A pasty-faced beanpole with a flatcap got up and stared at him uncomprehendingly. “Which Edward?” he asked in surprise.
“Come on, get to it, you silly bugger!” Carl commanded.
Paul took a hearty sip from his glass and disappeared behind a heavy curtain.
“I’ll take a look myself,” Oppenheimer said. Having been announced in this way, he entered the smoke-filled room behind the curtain. Four men were sitting at a table, holding playing cards. The man called Paul stood next to them, looking lost.
“Eddie?” Oppenheimer called into the room. A bull-necked man raised his head and looked at him with expressionless eyes.
“What do you want from me?” the brawny man drawled. “If you’ve finally come to pay my rent, you can leave the dough at the bar.”
“A couple were attacked and robbed in the Grunewald Park last night,” Oppenheimer lied. “I want to talk to you about it.”
“What’s that got to do with me? Nah, it’s not me you’re looking for. I’m a reformed sinner, so to speak. I don’t do no dodgy stuff anymore.”
“I’d like to convince myself of that.”
“Up yours!” Eddie answered grumpily and turned back to his card game.
But before he could pick up his cards again, Oppenheimer had grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and pulled him out of the chair with a routine movement. When he stumbled over toward the back entrance, Eddie protested loudly, “It ain’t legal what you’re doing, Inspector! Not legal!”
Within a few seconds, Oppenheimer was out in the backyard with his prisoner and pulled him down the first cellar steps they came across.
“Well, look who it is, old Oppenheimer,” Eddie said in a familiar tone once he had rearranged his collar and sat down comfortably on the steps. “And I thought they’d strung you up a long time ago.”
Oppenheimer remained standing so that he could keep an eye on the courtyard. “So far, I’ve been able to prevent that,” he said curtly.
Eddie pulled out his handkerchief to wipe his gleaming forehead. Oppenheimer had occasionally deployed him as an informer in the past. They had always got on well, although this fact must not be made public. Eddie had never screwed him around. If it concerned a case that violated his particular type of hoodlum honor, he had no qualms about ratting on his colleagues. “If it’s information you’re wanting, I’ve got to tell you that I’m sort of in retirement.”
“Well, you don’t forget how to ride a bike either, do you?” Oppenheimer retorted. Eddie grinned. “I’m no longer with the police force,” Oppenheimer added. “I’m here in a private capacity, so to speak.”
Eddie looked at him with interest. “Go on, then.”
“I need a hideout.”
Eddie understood immediately. “Is someone chasing you?”
“It’s probably best if I tell you straight—the SS is tailing me. I have to get them off my heels occasionally.”
“Phew.” Eddie frowned. “That won’t be easy, boss. It’s best not to tangle with the SS. You got a few pennies going spare?”
Oppenheimer pulled out his cigarette case and showed the cigarettes he’d gotten from Hilde. “Four a week. That’s all I can do.”
Lost in thought, Eddie looked up at the sky, which from this perspective was just a blue square above their heads.
“Hmm, that’s fair, actually, but what with the SS, it’s going to be hard to find something. Unless…” Eddie thought for a moment. “We do have a room over in Moabit. We sometimes use it to store things. It’s empty the rest of the time.”
“I’d come at short notice. No chance of telling you in advance.”
“Understood. As soon as it’s settled, you’ll get the key and the address. I’m sure it will work, but I need to know where I can find you, Inspector.”
Oppenheimer tore a page from his notebook and wrote down his address. “I owe you one,” he said on leaving.
“I’ll hold you to that,” Eddie said.
Oppenheimer had no doubt that he would.
* * *
The warehouse of liquor retailer Höcker & Sons was filled with stacks of sealed crates. Inside these, carefully packaged in wood shavings, was highly coveted produce. Oppenheimer wondered how many liters of high-proof alcohol might be stored here. Surely it would be possible to knock out an entire army company for several days with this amount. But there were no hard-drinking soldiers in the warehouse; the only one stomping through the labeled rows of shelves was a storeroom manager named Häffgen.
He was a forced teetotaller ever since the doctors had ordered him to give up alcohol. Doubtlessly, this fact had facilitated the owner Gerd Höcker’s decision to give Häffgen the responsible job of warehouse manager. Not a single drop was allowed to leave the warehouse without Häffgen’s authorization. Judging by the suspicious way he mustered Vogler and Oppenheimer during their tour of the company, he guarded what was entrusted to him as if it were straight from the Nibelung treasure.
That morning, Vogler had informed Oppenheimer that Inge Friedrichsen had worked here. The company was small. Höcker employed eight people; besides Häffgen, there were four drivers, two apprentices who stacked the crates, and a secretary. According to Höcker, he had employed Inge Friedrichsen as an additional secretary last July. Ms. Friedrichsen was always punctual, carried out her duties conscientiously, and was also a member of the NSDAP, which in his eyes confirmed her trustworthiness. Before that, she had worked in Klosterheide, a tiny village about sixty kilometers north of Berlin. Oppenheimer wondered who might have needed a secretary in such a remote location.
After Höcker himself had given them a guided tour of the company and passed on the most important information, Vogler and Oppenheimer decided to talk to the staff, and Vogler withdrew to a separate room to do this.
When the SS man had left the room, Höcker looked uncertainly at Oppenheimer.
“Oppenheimer,” he mumbled, “I used to know an Oppenheimer. We were in the same regiment, back in the war.”
Oppenheimer suddenly remembered where he had seen Höcker’s thickset figure before. He recalled the bad jokes Höcker had told to keep his comrades entertained. “It’s a small world, Gerd,” he replied.
“Goodness, Richard,” Höcker said, clearly delighted, and squeezed Oppenheimer’s hand with his large paw. When they had been in the military together, they had not been very close, although they had not avoided each other either. But Höcker did not seem inclined to let this small trifle impact the nostalgic memories of their mutual war service. Content with having found an old comrade, he gossiped about their drunken sergeant major and inquired after other comrades whose names Oppenheimer had never heard. Finally, Höcker asked quietly, “I didn’t want to mention it while Vogler was here, but as far as I know, you’re a Jew, aren’t you? How come you’re working for the SS now?”
“I converted.” It was the first lie that popped into his head. He didn’t feel like giving a long explanation of why he was involved with the case. Oppenheimer knew that a conversion to Christianity would not have fundamentally changed his delicate situation. The Bergmanns also had to live with Oppenheimer in the Jewish House, although they had both converted and had been christened as Catholics. At least they hadn’t evacuated the Bergmanns as so-called Jewish Christians yet. But Höcker was satisfied by Oppenheimer’s banal reply.
“Very sensible, Richard, very sensible. No point in messing up your life by being a showcase Jew, right? Just so you don’t misunderstand me, I’ve nothing against Jews in general. But there is no doubt that a Jew cannot be a German. And all these stories that are told about Jews, there must be some truth in it, right? Although, just between us, I’ve a feeling that the führer is exaggerating his Jew policies just a bit. After all, there are exceptions, like you. But no one wants to hear of it.”
Oppenheimer was in serious doubt whether he should feel honored or not.
Höcker took a cigar from a box on an imposing office desk. “Would you like one?”
“No, thanks,” Oppenheimer said. “I’ll keep it for later.”
“Ah, right. Nice. Anything else you want? Gin, whiskey, maybe a glass of wine?”
“Many thanks, but I think I’d best make a start on the interviews.”
“Of course. Work can’t wait. Right. I’ll be off, then. Please feel free to use my office. Can I call anyone for you?”
“Who worked with Ms. Friedrichsen?”
“Hmm, that would be Ms. Behringer.” Full of pride, he added, “My main secretary.”
“Then I would like to speak to her.”
“Right away,” Höcker said and pranced out of the room. Given his stocky figure, this was a ridiculous sight.
* * *
When Oppenheimer saw Ms. Behringer, he immediately realized why Höcker had employed her. While secretaries like Ms. Friedrichsen needed a knowledge of spelling and good references to get a job, Ms. Behringer was one of those employees that bosses liked to adorn themselves with. Despite that, Oppenheimer did not find her at all vulgar. She was dressed simply but effectively. As if she had foreseen the tragic occasion, she was wearing a black trouser suit. The only colors on her were her chestnut-brown hair and the red lipstick, which shone into Oppenheimer’s face like the rear light of a car.
Initially, he would have assumed a rivalry between the two women, but after just a few minutes, he had to revise his prejudice. Ms. Behringer had heard of Inge Friedrichsen’s death that morning and was clearly devastated. During the interview, Oppenheimer concluded that she was an intelligent and vibrant young woman. Going by what she was saying, Inge Friedrichsen had shared these characteristics. The two of them had gotten on so well that they spent a lot of their free time together too.
“We went out together on Friday night, but then she suddenly disappeared.”
“What time did you meet?”
“She came around to my place straight after work to freshen up. Then we went to Bahnhof Zoo. We met Günter there. He had a friend with him—Hans-Georg, I think his name was.”
“Who is Günter?”
After Ms. Behringer had hemmed and hawed for a while, it turned out that she was secretly engaged to Günter. No one in the office except Inge Friedrichsen knew about it. Oppenheimer made a note of Günter’s address.
“What were you planning to do that evening?”
“We went for a drink. There is not much else to do now since the dance prohibition. We wanted to go to the cabaret later on, the Berolina club near Alexanderplatz. But then we lost track of time, and the show at the Berolina had already started at five thirty. Inge wanted to go to the cinema. To the evening showing.”
“Did she watch a lot of films?”
“Yes, all the time. But that weekend, every place was showing Heinrich George’s most recent film. The Defense Has the Last Word or something like that. The only other film on was in the Titania Palast out in Steglitz. Something with Hans Moser. That’s the one she wanted to see. But I couldn’t be bothered to drive out to Steglitz, and I don’t like Austrian films anyway. So Inge set off by herself.”
“No one accompanied her?”
Ms. Behringer’s lips quivered at this question. Finally, she took a deep breath and said, “I know, we should have. But Günter wanted to stay with me, and I fear Hans-Georg wasn’t quite sober anymore. I’m guessing I could have prevented it all. Sometimes it seems as if one always makes the wrong decisions.”
“What time did she head off?”
“Around five thirty. The film was due to start at seven thirty. Did she suffer a great deal?”
Oppenheimer decided it was pointless to burden Ms. Behringer with the truth. “No, she was dead immediately. She didn’t feel a thing.”
“Thank God. At least that.”
Asked about the work atmosphere at Höcker & Sons, Ms. Behringer didn’t hold back. “Just between us, she was happy not to have to deal with the old goat,” she said, referring to her employer. “Luckily, I can cope with my bosses chasing after me and know how to defuse the situation. I don’t know how Inge would have reacted to it.” Once more, her eyes filled with tears.
“Was Mr. Höcker propositioning her?”
“No. I’m absolutely sure about that. She would have told me. And anyway, she wasn’t one of those, if you get my meaning.”
“Was she engaged?”
“I think she had a fiancé at the front. She never told me his name.”
“And what about when she went out? Did she ever flirt with anyone?”
Ms. Behringer shook her head emphatically. “Never. At least not when I was present.”
“So there was no one else in the city whom she had any sort of closer connection to?”
“She had no relatives here, and she never mentioned any friends.”
He wasn’t going to get anywhere by continuing with this line of questioning. Oppenheimer changed the subject. “Where did she work before?”
“I don’t know exactly,” Ms. Behringer faltered. Then she burst out, “In any case, Inge was a very good person.”
Oppenheimer pricked up his ears. He wondered what this outburst had to do with his question. “Now, now, I did not question that at all, young lady,” he appeased her. “I didn’t mean to insinuate anything, but I must find out what happened. Any small detail could be relevant.”
Oppenheimer sensed that Ms. Behringer was hiding something from him. He decided to go full attack.
“Where is the child?”
“What do you mean?” she asked, shocked.
In reply, he pulled out the photograph of Inge Friedrichsen with the infant.
At the sight, Ms. Behringer clapped her hands in front of her face and began to sob. “I—don’t—don’t—know,” she gasped between her fingers. “She didn’t want to tell me. She just said that he was being taken care of.”
They had reached the critical moment. Oppenheimer sensed that Ms. Behringer would now tell him everything. “Let’s start from the beginning, shall we?” he suggested in a calm voice.
Everyone had heard rumors of the Nazis’ breeding program at one time or another. The organization that was responsible for it was called Lebensborn; it was a registered association, controlled by no one less than Heinrich Himmler, which implied that the project was prioritized within the party apparatus. The association owned a handful of buildings, which were scattered all over the country, away from the big cities. Nobody really knew what went on night after night behind the seclusion of the thick walls, dedicated to the belief in the führer and in the will for Aryan blood to be everlasting.
It was Lebensborn’s declared aim to strengthen the Aryan race and to produce children with the purest blood possible. As there was very little public information on this project, there were massive rumors and speculations about the ways and means this was carried out. For a long time, there had been rumors of Himmler ordering the SS and the police to produce children of good blood with German women. If necessary, this should also take place without regard for convention or morals, as in his opinion, the end justified the means. Most people associated some sort of posh brothel with the term Lebensborn, where veritable sex orgies were celebrated with Hitler’s blessing. According to the rumors, SS breeding studs were said to service very young girls with blond plaits to make the dream of the superiority of the Nordic race come true.
These were also the images Oppenheimer conjured up when Ms. Behringer first mentioned Lebensborn. For a few seconds, he found it difficult to reconcile the photo of the beaming Inge Friedrichsen with his notion of unbridled Nazi orgies.
“You said Lebensborn?” Oppenheimer asked, to make sure he hadn’t misheard.
“Yes, they have a home out in Klosterheide. Inge was a secretary there.”
“And what was her … job?” Oppe
nheimer asked hesitantly.
“Not what you’re thinking of.” Ms. Behringer rolled her eyes. “She did the paperwork. Certificates, forms, things like that.”
“And what’s that got to do with the child?”
“Inge came to Lebensborn when she was pregnant with Horst.”
“Her son is called Horst?”
“Yes, that’s right. She was pregnant and not married. She didn’t have much choice but to go to Lebensborn. There she could have her child without anyone finding out. First, she was in a place called Haus Friesland, somewhere near Bremen. She didn’t have a job and didn’t want to go back to her parents, because they weren’t allowed to know about Horst. And so she made some inquiries with the Lebensborn association as to whether there might be a job for her.”
“And then she was given a job as a secretary with Lebensborn?”
“Yes, she was sent straight to Klosterheide. There is a house with a day nursery attached to it. So she was able to be with her son. But after a while, the work became too repetitive, I’m not sure. Maybe she didn’t want to work there anymore because Lebensborn had such a bad reputation. Maybe she just wanted to be in a city. In any case, she looked for something here in Berlin, and Horst was put in a Lebensborn home. That’s how she ended up with us.”
“Did she ever talk about the father of her child? Do you know his name?”
“I just know that he came from her hometown.”
“The fiancé from the front that you mentioned?”
“Yes.” Ms. Behringer suddenly looked at him guiltily. Abashed, she added, “Only the bit about her being engaged wasn’t true. Sorry. He dumped her when she got pregnant. He was called up shortly afterward.”
* * *
These were the only useful bits of information that Oppenheimer was able to glean that day. The other people he talked to were largely clueless. The workers in the warehouse had only rarely caught a glimpse of Ms. Friedrichsen. She had occasionally stepped out of the office to collect delivery bills from Mr. Häffgen or to hand him an urgent order. It was only through persistent questioning that Oppenheimer managed to discover a rumor that Inge Friedrichsen had something to do with Lebensborn. It seemed that subsequently, one of the warehousemen called Bertram Mertens had started making explicit proposals, according to Ms. Behringer, without success.
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