Oppenheimer hesitated. Then he remembered that he’d followed Vogler’s advice and put a cigarette into his tip. “Thanks, but I’m trying to quit.”
“Interesting,” Ms. Behringer said, unconvinced, looking at his cigarette.
“Did Ms. Friedrichsen ever go to the Hotel Adlon?”
The idea made Ms. Behringer laugh. “My dear Inspector, I don’t know what sort of notion you have of our salary. I mean, the Adlon! If I could dine there, I wouldn’t need to work in this place. Well, I can’t swear that Inge never went there, but—no, she would have told me.”
“She never spoke of it? Did she perhaps mention the Adlon in another context?”
“You can ask as often as you want. But she never mentioned the hotel and never made any references to it either.”
Oppenheimer nodded. “Thank you for your help,” he mumbled discontentedly. “If you happen to remember anything, you can always reach me through Hauptsturmführer Vogler.”
On the way to Zehlendorf, Oppenheimer didn’t even notice Hoffmann’s hazardous driving style, he was that disappointed by Ms. Behringer’s statement. There were no leads connecting Inge Friedrichsen to the Hotel Adlon. He didn’t doubt that Ms. Behringer’s statement was correct. No matter how hard Oppenheimer thought about it, he finally had to admit that he was locked in a stalemate.
* * *
In the living room of the house in Zehlendorf, Oppenheimer continued to sort the facts that had accumulated over the last few days. The sirens howled repeatedly in the distance, but he didn’t really pay attention. It took two whole days and the morning of the next day before he had more or less sorted the information and completed the chart on the living room wall. First, he added two further pieces of paper with the names Christina Gerdeler and Julie Dufour in the middle, right beneath the card with Inge Friedrichsen’s name. The doctor’s list had also come in. On it were the names of all Lebensborn employees who had known Inge Friedrichsen and who still worked in Klosterheide. There were about forty names. Oppenheimer wrote them on new pieces of paper and pinned them alongside the other suspects. Two people had been absent at the time of the crime: a midwife called Erika Möller, who could prove that she had attended a funeral, and Irmgard Hupke, a party-adhering nurse from the National Socialist Welfare Service, who had resigned her position in Klosterheide just that weekend. Although Oppenheimer thought it unlikely that the perpetrator might be a woman, he moved the two cards with their names closer to the center. Then came the suspects and witnesses from the Dufour case, whose vast numbers constantly forced Oppenheimer to go back to the files to make sure he hadn’t overlooked anyone. The number of suspects in the case of the adventuress Christina Gerdeler remained disappointing. There were no reliable leads as to who she might have taken money from. Her notebooks contained only cryptic nicknames that were impossible to decode. A cup of hot coffee in his hands, Oppenheimer stared at the chaos of cards on the wall. Maybe the victims had something other than the Adlon in common.
“I think I’m going to have to speak to Gruppenführer Reithermann,” Oppenheimer said when Vogler came by on Wednesday afternoon. “Could you arrange that for me?”
Vogler thought for a moment. “You want to interview him?”
“Well, I don’t really have a choice. In the Dufour case, we have lots of witnesses, but the details regarding her person are very limited. I need more background information. And Reithermann is the only one who can provide them.”
Vogler nodded. “We’ll do it tomorrow. On one condition: I want to be present during the interview.”
Oppenheimer was more than happy with that stipulation.
* * *
The seats in the Daimler were so comfortable that Oppenheimer fell asleep almost immediately. He had spent the early hours of the morning in the cellar together with the other tenants, as there had been another alarm during the night. Over the last few days, Oppenheimer had only managed to keep going with the help of Pervitin tablets. But when he checked the small vial this morning, he noticed that his supply had dwindled to just three tablets. He decided not to take any today, which might be reckless, as he needed to be on track for his interview with Reithermann.
Oppenheimer was rudely awakened by sirens and identified the rising howls as a pre-alarm. Streets slid past his line of vision, his body rocking gently—so he was still in the car.
“We’re almost there,” a voice came from the driver’s seat. Oppenheimer recognized the back of Vogler’s head, as he was driving today.
Oppenheimer sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. When he opened them again, Vogler had already parked at the side of the street. They were in Horst-Wessel-Stadt, a borough known to longtime residents of Berlin as Friedrichshain. The ruins of a villa rose up before them. The roof beams had collapsed into the inside of the house behind the destroyed façade. It had probably been a direct hit. Large pieces of debris lay next to the building, but they looked more like abstract sculptures that an art-loving owner had placed on the English lawn, which, in a bizarre twist, still looked immaculately cared for.
Vogler scratched his head. “Goddamn it,” he swore helplessly. “It must be here somewhere. Number forty-two.” He studied his map of the city center. As the course of the roads no longer complied with what was marked on the maps, it was easy to get lost.
“I’ll take a look around,” Oppenheimer said and got out of the car. A large signpost with the number forty-two hung from the wrought iron gate. As it wasn’t locked, Oppenheimer took a couple of steps onto the property and called out to make himself heard. But there was no one there.
An old man hobbled along the pavement, pushing a handcart with possessions.
“Excuse me,” Oppenheimer called. “Does Gruppenführer Reithermann live here?”
The old man stopped and replied in a thick Berlin accent, “Don’t think you’ll find him here no more. See for yerself, the place’s been blown apart.” The man’s teeth were only in a marginally better state than the ruin. “The Epsteins used to live here. The fancy gentleman had them carted off and then settled in. But that’s the way things go nowadays. Last week, the Americans dropped a gift here. I didn’t think it would ever hit a Golden Pheasant.”
Golden Pheasant was the name given to senior party members. The people begrudged them the fact that they skimmed off the cream and lived in the lap of luxury. However, the same people were utterly convinced that the führer would not put up with such excesses if he knew about them. But no one dared to put it to the test and report the profiteers.
“Did Reithermann get killed?”
“No, just bombed out. No idea where he is.”
When Vogler got out of the car, the old man touched his hat. “Take a look, if you want. I need to scamper,” he said and disappeared around the next street corner.
“Let’s have a look,” Vogler said. “Maybe Reithermann left a message as to where we might find him.”
Oppenheimer nodded and followed Vogler into the ruin. This sort of communication was common. The so-called wall papers were found everywhere on the façades of bombed houses, slips of paper from previous residents with their new address, or notices looking for missing family members. Maybe Reithermann had had the presence of mind to leave his new address behind.
Vogler examined the doorframe; only a few bits of wood were left hanging off the hinges. When Oppenheimer walked around the house, he heard a low drone. He looked up in surprise. He had completely forgotten the pre-alarm that had jerked him from his sleep. Now he realized what a deadly mistake he had made.
Although the sky was hazy, the airplane wings reflected in the sunlight, gleaming bright flecks that floated through the air directly toward Oppenheimer.
“Up above!” was the only thing he managed to shout. Vogler’s head appeared from behind a heap of stones. When he followed the line of Oppenheimer’s finger and looked up at the sky, he turned pale. “The idiots! There hasn’t been a full alarm yet!” he screamed indignantly. “Come! Into the cell
ar!” He stuck his hand out and pulled Oppenheimer through a gap in the wall. A staircase was visible a few meters away, leading down to the cellar. Oppenheimer thought he could see a door. They stumbled down the steps, stirring up chalk dust. The droning increased. Vogler pushed the handle down, but the door was locked.
When Oppenheimer threw himself against it with all his might, it just shook a little. Vogler also began throwing himself against the door in vain.
Oppenheimer held Vogler back. “Together!” he shouted. Together they stepped onto the lowest step of the staircase and took a run-up. When the weight of their combined bodies hit the door, the frame shuddered. Sweat was pouring across Oppenheimer’s forehead.
“Again!” Vogler’s voice cracked. The first step, then the second, and run. They rammed the door with the full force of their shoulders. Oppenheimer was barely able to raise his hands to break his fall when the door yielded. He felt his palms scrape across the rough floor. The impact forced the air from his lungs. He crashed against something with the side of his head and landed on his stomach. At the same moment, the cellar seemed to perform a little dance and pivot around itself. Objects around them took on a life of their own; wine bottles rolled in all directions, the whole universe seemed to tremble, and a fiery tinge brushed Oppenheimer’s back. He felt like he were in the center of a thunderstorm, helplessly abandoned to the force of nature, a toy for the elements fire and air, when suddenly all light around him disappeared in a deafening roar. The last thing he became aware of was a harsh whistling in his head, paired with the muffled rumble of countless falling stones.
Then everything went quiet. Oppenheimer tried to control his breathing. The whirling dust stuck in his lungs, and he felt the urge to cough. He quickly covered his mouth with the sleeve of his coat and tried to breathe through the material.
They were buried alive. Cubic meters of stone towered above their heads. Oppenheimer hadn’t envisaged dying like this. His mind resisted this realization, but finally he accepted the inevitable and prepared to die.
12
THURSDAY, MAY 25, 1944–SATURDAY, MAY 27, 1944
Vogler’s voice became audible from somewhere, distorted with pain. Then Oppenheimer heard a terrible groaning, but initially, he couldn’t say which direction it came from. Finally, he realized that it must be him making the noise. He couldn’t say how long he’d been unconscious. He had lost all sense of time. Seconds, hours, days, it all had no meaning in the darkness. Only the fact that the dust had settled in the cellar indicated that a certain period of time had passed.
Oppenheimer tried to move. Despite the pain in his left shoulder, he felt around his immediate vicinity. There was a wooden object next to his head. It was probably a cupboard he had crashed into. The floor was covered in sharp objects. He had to get some light; otherwise, he would hurt himself. Shaking, he put his right hand into the inside pocket of his suit and managed to get the matches out with two fingers. Then he reflected for a moment. It could well be that there was no fresh air coming into the cellar. In that case, they needed to save oxygen, and he could only light the match for a brief moment. But it would be best if he could get himself into a position from where he had a good overview. His sideways position was not ideal. Very slowly, he rolled over onto his back, unable to avoid sharp objects poking into his spine. He carefully raised his hand. There was no resistance, so it was possible to straighten up. With a bit of effort, he sat up and lit one of the matches.
A weak shimmer of light filled the space. They appeared to be in some sort of storage room. Countless broken bottles bore witness to the fact that the owner was a wine connoisseur. Oppenheimer noticed the heavy alcohol smell from the spilled beverages. Vogler was lying next to him. His legs were stuck in a pile of rubble where the doorway had once been.
Oppenheimer was just about to blow out the match when he made an important discovery. The flame flickered. There must be a draft. At least they wouldn’t suffocate in here. Just before the flame went out, Oppenheimer thought he spotted a candle in a corner of the room. He counted the matches in the box. Eleven. That wasn’t very many, but if he found the candles, a single match would be enough.
Oppenheimer reached for the shelf and managed to pull himself up. When he was on his feet, he struck a second match and held out his arm so that the light reached deeper into the room. He hadn’t been mistaken. There were white candles over at the back. Carefully, he tried to make his way through the mess on the floor. When he was about to reach for them, he suddenly flinched. The candles were not in a regular candleholder. In the flickering darkness, he realized that he was looking at a seven-armed menorah, one of the most important symbols of Judaism. Pain shot through his fingers when the match went out. The shadows assumed control once more, and the cellar sank into darkness, but the image of the menorah remained like a ghost in Oppenheimer’s head. Is it a sign from God?
But a few moments later, his powers of critical reasoning took over again, something he’d always been proud of. The menorah was not a sign from God. It just showed that SS Gruppenführer Reithermann had unscrupulously seized the previous owners’ fortune. They had surely long been sent to a concentration camp.
When Oppenheimer finally managed to light the candle, he realized that Reithermann had lived in the lap of luxury. Stocks of food were hoarded here, inconceivable to those who had just about managed to get by on ration cards. But Oppenheimer had no time to inspect the cellar any closer. First, he had to take care of Vogler.
“Can you move either of your legs?” Oppenheimer asked.
Vogler shook his head. “I’ve tried to get out, but it’s no use.”
Oppenheimer saw that Vogler’s legs were buried almost to the knee. He carefully tried to remove a bit of the rubble, but apart from a few small pieces, there was nothing he could do. The larger stones were hopelessly wedged in. “Maybe I could try to get your feet out of their boots,” he said to Vogler. “Tell me if the pain gets too bad.”
Oppenheimer put the menorah down. Then he bent down and put his arms around Vogler’s upper body. Once he’d managed to get his feet into a secure position, he began to pull. Vogler’s breath came in short bursts. Oppenheimer gritted his teeth and mobilized his remaining strength. He pulled Vogler toward him, inch by inch. Finally, something gave way, and Oppenheimer landed on the ground. Vogler fell on top of him. For a few seconds, the two of them lay on the floor, completely exhausted. Vogler rolled off Oppenheimer so that he could get up. Vogler’s feet had swollen to misshapen lumps. But there was no blood to be seen.
“There is not much we can do at the moment,” Oppenheimer said. “We have no way of cooling them for the swelling to go down. We can only hope that someone digs us out.”
“The villa was already a ruin,” Vogler said in a firm voice. “Who is going to think that someone was buried alive in here recently?”
“I’ll take a look around. Maybe there’s an emergency exit.” Oppenheimer searched the walls, but in vain. There wasn’t even a chimney that one could have gotten up. They were trapped.
“Nothing,” Oppenheimer said and sighed. “At least we won’t starve.” He pointed to the tins that were piled up in the cupboards. “And there’s enough to drink. It’s almost like inside Höcker & Sons in here.” Most of the bottles were broken, but the rest was still enough to get drunk for several weeks.
Suddenly, there was a muffled sound. Oppenheimer had to listen very closely to hear it through the thick cellar wall. “It’s—there’s an alarm outside. It’s starting again.”
“These bloody bastards,” Vogler swore. “Why doesn’t Göring do anything about it?”
Oppenheimer searched for a radio transmitter. As there were so many provisions here, it could be that Reithermann had intended this room as a refuge. Through radio announcements, they would at least have some idea what was going on outside and would not have to rely on guesswork, which usually painted the situation as worse than it really was. But no matter where Oppenheimer looked, there w
as no radio device to be found. They were completely cut off from the outside world.
Just under fifteen minutes later, the ground began to tremble again. Oppenheimer had extinguished six of the candles to keep them for later. He wondered whether Lisa had made it to a bunker in time. The sounds above their heads were muted, but if Oppenheimer listened closely, he could distinguish antiaircraft fire in between the bombings. It seemed to be a heavy raid. His imagination painted gruesome images, images of a flaming inferno that raged above their heads and would heat up the walls of the cellar until they were burned alive, images of collapsing ceilings that would bury them beneath their massive load, images of a demolition bomb that would smash through the cement ceiling and rip them to shreds. He felt the horror slowly spreading through his body. He was no longer an off-duty crime inspector, no longer a Jew; he was simply a helpless creature that feared for its life. Instinctively, he reached for the small medicine vial in his coat. He had to take a pill; otherwise, he wouldn’t get through this situation with his head on straight.
He could feel the edges of the pill with his tongue. In his rising panic, it didn’t occur to him to open a bottle of wine to wash it down. Soon after he had swallowed the pill dry, he felt the first signs of relief. His body’s craving for another dose was finally satisfied; it knew what would follow and prepared for the soothing effect. Soon the situation would lose its horrors. It would be like back in the old days when he had calmly performed his job with the crime squad. Oppenheimer waited for his former personality to gain the upper hand.
Vogler squinted at him.
“What is that?” he asked. He narrowed his eyes to read the label on the small vial. “Is it—Pervitin?”
Oppenheimer nodded.
“Will you give me one?”
The request hit Oppenheimer like a blow. He was torn, as this was his final reserve. On the other hand, Vogler desperately needed it. He was suffering great pain, even if in the last few minutes he had pulled himself together and not made a sound. Hesitantly, Oppenheimer handed him a pill. Vogler chewed and swallowed it.
Germania: A Novel of Nazi Berlin Page 15
