“On the contrary,” Oppenheimer answered. “We wanted to inquire if you might be missing a corpse.”
The administrator looked at him in surprise. “Goodness me, how am I supposed to know that? Have you any idea how many dead people we get delivered here every day?”
“Do you keep lists?”
“Lists?” he snorted in disdain. “There’s a bit of a challenge with lists. Do you see over there?” He pointed toward a piece of lawn where sunlight reflected off countless brass plaques. “We bury people without knowing who they are. Then their gravestones remain empty. And each time the British lay their eggs, we get new ones. It’s a complete shambles.”
“Is there no one who can help us?” Oppenheimer asked helplessly.
“Go over to the morgue,” the administrator said, shrugging. “Maybe one of the caretakers noticed something. If you ask me whether it’s possible for corpses to go missing here, then I have to say yes, it’s possible, and it’s likely that no one would notice.”
* * *
The dead lay in the cold-storage room. Figures dressed in black moved among them in a random procession. Worried glances searched for the brother whose flat had been bombed, for the wife whose place of work had been engulfed in a sea of flames, for the child who had not come home for lunch for days. In between the occasional happy face. Relatives whose hope was renewed, as their fears had not been confirmed, until they entered the next morgue to search for a loved one.
Oppenheimer watched a slight man step through the curtain. His face reflected neither hope nor fear. Instead, he was enjoying a bite of his chewing tobacco. He was unquestionably part of the furniture.
“Are you the caretaker?”
The man scrutinized the yellow star on Oppenheimer’s coat with disdain, only to then pull the corners of his mouth up into a crooked grin.
“Well, will you take a look at this! There’s still a few of you around,” he said in a broad Berlin accent.
It seemed he didn’t want to say any more. At this point, Hoffmann intervened. After he had explained the situation to the caretaker and asked him to cooperate, the man finally answered Oppenheimer’s questions. But the hostile glimmer in his eyes remained.
Oppenheimer soon realized that he might have spared himself the trouble. In principle, the conversation was little more than a repetition of the information he’d received from the cemetery administrator. The mortuary was usually locked up at five in the afternoon. As was the latticed entry gate to the cemetery grounds. Occasionally, the place was opened up outside the usual operating hours during night air raids to let in lorries on which the emergency services delivered the victims of the bombings.
“Could someone smuggle themselves in during one of these night openings?” Oppenheimer wanted to know.
“Possible,” the scrawny caretaker answered vaguely. “I don’t know them people doing the driving.” Oppenheimer realized that his hypothesis was probably a dead end. He could remember that there had been the occasional night alarm in the last few weeks, but bombs had only actually fallen during the daylight raids. And the concept of someone smuggling a dead body out of a cemetery in broad daylight seemed pretty unlikely.
The caretaker spat out his tobacco. As if by coincidence, the brown sludge landed just a couple of centimeters away from Oppenheimer’s shoe. He looked straight at the caretaker, but the man seemed perfectly uninvolved.
“What’s behind the curtain?” Oppenheimer wanted to know.
The caretaker turned briefly and then grinned. “That’s our special department. Don’t think you want to see that. That’s where the body bits are kept. We have them in all shapes and sizes.”
The man stared at Oppenheimer, challenging him. It was a childish game. Whatever was behind the curtain was irrelevant to the investigation, but at the same time, Oppenheimer begrudged the caretaker the triumph of getting him to back down. Furthermore, he couldn’t stand it when someone tried to intimidate him. Without giving it much thought, he stepped through the curtain.
6
FRIDAY, MAY 12, 1944
Over the next few days, Oppenheimer was busy checking out more cemeteries. The situation was similar in all of them. If they had a special morgue or a chapel where the dead were laid out, this was normally locked outside of visiting hours. Oppenheimer finally put together a list of companies that delivered to the cemeteries, addresses of coffin makers and florists. The employees of these companies were potential suspects. The next step was to clarify who owned a vehicle in which a body could easily be transported. But the list grew and grew, and by Friday, Oppenheimer had to concede that it was almost hopeless to try to find out anything this way.
For the time being, at least, the question of how he would get something to eat during the day had been sorted. Oppenheimer had feared he would have to find a pub near his new investigation headquarters that offered a standard dish without asking for a ration card. And then there was the small detail of the publican not officially being allowed to serve a Jew. But on the first day, once Oppenheimer had compiled a list of the cemeteries, Hoffmann appeared around lunchtime with a large food pack. And when they were out and about over the next few days, he always had an ample supply of sandwiches with him. Given that over the last few months, Oppenheimer’s nourishment had consisted mainly of potatoes, this was a bonus he gratefully accepted.
Now it was already Friday, almost the weekend. Oppenheimer wondered whether he would be expected to work through it. They hadn’t received the autopsy report yet. The criminal authorities were clearly more affected by the bombings than Vogler had envisioned. The administration had taken to having their documents delivered by children on bicycles in exchange for some pocket money, and so it was not surprising that the occasional document got lost. Meanwhile, Oppenheimer had gotten as far as Neukölln in his search of the cemeteries. Admittedly, the borough was several kilometers from where the body had been found, but he had decided to be thorough. During the day, he had worked his way along Hermannstraße. Oppenheimer knew his way around here. Within a small area, there were no fewer than eight cemeteries. They were crowded together on narrow plots of land south of the subway station Leinestraße. He had saved his last visit of the day for the cemetery attached to the Jerusalem Church. Oppenheimer expected this to take longer, because he wanted to visit someone there.
He found the caretaker without any problems and made the usual inquiries. Then he inspected the grounds. He encountered several workers on their way to an open grave with shovels on their shoulders. On closer inspection, Oppenheimer realized that it must be the crater of an explosion. The cemetery administration had told him that they often took a hit, as they were situated directly alongside the airport Tempelhof, which was a favored target.
Oppenheimer couldn’t say whether this hit was a result of yesterday’s daylight attack. The cleaning-up operation, at least, was still in progress. Scattered among the bushes were coffins waiting to be put back into the soil.
“Would you mind leaving me alone for a moment?” Oppenheimer asked.
Hoffmann stopped in front of the first available grave and mimed a mourner. He did this with the typical discretion that probably only SD men had in their repertoire, one of their most important jobs being to spy on the population.
It had been a long time since Oppenheimer had visited Sonja’s grave. She had been a secretary in the crime department. Sonja used to arrive late almost every morning and then hurry to her office. But she always had a smile for him when they occasionally met in the corridor before starting work. Over time, Oppenheimer started to go out of his way to meet her in the corridor. And at some point, that evolved into something more.
The fact that Oppenheimer was now standing here was probably just further proof of his inadequacy. All this probably wouldn’t have happened if his daughter had still been alive. Some couples were bound even closer by such a loss, but Oppenheimer and Lisa had grown apart in the months following Emilia’s death. Oppenheimer’s relations
hip with Sonja was an episode that he still regretted. He and Lisa finally managed to save their marriage, although it had taken quite a while. They had only really found their way back to each other when the Nazi terror was already raging on the streets.
Looking at Sonja’s gravestone, he wasn’t sure what he was doing here. Graves had always had this effect on him. They were nothing more than randomly chosen places. Oppenheimer told himself that people needed these places and rituals to have the illusion of being closer to the dead. He couldn’t relate to that and had decided that it didn’t work for him. And yet here he was, standing in front of Sonja’s grave, not really knowing what had driven him here.
Through his confusion, he noticed heavy steps approaching. But it was Vogler, not Hoffmann, who appeared in his line of vision.
“A friend of yours?” he asked, examining the headstone.
“A colleague.” Oppenheimer suddenly found Vogler terribly annoying. “Any news?”
“We know the dead woman’s name. She was called Inge Friedrichsen.”
Oppenheimer’s heart began to beat faster. This could be the breakthrough.
“Her landlady, a certain Mrs. Korber, reported her missing,” Vogler continued. “The description fits.”
“Has she already been identified?”
“Mrs. Korber has been asked to come and identify the body.”
So it wasn’t confirmed yet. Vogler still had a lot to learn. An experienced crime officer would never have claimed with such confidence that a body had been identified if this hadn’t been definitively established.
“Well, then let’s take a look,” Oppenheimer said and started walking.
“Where are you going?”
“To the morgue, where else? Then we can also inquire where the autopsy report is.”
* * *
When they got there, Mrs. Korber had long since left. She had identified the body as her tenant Inge Friedrichsen in the morning.
They went into the cooling chamber with one of the assistants. His pupils swam like two fish in an aquarium behind his thick glasses. Of course, Vogler had to give a laborious explanation of what Oppenheimer was doing here. But the assistant still couldn’t help himself from taking the occasional surreptitious glance at the Star of David as they were walking, almost as if Oppenheimer’s presence were a test and he was uncertain whether he had passed it.
“Sixty-three years old, I thought she was going to faint right here,” the assistant said of Mrs. Korber.
“And you allowed that?” Oppenheimer asked. “Was there no one else to identify Inge Friedrichsen?”
Vogler just shrugged. “There were no other tenants, and her sons are at the front. There was nothing else for it.”
“Right, we’re nearly there,” the assistant said. Cold air confronted them when he led them into a room full of cold chambers. The assistant studied the list in his hand. “Inge Friedrichsen, that would be number 46,513.” He was just about to look for the corpse when Oppenheimer held him back.
“One moment,” he interjected. “I’ve already seen the body.”
The assistant looked up. “So what is it that you want? The protocol of the clinical autopsy?”
“We’ve been waiting for that all week! This investigation has the highest priority. I hope I’ve made myself clear. Who carried out the autopsy?”
“Ahem, Dr. Gebert.”
“Old Gebert?” Oppenheimer hesitated briefly. He’d had a few altercations with Gebert in the past. Their temperaments were simply too different. “Hmm, well, it can’t be helped. Is he busy dealing with another body right now?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Thank you,” Oppenheimer said curtly. He turned and left the assistant standing there.
“What are you doing?” the assistant called after him.
“I’m going to clarify the matter with Dr. Gebert.”
“You can’t just do that! Dr. Gebert is a very busy man!”
“So am I,” said Oppenheimer and left the room.
It didn’t take long for him to remember where Gebert’s office was. When he reached the door, he paused for a moment and pumped some air into his lungs. Then he knocked and entered without waiting for a reply. Gebert was sitting behind his desk, working on some papers. He looked up. “What’s the matter? I told you…”
His annoyance dissipated when he saw Oppenheimer in the doorway. He leaned back in his chair in surprise.
“Well, well, well. That might just be our Inspector Oppenheimer. Who else would storm into an office as he pleases?” Then he nodded briefly. “Nice to see you,” he lied.
“You carried out the autopsy on Inge Friedrichsen?”
“Friedrichsen? The name doesn’t ring a bell. I’d have to look at the notes.”
“Came in on Sunday, around twenty-five years old, blond, with massive mutilation to the pelvic area.”
Dr. Gebert said, “Yes, I remember. But what’s your interest in this case? As far as I know, you’ve left the police force. A wise decision, I feel.”
Vogler entered the room. He must have heard the last few words through the open door. “Heil Hitler! Hauptsturmführer Vogler. I’m heading up the investigation.”
Gebert gazed at him, raised one eyebrow, and then looked back at Oppenheimer. He understood. “Heil Hitler. Please take a seat, gentlemen. How can I help?”
Vogler sat down and pointed at Oppenheimer, who picked up the conversation again. “What was the cause of death?” he asked. “I’m assuming she was strangled?”
“Definitely.”
“And the mutilation in the pelvic area took place post-mortem?”
“We can definitely assume that, yes. There was no bruising. Blood circulation must have stopped beforehand.”
Oppenheimer thought what a blessing this would have been for the poor woman. “How were the cuts executed?”
“As far as I can make out, with quite some precision. They were made purposefully. The surrounding tissue was barely damaged. Whoever was responsible for this knew what he was doing.”
“So someone who knows how to handle knives.” Oppenheimer was thinking out loud. “What was the time of death?”
“We can assume it was Saturday afternoon.”
Vogler chimed in. “Were there any other unusual findings?”
“Indeed there were. One moment.” Gebert got up, opened a cupboard, and returned with a glass jar containing something metallic. “I’ve seen a lot in my time, but this … We found two items in her head.”
Oppenheimer swallowed hard when Gebert showed him the jar. Inside were two six-centimeter-long metal nails.
“Where were they?” he asked tonelessly.
“I found them in her ear canals. They had been driven in so hard that they were lodged into her brain.”
Oppenheimer’s eyes narrowed when he tried to picture this. “Was there any bleeding?”
“Massive. She was definitely still alive when this happened.”
For a moment, the men sat in silence. Each seemed to be dwelling on their own unpleasant thoughts. Oppenheimer turned the jar in his hands. The nails scraped against the inside of the glass.
“Thank you for the information,” Vogler finally said. “We won’t take up any more of your time.” He got up. “I must point out that this investigation is top secret.”
Dr. Gebert got up and made an acknowledging gesture. “Of course.”
Vogler raised his arm. “Heil Hitler!”
“Heil Hitler,” Dr. Gebert replied with the Nazi salute, which was not quite as snappy.
Oppenheimer instead raised his hat and turned to leave.
“Of course, you can take the evidence with you,” Gebert added.
Oppenheimer stopped and realized that he still had the jar with the nails in his hand. He nodded wordlessly.
“And one more thing, Inspector,” Dr. Gebert added. “I don’t know who you’re looking for or how long it’s going to take, but I hope that you find the bastard.”
* * *
Oppenheimer and Vogler left the building and stood on the pavement for a while. The Hauptsturmführer gazed into the bright blue sky, but his expression was gloomy. He fished around in his coat for a hip flask and took a sip. Oppenheimer stood next to him, indecisive.
“The hypothesis that he’s a necrophiliac cannot be sustained,” Oppenheimer finally summarized. “The victims were tortured when they were still alive.”
“I think it’s pointless continuing with the cemetery line of inquiry,” Vogler said.
“Hmm, it probably won’t lead to anything. According to the landlady’s information, Miss Friedrichsen left the house alone on Friday evening. She was murdered at some point the following day, and her body was then discovered that night in Oberschöneweide.”
“Why there?” Vogler asked. “Why at this specific statue? Her flat was north of there, in Pankow.”
Oppenheimer chewed on his cigarette tip, ruminating. “Another important question would be whether it was a coincidence that the murderer chose her or whether he had had an eye on her for a while.”
“Assume that this deed was planned in advance.”
The assertiveness with which Vogler stressed this theory made Oppenheimer listen up. “What makes you say that?” he asked.
“I think…,” Vogler began. For a second, he seemed caught out. “I think it would be the most practical approach for our investigation.”
Oppenheimer pretended not to have noticed Vogler’s uncertainty. “Maybe you’re right.”
“We’ll meet Monday morning and talk about the next steps.” Vogler waved his car over, which had been parked at the side of the road. When he opened the back door, he looked at Oppenheimer once more.
“Listen, as long as you’re involved in the investigation … I think it would be best if you didn’t wear your Star of David.” He uttered the last sentence quietly.
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