* * *
Vogler reappeared in the Kameradschaftssiedlung right after the bank holidays. He had been very lucky; neither his feet nor his shinbones were broken. He limped toward Oppenheimer, leaning on a cane, as the swelling had not gone down yet. There hadn’t been any problem finding Gruppenführer Reithermann, who had been residing in a room in the Adlon since he’d been bombed out. They were supposed to meet him there that afternoon.
“It seems that Reithermann doesn’t care too much about details,” Vogler added grumpily. “He didn’t bother to inform anyone of his new address because he assumes that everyone knows he was bombed out anyway. Of course, it is generally known, but no one bothered to tell me.”
Oppenheimer barely managed to suppress a grin. He had secretly wondered for quite a while whether the Nazi surveillance state really worked as perfectly as everyone assumed.
Vogler seemed to have similar thoughts and shook his head. “Very well. Here, this is for you. I think it should see you through for a while.” With these words, he shoved a Wehrmacht bulk pack of pills into Oppenheimer’s hand, who checked the labeling to make sure he hadn’t been mistaken. It was Pervitin. Oppenheimer’s eyes widened with greed.
“If you need more, just let me know,” Vogler said and disappeared into the cellar. As soon as Oppenheimer was sure he was alone, he swallowed three pills at once. Finally. It was high time.
After the effect had set in, he considered where he should hide this immense treasure. Depositing the pills in the Jewish House was too dangerous. The only option was to hide them here in the house.
After he had hidden his stash in the kitchen, Oppenheimer got to work. He wanted to review the chart on the living room wall; he believed that the new insights he’d gained about the perpetrator would help him bring some order to the chaos of notes pinned to the wallpaper. He discarded everyone under forty and moved their bits of paper farther away on the wall. Then he did the same with the female suspects. Finally, only about twenty slips of paper surrounded the names of the dead. The remaining pieces of paper were gathered around the framed picture of Hitler that hung nearby. It almost seemed as if the Reich Chancellor was also among the murder suspects in this investigation. When Vogler entered the room, he acknowledged this with a disapproving look, but refrained from making any comment.
* * *
The vaulted ceiling above Oppenheimer was richly adorned with stucco; in its midst, an ornate fresco in a plaster frame. Several more vaulted sections joined to form the hotel lobby’s ceiling.
The Adlon was much more than just a hotel. The name alone was enough to spread a hint of exclusivity. It was situated in Dorotheenstadt on the street Unter den Linden, just a stone’s throw from the Brandenburg Gate. There was no location more representative than this. The Adlon had already hosted a number of illustrious guests. The tsar of Russia had been a frequent guest, John D. Rockefeller, Charlie Chaplin, and various aristocratic families had resided here, as had Emperor Wilhelm II. In comparison to the National Socialist rulers’ pompous new buildings, the Adlon’s façade was subtle in its design. The building did not try to show off or even dominate the Pariser Platz but instead integrated itself harmoniously into the surroundings with its clear lines. The interior, however, was dominated by great luxury and comfort. In addition to rooms and suites, it also offered a conservatory, a music room, a library, a ballroom, several conference rooms, a smoking lounge, and even a separate parlor for the ladies. Carpets lay on the gleaming marble floors, exotic palm trees stood in the alcoves, coffered ceilings spanned the numerous arched passageways.
In his function as inspector, Oppenheimer had occasionally visited the Adlon in the past. But he had never really felt at ease in these surroundings. The exclusivity of the hotel had instilled such respect in him that he constantly feared he would slip up. So he had always observed his own behavior, painfully aware that this must make him look like a country bumpkin who had stumbled into the big city for the first time, only able to take in all those new impressions in amazement.
But today, everything was different. Self-assured, Oppenheimer strode across the large entrance hall as if the place belonged to him. He was aware that his confidence was due only to the Pervitin. Despite his scruffy clothing, he had no qualms mixing with the noble guests. He climbed up three of the wide marble steps and leaned casually against the banister to observe the busy goings-on from up above. He saw party loyalists in dress uniform with creaking leather boots and tinsel on their chests, the only purpose of which seemed to be to jingle with every movement; men with briefcases, thick cigars, and fat necks; women in makeup, some of whom wore daring trouser suits, while others presented themselves in elegant evening wear already now, in the afternoon; diplomats and soldiers on leave from the front line. The pages in their dark blue uniforms flitted around in between; occasionally, Oppenheimer also spotted a face he thought he had previously seen on a film poster. It was probably a coincidence that the man hurrying over toward the steps now paid him any attention. His worried glance rested on Oppenheimer for a brief moment, as if he had recognized him. Without slowing his stride, he turned and ascended the stairs.
Oppenheimer’s expression turned grim. He had recognized the face all too well, the short, gray hair, the bushy eyebrows, and the distinctive nose. It was his old rival Arthur Nebe who had rushed past him. They had started at the police academy more or less at the same time and had climbed the career ladder. In their time as candidates for detective superintendent, Oppenheimer had still had the edge over Nebe; he had been among the best candidates, whereas Nebe only managed to pass the exam on his second attempt. Despite all his resentment, Oppenheimer had to admit that Nebe was talented and very committed. When he was just over thirty, Nebe was made head of the drug squad. Old Gennat had promoted both Oppenheimer and Nebe to the newly created Crime Investigation Office A shortly afterward. There they became direct competitors and tried to impress their teacher Gennat with their actions, each always eager to outdo the other. Yet it wasn’t only Nebe’s skills as a detective that smoothed his way to the top but more the fact that in contrast to Oppenheimer, he used politics as a stepping-stone. He had founded the so-called German National Youth Unit Prenzlauer Berg on his own initiative back in the early twenties. Shortly afterward, he joined forces with a like-minded police officer to form a national group that campaigned against Jews and Freemasons in their own ranks. While Oppenheimer was content to become an expert within the Berlin murder squad, Nebe demonstrated that he was much more ambitious. In 1931, he joined the SS as a supporting member. Shortly afterward, he became a party member of Hitler’s NSDAP and then went on to join the SA Brownshirts, just to make doubly sure. Although the leadership of the police force in Berlin at the time did not really approve of an inspector propagating his views this aggressively, it soon became clear that Nebe had had the right idea. He was hired to join Göring’s secret police, the Gestapo, and so eventually ended up as head of the National Crime Police.
The unexpected encounter with Arthur Nebe brought back Oppenheimer’s long-forgotten feelings of jealousy toward his competitor. He had never really known what to think of him. Oppenheimer couldn’t tell whether Nebe really was a supporter of the National Socialist ideology or whether he was just using it as a vehicle for his own advancement. At the end of the day, it was irrelevant. As a Jew, Oppenheimer had to fight to survive every day, while Nebe had advanced to Golden Pheasant status.
Vogler limped over to Oppenheimer from the reception. “We’ve been announced. He resides on the first floor.” He looked at Oppenheimer. “What’s up with you?”
“I saw an old acquaintance,” he replied curtly.
Vogler seemed genuinely surprised. “Here? In the Adlon?”
Oppenheimer shrugged. “Unfortunately, you can’t choose who you run into.”
* * *
“Now that the Hotel Kaiserhof no longer exists, this is the best place in all of Berlin,” Reithermann said. He beamed with smugness. “The st
aff, the catering, all top-notch. And you should see the deep bunker in the cellar. No less than nine meters of reinforced concrete. Bombproof. The Tommies can throw at us whatever they like.”
Reithermann was sitting on a sofa; he wouldn’t have been able to squeeze into one of the delicate chairs. He wore his uniform, which, given his considerable girth, was unlikely to be off the rack. Oppenheimer wondered whether he had the same tailor as Göring. And yet Reithermann’s uniform still seemed too tight. He had opened the bottom button of the jacket, from which his shirt spilled out.
Reithermann was one of the so-called old fighters. Hitler had even given him the Blood Order medal, the highest accolade awarded by the NSDAP. This honor was occasioned by a two-year prison sentence he’d been given. That was during the times of the riots at the beginning of the 1920s, when the National Socialists and the communists ganged up to bash each other’s heads in. Reithermann had been an accessory to murder. The victim was a party member who turned out to be a communist who betrayed plans of the local SA faction.
After his imprisonment, Reithermann had changed from the paramilitary SA to the SS, where he now worked in the administration. It was a good position, a reward for his efforts in the past. Meanwhile, he ran a brisk sideline trade with loot from the occupied territories; works of art were considered his particular speciality. The party turned a blind eye on these activities.
Oppenheimer had gotten all this information from Vogler, in strictest confidence, of course. Looking at Reithermann now, he thought he knew why the man had hoarded so many tins in his cellar. By all appearances, the Gruppenführer was set on fattening himself to death, as he ate incessantly. Oppenheimer was stunned by this gluttony. The latent aggression that he had felt upon seeing Arthur Nebe was now amplified by Reithermann treating him like a supplicant.
“So you’re the chap who’s supposed to solve this case?” Reithermann asked. “Why has the perpetrator not been caught yet? What are you actually doing for your money?”
Oppenheimer fought to restrain himself and hoped that his anger was not too obvious as he provided a short summary of the investigation results.
“There is something else that I’d like to talk to you about,” Oppenheimer concluded. Vogler shot him a concerned look. Although the sentence seemed entirely harmless, an unfriendly tone must have crept into Oppenheimer’s voice. Vogler’s gaze reminded him that he needed to keep his wits about him.
“What is it?” Reithermann demanded.
“Do you know this woman?” Oppenheimer handed him a photograph of Ms. Gerdeler.
Reithermann took it, patently bored. However, seeing the young woman in her top hat and tails seemed to arouse his interest.
“Hmm, might I have seen her in a film?”
“Hardly,” Oppenheimer said. “She spent a lot of time here in the hotel. One could say she worked here, in a way.”
Reithermann looked at him with irritation. “A chambermaid?”
“No. Her name was Christina Gerdeler. She was probably what one would call an adventuress. She came here looking for men.”
“Hmm, she’s a bit too Teutonic for my taste. I prefer the pre-Raphaelite type. Although…” Reithermann did not finish his thought, as his gaze had fallen upon the nude photograph. He was breathing heavily and licked his lips, lost in thought. “Unfortunately, I never came across her. I would have fancied having a bit of her.”
Oppenheimer did not want to imagine what this would look like. His dislike of this plump bigwig grew with every minute. He took the photograph from Reithermann’s pudgy fingers. “So you have never seen this lady before?”
“At least I never noticed her.”
“Just to make sure, you’ve never heard her name? Did anyone ever mention Christina Gerdeler to you?”
“Are you deaf?” Reithermann shouted. “I don’t know the little slut. Enough!”
“When Ms. Dufour disappeared, did you see anyone suspicious?”
“There was so much going on—I didn’t notice anything. We were here in the building, in the restaurant by the Goethe Garden, when the bloody alarm went off. Ms. Dufour had forgotten the suitcase with her things in Friedrichshain. She just quickly wanted to get some stuff. No idea what. She didn’t tell me. I wasn’t interested anyway. She was going to meet me in the bunker. I organized a couple of bottles of wine, and then I went down.”
“You didn’t see which direction she took?”
Reithermann lost control. “Are you all thick or what? I’ve said it a thousand times. No idea! Go and chase the murderer instead of bothering me!”
“What was Ms. Dufour’s position?”
“Secretary. Read your bloody notes before you come here! Is this any way to run an investigation?”
“How long had she been in your services?”
“About two years.”
“Did she have any special duties?”
“You want to know if I fucked her? Of course I fucked her! And she liked me giving her a good seeing to! Like all the other women!”
Oppenheimer tried to keep calm. He wondered whether he should leave it at that. But he wanted to clarify one more thing. After all, he’d only wanted to see Reithermann in person to ask him this one question. Oppenheimer looked in his notebook. “One more thing. Could you tell me where you were at the beginning of August last year?” he asked as casually as possible.
“No idea. Why?”
When Vogler realized that Oppenheimer wanted to check Reithermann’s alibi with this question, he ended the conversation. “Thank you very much. I think that’s all we need.” But Reithermann was not stupid. He had seen through Oppenheimer’s strategy. Peeved, he heaved himself up from the sofa and planted himself in front of them, a towering threat. “Have you gone completely mad?” he shouted at Oppenheimer. His eyes glinted angrily. “Do you think that I killed them all? I, of all people? I, who arranged for the murders to be investigated in the first place?”
“Wait outside!” Vogler ordered.
When Oppenheimer left the room, he heard Reithermann shouting behind him, “I promise you, Oppenheimer, I’m going to knock you down. Just you believe it!”
* * *
The light in Vogler’s Daimler was pulsating. The constant change in light provided a strange rhythm as they drove through shadowy areas created by the camouflage nets that had been extended across Charlottenburger Chaussee from long wooden poles. These constructions were mushrooming everywhere along the east-west axis. Their strategic usage was simple. Without these nets, enemy planes could easily orientate themselves along the wide streets that led straight to the city center.
The fact that Vogler hadn’t said a word since he had emerged from Reithermann’s suite worried Oppenheimer. He didn’t know how to interpret this silence. Was Vogler disappointed in him? Was he going to take him off the investigation? Oppenheimer considered whether he had behaved too impulsively under the influence of Pervitin. Eventually, he offered a cautious justification. “I genuinely would have asked anyone about their alibi.”
“You’re really trying to push us deeper into the shit, aren’t you?” Vogler hissed. “Reithermann is not just anyone. You shouldn’t make him an enemy, regardless what you think of him. He can be truly dangerous.”
“There were no details in the investigation files, so I asked.”
Vogler laughed briefly. “Yes, that’s true. Quite simple, really. Lucky that I was there. I was afraid you’d treat Reithermann like any other suspect.”
He leaned forward to the driver. “You can stop at Großer Stern. Mr. Oppenheimer will get out.”
Vogler fell back into his seat and looked out of the window. “I shouldn’t really complain. This is exactly why I hired you.”
“So that I vet people like Reithermann?”
“You can do it. You’re unbiased. You can ask questions that no National Socialist would dare even address. That is the only way to lead an investigation.”
Hoffmann stopped at the Bellevue Palace gardens, but
Vogler wasn’t done yet. “I was able to placate Reithermann. He is much more open to arguments once he’s let off some steam. I told him that you just wanted to clarify Ms. Dufour’s whereabouts in order to find a connection to the other victims. He bought it. You’re still on the investigation, Oppenheimer. I’ll see you tomorrow morning, as usual.”
* * *
The next day, a pin board had found its way into Oppenheimer’s improvised office. “For your notes,” Vogler commented on the new acquisition. “This should be more practical. It also looks tidier should anyone come by.” Oppenheimer had to agree. What had once been a dignified living room was turning into a chaotic mess. There were papers and open files on the table, on the sofa, and even on the floor. In addition, the wall, originally reserved for the portrait of Hitler, was now covered in slips of white paper. Each time Oppenheimer walked past them, they rustled quietly.
Of course, Vogler had no idea that Oppenheimer had always worked like this and that spreading out across the room helped him, but he decided to show goodwill and to shift the chart to the pin board.
He was about to put Reithermann’s name on the board but then hesitated. Reithermann couldn’t really be added as a possible perpetrator, as he had a watertight alibi for the time his escort disappeared. The head waiter remembered him ordering two bottles of wine just after the alarm sounded and Reithermann waiting at his table until they were brought to him. Then there were several witnesses who said they had seen him in the bunker under Pariser Platz, which could be accessed directly from the hotel. And yet Oppenheimer had a vague feeling that Reithermann was involved in the murders.
Germania: A Novel of Nazi Berlin Page 18
