by Anton Gill
'Something I saw today,' she said. 'They brought him into Accident and Emergency, but he was a kid really, nine or ten, so they called me after they'd set his legs.' She was trembling. He didn't know if she wanted him to hold her or not. He made no move.
'What was it? Tram?'
She looked at him. 'No. It was your precious Brownshirts. Your Party men.'
The Storm Division had for years been Hitler's private force, but that was nothing. The Party wasn't the only one to have had a uniformed section, and there'd been bloody fights with the Communists and the Social Democrats every day, right up until the February elections, when the matter was closed.
'They beat him up because it's Easter.'
He paused before replying. 'I'll look into it.'
She shook her head. 'You'd never find the men who did it, and anyway they're just part of the machine.'
'Because it's Easter?'
'They were drunk, and they were hanging around the synagogue on Oranienburgerstraße, looking for trouble I guess. This kid was with some friends and he cheeked them, he gave them a mock-salute. Well, they chased him, and they finally cornered him in a cul-de-sac.'
Hoffmann looked at the pattern on the carpet. It had always seemed to be an abstract, but now he saw that it depicted something formal: the shapes of a river, a ploughed field and a bridge could be traced. He had never noticed them before.
'They beat him up, of course,' she continued. He'll probably lose his left eye. Then they started to leave. But they came back. They said, next week's the sacrifice of our god, the one you crucified. We think you ought to have a taste of what he suffered. And there was a loose kerbstone, and they levered it up and used it to break his legs.'
'He told you all this?'
'Yes, but not quite so calmly.'
'And you believe him?' He regretted the words as they left his mouth. Her eyes grew dark and she recoiled from him.
'I do,' she said.
'I am as disgusted by this as you are, but - '
'But?'
He didn't know what to say - but if this is true, there's nothing I can do? Could he say that, because that was the truth. He knew the Party policy towards Jews. Had he simply tried to ignore it?
She crossed the room to a low beechwood sideboard, and from a drawer took out a framed photograph, about the size of a postcard. She passed it to him. It showed a man in the uniform of a colonel of artillery. It was a studio portrait and the man stood stiffly between a low plaster column and a large fern in a brass pot. Behind him you could see a painted sunset. The photograph was of high quality, and Hoffmann could see that the colonel wore the Iron Cross First Class with Oak Leaves.
'I haven't talked much about my family,' said Kara neutrally. 'That is my father.
Hoffmann handed the picture back.
'He was proud of his country, even though he had misgivings about what the Kaiser was doing, taking us into a war we couldn't win. My mother told me he fought bravely. Before the war, he was a civil engineer. That picture was taken in 1917, on his last home leave.'
Hoffmann hesitated. 'Are your parents here?'
'My father died in the war. But my mother was, until recently.' She looked at him steadily.
'And now?'
'She has left. After thirty-five years here, she has gone home to New York.'
'New York?'
'Yes.'
'Then you are half American?'
She looked at him drily. 'Sherlock Holmes has nothing on you. Oh, I am German, born and bred. I don't even speak very good English. But, yes, I am half American.'
'Why did your mother decide to go home now?' Hoffmann could have understood if she had gone back to the States after her husband's death, taking her daughter with her, or during the black days of the early Twenties; but he closed his mind to another reason.
'Because she is Jewish,' Kara said.
46
Hoffmann had driven all day with scarcely a break. The roads were pitted and treacherous, and it was late afternoon by the time he saw the delicate spire of Neuenstein church pointing out of the horizon.
Don't be afraid, Kara, he told her; I was wrong. I was too late. But I can still make amends.
Her revelation had come as a shock. The way things were going, though he didn't want to admit it to himself, she'd be in danger if she stayed. He thought of Hartmut Cassirer. He thought, selfishly, of himself. Perhaps nothing would happen after all - perhaps it was exaggerated. There might be a few deportations, but... He knew that he didn't want to lose her. He looked around the room as if he were in a dream: there was suddenly an unreal quality about it, and yet it was the same room, the soft lights, the elegant, modern furniture. Everything seemed so safe, so normal. And out there, beyond the closed curtains, something was loose that he couldn't contain, that he himself was part of.
She was looking at him.
'Nothing to say?'
'I had no idea.'
'That's brilliant.' She picked up the bottle, saw that it was empty, put it down again. 'Well, I don't know about you, but I need another drink.'
'Yes.'
'There's a bottle of Mosel in the icebox. Would you get it?'
Fetching the wine gave him a moment to collect himself, time which he knew she'd granted him deliberately. When he returned she had drawn the curtains back again and was standing at the window, smoking, looking down at the city.
'So what do you think will happen?' she asked as he uncorked the bottle and poured.
'Happen?'
'To us. To the Jews.'
'Nothing.'
'Like nothing's happening to the communists and the social-democrats, and anyone else who stands in your way.'
'Listen, I'm not - '
'Not what, exactly? Not a policeman? Not a Party member?'
'My work isn't political.'
She almost laughed. 'In times like these, everyone's work is political. Do you imagine they haven't got a file on me somewhere? Half-Jewish and a former communist?'
He was silent.
'Oh, don't worry. Your lot won't last. I can't see how they can.'
'Then why did your mother go?'
'She was scared.'
Why did Hartmut go? he thought.
'Didn't she want you to go with her?'
He thought he caught a flicker of something in her eye. She didn't reply immediately.
'Yes,' she said, finally.
'Why didn't you?'
She spread her hands. 'I have my work. My work is here.'
He wanted to ask more questions, but instinct made him stop. 'Why am I still here?' he said, instead.
'What do you mean?'
'Why haven't you asked me to leave?'
Then she smiled. 'Because I am used to you, and because I think you are capable of redemption. Let's see if I'm right.'
He didn't have to go home that night, but there was something absent about her, something remote in her lovemaking, which told him more than any words.
47
They didn't meet again for ten days. The death of the child prostitute was hardly worth investigating, and though his recent promotion kept him behind his desk far more than he liked, a breakthrough in another case, the arrest in a brothel in Potsdam of a big drug dealer for rape and murder, took him away from Berlin for a week, his presence resented by the Potsdam cops, who kept assuring him that they could handle it, that there was really no need for someone of his rank and expertise to concern himself with what was an open-and-shut matter. But he was glad to get his hands dirty, to be back at the old work. It focused the mind. It kept the doubts at bay.
But they, already present even before he'd spent that evening with Kara, were now awake and active, and would not go away. He knew he was compromised. He knew - once again the fact was borne in on him - that his beliefs were gone. No matter how hard you tried, life refused to be simple. Life struggled in any net you threw over it, until it escaped.
The day he decided to return to the Werdersche
r Markt, he received a coded message signed simply, Hans Oster, requesting a meeting, and leaving a telephone number. The name was familiar to Hoffmann, but he couldn't connect it to any police business. The note had simply said, 'when convenient', so he folded it into his wallet and left it until he got back to Berlin.
At his flat, there was another message waiting from him, from Kara, dated three days earlier. She asked him to call as soon as he returned. Written in her neat hand, the message was nothing out of the ordinary, but he noticed that some of the letters were badly formed, as if her hand had been shaking when she penned them.
48
She opened her door as soon as he pressed the doorbell, but the door was on its chain. She released it and let him in. She was breathless. His wanted to take her into his arms, but she backed away as he approached.
'What is it?' he said, frightened for her and for himself.
'I'm so glad you've come. I was going to ring you, only I didn't know where.'
'Sit down. Tell me what's happened.'
She obeyed him like a child - and this was very unlike her - taking comfort in being told what to do.
'Can I get you a drink?'
She looked up and nodded. He was surprised to see tears in her eyes. 'Don't worry,' she said, half-smiling, 'It's relief.'
In the kitchen, fetching the bottle of cognac, he noticed, on the worktop, a vast bouquet, now withered, of red, white and black roses.
He gave her the drink, sat opposite her, and waited. She drank a little whiskey, and looked at him over the glass. The expression in her eyes and the set of her lips had become firmer.
'You noticed the roses?' she said.
'Hard to avoid.'
'Third bouquet since you left.'
'Party colours.' Hoffmann was interested and jealous. 'Not like you to accept things like that.'
'Do they look as if they're appreciated? The others went into the bin. I kept these to show you.'
'Who sent them?'
'Someone who won't take no for an answer.'
'Out of the blue?'
'Not exactly out of the blue.' She paused, put her drink down, stretched uneasily. 'Wolf Hagen.'
He remembered the man who had tried to get off with Kara at Tilli's party, but that was months ago. 'Is this the first time he's been in touch with you?'
'I know you're a bastard too, but you're all the protection I've got, so please don't interrogate me.'
Hoffmann thought fast. After the party, he had researched Hagen. Power and connections, at least in the making. If Hagen had waited until Hoffmann was away to start sending Kara flowers, then he had chosen his moment from knowledge. He put the thought aside: it wasn't possible. But Hoffmann couldn't believe in coincidence.
Kara was reaching a decision. She drew in her breath. 'I haven't been open with you, she said. 'Because I wasn't sure I could trust you. Now, I must.' She frowned, looking away from him. 'The first of these Nazi bouquets arrived at Christmas. Anonymously. I threw it away, but another came in January. Then nothing until now. The first two had messages - sentimental stuff, snippets of Schiller, bits of Goethe, you know the kind of thing. I threw them away too.' She'd anticipated his question, but now she broke off, looking at him again, though he could read nothing in her eyes.
'The third bouquet he delivered in person,' she said at last.
'What happened?'
'Nothing. He was tongue-tied. He put the roses on the table. He said that he'd been away, but that he was back now, and that I'd find him a hard man to get rid of. I remember he gave a little laugh when he said that, a sort of titter. Perhaps he was embarrassed.'
'And you?'
'I told him he was wasting his time with me, and that I didn't want his flowers.' She was silent for a moment, got up and paced the room. 'He didn't say anything. He'd had his hat in his hands. Then he put it back on and made for the door. I followed him into the hall. I thought he'd just go, he'd already opened the door, but then he turned back and said, "I won't give up, you know. And if you're wise, you'll come round. The way things are going, people like you are going to need all the help they can get." '
Kara had begun to cry. Hoffmann got up and stood near her, but did no more. He sensed that, once more, she didn't want to be touched.
'No-one's following me, and he doesn't know the truth about you,' he said, as if he were the one who needed reassurance. He took her shoulders in his hands at last and she didn't resist. 'Let me find out for sure.'
'I don't want him to come back.'
'He won't.'
'But he must know about my mother.'
'The Brownshirts don't have access to that information.' Nor would they, he hoped, as long as Hindenburg was alive and still President. He paused before reluctantly asking: 'Have you thought any more about leaving?'
'Running away?'
'You could join your mother.'
'Running away on account of that little shit?'
'Why didn't you go with her?'
She wiped her eyes and collected herself, gave him a wry smile. 'You know, I never really got on with my mother. It was a relief for both of us to see the back of each other. Not that we weren't fond of each other, in our way - we just had nothing in common.'
'But you wouldn't have to be with her, once you were there. And there are hospitals in New York, and children, just as needy as the ones you treat here.'
She gave him a look of such bottomless despair that it threw him. 'You think it's that simple, don't you? Tidy me up so you won't have to worry. The kid I told you about died. They'd punctured one of his lungs. We'd missed it.' She drank some brandy. 'I'm not leaving. I'm not giving in to them.'
49
The following morning, Hoffmann sat down with one of his inspectors and gave him orders. The man, reliable and quiet, who suffered from a permanent head cold, made notes and, after their half-hour conference, left. Then Hoffmann picked up the phone and called the Central Office of the Sturm-Abteilung. If Hagen held the rank of SA-Standartenführer and had the right to wear one of their famous brown uniforms, he'd better do something to earn it. Viktor Lutze was an old acquaintance and, only a handful of months back, had been a close political ally. Now he was Number Two in the SA command, and it was time for Hoffmann to call in a favour. It shouldn't be too hard to arrange for Hagen to be ordered away from Berlin - to Munich, perhaps - for a few months.
He drummed his fingers on his desk as he waited to be put through.
Later, though he'd been acting for more-or-less selfish reasons, he realised that these had been his first acts of subversion. Within twenty-four hours, Lutze rang back to tell him that Hagen had been seconded to command an SA training camp for new NCOs in the Black Forest. He'd be away for the entire summer. Hoffmann was amused: most of the SA were roughnecks and even the officers were toughs; perhaps Hagen, with his genteel pretensions, might be able to give the NCOs a veneer of respectability.
But then he remembered how Veit Adamov had described Hagen's enjoyment - though a senior officer - of beating people up in the Berlin street battles that had preceded Hitler's getting the Chancellorship.
He thought of Kara, not that she was ever far from his thoughts these days. But within another twenty-four hours his inspector, snuffling into his handkerchief, was able to assure Hoffmann that no-one was shadowing either Kara or himself. This didn't surprise him. The Brownshirts were fighters, not spies.
It was the best he could do, for now.
50
Work claimed him after the inspector left - reports to read on cases he'd rather have been working on himself, internal memoranda to plough through and meetings to attend, including one with Rudolph Diels, the director of the new Department 1A of the Prussian State Police. Diels was on a recruiting drive, and wooing away some good men. No-one quite knew what the role of 1A would be, but it had the backing of both Hitler and Heinrich Himmler; great things would be expected of it.
Kara was working nights that week. He'd rung her before she we
nt on shift, at about the time his own day was drawing to a close, to reassure her. Leaving the office, he was about to make his way home for a drink before going out again to his usual restaurant, when he hesitated. He wanted to feel part of the crowd. He wasn't in uniform, so he made his way to the Kurfürstendamm, found a congenial Rathskeller, and ordered a beer with a Bismarck chaser. They tasted fresh and cool. The place was panelled in honey-coloured wood, and the warm light it reflected made the faces round him look more cheerful than they were; but the general mood seemed buoyant anyway. One solitary, bearded man stood at the end of the bar, dressed in a black overcoat and hat, and waited patiently to be served. The room wasn't particularly crowded, waitresses bearing trays loaded with glasses moved from table to table, but the barkeeper refused to meet the man's eye. After ten minutes of this, the man left.
It was none of Hoffmann's business, but the incident, if you could call it that, troubled him obscurely. He reached into his wallet and fished out a bill to pay with, when he discovered the note from Hans Oster. He had forgotten it. He turned it over in his fingers.
Oster... Now he had it; he remembered the file: senior officer on the General Staff; disgraced because of an affair with another officer's wife. That was only last winter. This spring he'd got a job with Göring's so-called Research Department. Still wore his General Staff uniform. What the hell was he after? Hoffmann knew perfectly well what the Research Department was, and wanted as little as possible to do with it.
He ordered another beer-and-schnapps. They'd keep his table at the restaurant.
He'd ring Oster in the morning.
51
Neuenstein had no road-block outside it. Hoffmann supposed the town, little more than a big village, like Teudorf, and lost in a sweep of lush, wooded countryside, didn't merit one. Any newcomer arriving during daylight hours would be noticed immediately. He slowed as he drove through it, wondering if he dared pass the night here. Two-thirds of the way down the main street was a small inn, whose windows spilled dim light onto the road.
