This was why Oppenheimer felt extremely unsettled when Hoffmann dropped him off at the corner of Prinz-Albrecht-Straße. Hesitantly, he approached the massive stone pillars that flanked the portal. In front of those, two guards stood with their weapons shouldered. There was hardly a place on earth that Oppenheimer felt more aversion to. Besides, it wasn’t very advisable for a person in his situation to enter this building, but he had no choice if he wanted to solve the case.
The sky had clouded over. The raindrops that had accompanied Oppenheimer’s drive into the city center were cold and hard. The passersby who hastily sought cover from the first hailstones looked at him in bewilderment. Oppenheimer’s steps had slowed. Eventually, he stood in the middle of the pavement, unprotected, shifting from one foot to the other, not daring to enter. One of the guards looked at him skeptically, and he realized what he must look like. Oppenheimer decided that there was no point waiting outside the entrance and thinking about the possible dangers. He plucked up his courage, climbed the steps, and pulled open the big door.
He entered the lobby. The porter was on the right. “Where you goin’ then?” he asked.
The porter’s voice was not hostile, rather bored. Nonetheless, Oppenheimer flinched. “I have an appointment,” he stammered, feeling guilty.
“He’s with me!” came a voice from the building’s interior. Vogler joined them. “Hauptsturmführer Vogler. This is Richard Oppenheimer. I need him for the interrogation.”
The porter acknowledged this explanation with a shrug and waved Oppenheimer through. Behind the massive entrance door stretched a pompous hall with curved arches, stucco ornaments, and large windows, but Vogler turned left into a long corridor that had a comparatively sober appearance. “Ziegler is downstairs,” he said. A few meters on, a staircase came into view. The corridor in the cellar looked almost identical. Only the window at the end of the corridor upstairs was missing down here. There were doors on either side, leading to the interrogation rooms.
As Vogler marched purposefully down the corridor, a muffled scream came from one of the rooms. Oppenheimer paused and stared in the direction of the noise. He had to swallow hard when he imagined what was probably going on behind that door right now.
A second scream could be heard. Oppenheimer’s shadow danced on the floor as he started moving again to follow the Hauptsturmführer. Vogler was already waiting outside the door of another room.
“Just for your information, Mr. Ziegler was arrested at five o’clock this morning near his flat. He has not made any statement as to why he returned. He was on foot. No trace of his delivery van.”
“Hmm, so he is saying nothing?”
“I want the thing wrapped up as soon as possible. We’ve got enough evidence, although of course a confession from Ziegler would be ideal.”
Oppenheimer wanted to object. Things were proceeding too rapidly for his liking. Important questions remained unanswered. Where had the perpetrator taken his victims to mutilate and kill them? What was the purpose of it? Was there any way to explain his behavior? Oppenheimer’s work ethic as a crime inspector called for as few questions as possible to remain open, and he wasn’t planning on changing this approach now, even if Goebbels himself was breathing down his neck. But he didn’t bother to hope that Vogler would understand. The Hauptsturmführer just wanted results, as quickly as possible. So he replied, “Let’s see what can be done.”
Oppenheimer was just about to go into the room when the door from which the screams had come opened into the corridor. Everything had gone quiet. A burly, purple-faced man stepped out, carrying his suit jacket folded over his arm. He was sweating, fumbled around for a handkerchief, and wiped his damp brow. Then he noticed a dark red stain on his white shirt. He swore and tried to remove the blood with his handkerchief. When he noticed he was being watched, he paused for a moment. He looked at Oppenheimer and nodded as if to a colleague. Then he continued his unsuccessful attempt to clean his shirt.
Oppenheimer entered the interrogation room. It was strange that he felt safe there of all places.
* * *
“Would you like a cigarette?” Oppenheimer asked and opened his cigarette case.
Gormless Kalle looked at him with a blank expression, then took a closer look at the white cigarettes. There was not the slightest glimmer of craving in his face, a sentiment that would have overcome any smoker, given the lack of tobacco products. Oppenheimer took a cigarette and offered it to Ziegler. In the last half an hour that Oppenheimer had spent in the room with him, Ziegler had uttered a dozen words at most. This was not a good setup for an interrogation.
Ziegler searched his pockets for a match, without avail. The SS people had already removed all his possessions.
“Do you need a light?”
Ziegler nodded.
Oppenheimer slowly went around the table and lit the man’s cigarette. The stenographer, a young man of about twenty, sat in a corner, waiting, his pencil at the ready. When Oppenheimer looked at Ziegler, he wondered what might be going on in his head. It was not really possible to find out when the suspect wouldn’t talk.
“Why don’t you tell us where you were last night?” Oppenheimer suggested. “Are you embarrassed?”
Gormless Kalle’s reply was a shrug. Oppenheimer had tried an interrogation method that Old Gennat had taught him. He’d often had the opportunity to see how Gennat managed to crack even the hardest cases. Although his mentor had always exuded a certain authority, he very rarely grew loud during an interrogation. The chief superintendent had always appeared like a bastion of calm through his sheer physical presence, a wise and empathic Buddha whom even the most stubborn criminals ultimately entrusted with their secrets. And Gennat had definitely been interested in the people he interrogated. He was not only concerned with solving cases, he also wanted to know how things had come about, wanted to expose deficiencies that could be addressed. At the time, this approach had been very audacious and at the same time groundbreaking, as Gennat had been very successful with it.
As a young assistant detective, Oppenheimer had internalized Gennat’s much-cited maxim: If you touch a suspect, you’re out on your ear! Our weapons are our minds and our senses! The Gestapo didn’t seem to think a great deal of this motto. But now it was up to Oppenheimer to stay calm and win Karl Ziegler’s trust. However, Gormless Kalle was definitely not making it easy for him.
“Do you know what you’re being accused of?”
An empty gaze.
“Five women were found mutilated. They were kidnapped and then brutally tortured. Do you have anything to say about that?”
Ziegler’s face showed no reaction, neither surprise nor disgust. He also wasn’t denying anything. He was too cool to be innocent, that much was clear to Oppenheimer.
“Do you know what I’m talking about? These women’s lower abdomens were one big wound. The perpetrator has to be a veritable animal. No, he is worse than an animal, because he delights in his victims’ anguish.”
Ziegler began to show some reaction. He cleared his throat. “I didn’t break no one.”
“So why won’t you tell me where you were last weekend? We can check that. It’s very straightforward. If your information is correct, we’ll let you go immediately.”
Ziegler seemed to consider that. Then he shook his head.
“I didn’t break no one,” he repeated stubbornly.
“How is it working for old Braun? Do you enjoy working in the garage?”
“It’s all right.”
“He told me you own a delivery van. Did you never think to set up by yourself? Open a business? Transport, removal, and things like that? Surely that would be of interest for a man of your capabilities. You did some jobs for Höcker & Sons if I remember correctly?”
Ziegler puffed on his cigarette. Blue smoke enveloped his face.
When Oppenheimer noticed, two hours later, that he was doing all the talking, he realized that he wasn’t going to get anywhere with this approach. Zieg
ler didn’t even want to talk about cars, a subject that Oppenheimer had hoped would get him talking. But Gormless Kalle remained a mystery. Oppenheimer was forced to admit that he had no idea how to position himself with him. One thing was clear: there was still more homework to be done.
* * *
Oppenheimer looked around searchingly in the chaos that Vogler’s security people had left behind in Ziegler’s hut. He had to find something that would give him access to Karl Ziegler. Did he have any wishes? What were his dreams? What did he hate? What did he do in his spare time? Old Mr. Braun was unable to help Oppenheimer with this matter. Mrs. Braun also seemed to know nothing about her husband’s assistant. Although he had been working for them for almost four years, he appeared to have remained a stranger the entire time. When you considered how uncommunicative Ziegler was, this wasn’t surprising.
Gormless Kalle was in the habit of retiring to his hut in the evenings. The Brauns didn’t know what he did there. They were not interested in him as long as he kept quiet. Once, Mrs. Braun had attempted to bring him a pot of soup, but Ziegler had thrown her out. She had not made any further attempts to enter his domain.
Oppenheimer scratched his head in frustration. When Ziegler went out, he always locked his hut. It was quite likely that he stored something here that meant a great deal to him. But what could it be? Maybe there was an item that had some meaning to Ziegler while others just considered it jumble. Oppenheimer had been given a list of the items in the hut. There was nothing of value. Ziegler had no photographs or similar souvenirs that would allow any conclusion about his background. He seemed to have appeared out of nowhere.
With a dissatisfied sigh, Oppenheimer started to search the hut once more. Ziegler’s entire record collection was scattered over his dirty laundry. The men from the SD had pulled the records out of their paper sleeves and then thrown them carelessly on the ground. This was a sacrilege to Oppenheimer. If someone had treated his records like this, he would have confronted them, even if it had been Vogler. He almost followed his instinct and sorted the records, but then he reminded himself that this was not the purpose of his visit. So he searched through the chaos for reference points.
There was a bed, a chest of drawers, and two tables. He carefully stepped around the records. The bed was just a simple wooden frame to accommodate a mattress; nothing could be stored here, let alone hidden. Oppenheimer pulled the chest of drawers forward and inspected the back. Of course, the SD people had done that, too, but that didn’t stop him from pulling out the small drawers, inspecting the bottoms from underneath, and reaching into the empty spaces to feel for items that might be hidden there. The two tables had no drawers; they were nothing more than crude wooden planks on four legs. Nothing could be hidden here either. Oppenheimer swore under his breath.
When he took a step back and onto the laundry, he felt something hard beneath his foot. He believed he’d heard a muffled crack. Surprised, he turned around and carefully picked up a pair of underpants. He’d been right. Underneath the laundry lay a broken record. At the sight of it, Oppenheimer decided to gather up all the records so that he could move freely without running the risk of breaking any more.
As he looked around for the paper sleeves, he remembered that Ziegler had arranged his records just as diligently as Oppenheimer did with his own treasures. Hope surged through him; he might be able to break Gormless Kalle’s reserve using their joint love of records. Ziegler’s taste in music might be a way to get to know him. The more he thought about it, the more this approach appeared promising. He searched the floor, found around thirty records, and arranged them one by one in an orderly manner in the empty metal stand. Some of the paper sleeves were torn, but most of them were in good shape so that he was able to slip the records back inside.
Ziegler did not have eclectic taste. There were a few marches and popular tunes entitled “Home, Your Sweet Stars” and the like. Some of the records, however, had no label. Curious by now, Oppenheimer examined them more closely. They couldn’t be normal records like those found in shops. And indeed, they were acetate discs. Ziegler appeared to have made his own recordings. Four of the matrices were blank, but the rest had soundtracks on them. Oppenheimer wondered what sort of things Ziegler had recorded. Possibly radio broadcasts?
He placed one of the acetate discs on the record player and carefully placed the needle on the ridge.
The gramophone began to scream. A woman’s voice. A low whimpering ensued that grew to another panic-filled scream. Oppenheimer had always considered himself a seasoned police officer, and although he had seen a lot and was generally considered case-hardened, the blood froze in his veins. He was listening to the recording of a torture session and became a witness to unfathomable horror. Although it had all taken place in the past, the recording took Oppenheimer right into the middle of the action. He heard the metallic banging of a hammer hitting steel, a nail that with each thrust was driven further into the victim’s auditory canal. Now he got an idea of what the women in the clutches of this madman had had to suffer.
The recording lasted about four minutes on this side. Oppenheimer almost regretted having played the record, but at the same time felt a grim sort of relief that this nightmare would now finally be over. When he lifted the needle from the acetate disc, he was sure that he would never in his lifetime forget this particular recording.
26
SATURDAY, JUNE 24, 1944
“Do you want to die?” the voice hissed.
“Yes,” the woman sobbed.
“You need to ask me for it first.”
“Yes, please kill me! Please kill me!”
Oppenheimer couldn’t bear it any longer. He switched the gramophone off and looked at Ziegler. The man’s eyes were open wide, his face was red, but he said nothing, stared wordlessly at the device’s horn.
“What kind of recordings are these?” Oppenheimer barked at him. His voice was a little louder than planned. He tried to swallow his anger. It cost him a lot to speak calmly to Ziegler.
“If you don’t tell me what these recording are, I’ll have to assume that you made them. That you are the sadist who kidnapped these women and tortured them.”
Ziegler grew restless.
“There are no more excuses. These records were in your possession. They are recordings of an abominable deed. There is no point denying it, Kalle.”
“I didn’t break no one!”
Oppenheimer had to take a deep breath to be able to ask the next question in a matter-of-fact manner.
“Where did you make these recordings?”
“Wasn’t me!”
“Kalle, don’t you understand that you’re making everything worse?”
“I ain’t crazy! I’m not gonna tell you…” Ziegler broke off.
“What don’t you want to tell me?”
Ziegler screamed from the top of his lungs, “It wasn’t me, Inspector!” Then he collapsed. “You all just want me to hang! Right from the start! You ain’t gonna get nothin’ out of me. I’m not snitching on no one!”
“What are you talking about, snitching? Are you trying to tell me that it was someone else?”
No reaction.
“Kalle! I’m talking to you!”
Was Ziegler trying to weasel his way out? Such a reaction wasn’t unusual. People accused of crimes often tried to put the blame on an imaginary acquaintance or even a stranger, a phantom that no one would ever catch because it didn’t exist. But Oppenheimer had proof that Ziegler was in trouble and wanted to find out what was behind it. Was the man crazy? Or was he just imagining an accomplice to not have to admit his own guilt? Oppenheimer tried to recall what Hilde had said about schizophrenia.
“Kalle, do you hear voices sometimes?”
“When someone speaks to me, sure. I’m not loony, you know, Inspector.”
Oppenheimer tried again, trying to be lenient. “Did someone order you to kill these women?”
Ziegler went berserk. “Goddamn it, I didn�
�t break no one!”
Oppenheimer considered whether Ziegler was actually intelligent enough to put such a hideous plan into action and play cat and mouse with the SS for weeks on end. Then he thought of Karl Großmann and how he’d realized that the less clever murderers in particular were harder to catch because you couldn’t really predict their actions. Oppenheimer recalled the undignified exhibition of the mutilated bodies, five women whose lives had been obliterated just because this stubborn idiot wanted it so. And bit by bit, something happened that had never happened to Oppenheimer during an interrogation. Hatred rose up in him, a hatred he could barely control.
Morosely, he watched the pathetic wretch babbling away to himself so that Oppenheimer had trouble picking up any useful information. It was obvious that Ziegler was involved in the murders and was trying to play for time. He was uncooperative on principle. Any trace of pity that Oppenheimer had ever had for Kalle was eradicated at this moment. He just wanted answers. He didn’t care anymore what means he used to get them.
Before Oppenheimer knew what was happening, he took a mighty leap forward and grabbed the suspect by the neck with both hands.
The chair shattered beneath their weight. They landed on the floor, but he didn’t let go. He wanted the little shit to pay for the suffering he’d caused. The face in front of him turned purple, the eyes started to bulge, the mouth opened into a silent scream. Oppenheimer registered that Ziegler was hitting him on the back, but he could barely feel the blows. He was too possessed with making Kalle accountable, an eye for an eye, one life for the lives of many.
Germania: A Novel of Nazi Berlin Page 33
