A Gypsy in Berlin

by DS Holmes

  “The old man is still inside.”

  “Stay here,” she ordered. “I’ll find him.”

  Moments later she emerged from the fully-engulfed shop as the klaxons of the fire brigade grew louder and laid the old man down gently onto the cobblestones. Tauben’s eyes were closed, his chest wasn’t rising or falling.

  Thomas crawled over and, with a scorched hand at the shopkeeper’s throat, felt for a pulse. After a long minute, he sat back on the curb and watched as the first fire truck turned the corner off the Gendarmenmarkt.

  “He’s dead,” Thomas whispered.

  “Damnit, I was freezing out here,” Helga said. “I go for hot coffee and before I can drink it you’re in trouble again.”

  “Another man, dead.”

  “Can’t I leave you alone in a bookstore?”

  “Who could’ve done such a thing?”

  “A saw a couple of street thugs running away.”

  “You’re suggesting it was a case of anti-Semitic violence?”

  “No.” She shook her blonde head. “It’s because you were there.”

  Chapter 15

  THE NOISE IN THE CASUALTY department was appalling. Injured passengers in a bus accident on Budapesterstrasse filled the emergency room at Chariteʹ. Some victims were screaming in pain; others, in a state of shock sat immobile, moaning quietly. White-coated staff members were bustling about, talking to each other while assessing the injuries for priority in treatment—trying to exert an element of control in the midst of apparent chaos. There was also the insistent hum of an X-ray machine and the steady throbbing of a generator.

  Thomas sat, hunched, on an exam table, listening to the anxious conversation of a small group of bus riders who had sustained only scrapes and bruises. Evidently, the double-decker had skidded on a patch of ice, slammed into an army truck and flipped onto its side. Then his attention was drawn away from the patients to a collection of bottles in a steel-and-glass case. An overhead lamp was aimed directed at the cabinet, creating star flashes on the clear and amber bottles of penicillin and morphine. The precious vials became a glittering light show for his tired eyes.

  “You again, Herr Rost?” a physician asked while toying with his stethoscope.

  Thomas coughed several times, took a deep breath. “Believe me, I had other plans.”

  “Remind me what you do for a living. Are you a fireman, a policeman, or one of those unlucky souls sent to dig up unexploded ordnance in the Tiergarten?”

  “I was in a bookstore, Dr. Reymann. You’d think a man would be safe surrounded by books.”

  “Take off your shirt.” The doctor told a nurse, “Make notes of the damage. There are singed hairs on the left side of the neck as well as dorsal and palmar aspects of both hands—first degree burns.” The physician shone a light up his nostrils and at his eyes. “Smoke inhalation, too.”

  “There was an old man, Benjamin Tauben. He wasn’t breathing.”

  “He still isn’t. It’s called death.”

  “How did he die?”

  “A heart attack, probably. The firebombing of his shop, shock from his burns, smoke in his lungs—it was too much at his age. Fact is, I treated Herr Tauben for chest pains earlier this year. It will take an autopsy to give a definitive answer.”

  “Maybe if I hadn’t been there...” Thomas shrugged.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t tell me more, Herr Rost.” The doctor turned to the nurse. “Bring the oxygen tank. While he’s breathing through the mask, clean and bandage his hands and neck. Give him a shot of painkillers, too.”

  “Nothing to knock me out,” Thomas said. “I need a clear head.”

  The doctor nodded. “The way I hear it, you carried Tauben out of a burning building. Are you trying to become Berlin’s citizen of the year?”

  “He should be alive.”

  “It was his time, that’s all. Nothing more you could do. The autopsy can pinpoint a cause and, speaking of which,” the doctor looked across the room, “Dr. Rost is here.”

  She helped Thomas off the table. “Some say that minor burns should be left exposed to the air. However, in your case, a visual aid is an excellent idea.”

  The nurse finished wrapping his hands in gauze, administered an injection and, after bandaging his neck, moved away to help other patients. Thomas and his ex-wife left the crowded ER and found a deserted hallway. He leaned back against the wall, closed his eyes.

  “Wouldn’t you rather sit down?” she said. “There’s a break room close by.”

  “An old man is dead. The fire in his shop was meant for me.”

  “Maybe you can write an essay critical of Mein Kampf or heap scorn on the writings of Houston Stewart Chamberlain or praise Albert Einstein in print. Anything would be safer than whatever you are doing. Thomas, you act as though you are on a suicide mission.”

  He opened his eyes, led her into a vacant office and shut the door. “I have to know the name of the dead SS officer.”

  Johanna turned away. “Talking with you is like having a conversation with a brick wall. As for my work, haven’t you heard of patient confidentiality?”

  “He won’t mind.”

  She spun around, poked his chest with an index finger. “Who gave you the right to make decisions for the dead?”

  Thomas hung his head.

  “His file goes to Werderscher-Markt tomorrow morning.”

  “Johanna, they’ll just bury it.”

  “Tell that to Rutger, not me.”

  He slipped his bandaged hands inside her lab coat, rested them on her hips. “The pastor’s name is Philipp Witte. He left his Friedenskirche congregation in Potsdam on Friday and travelled to a public park in Berlin. By the most remarkable of coincidences, a significant number of his congregants are Gypsies.”

  “Thomas,” she said quietly, “it’s not for you to figure out a reason for the pastor’s death. You’re no longer on the crime beat. It’s a criminal investigation now.”

  “Why was the Sturmbannfuehrer in the park with the minister? Clearly it wasn’t to make an arrest since both were murdered, I think, by the same person.”

  She pulled free of him, went to a desk and fell back into a chair. “I give up. I don’t know how to help you.”

  “Just tell me what you know. That’ll help a lot.”

  She looked up at him. “This is really about that Gypsy girl, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t want to argue with you, Johanna.”

  “Then try telling me the truth, for God’s sake.”

  Stalling, he moved his left hand to his neck—bandage to bandage—and winced. Lowering his left arm, he said, “All right, I owe you that. First, a glass of water?”

  She found a pitcher on a metal cart, filled a glass, and held it out for him. “Lukewarm and wet.”

  Taking the glass between his two bandaged hands, he swallowed until the glass was empty and set it on a window ledge. “One day in September, 1931, I was at Adolf Hitler’s apartment in Munich, only I was a guest not of the Fuehrer but of the police. Outside the building stood the Reichsfuehrer in his black uniform and beside him, a young aide—the same man now under the knife at your institute. I never forget a face.”

  “The incident with Geli Raubal.” She slumped in the chair. “Oh, Thomas, come with me to Leipzig. Abandon this...regardless of who’s behind it.”

  “Too late. It’s gone too far. Don’t you see, all these people—the Fuehrer’s secretary, Bormann, was there too—are connected to what happened that day, one way or another. I don’t yet know who is guilty in the matter of Geli’s death. But I am going to find out.”

  The door opened and Helga poked her head into the office. “Am I interrupting a private consultation?”

  “Another girlfriend?” Johanna said.

  Helga showed off her own bandaged right hand. “Strictly professional, Doctor,” she assured. “Is the patient ready to go?”

  “Give me five more minutes.”

  “I’ll wait in the corridor.”
Helga grinned and shut the door.

  “Who is she?”

  “Not a Gypsy.”

  “Not funny.”

  “Her name is Helga. Helga Schmitt of the SD.”

  Johanna rose from the desk. “How did it come to this? Can you explain that to me, please?”

  “I don’t understand it all myself,” he admitted. “What I do know is that, right now, I need your help.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “Really? Just give you a name and you are free of this...this task of yours?”

  “There’s someone I have to interview without Frau Schmitt around. One hour,” he said, holding up his gauze-covered hands, “that’s all I ask.”

  “You want me to cover for you.” She started tapping her shoes on the linoleum floor. “Okay, I’ll give her a story about a possible blood infection, the need to run some tests in a restricted lab. No visitors allowed.”

  “Perfect. Thank you.”

  “I shouldn’t do this, Thomas.”

  He kissed her lips. “You won’t regret it.”

  Chapter 16

  IT WAS ONLY A SHORT bus ride to Oranienburgerstrasse and the Neue Synagogue. The gilded dome of Berlin’s largest synagogue was intact, though much of the structure bore the scars of Kristallnacht. Thomas went to the corner and looked at a salmon-colored apartment building with a broad passageway leading to a courtyard. Shivering from the cold—and missing his overcoat—he ambled past an iron lamppost to the front door and entered the building. Someone was playing a piano in a ground floor unit, a skillful rendition of Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata.” Although performed with obvious passion, it was not the most uplifting piece to hear under the circumstances. He made his way up a flight of stairs to the third floor, the hope of obtaining the key to the puzzle of Geli Raubal a diminishing prospect in his mind.

  Only two apartments occupied the floor. A fifty-fifty chance of getting it right the first time. Good odds. In response to his knock, a middle-aged woman wearing a lace-bordered apron opened the first door and carefully looked Thomas up and down. When her eyes settled on his bandaged hands she started to close the door.

  “I’m here to see Herr Neurath,” he said quickly. “Benjamin Tauben referred me.”

  “You have an appointment?” she asked in a Polish accent.

  “It’s concerning Herr Tauben. There’s been an accident.”

  “Your name?”

  “Thomas Rost.”

  An elderly gentleman appeared behind the woman. The dark-haired man was heavy-set. Not fat, he was, as people remarked, “big-boned,” his features thick, not fleshy. “Thank you, Sophie, you may let him enter.”

  As Thomas stepped into the apartment he noted that the entry hall was lined with bookshelves. The living room was furnished with fine antiques, the drapes alone worth a fortune, he thought. A Persian carpet covered the hardwood floor and, on a table by the front window, a silver tray with a porcelain teapot shared space with a half-empty cup set on a delicate saucer.

  “Wilhelm Neurath?”

  “Young man, if you didn’t know who I am you wouldn’t be here.”

  Thomas accepted the rebuke, held up his hands. “I have some bad news, Herr Neurath.”

  “Yes, there was a fire at the shop. I was just preparing to go to the hospital. How is Benjamin?”

  “He didn’t make it. I’m sorry.”

  Neurath dropped onto an upholstered sofa. “He never hurt anyone in his life. Did you see what happened?”

  “I was with Herr Tauben in the book room when a Molotov cocktail was thrown into the shop.”

  Neurath stared at the bandaged hands. “You tried to help him?”

  “Unfortunately, it wasn’t enough.”

  “In my business I deal with some very tough-minded individuals. Benjamin wasn’t one of them. He was the kindest man I’ve ever known.”

  “There will be an autopsy to determine the cause of death.”

  “He had a weak heart.”

  “Herr Tauben said that you would probably be able to assist me,” his voice tightened involuntarily, “in tracking down a diary.”

  “What is the writer’s name?”

  “I confided that in Herr Tauben.”

  “Meaning, you won’t tell me.”

  “Yes. So perhaps it is best that you don’t know.”

  Neurath stood up. “I don’t see how I can help.”

  “You know all the serious collectors. Who would take special interest in the private writings of a close friend of a high government official?”

  “You mean a Nazi?” Neurath shrugged. “I wouldn’t touch it myself. My collection is concentrated on the last century.”

  “Do you know of anyone that specializes in 20th century material?”

  “Emil Milch in Hamburg, but he focuses strictly on military and naval figures. Then there is Hugo Zeitzler in Frankfurt. His interest is only on the private correspondence of artists and musicians, show business types. Does this ‘close friend’ of an official fall into that category?”

  Time to take a chance, Thomas decided. “More specifically, it’s the diary of a contemporary politician’s niece and, possibly, mistress.”

  Neurath rubbed his chin. “Thomas Rost, is it? I read the newspapers, I recognize the name. Book critic for the Deutsche Allgemeine Zeitung, correct?”

  “That’s right, sir,” he lied.

  “If I allowed myself the freedom of guessing the name of the politician you are referring to, and I won’t, I’d have to wonder if Benjamin Tauben’s death was in any way related to your search. What do you think?”

  “There is personal risk involved,” Thomas admitted, “for me and for others.”

  “Your editor is aware of your inquiries?”

  “No, sir.”

  “So then, it is a personal matter.” Neurath went to a rolltop desk. “The man you want is in Munich. Felix Abetz. He won’t do business over the telephone.”

  “How can I contact him?”

  “You must go to Munich.” He took a sheet of paper and a fountain pen. “I will write a brief letter of introduction, which you will present to the head curator at the Alte Pinakothek. He will get in touch with Felix.”

  “A roundabout system.”

  “And necessary, Herr Rost. These days we must be extraordinarily careful.” Neurath finished writing. He folded the paper and put it in an envelope. “I hope my trust in you is not misplaced. I would hate to think Benjamin died in vain.”

  “Officially, I am still at the hospital. As far as I can determine, no one followed me.”

  “You are a careful one, too.”

  “Let’s just say, a plan is forming in my mind,” Thomas said, and pocketed the envelope.

  Leaving the apartment building, he crossed the street toward the Post Office. In mid-stride, he paused to glance around. Since no one ducked into a vestibule or turned away, he concluded that his visit to Neurath had gone unnoticed.

  Chapter 17

  OUTSIDE THE HEADQUARTERS building of the Reichspolizei on Werderscher-Markt, Helga waited impatiently. “I’m learning the hard way not to let you out of my sight.”

  “That might be inconvenient. What if I have to use the men’s bathroom?”

  “Rost, I don’t like comedians.”

  “I told you where I was. Medical tests take time.” Awkwardly, he shoved the sleeve of his coat and his sweater up to the left elbow. With his teeth he ripped off the tape holding down a cotton ball, revealing the black-and-blue mark from an IV needle. “The good news is, I’ll make a full recovery. You should be happy for me.”

  “You’re lucky I am the forgiving type. Some of my colleagues would start breaking bones or pulling out fingernails.”

  “I can’t accomplish my assignment from a bed in an orthopedic ward.” With the flat of his right hand, he pushed down the sleeve of his sport coat, then smoothed down the coat’s collar. He had lifted it up when leaving the hospital.

  “You can’t fool me, Rost. You’re
up to something.”

  “I’m just doing my duty...you know, the job so tactfully presented by General Heydrich.”

  “Always the innocent citizen.”

  “And loyal. Don’t forget loyal.”

  “Your loyalty is reserved for whom?” She took several deep breaths to compose herself. “Let me explain something, Thomas. The general is a brilliant man. He is destined to become the next Fuehrer, and when he is in that position, he will remember his friends. You want to be his friend, don’t you?”

  “I shouldn’t keep the police waiting.”

  “Where you go, I go too.”

  “Then it’s ladies first, Frau Schmitt.”

  “Wunderbar,” she said, a smile appearing on her red lips. “But we’ll walk inside together.”

  The six-story building that housed police headquarters staff reflected the regime’s grandiose style of government offices, an architectural decision that was jarringly at odds with the German capital’s Baroque and Neo-Classical tradition.

  At the entrance ,an efficient uniformed member of the Ordnungpolizei stepped in front. “Papers,” he demanded.

  Before Thomas could respond, Helga produced her official ID. “We’re in a hurry today, officer.”

  “On your way then, Frau Schmitt,” the policeman said, and stepped aside.

  Rutger stood by an elevator, lighting a cigarette. “Thanks for taking time out of your busy schedule,” he said sarcastically. “You’re only an hour late.”

  “Yes,” Helga nodded, “he is definitely the most unpunctual German in the entire Reich.”

  “So you two already know each other.”

  “We’re a team,” she told the investigator.

  Beck shrugged helplessly, turned to his friend. “Anyone else tagging along, Thomas?”

  “I’ve become quite popular,” he acknowledged.

  The crush of uniformed policemen in the main lobby reminded him of his science class at the Gymnasium. The teacher had taken the class outside onto the playing field to observe the workings of a colony of ants. The anthill was the center of constant activity. Identically-appearing ants labored tirelessly, each one knowing its role in the life of the colony—all of them fully-occupied in their work over a typical lifespan of only three weeks. Here, each police officer seemed endowed with a self-conscious sense of purpose, a member of a special organization with great responsibilities in the life of the Third Reich. They also carried themselves in a confident manner, as if aware that they shared certain privileges reserved only for those charged with maintaining order in a police state.