yes, why don’t you?”
“Because I’m going to stay on your case until I know everything.”
“Thanks for the coffee. May I leave?”
“Where will you go now?”
“Work. I have to go to work.”
Ulbricht tapped a finger on his telephone. “Call your editor, Eduard Gruening.”
Thomas cleared his throat. “He’s a busy man. Editorial meetings on Monday mornings—’’
“Call him.”
Thomas lifted the receiver and dialed. “Ah, Herr Gruening, this is Rost. I’ll be in later this morning.”
Ulbricht busied himself changing the ribbon on his typewriter and dropped the old spool in a drawer. Job done, he tilted his chair back, laced his fingers behind his head and waited.
Thomas listened to his boss. A minute later he said, “You’re letting me go? Why?” An audible click could be heard as the call was terminated.
“I have to clear out my desk,” he told the policeman and replaced the receiver. “I don’t understand.”
“Tough break. I’d say that your editor was contacted by someone with a lot of clout. A man or woman way above my pay grade.”
Thomas sighed heavily. “Can I leave?”
“First, a piece of advice.”
“I’m getting plenty of that.”
“Run your, ‘I’m just an ordinary citizen caught in a meat grinder routine’ on someone else. You know a helluva lot more than you’re letting on about an unusual crime wave washing over the capital,” Ulbricht said, “and the only reason you’re not in jail is because you have patrons with clout, too. But be careful, Rost, that could change very quickly.”
Thomas got up, grabbed his overcoat. “You’ve got me all figured out, Hauptsturmfuehrer.”
“Don’t try to con me. Before this is over you might need my help.”
There was a soft knock on the open door and the blonde head of a film star appeared. “Thomas, I’m starving. What happened to our early lunch?”
“Frau Schmitt,” the SS officer said, and rose to his feet. “Why am I not surprised that Rost has an SD escort?”
“Hello, Dieter.” She strolled forward and shook his hand. “I’d love to stay and chat. However, as you’ve noticed, I’m on the job.”
Chapter 11
THE KIOSK ON ALEXANDERPLATZ sold bratwurst on buttered rolls. As a regular customer, Thomas took a satisfying bite of the cooked sausage, chewed it slowly and chased it down with hot tea while gazing up at the tower of the Marienkirche, a medieval-era church that had occupied the site since the 13th century.
A previously unformed question popped into his mind. Why hadn’t Ulbricht mentioned the death of Oswald Flick? The SS officer seemed to be aware of the other dead bodies haunting the Berlin area this weekend. And what about the minister in the river? Ulbricht had neglected to mention that, too. No doubt, the policeman had his reasons.
“Where to next?” Helga tossed the remains of her roll in the gutter.
“We’re not partners, Frau Schmitt.”
“Please, call me Helga. We’re going to be spending a lot of time together.” She pressed a thigh against his right leg. “I am responsible for your safety.”
Her body felt warm and hard, her perfume an intoxicating aroma. He forced himself to remember who she was. “I suppose I should be more grateful.”
“Yes, you should.”
“Maybe things might go more smoothly if you stayed in the background?”
She smiled disarmingly. “As long as you deliver the goods.”
How much has she been told? he asked himself, and looked across the square.
N. Israel’s century-old department store was still open for business. Like Wertheim’s on Potsdamer Platz, the store was an institution amongst working-class shoppers. So, in spite of the regime’s anti-Semitic policies, the place retained the founder’s Jewish name. Comparable stores included Karstadts in southeast Berlin, housed in an enormous building on Hermann Platz. Then there was the modern glass-and-brick Schockens, its wraparound glass tower and large display windows reflecting the influence of American merchandising. Then there was, in the city’s center, a high rise emporium known as KaDeWe—Kaufhaus Des Westens—a magnet for discerning shoppers since 1907.
“My father used to take me Christmas shopping at N. Israel’s.” As soon as the words left his mouth, Thomas felt foolish at divulging such personal information.
“It was owned by Jews.”
“No one has ever been compelled to spend money there.”
“Thomas, you are a sentimentalist. Yet, even though there is no place for such an emotion in a time of war, I find it attractive in a man.”
It wasn’t easy, trying to balance her flirtatious nature with a reputation as a killer. Thomas shifted his gaze to the newer structures around Alexanderplatz. A pair of office buildings, the Berolinahaus and the Alexanderhaus, had been erected in 1929, the year of the worldwide economic crash. Conservatively-dressed businessmen, leather briefcases in hand, entered and exited the office towers. Just another day at work for them, Thomas thought, and considered his unemployed status.
“So deep in thought, I really hate to interrupt your ruminations.” She said slid an arm through his and walked him away from the food cart. “It’s just that I need to know our next destination.”
“A place filled with words on paper.”
“A riddle? Okay, I’ll play along. Is it the archives section at your newspaper?”
“That’s one place I’ll have to stay away from now.”
“Nonsense. You’re a newspaperman.”
“Not anymore,” he said gloomily.
“You were let go?”
“Fired.” He disengaged his arm from hers. “I’ll wager my last paycheck it was General Heydrich’s doing.”
“Brandt, it was Brandt,” she corrected. “He wants your undivided attention.”
“A man needs a regular source of income.”
From an inside pocket she produced a thick envelope. “One thousand reichsmarks. A lot of cash. As the Obersturmfuehrer told me, ‘An advance to Rost for services provided, with a lot more on completion.’”
“What if I am unsuccessful?”
“My dear Thomas, you can’t afford to think such thoughts.”
“You mean I can’t afford to fail.”
“You are one of the smartest men I know.”
“We’d better get going,” he said, and pocketed the cash. As he started across the street a Kubelwagen turned the corner into the square. Instead of slowing, the military vehicle surged forward.
“Watch out!” Helga exclaimed and pulled him back onto the sidewalk.
While he tumbled backward, she assumed a shooter’s stance, legs apart, knees slightly bent, and fired her pistol three times, very fast. The bullets tore through the canvas roof of the jeep-like vehicle, but before she could shoot again the Kubelwagen turned sharply behind a bus and disappeared down a side street off the square. Putting the compact PPK .32 cal. back in her shoulder holster, she leaned over Thomas.
“That is why you need me around, sweetheart.” She ran her pink tongue over her thin lips. “Forget the U-Bahn, we’ll take my car.”
He got up, brushed snow and slush off his coat. “Even the Army is out to get me.”
“You’re off the Christmas card list of some powerfu
l men in Berlin,” she agreed. “On the other hand, this appearance of the Wehrmacht was for my benefit.”
“An old score to settle?”
“Better not to know.”
“I should leave Berlin.”
“Don’t get paranoid on me, Thomas. Where are we going now?”
“The Staatsbibliothek.”
Chapter 12
HELGA BACKED HER MERCEDES-Benz 500K cabriolet into one of the angled parking spaces along the pedestrian mall in the middle of Unter den Linden. Between the lampposts that lined the broad walkway, long red banners,emblazoned with swastikas, hung from tall poles. Across the boulevard, Nazi flags jutted from third-floor windows of the Zeughaus—a military museum. A white double-decker bus rumbled by as Thomas crossed in front of the former royal arsenal. Heading west, he passed the front gate of Berlin University and made his way to the Prussian state library.
What better place to begin searching for a diary? he told himself.
With more than three million books and periodicals in the library’s stacks, the chances were good that something would turn up. Once inside the building, he walked by the circulation desk and went up the staircase to the fourth floor. Near the back of the room he found the research section. Behind the solid counter stood the same spinster librarian he had matched wits with as a history and philosophy student in the mid-1920s.
His senses were soon overwhelmed by the familiar odors of leather-bound books, aged papers, floor polish and a musty smell coming off the heavy drapes, long-stored scents that nearly transported him back to the hopeful days of life in a carefree, albeit decadent, capital. A glance out of a window brought the office of his old university advisor into focus. A visit to Professor Gerhard Brinkmann wouldn’t be a waste of time, he thought.
The shrill voice of the librarian, Frau Greber, intruded and, as always, his attention was drawn directly to her beaked nose. She hadn’t changed, he noticed. No rings adorned her thin fingers, no make-up decorated her plain and narrow face. Her ears stuck out at odd angles, serving mainly as supports for her coke bottle-lensed spectacles.
