“You mean the British might risk a gas war?”
“A lot of people are talking about it.”
Just the thought of it was horrifying to Oppenheimer. He had been exposed to numerous gas attacks in the last war, always anxiously hoping that his gas mask would work. He had been incredibly lucky back then to have gotten off scot-free, in contrast to some of his comrades, who had died in insufferable agony. One thing was clear: with the V-1, the führer had heralded a new phase of war. It wouldn’t take long for the British to reciprocate. But Oppenheimer didn’t want to give up hope that they would not resort to this final, dirty method. “Maybe it won’t be as bad as all that. You shouldn’t measure the English by German benchmarks. Churchill is no Hitler.”
“Nonetheless, will you promise to get masks?”
Oppenheimer thought for a moment. “As soon as I get back to Zehlendorf, I’ll see what I can do.”
As the situation was very worrying, Oppenheimer decided to invest some of the money Kitty had given him in a visit to the cinema. He hoped to discover more in the weekly newsreel. They could make the evening performance at seven thirty. “What do you think?” he asked Lisa. “Do you fancy watching a film?”
Oppenheimer needed a while to convince Lisa to come along. She thought it too risky, as Jews were not allowed to go to the cinema. Finally, he promised her that they would only sneak into the auditorium once the lights had gone off and the preview was running. Just as they were going down the stairs, Old Mr. Schlesinger emerged from the cellar. When he saw them, he said, “Mr. Oppenheimer, I have a letter for you!”
Oppenheimer and Lisa exchanged glances. They had occasionally talked about why Schlesinger should be entitled to accept the entire postal delivery from the postman, to then distribute it to the tenants. Lisa suspected that the old man opened all the envelopes over steam to read them. But Oppenheimer didn’t want to get involved in lengthy discussions and decided to grin and bear it.
“Most kind of you to have collected my post for me,” he replied amiably.
Schlesinger went back into his room and returned with an envelope. Oppenheimer looked at it briefly. There was no sender on the envelope.
“For you,” Schlesinger said, a challenge in his voice.
“Many thanks, Mr. Schlesinger,” Oppenheimer said and tucked the letter into the inside pocket of his coat.
“What could that be?” Lisa asked as they walked down the pavement.
“No idea,” Oppenheimer replied. “But I didn’t want to open it in front of Schlesinger.”
Oppenheimer had decided against changing his outfit in the Beusselkiez. He didn’t care if a pursuer saw him sneaking into a screening. It was a risk he could take as long as he was working for Vogler. They got on the subway at Tiergarten and stayed on for two stops until Savignyplatz. There were several cinemas on Kurfürstendamm, but Oppenheimer didn’t know exactly which one had been bombed. Luckily, the first one they came across was the UFA Palast Kurfürstendamm, which still seemed to be operating. Today, they were showing a film with Gustav Fröhlich and Otto Wernicke. But Oppenheimer didn’t really care what film they bought tickets for.
While they waited in the foyer to be admitted, Oppenheimer checked that the envelope was still in his inside pocket. He didn’t dare to open the letter while the audience was pouring into the auditorium. It was safer to wait until the weekly newsreel started.
The gong sounded, and the room went dark. Oppenheimer and Lisa sneaked into the auditorium and sat in the first free seats they came across. The curtain opened, displaying the imperial eagle that marked the beginning of the weekly newsreel. A stylized calendar sheet appeared showing the date of June 6, 1944. “A date of global significance,” the speaker said. “Under pressure from Moscow, the British and Americans have finally begun the long-announced invasion we had been expecting. It finds Germany at the ready.”
This was followed by images of soldiers running through the corridors of the Atlantic Wall. A nighttime artillery skirmish was shown, during which Oppenheimer was unable to recognize much more than the glowing traces of the projectiles. There was the sound of artillery and the flare of an explosion. So far, the footage was not unusual, but the next scene caused the audience to freeze. It had been shot with a remote camera just before the invasion began. Only two camera angles were shown, but these few seconds took Oppenheimer’s breath away.
He saw the Atlantic. Dancing on the waves were not white foam caps but millions of tons of iron. The horizon seemed to be filled entirely with ships. Then there was nothing but artillery fire, flames from flamethrowers, smoke everywhere. The action on the beach was not shown, just empty landing boats, and the commentator claimed that their crew had been killed or captured. Then came images of smashed military gliders, parachutes hanging in trees, the destroyed city of Caen, captured assailants, and time and again images of German soldiers who seemed to be in complete control. After a while, Oppenheimer barely listened to the shrill voice coming from the loudspeakers. He had never seen anything like it in his life. It didn’t matter what the commentary to the newsreel was; these forceful images rendered moot all attempts to play things down.
The National Socialists’ opponents seemed to have inexhaustible reserves at their disposal; they had enough weapons and were clearly not suffering from a lack of petrol. The rest of the world was sending their sons to sacrifice themselves on these shores for freedom’s sake, and there were enough of them. Oppenheimer physically felt the cinema audience being gripped by a frozen discomfort. Lisa, too, had reached for his hand in agitation. The people stared at the screen in horror.
It took a few minutes after the coverage finished for the first people to stir. Several members of the audience left their seats, no longer interested in the main film that was about to start. Quiet whispers started in the row in front of Oppenheimer.
“Well, our flats will be nice and toasty soon.”
“Why is that?”
“When they take down all the portraits of the führer, we’ll have plenty of firewood!”
The usual reaction to a joke like that failed to materialize. No giggling, just an acknowledging murmur could be heard.
Oppenheimer furtively pulled the envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket. The light reflected from the screen was just enough to be able to read the words.
Hilde had sent him a message. But what could be so important to make her send him a letter? He held the piece of paper up close to his eyes.
I must talk to you. It’s very important. Come and see me at 1:00 p.m. on Saturday. That was all it said. Signed with an H.
* * *
The sirens howled. Swaying unsteadily on her high heels, Traudel Herrmann stepped into the dark street.
“Are you sure you don’t want to come into our bunker?” Marga, the wife of Gruppenleiter Kriegler, asked. They’d had a merry evening. The other guests had already left, but Traudel stayed on as usual. “We can also go into the cellar,” Marga said. “It’s safe. Reinforced concrete. We can get comfy down there.”
Traudel shook her head. “It’s best I’m home when Rainer gets in. He had to go to a meeting and didn’t know how long he’d be.” Of course, Traudel knew he’d lied. Rainer was having an affair with another woman. She had seen the telltale signs—strange lipstick on his collar, scratch marks on his back one time. He couldn’t hide it from her even if he tried. But she didn’t care which slut her husband was humping at the moment. Life with him offered enough comforts for her to ignore this small detail. And anyway, Rainer was similarly tolerant in these matters.
Something in Marga’s gaze said that she wasn’t prepared to let her friend leave like this. “It’s dangerous. Please stay here. You don’t know what might happen. Didn’t you hear about the warnings?”
Traudel vaguely recalled a warning of potential kidnappings directed at family members of SS officers. “Nothing’s going to happen to me. Gustav is driving me. He can take care of me. We’ll manage the few kilometers to K
öpenick before the attack.”
“Wait, I’ll come with you,” said Marga and tied her head scarf. Traudel thought it a good idea that Marga accompany her, as she was feeling quite tipsy from all the wine.
“You know, our new girl,” Traudel began as Marga supported her, “I think it was a mistake to hire her. I have to keep checking up on her to make sure she’s doing her job. When Rainer gets home and nothing’s been prepared for him, he’ll get very angry.”
Marga stopped and looked around. “Where is the car, actually?”
Traudel joined her in staring into the darkness. The limousine was not waiting in the street. She was just about to take up Marga’s offer and return to the house when she suddenly remembered. “Ah yes, he’s waiting in the side street. Over there.” She changed direction and headed toward a dark alley. In the pitch-black night, one could barely make out the chassis. Traudel had no idea why, but Gustav didn’t like to park on the main road. Maybe he feared that an envious passerby might damage the car. Not everyone could afford such a luxury vehicle, let alone the petrol that the engine guzzled.
Marga accompanied Traudel to the corner. The car door opened, and the familiar figure of Gustav in his chauffeur’s uniform became discernible.
Traudel stopped. “It’s all right. Go back to your bunker.” She gave her friend a good-bye hug and disappeared into the darkness. Marga could just make her out approaching the vehicle. Gustav held open the rear door and helped her get in.
The engine started.
When the car drove past Marga, she waved. Traudel waved back from behind the window. For a moment, it occurred to Marga that the heavy vehicles with their large windows sometimes looked like aquariums. The passengers seemed like trapped fish. But then she put the thought aside and laughed at her own eccentricity. The sound of the engine disappeared into the distance.
Marga was about to turn around and return to the bunker when she noticed something. A movement. She had had the experience before that she could distinguish things better in complete darkness if she looked past them. Something was lying on the ground in the alleyway. It was nothing more than a light shimmer.
Marga hesitated, wondering what to do. She remembered the warning that had come through a few days ago. Wasn’t she putting herself in unnecessary danger if she walked down a dark alleyway in the middle of the night? She looked around once more. There were also other people on their way to the bunker, walking along the main road. The sight of them made Marga feel safe. She could always call for help if necessary.
She took a hesitant step into the alleyway, then the next. It was only five strides until her right foot touched something. She hadn’t been mistaken. It was a body.
When she knelt, she realized what the light shimmer had been. A man wearing a white shirt was lying in front of her. She felt the stranger’s face. She felt his stubble, stroked his cheek to wake him up.
“Hello. Are you unwell? The alarm has sounded. You have to get to the bunker.”
The response was a groan. Marga realized that her left hand was damp. She held her fingers in front of her face and perceived the metallic smell of blood.
“Oh my God, what happened to you?”
The man was coming around. He tried to sit up. Marga helped as well as she could, but it took a while for him to sit up against the wall of the building. Marga took his hand. “Come along. We have to get to the bunker.”
She began to pull him behind her, past her front door that was still partially open. The light from the hallway spilled out into the street. Annoyed, Marga thought how careless she’d been. She’d completely forgotten the blackout order.
“Wait here.” She leaned the man against the doorway. And hesitated. In the weak light, his face somehow seemed familiar. She went to the front door and opened it, disobeying all blackout orders.
When the lamplight lit up the man’s face, Marga froze. Her eyes widened in disbelief. Of course she knew him. It was Gustav, Traudel’s chauffeur. “Gustav, what are you doing here?” She quickly went back down the steps to the front door to look at him more closely. There was blood on the back of his head. Someone had struck him down.
Confused, Marga looked in the direction her friend had just disappeared. If Gustav was here, who was at the wheel of the car? She felt her insides clench. Now she was seriously worried about Traudel.
* * *
When Oppenheimer arrived outside Hilde’s house, it was a quarter to one. He was early, but he didn’t want to wait any longer. He knocked on the door of the side building where Hilde had her flat. She opened after a few seconds. Her face revealed that she had not been expecting him yet.
“Oh, you’re here already,” Hilde said and glanced out into the street.
“Nobody followed me,” Oppenheimer reassured her.
“Well, come in, then.”
After he took off his coat, they faced each other, both of them embarrassed. Then Hilde said, “Shitty weather, right?”
“I hope the summer doesn’t stay this rainy.”
“I presume you don’t want a small schnapps?” Hilde went through the treatment room into the living room.
“I’d prefer coffee. If you happen to have any left over, that is.”
“Of course. Coming right up.” She seemed happy to have an excuse to disappear into the kitchen and left Oppenheimer standing there, all dressed up with nowhere to go. Then he saw his gramophone and the record collection. He felt like listening to Johann Sebastian Bach today. He picked out a recording from the so-called Coffee Cantata. This seemed a suitable choice in the given situation. The actual title, Be Still, Stop Chattering, was an irony that Hilde would surely not appreciate. As soon as the first sounds emanated from the horn, Oppenheimer went over to the kitchen door and asked, “So, why did you ask me to come? What’s so important?”
Hilde poured steaming water into the coffee filter, then she replied, “There are a few things that you should know about the prostitute that you found in Steglitz.”
Oppenheimer looked at her in surprise. “Hilde, how do you know about that?”
“You have no idea of all the information I’ve managed to obtain.” While the coffee passed through, she leaned against the kitchen table and crossed her arms. “Richard, I have a confession to make. I let a few people in on the matter. Please understand, it wasn’t about having you followed, but when I found out the murders were all somehow linked to the party or party officials, I had no other choice. You have to trust me. This case is politically charged and could become dangerous to you. I wanted to know what was going on, which is why I consulted some experts in the matter.”
Oppenheimer wanted to ask what she meant by that when there was a knock on the door.
“I presume that’s them,” Hilde said and left the kitchen to open the door.
Voices could be heard from the treatment room. Hilde spoke to the newcomers, then they appeared in the living room. Two men in suits. While the clothing could be described as inconspicuous, the same could not really be said of its wearers. Hilde introduced her guests to one another. “This is Inspector Oppenheimer.”
“Lüttke,” said the taller man with round spectacles, shaking Oppenheimer’s hand. His movements were precise. Oppenheimer suspected a military background. Then the second man shook his hand. “Bauer,” he said and nodded affirmatively. The man named Bauer was of a compacter build. His elegant movements were in stark contrast to his partner’s. His left cheek was embellished with a so-called Schmiss, an old fencing scar that had left a deep gash. It was the usual mark of members of a dueling fraternity at university.
When they had made themselves comfortable in the living room, Hilde served coffee. Despite the warm beverage, the atmosphere remained cold. Oppenheimer studied the two men in an attempt to suss them out. Lüttke and Bauer were doing the same with him. They watched one another like poker players; neither of them wanted to be the first to show his hand. This could have gone on for minutes, had Hilde not taken the initiative.
19
SATURDAY, JUNE 17, 1944
Over the next few hours, Oppenheimer could hardly believe his ears. The woman whom he had found dead in front of the water tower was a person with many identities. In Kitty’s Salon, she was known under her alias Friederike, she rented her flat under the name Edith Zöllner, but in her former life, she’d been known as Verena Opitz.
She’d been a highly intelligent woman, spoken fluent French and Italian. Before she’d started working for Kitty, she’d been ordered by the SS to take a course in home economics and catering at an NSDAP Order Castle in the Bavarian town of Sonthofen and had also received training in pistol shooting and judo. However, Friederike, alias Edith Zöllner, alias Verena Opitz, was not the only prostitute working in Kitty’s Salon with a background like this. She belonged to a group of around twenty women who were trained by the SS to spy upon clients. They were all extremely attractive, came from various parts of the German Reich, from Austria, from the protectorates Bohemia and Moravia, even from Poland. Each of them had been known to the police for sexual offenses in the past.
“They spy for the SS,” Lüttke explained. “Initially, they were answerable to the security service of the Reich Leader SS, which has since been absorbed by the Reich Security Main Office, the RSHA. We believe that SS Oberführer Walter Schellenberg is behind the matter. He heads up Department IV, the foreign intelligence service.”
Oppenheimer looked doubtfully at the man explaining all this. “Who comes up with something like that?” He shook his head. “I’ve never heard anything so stupid. I mean, prostitutes with judo training who act as spies? It sounds just like a child’s image of Mata Hari.”
Germania: A Novel of Nazi Berlin Page 24
