But Oppenheimer didn’t act like he was on top of the world. He didn’t cheer. And he definitely didn’t run through the Brandenburg Gate. For a political demonstration like that, the Gestapo would surely have locked him up in Oranienburg straightaway, Vogler or no Vogler. Walking home, he really had to pull himself together not to show his glee. He met numerous people on the street who seemed to be in a similar situation. Overt grins had spread among the passersby. Only the die-hard party members with the NSDAP party emblem pinned to their lapels looked distraught as they hurried through the streets.
Oppenheimer turned right onto the east-west axis. He went past the Adlon and, for the first time in ages, took the time to look up at the bronze goddess of victory, whose chariot high up above the Brandenburg Gate was being pulled by four horses in the direction of the city center. He went past the gatehouse, where Mars, the god of war, stood sheathing his sword. Oppenheimer hoped that it would all be over soon and Mars out of a job. But he knew the dying was not yet over. It had only just started at the western front. It was too early to start celebrating.
And yet Oppenheimer walked toward Großer Stern with a spring in his step. His mind urged him to caution, but his legs seemed to have a will of their own. As he walked along the wide street, passing the camouflage net, he looked up to the flagpoles. They lined the seven-kilometer-long route up to the former Reichskanzlerplatz in Charlottenburg, which, since Hitler’s rise to power, was called Adolf-Hitler-Platz. How often had Hitler had this route flagged to celebrate his triumphs? Thousands upon thousands of flags used to line the streets, each red piece of cloth a gaping wound in the blue sky, and in between a martial carnival: soldiers, party officials, flower girls, all united in a slow-moving tide of people that threatened to block the streets.
Today, the flagpoles remained empty. Smiling, Oppenheimer was reminded of their nickname, which was only uttered on the quiet: bigwig gallows-to-be. He hoped they would soon be put to use.
* * *
The sky was overcast once more, but now and again, the full moon broke through the clouds and plunged the square to his left in a pale light. The Giesebrechtstraße was so narrow that the few trees that had been planted alongside the pavement provided sufficient shade to keep watch outside the Guesthouse Schmidt without being seen.
He now knew that they weren’t taking him seriously. His letter to the editors of Der Angriff had still not been printed. It was inconceivable to him that Goebbels and the führer should not know the depravity that lurked between the spread legs of the painted ladies and that in this ignorance, they even risked causing great damage to the Aryan race. He thought that the reasons driving him spoke for themselves. He had mentioned them in his letters and tried to state clearly what had so far been hidden from the rest of the population.
After killing the last whore, he had lain in wait. He had watched the discovery of the body in the early hours of the morning and seen, shortly afterward, men in uniform appear. This could only mean that the SS had become aware of him by now. This was exactly what he wanted. But it seemed that someone was making sure his deeds were kept secret from the führer and his faithful. That left only one thing to do: he had to show the way, make them understand that he was not working against them. Over the last few days, he had come up with a plan that he was proud of. It would become his masterpiece. This move could not be overlooked. Everyone would understand what he wanted to convey. Although the risk was high, he felt he had to go through with it. But first, he needed a suitable victim.
He was able to find his bearings easily in the dark, didn’t require much light to observe his surroundings. In all the hours that he’d already stood here in the Giesebrechtstraße, none of the passersby had noticed him. He knew he would find his victim here, as he considered the Guesthouse Schmidt to be the most disgraceful place in all of Berlin. The painted whores peddled their wares directly opposite him, spreading their disease. The highest social circles frequented the brothel. He had spotted many of them. Soldiers and SS men of all ranks, famous actors, not forgetting the filthy-rich fat cats who got out of their heavy limousines. The whores in Kitty Schmidt’s parlor were poisoning the leaders of the nation. He feared that they’d already gotten too far.
He heard steps coming from the direction of the Kurfürstendamm. Figures approached. A man and a woman. They were absorbed in each other, strolling down the street, and had no idea that he was here under the tree, keeping an eye on them.
As they walked toward him, he forced himself to keep still. But his body didn’t always do as it was told. Sometimes it seemed to have a will of its own. The whores were surely to blame. They had infected him. Their bad blood had gone deep inside him. They wanted to gain control of his body, but he wouldn’t give up without a fight. He had to muster all his powers of concentration to remain still. He held on to the tree and focused on the rough bark beneath his hands. With all his might, he imagined being part of the tree.
But when he opened his eyes again, he flinched.
The couple had not gone away. They were standing right next to him. He could almost feel their breath. Just a few centimeters away, the man had leaned his companion against the tree. They embraced. He barely dared take a breath at the sight of it. He sensed them kissing, heard the quiet rustling of clothes and envisaged the man’s knee pushing its way between the woman’s legs. The woman sighed. At that moment, the feeling came over him again. Slowly, very slowly, he reached into his jacket.
It felt good to have the knife in his hand. He imagined the woman’s thighs spread open and his knife in between, just before the moment where the steel would pierce the skin. Suddenly, he thought of the blood that he had to be careful of, the bad whore blood, as in his mind, there was no doubt that this shameless slut was one of them. He was wearing a raincoat. A pair of gloves in the pocket. If he put them on, he would be protected. So he toyed with the idea of killing the woman next to him, silencing her heavy breathing forevermore, right now. A few stabs in her side, just to keep in practice.
But he hesitated. This whore had someone with her. That would be a problem. Her companion would certainly misinterpret the attack, maybe even think that he was the intended victim.
A car turned into the street. For a few seconds, he was blinded by very bright lights. Then all he could perceive was a red veil covering the black of night. He needed a moment to be able to see his surroundings clearly again. The lovers had gone. He heard rapid steps nearby. A movement in the darkness. The woman had turned briefly to look at him. Doubtlessly, she had spotted him in the headlights.
The car stopped on the other side of the road, its engine running. Because of the blackout obligation, the headlights were little more than two narrow slits in the darkness. That was strange. Earlier, he could have sworn that they were on full beam.
Someone got out, probably a soldier. He wore a uniform, but he couldn’t recognize which one. He leaned against the passenger door, swaying. It seemed the uniform-wearer had downed quite a few drinks. With difficulty, he handed the driver a banknote through the window.
“Keep the change,” he said.
The taxi driver replied, “Sorry, but are you sure this is right? It’s really too much.”
The uniformed man waved it aside. “Keep the rest,” he ordered, slurring his words. “Now the Americans have landed, it doesn’t matter. Spend it quickly.” Then he looked around. “Where’s the fuck shop, then?”
“Over there. Bell at the bottom.” The taxi driver pointed to the door, tipped his cap in a gesture of thanks, and drove off. The soldier watched the car disappear, lurched into the middle of the street, and shouted at the top of his lungs, “Enjoy the war, comrade! Peace is going to be terrible!”
17
SATURDAY, JUNE 10, 1944–MONDAY, JUNE 12, 1944
The rain just wouldn’t stop. For Oppenheimer, last week’s summer days were just a distant memory. He hated to admit that his mood was so dependent on something as trivial as the weather. Rain quickly made him f
eel melancholy, in particular when it was pouring for several days on end. His mood wasn’t really helped by the Mosquito air strike last night. At least this was an indication that the German Luftwaffe no longer had much left to beat back the attackers. Air raids during full moons used to be very rare because the chance of being seen was much higher. By now, the Royal Air Force didn’t seem to care about such strategies.
Oppenheimer still had quite a way to go. If, after leaving the subway station Schlesisches Tor, he walked along the Spree River, he’d eventually reach Billhardt’s flat near Treptower Park. When it had become apparent that the bad weather would be around for a while, Oppenheimer had decided to seek out his old colleague this Saturday already. He didn’t feel much like squeezing into the damp allotment shed the next day to have a confidential conversation.
Stupidly, he hadn’t thought of getting a second umbrella to confuse his pursuer. He only realized this when he’d already gotten changed in the small flat in the Beusselkiez. He couldn’t take his umbrella to Billhardt; otherwise, his cover would be blown immediately. So he had no other choice than to brave the elements, protected solely by his hat. After just a few minutes, the water had poured from the brim of his hat into the back of his collar. As he stepped around the huge puddles, he kept thinking about how much he hated all this water.
Since the news of the landings of the Allied forces in Normandy on June 6, there had been only very few public announcements. On the day of the invasion, there had actually been new editions of the daily newspapers. INVASION BEGINS: IMMEDIATE RETALIATION was the headline in the Berliner Börsen-Zeitung, adding: WE FIGHT FOR EUROPE. The reports on the battles were essentially made up of the obligatory triumphant propaganda, which, given the seriousness of the situation, had simply been worded a little more subtly.
Just a few weeks ago, Hitler had boasted of his capacity to retaliate against an enemy attack within nine hours, but since the day of the invasion, there had not been much mention of this promise. Oppenheimer had even flicked through the Völkischer Beobachter to get some new information, but the in-house NSDAP broadsheet simply blustered about an insidious attack on Europe and spread the rumor that Stalin had forced Moscow’s vassals to attack against their better knowledge. The next day, there were reports of heavy enemy losses.
After the initial shock, it became relatively quiet in the city. However, Oppenheimer didn’t see many party emblems on the lapels of passersby anymore. Occasionally, he heard someone muttering about a retaliation attack the führer had surely arranged. Vogler and the radio operator looked quite anxious over the next few days, which Oppenheimer saw as a good omen for the Allied forces. But the weather was bad in Normandy as well, which was good news for the Wehrmacht, as the conditions meant that the enemy air force’s deployment was restricted. As far as Oppenheimer could assess, the British and the Americans were currently not moving forward.
Like the Allied forces, Oppenheimer had not managed to advance much in the investigation in the past few days. But at least he’d managed to convince Hauptsturmführer Vogler to take the initiative and warn all members of the SS that their female companions and employees might be at risk from a murderer. Oppenheimer wanted to warn all the brothels in the city, but Vogler was adamant in his refusal, as the investigation was supposed to be confidential.
Normally, one would get countless leads from such warnings, but SS members had a far lower urge to communicate than the rest of the population. Maybe they simply felt too safe to take the warning seriously. They’d only had one measly tip-off so far, which had turned out to be entirely made up, as the missing woman had spent the night drunk with some man. Once Vogler’s men had clarified the situation, it resulted in the usual jealous drama. Oppenheimer found this episode anything but amusing, as he was painfully aware that they were not getting anywhere.
He rang the doorbell, and Billhardt opened. “I just got back from my shift,” he said.
“What are you doing these days?” Oppenheimer asked.
“You’ll never guess. I’ve just come from the train station—on official business. I had to seek out illegal fruit salesmen and confiscate their goods.”
Oppenheimer looked at the bulging food basket that was standing in the hallway. Surely Billhardt had been bribed by the traders. “Hmm, I understand,” he mumbled. “What do you think about the invasion? Do you think the Atlantic Wall will hold?”
Billhardt didn’t react. He led Oppenheimer into the living room.
Even before they sat down, Billhardt announced that he had indeed found the police file. Savoring the suspense with glee, he poured Oppenheimer a glass of wine.
“Turns out, I was right. The whole thing happened in September 1932. There were a lot of cases like that back then. Ideological reasons and so on. A unionist, who was also a Communist Party member, was attacked by a few SA men in his flat. They put him in the hospital, but he escaped with a few broken bones because neighbors hurried to assist him.” Billhardt paused for effect. “His wife wasn’t so lucky.”
“Let me guess,” Oppenheimer said. “She was attacked with a knife?”
Billhardt nodded. “Exactly. One of the SA men attacked the unionist’s wife with a knife. At least that is what her husband later said. The perpetrator fell upon her in a blind rage and didn’t stop even when the neighbors arrived to put an end to the matter. It seems he created a bloodbath. The witnesses reported that the man seemed to have worked himself into a frenzy. He wasn’t aware of what was going on around him. It took three strong men to bring him back to his senses. He was sentenced to death.”
“And what was so special about this event that you still remember it?”
“The SA man”—Billhardt hesitated—“he stabbed the woman in her pelvic area. The doctors couldn’t save her.”
Oppenheimer listened attentively. “Interesting. That could actually fit with our perpetrator. But you said he was sentenced to death?”
Billhardt grimaced. “Depends on how you look at it. He was let go.”
Oppenheimer almost choked on his wine. “What?” he asked incredulously.
“He only spent six months inside. He got really lucky. While he was waiting for his execution, there was an amnesty. That was in March 1933, just after the seizure of power. The amnesty applied to all offenses that had taken place in connection with the national elevation. You hear? All offenses. Immediately, as soon as Hitler came to power, he ensured that his old co-combatants were officially given a clean slate. No matter what was on their record. He made sure their sentences were not carried out. They all got out of prison. Even our murderer went scot-free.”
Oppenheimer was speechless for a moment. “Bloody hell,” he finally said. “They had him, and then they let him go.”
“Careful. Don’t fixate on it. I know what you’re thinking, but you haven’t gotten any evidence that he’s the perpetrator you’re after now. There are no other indications in his file. He never popped up again. No further offenses. Apparently, he’s been living the life of a respectable citizen since then.”
“I need to access the file.”
Billhardt flinched. “You know that’s impossible. You’re no longer a police officer.”
“Then give me a copy, something. At least give me his name.”
Billhardt shook his head. “No, I can’t. I’ve already told you more than I should have. If this gets out, I’m done for. You know I’m no backstabber, but I have to consider my own safety. I told you when all of this took place. That will suffice. The Hauptsturmführer you work for will get you the necessary information.”
Oppenheimer thought for a moment. “I don’t want to speak to him about it until I have some specific suspicions. I already put my foot in it when I suspected an SS bigwig. And this Brownshirt would be one of his own men once again.”
“I really can’t help you anymore,” Billhardt insisted, but Oppenheimer could see from his expression that he was struggling with the decision.
* * *
The all clear had finally come at three in the morning. Half-asleep, Oppenheimer had shuffled upstairs from the cellar to his bed, dropped onto the mattress, and gone straight back to sleep. When he woke up, it was already midday. He heard Lisa in the kitchen. Still sleepy, he rolled over onto his back and looked out the window into the gray sky. It was Sunday, but his mind did not allow him to rest. While he got dressed, he thought of the SA man Billhardt had talked about. Maybe he really should turn to Vogler to get hold of the files. A small white lie would suffice. He could claim to have heard about the case while he was still with the force.
When Oppenheimer went into the kitchen, Lisa was at the stove. The kettle was boiling. There was food on the table. To his surprise, he saw valuable items, such as chocolate, coffee, and tinned meat. His reflex was to immediately open one of the bars of chocolate. As the sweet taste spread inside his mouth, he couldn’t resist a contented smile.
He put a second piece of this unexpected gift in his mouth and only then asked, “Where did you get this?”
“From Dr. Klein,” Lisa answered. Her voice sounded oddly muted. “He handed everything out in the house this morning.”
“I thought he must have a secret stash. What are we celebrating? Did the invasion advance?”
Lisa banged the kettle down hard on the stove and looked at her husband reproachfully. “You really don’t have a clue what’s going on around you, do you?”
Oppenheimer noticed a moist gleam in her eyes but didn’t understand her reaction. “What did I do wrong?”
Germania: A Novel of Nazi Berlin Page 21
