Oppenheimer went to the coatrack and slipped into his coat. He had no time to lose. “Where is Hoffmann?” he shouted down the cellar. Without waiting for Vogler’s reply, he opened the front door.
Suddenly, he heard a metallic click. But he reacted too late; the door was already wide open. The barrels of two guns were pointing directly at him.
Oppenheimer instinctively took a step back, but the two SS men followed him in and kept him in their sight with routine precision. A man in civilian clothes entered his line of vision. He seemed to be in command. Something flickered briefly in his hand when he showed Oppenheimer a metal badge. Even without reading it, Oppenheimer knew that the words SECRET STATE POLICE and a number were engraved on it. A man from the Gestapo. Was he going to take him into protective custody? Send him to a concentration camp?
“Mr. Oppenheimer, I presume?”
Oppenheimer swallowed before he was able to nod. Vogler also seemed to have heard something. “What’s going on?” he called, coming up the stairs. When Vogler saw the men, he snapped his heels and saluted. “Hauptsturmführer Vogler!”
The Gestapo men looked from one to the other. Oppenheimer wondered whether he had actually briefly seen a trace of amusement in the face of the man in charge. “Follow me. Both of you,” he ordered.
There was no point in refusing.
23
THURSDAY, JUNE 22, 1944–FRIDAY, JUNE 23, 1944
Oppenheimer stared at the bare stone wall. They’d been waiting for over two hours now. Vogler, too, sat forlornly on his chair, staring ahead morosely. If the waiting was supposed to intimidate them, the strategy was fulfilling its purpose.
At least Oppenheimer knew where they were. But this information didn’t do much to reassure him. He hadn’t been able to recognize much in the black limousine because of the lowered screens on the windows, but when they’d gotten out, he’d recognized his surroundings. The day before, they had inspected the body parts just a short distance away. They were in the government district again. The old bombed-out Reich Chancellery was on the other side of the road, so they were in Wilhelmstraße. The building they’d been taken to had a bulky gray façade. A pillar had been embedded into the façade of the building to the right of the big doors; a stone eagle perched high above, clutching a swastika in his claws. This had confirmed Oppenheimer’s suspicions. They’d been taken to the Propaganda Ministry.
This was the building where Joseph Goebbels, Reich Minister of Propaganda, personally pulled the strings, told the newspapers what to print, approved the weekly newsreel before it flickered across the screens in the remotest villages. From here, he controlled a huge think tank. Everything that was supposed to enter the heads of the German people was conceived, censured, and prepared here. But Oppenheimer had absolutely no idea what all this had to do with their investigation.
He wriggled around restlessly on his chair. Muted steps could be heard outside the door, the handle was pushed down, and a young man with a neat side parting looked into the room. “Ah, there you are!” he said, pulled out a document folder, and riffled through it. He made a note of something, closed the folder again, and put the pencil behind his ear. “If you’d like to follow me,” he requested politely and held the door open for them. Oppenheimer and Vogler exchanged a brief glance.
The young man strode ahead and led them down a wide stairwell. Each of their steps was answered by a dozen phantom steps. The sober environment demonstrated that cool logic reigned here. Oppenheimer was not unimpressed by the architecture, but at the same time, he felt his soul freeze. They reached another floor. The young man opened a heavy door that was covered in thick leather from the inside. A second similarly upholstered door came right behind it. It was like an air lock. Oppenheimer recognized the architectural principle. These double doors served to insulate the sound. But what sort of sound wasn’t allowed to escape from the room on the other side? The screams of mistreated prisoners? Were enemy agents interrogated here?
The young man opened the second door and pointed into the room. “Please take a seat. If you’d just like to wait for a short moment.”
Oppenheimer stepped hesitantly into the artificial light. He stopped in amazement. Vogler also hesitated for a moment and quickly assessed the new surroundings. He was quite good at hiding his surprise. The door closed behind them with a satisfying smack. Now they were completely cut off from the outside world.
Although no daylight could penetrate this room, it was in no way dark, as they were standing in front of a snow-white screen. Oppenheimer looked around curiously. Two small windows were embedded in the wall opposite. Behind these, the glass eyes of the film projectors stared out. They were in a viewing room. Oppenheimer had never seen a private cinema like this before. The raked rows of seats would accommodate maybe a dozen viewers. The room appeared almost gloomy when not in use. The light in the projection room was on, and a film projectionist was busy at the machines.
“Right, well, we’ve had the tour,” Oppenheimer growled. “Now what?”
They didn’t have to wait long until the door opened again. Oppenheimer knew the face of the new arrival only too well; everyone did. Before them stood the person who ruled over this building and all its staff. Now Oppenheimer understood why he was commonly—and disparagingly—known as the Shrunken Teuton. Joseph Goebbels was at least half a head smaller than Oppenheimer.
Vogler quickly stepped aside for the minister and saluted. Then he stood in front of the wall as if turned to a salt pillar. Oppenheimer initially didn’t know how to greet the man. He didn’t consider the Hitler salute appropriate; after all, he was a Jew. Simply shaking Goebbels’s hand was also out of the question. Instead, Oppenheimer removed his hat and bowed politely.
But Goebbels ignored him. He appeared a little distracted, seemed to have had a tiring day. In place of a greeting, he pressed an envelope into Vogler’s hand. “Could you please explain this to me?”
Vogler came back to life. He opened the envelope and pulled out a few pieces of carton. The edges were wavy, and Oppenheimer knew it had to be photographs. Vogler stared at the pictures, bewildered. Oppenheimer went to stand next to him and have a look too. In stark black-and-white contrasts, the image depicted a swastika on a stone floor, comprised of four arms. It was possible to make out the Reich Chancellery in some of the photos. Without a doubt, these were pictures of yesterday’s body parts.
Goebbels watched their reactions, his arms folded. “Well, cat got your tongue?” he finally barked. His body was tense, the day’s exertions forgotten. “I’d like an answer to my question.”
The SS men who had shielded the site from the public were missing from the images. “Who took the photographs?” Oppenheimer asked.
“That’s neither here nor there,” Goebbels said. “I want to know what the hell is going on there. Now tell me, Hauptsturmführer, what or whom are we dealing with here?”
“We are hunting a mass murderer,” Vogler explained. “Gruppenführer Reithermann initiated this investigation after his foreign-language secretary was found dead.” He roughly outlined the five murders and summarized the results of the investigation so far. Goebbels was not particularly amused. “This case was declared top secret. It is irresponsible that these images were leaked.”
Oppenheimer intervened. “I can say that these are not the images that we had taken of the site. These were taken earlier. I am guessing it was shortly before the all clear was given and before anyone in the Reich Chancellery discovered the body parts.”
Goebbels looked at Oppenheimer intently. He considered briefly and then replied, “To your first question: the images were taken by a photographer who occasionally works for various newspapers. The gentleman has already been given his marching orders. We shall see if he is similarly conscientious at the front.”
Oppenheimer was disappointed, as he would have liked to have questioned the man. He must have been at the site before they arrived. Had he seen anything else? Thanks to Goebbels, there was no
w no way of finding out.
“Are these all the pictures there are?” Oppenheimer asked.
“I bloody well hope so!” Goebbels bellowed. “He tried to sell them to the highest-bidding newspaper. Luckily, one of the chief editors called me immediately. Are you aware of what would have happened if someone had published these pictures?”
Vogler deliberated this. He wanted to make sure he didn’t give the wrong answer. Finally, Oppenheimer said, “It would probably have caused a mass panic.”
“A mass panic? Yes, at best.” The propaganda minister was one of those people who liked to hear themselves speak. Steeped in his own importance, he puffed out his chest, raised his index finger, and began his lecture. “Our situation probably isn’t clear to you. We are in a strategically important moment. We have regained the people’s trust in us by deploying the V-1. But we cannot carelessly gamble away this political credit. Especially as we are nowhere near total and complete activation of our war efforts. A great deal is going to happen, gentlemen. We must put an end to the luxury enjoyed by people in the homeland. The nation must be combed even more radically to seek out men fit for military service. Depending on the situation, it may even be necessary for the führer to appeal directly to the people and organize a national uprising against the enemy. But if we start letting such horror stories become public knowledge, it’s only a small step for defeatism to spread. We simply cannot afford that.”
Oppenheimer stood next to Vogler, but he didn’t feel part of the conversation. While the Hauptsturmführer listened to his superior, evidently contrite, Oppenheimer allowed his thoughts to wander. In these surroundings, Goebbels seemed like a bad actor who had jumped off the screen. Oppenheimer had to think about the situation he was in. He was here alone with the minister and an SS man whose weapon was in immediate reach. He weighed up his options. Would he be able to overpower Vogler and get control of his weapon? Should he shoot Goebbels? He probably wouldn’t get far. Oppenheimer calmly considered whether he had what it took to be a martyr. But was there any point? Wouldn’t another Nazi soon succeed him as propaganda minister? Even after Heydrich’s death, the gap had quickly been filled, everything had continued in the Reich Security Main Office as if nothing had happened. Countless party lackeys were frothing at the mouth, waiting to take over from Goebbels. To Oppenheimer, the NSDAP seemed like a hydra with countless heads that couldn’t be chopped off quickly enough before they grew back. Or did he only think that because he was such a coward?
Goebbels was talking at them, but it was as if someone had turned down the volume. Oppenheimer noticed the minister moving up and down nimbly but with a certain amount of effort, as he had a clubfoot. This reminded him of an additional nickname the people of Berlin had given Goebbels: Hobblestiltskin. It was interesting that someone like him, of all people, propagated a worldview that indulged the idol of a blond superman made of Krupp steel. How would Hilde interpret that? Had Goebbels learned to be tough on himself to compensate for his disability? Had the National Socialists’ racial fanaticism been so enticing to him because he could use it to detract from his own deficits, to be on the same level as the pure-blooded Aryans, to subsequently humiliate anyone who had ever derided him in his life? He decided to discuss this with Hilde when the opportunity next arose.
He observed Goebbels carefully. The minister’s hair was dark, his nose prominent. Vogler’s facial features were far less distinctive. Oppenheimer had to smile. In this particular group, he was the only one who looked a bit like an Aryan, he of all people, a Jew. After what seemed like forever, Goebbels finally got to the point. “To put it in a nutshell, I’m giving you a week to clear the whole matter.”
“Yes, Minister,” Vogler said in a loud voice.
“There will be no further deferment. Hand me the perpetrator and all the files next Thursday, or else I will hold you personally responsible.”
Vogler swallowed hard. “Yes, sir!”
But Goebbels still hadn’t finished. He sat down and shifted his gaze to Oppenheimer, mustering him critically from top to toe. “So you are Jewish, Oppenheimer?”
“Yes.”
“Well, these things happen. Hauptsturmführer Vogler seems to have a lot of faith in your capabilities. However, no one should find out that you are of non-Aryan origin. If it weren’t for your name, one could easily be deceived. I presume that you’ve been given new quarters for the duration of the investigation?”
Oppenheimer looked at the minister in surprise. “I live in a Jewish House.”
“And in the mornings? What do you do? Do you drive to work from there every day?”
Oppenheimer wasn’t sure what Goebbels was getting at. Vogler answered, “One of my drivers picks him up in the mornings. We have set up an office in the Kameradschaftssiedlung in Zehlendorf for him.”
Goebbels jumped up all of a sudden. “Are you out of your mind, Vogler? No, this driving around Berlin has to come to an end. Give Oppenheimer a flat nearby. Most definitely not in a Jewish House!” He then turned directly to Oppenheimer and commanded, “For my part, you are suspended from the affiliation to the Jewish people until the end of the investigation. Until then, you are to be treated as an Aryan. Vogler will take care of everything. That will be all, gentlemen.”
Oppenheimer looked at Goebbels, completely taken by surprise. He hadn’t known that the propaganda minister’s authority stretched as far as religious affiliation. What would happen now? Would he miraculously grow a new foreskin?
The minister waved his guests off distractedly. He seemed to want to expel them like an annoying thought. His gaze already focused on the screen, he reminded them once more, “Don’t forget, you have one week. Dismissed.”
The two men obeyed and left as the light around them slowly dimmed. In the doorway, Oppenheimer looked round once more. Goebbels had already instructed the projectionist to start the film. A close-up of a pretty actress flitted across the screen.
* * *
“Pack your things,” Vogler ordered. They were sitting in the back of the limousine again. The hands of the Hauptsturmführer were still shaking. The encounter with Goebbels seemed to have made a deep impression on him. “Get everything ready before Hoffmann comes to pick you up. My staff will come tomorrow lunchtime and shift everything.”
“It’s not much,” Oppenheimer replied. “Maybe two or three suitcases in all.”
When Oppenheimer stepped into his room fifteen minutes later, Lisa was already asleep in bed. It was past midnight. He gently woke her up; after all, the matter was important.
“We’re moving tomorrow.”
Lisa looked at him drowsily. She needed a bit of time for the news to hit home. Then she sat up abruptly. “Who says so?”
“I fear you won’t believe me.” And Oppenheimer began to tell his story.
* * *
Oppenheimer carefully clasped the two tins left over from Dr. Klein’s legacy between his knees. That was probably the safest place for the valuable treasure, while he himself was being flung from side to side and had to endure several bursts of acceleration in the sidecar of Hoffmann’s motorbike.
He had gotten up earlier that morning to help Lisa pack their belongings. To be honest, neither of them had really been able to sleep with excitement. The packing took no time at all, as they’d been sitting on half-packed suitcases for years and barely had any belongings to call their own. As he was unable to tell Lisa where Vogler would accommodate them, Oppenheimer suggested to Lisa that he’d pick her up outside the rubber factory at the end of her shift.
Despite the uncertainty, he left the Jewish House without much regret. Nor was there much of a farewell from the Schlesingers. He simply deposited the suitcases with them, saying that someone would be coming to pick them up, then he got into Hoffmann’s devilish vehicle, picked up the plaster cast of the tire print from police headquarters, and went directly to Höcker & Sons.
Ms. Behringer received them in the office with an ominous frown. “Ah, Inspector. I’
m guessing you weren’t able to make it last night?”
“I’m terribly sorry that I kept you waiting,” Oppenheimer said apologetically and handed her the two tins. “Here, to make up for it.” When Ms. Behringer read the label of the tins, her discontent evaporated. She was speechless and cleared her throat several times. “Oh gosh. I’m not sure. I can’t really accept this.”
“Of course you can, I owe you. After all, you spent the evening in the office last night because of me.”
In passing, he noticed how well proportioned her face was. When she began to smile, her eyes took on a lively gleam. Would he have given her the tins if she hadn’t been as attractive? Oppenheimer didn’t want to consider this any further. He excused his behavior with the fact that he needed information and that this justified almost any means. “I need some information,” he said quickly before Ms. Behringer had similar thoughts. “Are the Guesthouse Schmidt and the Hotel Adlon on your client list?”
“One moment, please. Do take a seat.” Ms. Behringer went over to the huge filing cabinet and took out a box of files. “I can tell you that we occasionally supply the Hotel Adlon, I know that for a fact, but a Guesthouse Schmidt…” She looked through the files until she found an entry. “Giesebrechtstraße 11?”
Oppenheimer felt the blood shoot to his head when he heard the question. “That’s correct.”
“Well, the Guesthouse Schmidt is not a regular customer, but we have delivered to this address. Yes, we’ve supplied them several times over the last few years.”
It all made sense. Everything came together at Höcker & Sons. Oppenheimer was sure he was on the right track. Christina Gerdeler frequented the Adlon to acquire wealthy clients. Together with Gruppenführer Reithermann, Julie Dufour often frequented the hotel that was supplied by Höcker & Sons, the company where Inge Friedrichsen had worked as a secretary. And the same company also supplied the Salon Kitty, whose employee with the pseudonym Friederike had found a violent death. This could not be a coincidence. Although it didn’t yet explain how Traudel Herrmann, the latest victim, fitted into the scheme of things, Oppenheimer was optimistic that there was a connection.
Germania: A Novel of Nazi Berlin Page 30
