Germania: A Novel of Nazi Berlin

by Harald Gilbers

  “The idea is said to have come from Heydrich himself when he was still head of the RSHA.”

  Upon mention of that name, Bauer gave a derogative snort. “Heydrich definitely read too many cheap novels and confused them with reality.”

  Oppenheimer recapitulated in his mind what he remembered about Heydrich to properly classify the information. Basically, he only knew that Heydrich used to be the head of the RSHA. At some point, he was made deputy Reich Protector of Bohemia and Moravia, which was why he had to move to Prague to take care of the official business. He was assassinated in 1942, and the party organized a huge funeral ceremony when Heydrich was buried in the Invalids’ Cemetery in Berlin. He was elevated to be a martyr, while others wearing the party uniform filled his post. Whoever these two visitors might be, they seemed to have little sympathy for the RSHA in general and for Heydrich in particular.

  “Schellenberg and the people in his intelligence service are amateurs,” Bauer concluded. “But that’s exactly what makes them dangerous. Their reactions can’t be gauged. The plan was to systematically introduce the female agents to military personnel, foreign diplomats, and high-ranking party functionaries in the brothel so that they could spy on them. During the act of love, so to speak. They had bugged the entire place and listened in on everything. We only found out in January 1941 when Obersturmführer Schwarz arranged for a direct line to be laid to the RSHA offices in Prinz-Albrecht-Straße.”

  Oppenheimer looked somewhat confused, and Bauer felt the need to explain in more detail. “Schwarz was entrusted with carrying out this project. But the idiot actually thought we wouldn’t notice that he had ordered miles of copper cable. It was obvious that something was going on. There were dozens of shorthand typists at the RSHA transcribing the conversations transmitted directly from the brothel. They also made wax disc recordings.”

  “Originally, the brothel was on the third floor,” Lüttke said. “After the house was hit by an aircraft bomb, they had to move down to the ground floor. We’re assuming they didn’t put in any new listening devices. Officially, the project seems to have been shelved for the time being. The yield seems to have been too limited.”

  “Naturally, they didn’t inform their whores,” Bauer said with a slimy grin. “They still think they are being shagged for the German Fatherland.”

  “That means that all of Kitty’s whores are from the SS?” Oppenheimer wanted to know.

  “No, only about half of her good-time girls are SS,” Lüttke clarified. “The rest more or less take care of walk-in customers.”

  Bauer disagreed. “That used to be the case, but now they go on the game in the usual way, write the odd report, and that’s it. Nobody at the RSHA gives a damn about them anymore. The project is dead.” He cast Lüttke an amused glance. “I bet Schellenberg was irritated by the fact that none of our boys spilled when they were at Kitty’s.”

  “Lucky we picked up on it in time,” Lüttke agreed.

  Oppenheimer interrupted them. “I’m sorry, but what organization are you from?”

  “They’re on our side,” Hilde said categorically.

  “What’s that supposed to mean, on our side? Who am I dealing with here? Why am I here?”

  Lüttke and Bauer looked at each other in silence. Hilde finally said, “They’re on our side. They’re from the Bureau Canaris.”

  “Or what’s left of it,” Lüttke said in resignation.

  Oppenheimer shook his head. “Doesn’t mean anything to me.”

  “I’ll try to summarize,” Hilde said with a sigh. “Correct me if I get anything wrong. There are two organizations here in Germany that deal with foreign espionage. There is Department IV in the Reich Security Main Office run by Heydrich. Since his death, Schellenberg is the big boss. The second organization is the Wehrmacht Intelligence, headed up by Admiral Canaris.”

  “So there are two organizations doing the same job?” Oppenheimer asked incredulously.

  “Are you surprised? There must be a reason for the huge growth of the party machine.”

  “And if two organizations do the same thing, how is that meant to work?”

  “That, precisely, is the problem,” Lüttke said. “It doesn’t work. It never did. Officially, our services’ competences were divided up. We call it our ten commandments. Each was supposed to be active in a different field. We were meant to cover the military section.”

  “But no one sticks to it,” Bauer added. “The SS bastards kept interfering. Even when Heydrich was still alive, he was always at loggerheads with Canaris.”

  Hilde cast Oppenheimer a smug glance. “You can imagine what this means. One spy service poaches in the other’s territory. And on top of that, they spy on each other too. The situation is as follows: Canaris also employed people who openly worked against the regime. He knew about it and so far has been able to cover for them.”

  “That was the case until February, to be precise,” Lüttke said.

  Oppenheimer had never heard of anyone opposing Hitler from within his own organization. He suddenly realized what the connection to Hilde was. Among her acquaintances, there were many who worked against Hitler, and she was also the niece of an officer. The Wehrmacht had been around a lot longer than the NSDAP. The SS men could parade their martial behavior as much as they wanted; officially, they were just party loyalists and didn’t have much in common with the long-established military men. Oppenheimer could imagine military personnel acting against the upstart Hitler. Seen from that perspective, it was understandable that both organizations tried to outstrip each other. And espionage seemed to be one of the main sites for battling it out.

  “Why can Canaris not provide more cover for his men? What happened in February?” Oppenheimer wanted to know.

  Lüttke explained, “One of our female agents defected to the British while she was in Turkey. It was a welcome opportunity for Schellenberg to remove Canaris from office. He had to step down at the end of the month. They packed Canaris off to Lauenstein Castle in Frankenwald, where he’s passing his time until he’s forced out of office. We don’t know what’s happening to our service after that. It will probably be dissolved, and our employees will have to report to the RSHA.”

  Oppenheimer shrugged. “That’s all very well, but I don’t understand what I’ve got to do with it.”

  “This is where the murder cases you’re working on come into play,” Hilde replied. “When I got the impression that the murders were politically motivated, I told Mr. Lüttke about it.”

  “We want to ask you whether you would consider working with us,” Lüttke said.

  “And what would that require me to do?”

  “We need information, nothing more. Details about the ongoing investigation. In particular if a connection to the intelligence services or one of our employees should emerge.”

  Oppenheimer grew curious. “Do you really think that someone from your ranks is the murderer?”

  “Of course not, no,” Bauer interjected. He had been shifting on his chair restlessly for a while now, watching Oppenheimer with a hostile expression. “Of course it wasn’t one of us. But these bastards are going to try to link our department to the murders. The murder of that prostitute from Schellenberg’s shop gave them that opportunity. Then they’d have free rein and could throw each and every one of us to the wolves. Just as they see fit. And Hauptsturmführer Vogler is a flunky. He probably works for them. It’s all part of one and the same shop anyhow.”

  “We don’t care who carried out the murders,” Lüttke clarified. “We just want to protect our own people.”

  “Hmm … of course, I’ll have to think about the offer,” Oppenheimer said.

  “I’ve already spoken to Richard about the matter,” Hilde suddenly said. Oppenheimer looked at her in surprise. This was an outright lie, but she seemed to be up to something. “He would be prepared to pass on information about the investigation if you arrange for him to get out of the country. Him and his wife.”

 
“Completely out of the question!” Bauer blustered.

  Lüttke leaned back with a sharp breath. Then he said slowly, “It wouldn’t be impossible. Just very, very difficult.”

  “We would never get authorization,” Bauer replied.

  Hilde had done a good job. Oppenheimer realized that she hadn’t abused his trust without reason. With a bit of luck, this was his ticket out of the murderous madness that Hitler and his helpers carried out day after day. Oppenheimer decided to join the gamble. “As Hilde said, that’s my offer.”

  “Ask for something else,” Bauer demanded.

  “Don’t give me that,” Hilde said. “You have the means. If anyone can manage to smuggle people out of Germany, it’s you. We’re just talking about two false passports. The intelligence service has years of experience of transporting people over long distances. Two more people is not going to be noticed.”

  Bauer shook his head vehemently. “You women and your ideas!”

  “I am still an officer’s niece,” Hilde retaliated, her chin thrust out. “I know how things get done. Richard is a person entrusted with confidential information. Do you have any idea what will happen if it becomes public knowledge that he spied for you? If he gets involved with you, he’s vulnerable. So at least make sure that he gets out of it all in one piece.”

  Lüttke considered the matter for a moment. “Obviously, I can’t decide immediately. We’ll be in touch.” He picked up his hat, shook hands, and left.

  “Well, I’m against it,” Bauer grumbled.

  * * *

  When the two had left, Oppenheimer gave Hilde the latest news. The discovery of the letter of confession, in particular, got Hilde very interested. “Thinking about it, I’m almost inclined to believe that Dot and Anton are on the wrong track,” she finally said.

  Oppenheimer shot Hilde a questioning look, but then he remembered that she liked to give everyone nicknames and concluded that she meant Bauer and Lüttke. However, it seemed that Hilde had confused Erich Kästner’s children’s book Dot and Anton with Emil and the Detectives.

  Hilde shook her head, lost in thought. “I believe that our murderer’s political agenda is just a pretext.”

  This conclusion came as a surprise to Oppenheimer. “How do you mean?”

  “If your information is correct, then he’s targeting prostitutes. He has a pathological aversion to them that goes so deep that he kills them. Sometimes mass murderers justify their own deeds. Why they have this urge has not yet been fully explained. I’m guessing that each perpetrator has a different reason. Many will surely have the need to justify their deeds to themselves. Don’t forget that with the first murder, the perpetrator doesn’t have a routine yet; he might well even be shocked by his own deed. And yet he feels the urge to kill again. So a sex murderer needs a reason to justify further deeds to himself.”

  Oppenheimer wanted to make sure he’d understood everything properly. “You mean it’s like with schizophrenics who say their deeds were guided externally?”

  “Yes, sort of, only in this case it’s not an external power that seems to influence the murderer but he himself who is searching for reasons for his behavior to be able to accept it. Mentally stable people have a hard time understanding this logic. From a distance, I can’t say for sure where our murderer’s delusions originate, but looking at his letters, he seems to want to justify his deeds to himself.”

  “And you think that the reason he gave, National Socialism being infected by prostitutes, is not the decisive one?”

  “You can forget the whole political rubbish he spouts. He states quite clearly that he hates prostitutes because they transmit diseases. It wouldn’t surprise me if something similar happened to him. He’s projecting his personal experience onto the state, which obviously shows clear signs of delusions of grandeur.”

  “If that’s true, then why of all people did he choose a prostitute who worked as a spy for the SS?”

  “That might just as well have been pure coincidence. Salon Kitty is almost tailor-made for our murderer. A renowned house of ill repute that is frequented by prominent party cadres and the military. These circumstances alone suffice to make the place interesting to our murderer. Sooner or later, he simply had to show up there. If I’d known about his letters earlier, we might have realized this sooner and could have prevented the most recent murder.”

  “Around half the women are supposed to have been spies,” Oppenheimer pondered, the cigarette tip in his mouth. “The likelihood that he was going to get one of them was relatively high. So the murderer doesn’t necessarily have to have known about the espionage activities. It’s a pity, actually; otherwise, the pool of suspects would have grown smaller.”

  “At least Dot and Anton will be happy to hear about the murderer’s letter.” Hilde added, in a confidential tone, “I wouldn’t tell them about it too soon, though. Let them squirm for a while and try to get as much out of the situation for yourself as you can.”

  “I wonder what they want with the information,” Oppenheimer mumbled, lost in thought.

  “It doesn’t matter. That’s the way the intelligence services work. Everyone tries to gather as much information as possible. Whether it’s actually useful is another matter. They both say they want to protect their colleagues who are working against the party. That may be. But maybe they just want to use their insights to obtain a better position when their shop gets subordinated to the RSHA. Don’t worry about it. You now have the chance of getting out of Germany. Use it.”

  * * *

  By the time Oppenheimer headed home from the Beusselkiez, it had started to bucket down from the gray, overcast sky. Like Oppenheimer, Hilde had been surprised to hear that the murderer had abandoned his usual pattern. The fact that he hadn’t sent a letter particularly irritated her. In contrast, Oppenheimer, for his part, was unsettled by Hilde’s assumption that the perpetrator might have stopped communicating by letter to soon do so by other means. He wondered what that might be. Oppenheimer had a sense of foreboding.

  As he climbed over several piles of rubble that littered the pavement, he was annoyed by the torn soles of his shoes. His socks soaked up the water in the puddles and ensured that his toes felt uncomfortably cold. Hilde had given him a new pair of shoes from her stash. But Oppenheimer carried them under his arm to protect them. At least his other decision, to take along a second umbrella today, had been a good one. This way, he could lead his pursuers in the Beusselkiez on a wild-goose chase and still stay dry.

  Oppenheimer only had a few more meters to go when he heard a siren in the distance and then another noise nearby. Initially, he couldn’t place it, until he spotted an air raid warden’s steel helmet. The man was banging a gong to warn the residents of the air raid. It appeared that the nearest siren had been destroyed.

  Because of the gong, Oppenheimer couldn’t hear his pursuer’s footsteps. As usual, the man had followed him to the Beusselkiez today and was now approaching. When Oppenheimer heard someone wading through a puddle behind him, it was already too late. Suddenly, a hand reached out and descended on his shoulder.

  An unfamiliar voice asked, “Richard Oppenheimer?”

  Oppenheimer spun round. Facing the man, he realized that he was armed only with two umbrellas. A car glided by a few meters behind the stranger and stopped at the side of the road. At the man’s next words, Oppenheimer knew resistance was futile. “Sicherheitsdienst. Get in.”

  20

  SATURDAY, JUNE 17, 1944–SUNDAY, JUNE 18, 1944

  “Goddamn it, where have you been?” Vogler was completely beside himself. “We’ve taken apart the entire building you disappeared into—nothing! No Inspector Oppenheimer!”

  This meant his cover was blown. Oppenheimer stood in the hallway of the Zehlendorf house, still in his coat. So he would have to come up with another way of visiting Hilde in the future. “I went for a walk to clear my head,” was Oppenheimer’s lame reply, which sounded even absurder given the fact that he was holding two um
brellas and a pair of shoes in his hand.

  “I don’t care what you do as long as you tell me where you are! He’s struck again.”

  Oppenheimer felt the blood freeze in his veins. As usual, Hoffmann had said nothing in the car when he had brought him here. “Already?” he asked in anguish.

  “Yes, already! Traudel Herrmann, the wife of a Gruppenleiter. She was reported missing a few hours ago. Leave your coat on. You’re going straight to Köpenick.”

  * * *

  He hasn’t killed her yet. We can still stop it, Oppenheimer thought when he stood in the Herrmanns’ living room. It seemed that the Gruppenleiter was a vain man. There were photographs of him in his full SS uniform everywhere—in full dress, as the saying went. There he stood, his chest proudly pushed out above the beginnings of a paunch, a well-built man in his prime with steel helmet and combat pack. Almost no one would have recognized this man in the huddled bundle in the armchair. His body seemed to have shrunk over the last few hours, his face was red with anxiety, his gaze already a little glassy as if he’d already tried unsuccessfully to comfort himself with hard liquor.

  “Please try to remember,” Oppenheimer addressed him once more. “Every tiny detail can be important. When exactly did you come home last night?”

  “I didn’t look at my watch,” Herrmann said hoarsely. “It must have been around three in the morning. At first, I noticed that the car was parked at the side of the road. I wondered why Gustav—he’s our chauffeur—hadn’t put the car into the garage. That’s negligent. You never know what’s going to happen if you just leave it outside. Gustav is usually very conscientious. I decided to speak to him about it in the morning. Then I went straight to bed and fell asleep.”

  “You and your wife have separate bedrooms?”

  “Exactly. Silke hadn’t put out my pajamas, but I was so tired that I didn’t really think about it much. I just flaked out.”