A drunken orchestra musician had lurched across the square in the early hours of the morning and had stumbled across Ms. Dufour’s body. He had hurriedly tottered over to the nearest house and woken the residents from their sleep. It took a while for the drunken man to make himself understood. However, after two others had ascertained that he was telling the truth and there was actually a horribly mutilated woman lying there, they called the police.
Oppenheimer had read the protocol carefully. The intoxicated man had not seen any perpetrator. The officers investigating at the time had specifically asked him whether he had noticed a suspicious vehicle in the vicinity. But the alcohol had blurred the man’s mind to such an extent that he was worthless as a witness.
As Oppenheimer stood in front of the monument and looked at the surrounding rows of houses, he noticed some similarities to the crime site in Oberschöneweide. Once more, the view of the body was obstructed by a dense growth of trees. It had doubtlessly been easy to park the car nearby and carry the dead woman the few meters to the site without being observed. The stone monument concealed the murderer’s activities to the north, while the south gave a view of the wide Baerwaldstraße. Although the murderer had deposited the body right in the middle of Berlin, the danger of being caught at this precise spot was relatively low. It was the perfect place to get rid of a body. Oppenheimer wondered if it was a coincidence that there was a war memorial here, too, but when he thought back to the other two sites, he discarded this hypothesis. The murderer had presented the bodies beneath a monument in Oberschöneweide and in Marienfelde. There were many of them in the city and the surrounding area. The perpetrator could have easily chosen those that corresponded to his intentions. This also meant that he planned ahead to a certain degree. He did not carry out his acts on impulse, like Großmann had done. So it was just as likely he had also purposefully selected his victims. But where were the similarities between the three women? Oppenheimer was once again faced by the question that had bothered him all week.
It was already getting dark. Oppenheimer felt himself growing tired, and he had used up all his Pervitin tablets. He could really have done with an energy boost right now. Finally, he shook his head. No, it was time to go home. He had to look after Lisa.
* * *
When Oppenheimer returned to the Jewish House, Lisa still wasn’t there. He just about managed to stumble into his room and take off his coat before he fell onto the bed, instantly asleep.
He was woken by sobs. Oppenheimer felt arms encircle him. He saw Lisa’s face through a kind of fog and explained drowsily that he’d been buried alive. But before he could explain it any further, he fell back into a deep, dreamless sleep. When hunger finally drove him out of bed, the sun was shining through the window. Lisa was asleep next to him. He kissed her on the cheek. A careful kiss, so as not to wake her. Then he got up and trotted into the kitchen. He found some cooked carrots in a pot. Involuntarily, he thought of Julie Dufour’s body lying on a bed of carrot leaves. But his appetite was in no way impaired by such thoughts. He felt movement behind him, then Lisa hugged him.
All Oppenheimer could do was swallow and place his hands on hers. “Nothing happened,” he said. “Did I miss anything?”
Lisa pulled herself together and answered with a halting voice, “Not much. Old Schlesinger replaced the windowpane. You told me yesterday that you were buried alive. Where were you?”
At first, Oppenheimer just wanted to explain in a few words what had happened. But the explanation turned out longer than planned, as he felt that after all these days of worrying, Lisa had the right to know what the investigation was about. So far, he’d avoided giving her any details because the matter was so delicate and also top secret. In the early years of their marriage, it had been a big problem that he wanted to protect Lisa from all the things he experienced on a daily basis. But Oppenheimer had soon noticed that their relationship was burdened by this secrecy. And so over time, they had started speaking about the unpleasant events he had on his mind.
Lisa reacted well to the news that Oppenheimer was chasing a madman. He guessed that over the years of living with him, she had come to accept that whether she liked it or not, she would have to share her husband with criminals and hoodlums. But now she shook her head. “You should stop this. You’re taking unnecessary risks.”
“I have no choice,” he answered. “The SS has me over a barrel. As long as I fulfill their expectations, we’re safe. Maybe we can use it to our advantage.”
“Don’t they have anyone else for the job?”
“Most of my colleagues are at the front or have died.”
“Those aren’t your colleagues anymore. You are no longer in service.”
“You know what I mean. I have to go to see Hilde in a moment to talk about the investigation. Then I’ll be right back. Do you want to come to Marienfelde with me tomorrow?” Maybe it was unromantic to take your beloved to visit a place where a body had been found, but after the mortal fear he’d experienced in the cellar of the villa, he wanted Lisa near him.
* * *
“The sacrificial lamb has sympathy for its slaughterer. Did you ever hear such a thing?” That was typical of Hilde. Oppenheimer had mentioned his suspicion that Vogler might differ from other National Socialists. In the hours they had been buried together, he believed he had encountered a different Vogler, someone who might even carry the potential for good in him. In a certain way that Oppenheimer couldn’t quite define, he sensed that since the hours they’d spent together in the cellar, there was a new connection between them.
Of course, Hilde didn’t want to hear of it. Oppenheimer almost regretted having mentioned it.
“No, arse-face stays arse-face,” she said and downed another schnapps. “Be careful that he doesn’t influence you. That’s the typical pattern. First gain trust, then manipulate.”
“What is there to manipulate?” Oppenheimer made a dismissive gesture. “The facts speak for themselves in an investigation.”
“And what if he wants to get you to investigate in a certain direction?”
“What good will that do him? He is just as interested in catching the murderer as I am.”
“Vogler is an opportunist, like everyone in the party. He will only do what is most advantageous for him. In a secret investigation, everything is also a matter of politics.”
“You’re seeing ghosts. The case has only been classified as secret because this Reithermann guy has connections. There is nothing else to it.”
“I hope you’re right. Unfortunately, recently my fears have had the tendency of turning into reality.”
“Tell me instead what you think of my conclusion that the deeds were planned a long way in advance.”
“It all sounds logical so far. You haven’t been to Marienfelde yet?”
“Unfortunately not. I am going there first thing tomorrow.”
“I would be surprised if anything were different. The fact that no one saw the murderer suggests that he probably knew what he was doing. Did you notice anything else?”
“Hmm … the women’s bodies were all found beneath monuments. They must have something in common.”
“The First World War,” Hilde finalized his train of thought. “It keeps popping up. Our killer arranges the women beneath the monuments like before a sacrificial altar. Maybe revenge is a motive. But what for? His victims weren’t born yet when the First World War broke out. And yet I wouldn’t be surprised if the perpetrator had something to do with that era.”
“That could only mean that he himself was in the army. If that is correct, he’d have to be older than forty.”
“Yes,” said Hilde, staring into space.
Oppenheimer changed the record. In hindsight, he regretted not having taken the records from the cellar. He had no idea when he’d next get the chance to listen to pieces from The Threepenny Opera. Instead, he pulled the next-best record from his collection and put it on.
“Well, that’s something, a
t least,” Hilde said. “We finally know a bit more about our killer. Of course, the question is why he started killing women now. He’s not that young anymore. I’m guessing that it was a lengthy process until our murderer became the beast who carried out these deeds.”
“We definitely need to check whether there were similar cases in the past,” Oppenheimer said. “But I fear we won’t find much.”
“There must have been previous indications of the murderer’s sadistic urges. Often these things are simply not put in the right context.”
“I know. I would really like to know what’s going on in his head.”
Hilde snorted derisively. “We’ll never find out. If Vogler manages to get his hands on him, then the doctors will be content with measuring his head. I ask myself why everyone is so obsessed with deducing the character of a person from his appearance.”
“And I would like to know what the results would look like if one measured the heads of our Nazi elite.”
Hilde grinned at the thought. “It will turn out that Rudolf Hess hurried to England because he has a skull like Frankenstein’s monster.”
Oppenheimer laughed out loud. The fact that Hess, Hitler’s deputy, had flown to Scotland in a Messerschmitt during a cloak-and-dagger operation three years ago had caught Goebbels’s propaganda machinery unprepared. They couldn’t understand why a senior Nazi official would want to pay a visit to the enemy. The population had speculated zealously what might lie behind the operation. There were even presumptions that he wanted to initiate a separate peace with England. Press and radio, caught completely off guard by Hitler’s crown prince, published hasty reactions. To limit the damage, they finally announced that Hess was suffering from delusions. But fewer people than the party leaders expected had actually believed this absurd excuse.
Oppenheimer happily quoted a joke that had done the rounds on the quiet. “A song’s been passing through the land: We’re fighting against Eng-e-land. But when someone actually boards a plane, he is then declared insane.”
For a moment, Hilde’s laughter drowned out Handel’s Water Music, which spilled from the loudspeakers. Oppenheimer finally saw a favorable moment to address the tricky subject. He tried to make it sound as casual as possible when he asked, “By the way, would it be possible to get another prescription for Pervitin?”
Hilde grew serious. “Again? You had one about three months ago. Have you used it up already?”
“Just as a precaution.” Oppenheimer played it down. He didn’t want Hilde to know that he had also gotten some pills from Dr. Klein.
“You know what I told you,” Hilde reminded him. “Make sure you don’t take too many. Amphetamines are highly addictive, don’t forget that. But why do you think you need a prescription for the stuff now? I personally find it completely irresponsible that it was ever sold over the counter.”
“I thought it might be a good idea to stock up.” Oppenheimer was beating around the bush. “Who knows what lies ahead? Lisa is not coping well with the situation, and…” He stopped speaking when he heard a strange noise. “Wait a minute. What was that? Something in your treatment room.”
They both listened. Oppenheimer lifted the tone arm from the record. Hilde got up and opened the door to her small surgery. In the silence, they could hear that there was someone outside the entrance. A pained groan. Then timid knocking.
Hilde hesitantly went toward the gate. Oppenheimer prepared for the worst and considered running through the small flat to make his getaway through the front door. There was no other means of escape, as the windowsills were piled up with books. But if Vogler’s people had followed him here, then there was no point in fleeing anyway. He had specifically not taken the car Vogler had lent him; it would have been too conspicuous. Had he been careless in spite of everything because he had relied on his ruse with the clothes swap in the Beusselkiez?
Hilde held the door handle but didn’t dare move. “Who’s there?” she asked.
The reply was a pain-filled howl that sounded like a wounded animal. Oppenheimer and Hilde looked at each other in surprise. They realized that this was definitely not someone from the SD or the Gestapo. Outside, a body fell to the floor with a muffled thump. Hilde tore open the door.
A huddled figure lay on the doorstep. At first, Oppenheimer could only see long black hair. When she bent over to pick the person up from the floor, he realized that it was a young woman. She pressed her hands onto her abdomen. Her dress was soaked with blood.
14
SUNDAY, MAY 28, 1944–WEDNESDAY, MAY 31, 1944
“Quick, get her up on the examination table,” Hilde ordered. Together they took the woman to the far corner of the room. While Oppenheimer propped her up, Hilde put a cloth on the table. Then they placed the girl on it as gently as possible.
“If you want to make yourself useful, wipe the blood off the floor,” Hilde said. “Especially outside the front door. And put some water on. I need boiling water as quickly as possible!”
Oppenheimer was not much help. After he had awkwardly cleaned the floor and brought the water, he waited in the living room while Hilde treated the young woman. It took a good hour until she finally reappeared and asked him to carry the patient upstairs and put her to bed. Oppenheimer was so surprised that he didn’t ask what the relationship was between the girl and Hilde.
“You silly little goose,” Hilde whispered and stroked the sleeping girl’s forehead. “First you go and get yourself pregnant, and then this.”
“I think you owe me an explanation,” Oppenheimer said.
“Hmm, I guess so. Her name is Thea. She came to see me a few days ago. She wanted an abortion. It seems she went to see a quack instead of letting me take care of it. I don’t understand why. Now she has internal injuries as a result of the procedure. I warned her. That wouldn’t have happened if I’d done it.” She turned back to the young woman. “Why didn’t you listen to me?”
An incredible suspicion arose in Oppenheimer’s mind. “You’re a … a…”
“Backstreet abortionist, terminator … call it what you like. I’m not proud of it, but someone has to help these poor women. You’ve just seen what happens when they go to these butchers who use clothes hangers or the like. Just the thought of it!” Hilde had grown loud in her anger. When the girl groaned quietly, she lowered her voice again. “She’ll survive. Luckily, she had the sense to come to me. She almost bled to death; they would definitely have asked questions in hospital. I’m probably the only person who can treat her and won’t report her.”
Hilde’s confession was a punch in the gut for Oppenheimer. Suddenly, everything appeared in a different light. He couldn’t deny that Hilde was intelligent, generous, and warmhearted. But he also couldn’t deny that she was difficult to read at times. She sometimes judged people’s character too quickly, she was cynical, and now it turned out that she terminated human life, for whatever reasons. Oppenheimer shuddered.
“Do you actually know what you’re doing?” he asked. “If you’re found out, they’ll hang you.”
Hilde gave a drawn-out sigh. “I know it’s dangerous. But I have to do it. Or shall I send someone like Thea to these lunatics at Lebensborn? I couldn’t live with myself. Yes, they would help her to have the child, and then what? They’ll raise it to become a staunch National Socialist. Have you ever asked yourself what would happen if the child was classified as ‘unworthy’ to live? Ms. Friedrichsen kept the in-house records. How many fictitious death certificates do you think she signed?”
“That’s no excuse.”
“Don’t you understand? The Nazi bigwigs want to turn women into mere baby-producing machines. Our uteruses can’t belong to Hitler! I fight against these bastards with whatever means I have at my disposal.”
Oppenheimer shook his head. “I can’t see it like that.”
“Well, perhaps I shouldn’t expect that. After all, you’re a man.”
“That’s not why. I am also an inspector. I chose this career because
I want to stop people from killing each other.”
“Hmm, I see. And do you think we’re in opposing camps?”
“I don’t know what to believe. An hour ago, you were the Hilde that I know, and now—now I have to seriously ask myself whether I may have gotten you wrong.”
Hilde rubbed her tired eyes. “I don’t think we’ll solve that today.”
“Yes, perhaps I should sleep on it,” Oppenheimer said morosely and took his leave.
* * *
As planned, Oppenheimer drove to Marienfelde with Lisa on Whit Monday to take a look at the place where the first victim, Christina Gerdeler, had been found. Lisa was about to get into the car Vogler had lent him, ready to leave Moabit, but then she stopped, transfixed. Standing before the open door, she inspected the interior in amazement and allowed her hands to caress the seats. “Oh my goodness,” she said, “this is real leather.”
Oppenheimer had to smile. “Unfortunately, I don’t always travel in such comfort.”
In the past, they’d occasionally gone to the summer resorts in the suburbs of Berlin or to the Havelland region when Oppenheimer had a day off. Everything had been so easy back then, when he had his job with the crime squad and there was no need for Lisa to work to make ends meet. Although it was only a few years ago, it seemed like the memories from a past century.
There was not much to be seen in Marienfelde, but at least Oppenheimer was able to draw some important conclusions. The place by the church pond where the body had been found was anything but ideal for getting rid of a body without being seen. The spot was openly visible from the surrounding houses. The murderer had been forced to operate in the open, fully exposed. But as Christina Gerdeler had been the first victim to be found, everything seemed to indicate that this was a typical beginner’s mistake. Unfortunately, it couldn’t be established whether someone had disturbed the murderer that night, as the police had omitted questioning the neighbors. In any case, after this, the perpetrator had planned his deeds more carefully and made sure that he wasn’t seen when he placed the dead women beneath the monuments. He learned and gained more confidence with each murder. Maybe he would become too confident at some point and end up making mistakes. But Oppenheimer could hardly rejoice in this newfound insight, as this also meant that more women had to die.
Germania: A Novel of Nazi Berlin Page 17
