Shadow and Light

by Jonathan Rabb

  THERE ARE THOSE PARTS OF TOWN that mock at their own seediness, garish light, music trailing out into the streets, with a bit of good humor that insists that, even if the stink lies just beneath the surface, why let it spoil the fun. None is more accomplished than the Hallesches Gate, towering above the proceedings with an elbow to the ribs, goading the half-conscious boozer to gawk at the excess.

  It is a cheap little show, and not worth the ticket for those who know Berlin. There might have been a time when the sex halls and whiskey parlors served an honest purpose as counterweights to a scorched life of middle-class unemployment, inflation, and malnutrition. Hoffner had even seen something noble in a city that knew how to tend to its own with the promise of temporary oblivion—but not now. The laughter had turned in on itself, skewering the very people who were keeping the places alive: the half-naked Negress, the cocaine-needled arm of the man dressed as a woman dressed as a man dressed as . . . The uniforms were as clear as day, giving it all a kind of manageable vice. Hoffner imagined that these were the boys and girls shunned by the private clubs and secret societies of schooldays, now triumphant in an unintended conformity. Staring into one such pack, he found it difficult to know who was sneering at whom.

  Monday was African Night at The Trap, where the two or three Negroes on staff were joined by the rest in blackface. A tiny blonde, who had gone to great lengths to tar the backs of her hands, took Hoffner’s coat and hat and handed him a ticket. A genuine African in loincloth delicately pulled Leni’s from her shoulders and retreated with the girl.

  “She wouldn’t know what to do with him if she got the chance.” Leni spoke over the noise as a fat, very German little man led them through the crowd. “We’ve got better in the States.”

  Hoffner followed her. “You spent a good deal of time breeding them, if I remember.”

  “Not fair bringing up past indiscretions.”

  “I wasn’t trying to be fair.”

  They arrived at the table and he ordered them two brandies.

  “I’m impressed,” she said as she glanced through the menu. “You didn’t pull out your badge, race to get to the bottom of things. You’re playing this very well.”

  Truth to tell, Hoffner wasn’t exactly sure what he was playing at. “You’re too kind.”

  “And no—I don’t see him, if that’s what you’re wondering.” She had yet to take her eyes from the menu.

  The band was thumping away with something American—lots of horns and drums—as Hoffner scanned above the faces. The private rooms were a floor up, along an exposed balcony that ran the length of each wall. Sexual romps, with perhaps just a hint of professional pleasure tossed in, were paid for on the sly, a passed note to the maître d’, a few marks exchanged, followed by some token gift placed on the table—a white rose, a pouch of tobacco—to inform the large men at the foot of the stairs that access had been granted. From the look of things, tonight’s choice was a yellow glove.

  “They don’t allow prostitutes,” she said, her eyes still fixed on the menu. “I asked.” She seemed momentarily confused. “What exactly is a ‘Nubian Moon’?”

  Hoffner continued to track the balcony. “Something chocolate, I imagine. In the shape of a woman’s ass.”

  She looked up with a surprised admiration. “You’ve eaten here before?”

  “No.” He looked across at her. “Odd that he’s not here.”

  “Maybe someone didn’t like the way he was treating the guests?”

  “Maybe someone didn’t want one of those guests coming back and finding him.” Hoffner called over a waiter. “We’ll have a Nubian Moon and two spoons.”

  Hoffner watched as the couples, trios, and quartets made their way up the stairs, arms around waists, stolen gropes and playful slaps, the carpet stained with too many liters of spilled whiskey to count. This was how the self-parody played itself out, up to the narrow stage, where the shrieked laughter of false vulgarity served as the last desperate plea for attention. The large men who escorted these bands to their appointed doors seemed almost inhuman by comparison, their stony faces and measured steps the stuff of a Fritz Lang imagination. And as with Lang, there was something hypnotic to the movement. Hoffner watched as the doors opened and closed, as the eager slipped in and the sated out. It was several minutes before he realized that none of the escorts was stopping at a door about halfway down the back wall. There was nothing to it other than its absence from the ritual.

  “You were right,” Leni said, licking at her spoonful. “It’s very nice chocolate. We don’t get this kind of stuff in the States.”

  Hoffner turned to see two round mounds of dark pudding sitting in a raised cup. He had no idea when it had arrived. “Which room did they say Thyssen and the girl used?”

  She dipped in for a second helping. “So the trance is broken.”

  “Sorry.”

  “No, it was fun to watch. You lick your lips every so often.” She set her spoon by the cup. “They didn’t say which room.”

  He pulled a few marks from his pocket and placed them on the table. “Have a bit more. We won’t be coming back. Things might get unpleasant.”

  There was a studied calm in her expression, as if such warnings carried no weight. He might have mistaken it for arrogance, but he knew better. This was control, and willingly or not, Hoffner could feel its pull from across the table. “I’ve had my fill,” she said, pushing back her chair. He stood and followed her through the crowd to the stairs.

  She was reaching for the banister when a powerful hand rose up to stop her. Its owner was equally dense. “No, no, Fräulein. Private rooms.”

  Leni nodded to a group wending its way up. “They don’t look that private.”

  The shrug seemed to swallow the boy’s neck completely. “What can I say? Private.”

  Hoffner stepped forward while reaching into his pocket. Almost at once, the boy was on him, the smirk gone, the hands moving with unexpected speed. He seemed to have Hoffner’s arm in his grasp when just as quickly his expression turned to shock, then pain. Hoffner held the boy’s wrist, twisting and pinning it up against the chest: it was remarkable to see that much size incapable of movement. “Don’t” was all Hoffner said. The boy nodded once. With his free hand, Hoffner again reached into his pocket and pulled out his badge. “You see what I was trying to find? You know what it is?” Again the boy nodded. “There’s a room upstairs I’d like to see. You’ll be taking me to it.” The final nod was little more than a spasm of pain. “Good.” Hoffner released and the boy instantly brought his hand up to his shoulder.

  His words were sweaty with justification. “I thought you had—”

  “I know what you thought I had. Just take us up.”

  Hoffner expected the signal to be a little less obvious than a stumble on the stairs, but subtlety was not really The Trap’s selling point. Evidently neither was subterfuge: waiting outside the door was a small, pasty man buffered by a trio of interchangeably large thugs. Hoffner had never mentioned which room he wanted to see.

  “Detective.” The man spoke through a practiced smile. “We’ve never met, have we?”

  The none-too-veiled reference to the Kripo men on his payroll made the man at least something of a challenge. Hoffner said, “I’m sure you pay them very well, mein Herr.”

  “I’m sure I have no idea what you mean, Detective.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you don’t. But we both know I’m not here about what goes on inside the rest of these rooms. Just this one.”

  “Same as the others, Detective. And we’d be delighted to open one up to you—and your lady friend, of course—along with any guests you require. Unfortunately, this one is being remodeled.”

  “But then you see that’s my particular fetish, mein Herr. The smell of paint, the ripped fabric.”

  For just an instant, the man’s eyes narrowed. “You’d be wise to let this go, Detective.” It was as if the man was speaking on orders.

  “Was that the same messag
e you had for the lady earlier tonight?” said Hoffner. “When one of your boys smacked her around?”

  The man seemed momentarily at a loss. He turned his eyes to the thug nearest him, who quietly shook his head. It was the first unrehearsed moment Hoffner had seen. “Perhaps the lady is mistaken.”

  “She’s not,” Leni cut in.

  Hoffner said, “The door, mein Herr.” This time the man’s eyes darted to the entrance below. “Whoever it is,” Hoffner countered, “they won’t get here in time. The door. I won’t ask again.”

  There comes a moment when a man gives in to the futility of his situation. Some falter under the weight; others feel the release. Luckily for Hoffner, Herr TrapTrap was one of the latter. He pulled a key from his pocket and, with a sudden sense of purpose, unlocked the door. He stood aside.

  Hoffner said, “You’ll wait here, Fräulein.”

  The room was all mirrors and draped fabric, with an oversized bed against the far wall. Aside from that, the place was empty. Hoffner started for the bed when Leni brushed past him. “There’s a door back here,” she said. “Behind the curtains.” She tried to open it.

  The man had been cleverer than Hoffner realized. This was all taking time. “It looks like we’ll be needing another key, mein Herr.” He would deal with Leni later.

  The man waited until he had the second lock open before saying, “You’re making a mistake, Detective.” The uncertainty now had a hint of self-preservation.

  “Well, then I imagine we both are.” Hoffner pushed open the door and, in mock surrender, turned to Leni. “Fräulein?”

  He followed her down a short corridor—more mirrors and fabric—and through to a second door. And it was there that everything became strangely familiar: the half-room, the narrow openings in the far wall, the projector, the red haze. Even the canisters of film, though smaller, were stacked in much the same way as were those out at Ufa.

  “Don’t touch anything,” Hoffner said as he stepped over to one of the slits and peered down at the rows of plush chairs.

  “It gets better,” Leni said from behind him. She was holding back a curtain beyond the canisters to reveal yet one more room. This one, however, was pure artifice. The walls were lined with set pieces—a woman’s boudoir, a saloon from the American West, a forest glade—while above, filming lights hung along several iron poles. A camera stood off to the side, wedged in among a low bed, a chair, and something that resembled a rock. “A studio and screening room all in one,” she said. “I wonder what’s on the bill for tonight.”

  A reel was slotted into the projector. Hoffner found the most obvious switch, turned it, and watched as the thing instantly clicked into motion. Again he peered through one of the openings.

  It took him a moment to understand what he was seeing. When he did, he nearly blanched. A girl in a flimsy nightdress was being taken by two men, the terror in her screams no less deafening for their silence. If there was an eroticism to it, Hoffner couldn’t see it. This was a brutality even he had rarely met.

  Without warning, the girl’s voice suddenly erupted in the room and Hoffner felt it like the snapping of a rib, its raw anguish echoing with the same guttural cries of the insane.

  “Is that an animal?” Leni said. Hoffner turned to see her standing across from him. Hers was more confusion than shock, as she had yet to look through to the screen. She stepped toward one of the openings, and Hoffner immediately turned off the projector.

  It was several seconds before he spoke. “Where did that voice come from?”

  “What was on the screen?” she asked. “Nothing. How did they do that—the voice?”

  “I don’t know, and don’t tell me it was nothing.”

  The last minute had taken something from him, and while there might have been a measure of hope in Leni’s instance of compassion, he knew that it—like the images—would fade. It was the voice, and the voice alone, that would remain.

  “Was it the Volker girl?” she said, almost in a whisper. She had heard something human in it, something to shake her.

  The gasping mouth, the fingers tearing at the cloth, the inescapable sound: he held it for a moment, then stepped over to the table. He needed the distance.

  “No,” he said, and began to look through the canisters. Each had a strip of adhesive along the rim: Geli T., Louisa F., Hans P. He found Ingrid V. in the second pile just as he heard the click of Leni’s lighter. She had found her way to the door.

  “You shouldn’t smoke,” he said. “Not with all the open reels.”

  “I don’t care. Did you find her?” He turned and nodded. “Then let’s get out of here.”

  The sound of footsteps from the corridor told him that was no longer a possibility.

  Two men bulled their way into the room, each in a brown coat, brown suit, brown, brown, brown. Maybe everyone was right: the outfit was so obvious. “Detectives,” Hoffner said, not waiting for the badges to come out.

  “And what do we have here?” the older of the two began.

  Hoffner’s voice was low, controlled. “Something rather unpleasant.”

  The man nodded to Leni. “Who’s she?”

  “None of your concern, Detective Sergeant.” It was a reasonable guess. Even the hierarchy of corruption had its protocol: inspectors stayed in on rainy nights; sergeants and the like were left to handle the mop-up work.

  The man let out a long breath. “And you’d be—?”

  “Chief Inspector Nikolai Hoffner. Alexanderplatz. That’s a few bump-ups for you, just yet.”

  The Alex always carried a nice weight when it came to the precinct boys. Internal investigations had a nasty habit of emanating from within its walls.

  The Herr Detective Sergeant opted for feigned ignorance. “Well, you lot at the Alex obviously know more than we do, Herr Chief Inspector. We had Herr Lüben here running an honest business.”

  It was odd giving TrapTrap a name, thought Hoffner. “Sex and dope,” he said. “What could be more honest than that?”

  The detective sergeant smiled, ignorance bleeding into sham camaraderie. “Pretty harmless stuff, Herr Chief Inspector. People need a bit of fun now and then. Who’s to judge, really?”

  Hoffner mirrored the smile. “Who, indeed?” The response confused the man: Where was the usual dressing-down to draw focus away from the real issue? Hoffner spoke no less easily: “But this has nothing to do with that, does it, Herr Detective Sergeant? Not that you have any idea what’s in these films—I’m right in assuming that, aren’t I?” The man said nothing. “No, of course not.”

  Herr Lüben cut in: “Whatever you think you saw, Herr Chief Inspector, don’t for a minute think it wasn’t of the girl’s choosing. No one goes on film without a bit of a past. We invite only the most enthusiastic.”

  Hoffner always found it curious the moment a man rediscovers his courage, as if genuine backbone could be misplaced. “I’d hardly describe what was there as enthusiasm, mein Herr.”

  “The camera can be very deceptive, Herr Chief Inspector. It shows you what you want to see. Obviously, your tastes stray to the more vicious.”

  Hoffner let the word settle before saying, “I don’t believe I mentioned what I saw, Herr Lüben.” And without waiting: “It all comes down. Poles, scenery, camera, projector. The detective sergeant will be spending the rest of the evening dismantling this little enterprise. And he’s going to make absolutely certain that every one of those reels finds its way to my office.” Hoffner turned to see just how impressive Leni was: she was writing in a small notebook. “You have the list, Fräulein?” She nodded as she finished with the names.

  The detective sergeant made one last effort: “This isn’t really your jurisdiction, Herr Chief Inspector.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Placing the Volker girl’s canister in his pocket, Hoffner turned and escorted Leni to the door.

  “YOU DIDN’T EVEN TAKE HIS NAME,” Leni said. She had waited until they were in the cab to make clear ju
st how much she still had to learn.

  “That would have pushed it too far,” said Hoffner. “Given him something to lose.” He cracked the window and tapped out the ash from his cigarette. “I don’t need his name.”

  “And you trust him?”

  “To do this? Yes.”

  “You know they’ll just set it up somewhere else.”

  “I imagine that’s true.”

  “And that doesn’t trouble you?”

  The buildings began to grow taller, whiter. Even the lamplight seemed cleaner. They were moving north. “Of course it troubles me, but removing a few lights, a camera, and plasterboard isn’t going to do much to stop that.” He took a last pull and flicked the cigarette out the window.

  “And the voice?” she said more quietly.

  He waited before answering. “What about it?”

  “It was—I don’t know.” She seemed to lose herself. She then looked at him. “Is it possible to do that?”

  “Evidently.”

  “How? And why? There has to be more to it. You know there is.”

  She was right, but Hoffner had no intention of taking things any further tonight. “We’ll see.”

  He sat back as the driver turned onto Unter den Linden. The dual column of trees at the center stretched out like a pair of protective arms, but only for those who could afford its comfort: this was the way west. Hoffner had always marveled at how deceptive the avenue was, the promise of it all just out of reach, imagined from the top of a tram or a bus—or the back of a cab—but never met. Even the buildings goaded with false hope.

  The best and worst of them was the Adlon, its awnings draped in endless flags, the majesty of the place concentrated in the detail of its stonework and glass, all of which seemed to grow more immense as it rose. It was a massive thing that gave Hoffner the impression of a fat man puffing out his chest.

  The cab drew up to the curb, and Hoffner leaned over for the door. Leni pulled him back. “So that’s how you’re going to leave me? Out in the cold.”

  Hoffner stared at her, then past her to the hotel. “It looks warm enough.”