by Nele Neuhaus
Kirchhoff interrupted him. “A membership number! If the motive for the murder was actually something in Goldberg’s past, the one one six four five might have been his membership number in the SS.”
“Goldberg was ninety-two,” Ostermann mused. “Somebody who knew his number from back then would have to be almost that old, too.”
“Not necessarily,” said Bodenstein pensively. “It would be enough to know about Goldberg’s past.”
He recalled cases of murderers who had left obvious messages at the scene or on their victims as macabre calling cards. Perps who were playing a little game with the police to show off their intelligence and cunning. Could that be what was going on here? Was the number on the mirror in Goldberg’s hallway a sign? If so, what did it mean? Was it a reference to something? Or was it meant to deliberately mislead them? Like his colleagues, Bodenstein couldn’t see any rhyme or reason to it, and he was afraid that the murder of David Josua Goldberg would remain unsolved.
* * *
Marcus Nowak was sitting at his desk in his small office and carefully sorting the documents that he needed for the consultation the day after tomorrow. Finally, there seemed to be some movement in the project in which he had invested so much time. Recently, the city of Frankfurt had repurchased the Technical Courthouse, which was supposed to be torn down in the course of an extensive urban-renewal project in the Old Town. As early as two years ago, the Frankfurt city council had debated vigorously over what sort of architecture should be commissioned to replace the ugly concrete monstrosity. Renovation was planned for parts of the Old Town between the cathedral and Römerberg Square. Seven of the half-timbered structures of historical significance that had been destroyed during the war were supposed to be reconstructed, making them as true to the originals as possible. For a gifted but still mostly unknown restorer like Marcus Nowak, a commission like this meant more than merely an incredible professional challenge and full employment for his firm for years to come. He was being offered a once-in-a-lifetime chance to make his name known far and wide, because the ambitious project would undoubtedly attract a lot of attention.
His cell phone rang, tearing him from his ruminations. He searched for it under the piles of plans, sketches, tables, and photos, and his heart beat faster when he recognized the number on the display. He’d been waiting for this call, longingly and yet with a terribly guilty conscience. He hesitated a moment. He had actually made Tina a firm promise to go to the soccer field where the Fischbach Sports Club had set up a tent, as they did each year, hosting a big dance to celebrate the first of May. Nowak paused as he looked at his cell and bit his lip, but the temptation was too strong.
“Damn,” he muttered softly, and took the call.
* * *
He hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol all day; well, only a little. He’d washed down the two Prozacs an hour ago with a gulp of vodka; nobody would smell it. He’d promised Kurti not to drink, and now he was feeling good and his head was clear as glass. His hands weren’t shaking. Robert Watkowiak grinned at himself in the mirror. What a difference a decent haircut and a respectable outfit made. His dear Uncle Herrmann was a real German bureaucrat and set great store by a clean, proper appearance. So it was better to show up at his office dressed neatly and clean-shaven, without booze on his breath or bloodshot eyes. Sure, he would get the money no matter what, but it seemed better to present his request politely.
It was pure chance that he had happened upon the dark secret of the old man—the secret that he assiduously concealed from the whole world—and since then they had been the best of friends. He wondered what Uncle Jossi and his stepmother would say when they found out what dear Uncle Herrmann was doing in his basement. Watkowiak chortled and turned away from the mirror. He wasn’t so stupid that he’d ever tell them, because then his source of income would dry up for good. He just hoped the old bugger would live a long time! He rubbed a cloth over his black patent-leather shoes, which he’d bought specially for the occasion, along with the gray suit, the shirt, and tie. He’d spent almost half of Uncle Jossi’s money on the clothes, but his investment was sure to pay off. In a splendid mood, Watkowiak set off shortly before eight o’clock. Kurti had said he’d pick him up at the train station at eight on the dot.
* * *
Auguste Nowak was sitting on the wooden bench behind her little house, enjoying the evening calm and the fragrant scent of the nearby woods. Although the weather forecast had predicted a marked drop in temperature along with rain, the air was mild, and the first stars were appearing in the cloudless evening sky. In the rhododendron bush, two blackbirds were squabbling, and a dove was cooing on the roof. It was already quarter past ten, and everyone in the family was having fun up at the soccer field, dancing to welcome the first of May. Except for Marcus, her grandson, who was still sitting at his desk. But they didn’t see that—all those jealous people who’d been bad-mouthing the young man ever since his company had become successful. None of them was prepared to work sixteen hours a day, with no weekends and no vacation.
Auguste Nowak clasped her hands in her lap and crossed her ankles. If she stopped to think about it, she’d never had it so good in her whole long life full of work and worries. Her husband, Helmut, had been irreparably traumatized by the war, had never held a job longer than four weeks, and had hardly set foot out the front door in the last twenty years of his life. Two years ago, he had died. Auguste had then given in to the urgings of their son and moved into the little house on the company property in Fischbach. After Helmut’s death, she could no longer endure living in the village in Sauerland. Finally she had her peace and quiet. She no longer had to put up with a TV that was always on and the infirmities of her husband, for whom, in the best moments of their marriage, she had felt only indifference. Auguste heard the clatter of the garden gate, turned her head, and smiled in delight when she recognized her grandson.
“Hello, Oma,” said Marcus. “Am I bothering you?”
“You never bother me,” Auguste Nowak replied. “Would you like something to eat? I have some goulash and noodles in the fridge.”
“No thanks.”
He didn’t look good. He seemed stressed-out, and for weeks she’d had the impression that something was weighing on him.
“Come here and sit with me.” Auguste patted the cushion next to her, but he remained standing. She watched the play of emotions on his face. She could still read him like a book.
“The others are at the May Day dance,” she said. “Why don’t you go over there, too?”
“I will. I’m on my way up to the soccer field now. I just wanted to—” He broke off, pondered for a moment, and then looked mutely at the floor.
“What’s the matter, hmm?” Auguste asked. “Does it have something to do with the company? Are you in a financial bind?”
He shook his head, and when he finally raised his head to look at her, his gaze cut her to the quick. The expression of torment and despair in his brown eyes made her heart ache. He hesitated a moment longer, then sat down next to her on the bench and heaved a deep sigh.
Auguste loved the boy as if he were her own child. Maybe it was because his parents had always been busy with work and the company and had never had time for their youngest son; that’s why he had spent large parts of his childhood with her. But maybe it was also because he was so like her older brother Ulrich, who was incredibly good with his hands, a true artist. He could have gone far if the war hadn’t thwarted his plans and ruined all his dreams. He fell in France in June 1944, three days before his twenty-third birthday. In appearance, Marcus also reminded her a lot of her beloved brother. He had the same fine, expressive facial features, the smooth dark blond hair that was always falling into his dark eyes, and a beautiful mouth with full lips. But although he was only thirty-four, deep furrows of worry were etched on his face, and he often seemed to Auguste like a boy who had been forced to take on the burdens of a grown man much too soon. Suddenly, Marcus laid his head in her
lap, the way he’d always done as a little boy when he needed consolation. Auguste stroked his hair and hummed softly to herself.
“I’ve done something really, really bad, Oma,” he said in a strained voice. “And I’m going to go to hell for it.”
She could feel him shudder. The sun had disappeared behind the hills of the Taunus and it was getting cool. After a while, he began to speak, faltering at first, then more and more rapidly, obviously glad to be able to share with someone at last the dark secret that was weighing on his soul.
* * *
After her grandson left, Auguste Nowak remained sitting in the dark for a while, thinking. His confession had shaken her, although not so much for moral reasons. In this family of small-minded people, Marcus was as out of place as a kingfisher among crows, and he had married a woman who couldn’t muster the slightest understanding for an artist like him. Auguste had been skeptical and concerned that the marriage might not be in her grandson’s best interest, but she had never asked him about it.
He visited her every day, telling her about his worries both great and small, about new assignments, about successes and setbacks; in short, about everything that concerned him. Things that a man should actually be discussing with his wife. Even Auguste was not very fond of the family; although they lived under one roof, they were bound not by affection or respect, but by mere convenience. For Auguste, they had remained strangers who said nothing when they spoke and were steadfastly determined to maintain the facade of harmonious family life.
After Marcus had left for the athletic field half an hour later, she went in the house, tied a scarf around her head, grabbed her dark windbreaker and a flashlight, and took the key to Marcus’s office from its hook. Although he kept telling her not to, she cleaned his office regularly. She hated to be idle, and work kept a person young. Her eyes fell on the mirror next to the front door. Auguste Nowak knew what the years had done to her face, yet she was sometimes surprised to see the wrinkles, her mouth caving in because of missing teeth, and the heavy-hooded eyelids. Almost eighty-five, she thought. Unbelievable that she could be old so soon! To be honest, she never felt any older than fifty. She was tough and strong and a lot more agile than many thirty-year-olds. At sixty, she had gotten her driver’s license, and at seventy, she’d taken her first vacation. She found joy in small things and never quarreled with her fate. Besides, she still had something she needed to do, something of immense importance. Death, which she had looked in the eye for the first time over sixty years ago, would have to be patient until she had put everything in order. Auguste winked at her reflection in the mirror and left the house. She crossed the courtyard, opened the door to the office building, and went into Marcus’s office, which was in the annex to the workshop that he’d had built in the meadow down the hill from Auguste’s little cottage a few years back. The clock above the desk said 11:30. She would have to hurry if she didn’t want anyone to know about her little outing.
* * *
He could hear the throbbing bass of the music as soon as he walked across the jammed parking lot. The DJ was playing all the silly pop hits back to back, and the people were drunker than Marcus Nowak would have believed possible at this hour. A few kids, including his own, were playing soccer on the grass, and about three hundred people were crammed into the festival tent. Most of the adults had withdrawn to the bar at the clubhouse. Marcus was sickened by the sight of the two obviously tipsy men from the board of directors who were leering at the young girls.
“Hey, Nowak!” A hand slapped him on the back, and somebody breathed foul schnapps fumes in his face. “I can’t believe you’re here!”
“Hi, Stefan,” replied Marcus. “Have you seen Tina?”
“Nope, sorry. But come on over to our table and have a cold one with us, man.”
The man grabbed his arm as he followed reluctantly through the sweating, boisterous crowd in the rear of the festival tent.
“Hey, people!” Stefan yelled. “Look who I brought!”
Everybody turned to look at them, yelling and smirking. He was looking into familiar faces with glassy eyes, which told him the alcohol had already been flowing freely. Earlier, he’d been one of them: They were buddies from school or sports, guys from the annual fair, and had played their way from the junior league in soccer up to the first-string team. They had served with the volunteer fire department and partied at a lot of celebrations like this one. He’d known them all since they were kids, but suddenly they seemed like strangers. They shoved together to make room for him. He sat down, determined to grin and bear it. Somebody stuck a glass of May wine in his hand and gave a toast, so he drank. When had he stopped enjoying this sort of thing? Why didn’t he have as much fun as his old pals with simple pleasures like this? While the others downed their drinks within five minutes, he was still holding his glass of May wine. At that moment, he felt his cell vibrating in his pants pocket. He pulled out the phone, and his heart skipped a beat when he saw who had sent him a text. The contents made his face turn crimson.
“Hey, Marcus, I wanna give you some advice, as a good friend,” Chris Wiethölter babbled in his ear. He was one of the coaches he used to play on the team with. “Heiko is really hot for Tina. You’d better keep an eye on them.”
“Right, thanks. I will,” he replied absently. How was he going to answer the text message? Ignore it? Shut off his phone and get drunk with his old pals? He sat on the bench as if paralyzed, holding the glass with the May wine, which was now lukewarm. He just couldn’t think straight.
“I just mean … between friends, you know,” Wiethölter muttered, then chugged the last of his beer and belched.
“You’re right.” Nowak stood up. “I’m going to go look for her.”
“Yeah, do that, man.…”
Tina would never start anything with Heiko Schmidt or any other guy, and if she did, he didn’t give a shit, but he took the opportunity to get out of there. He made his way through the crowd of sweaty bodies, nodding to people here and there, and hoped he didn’t run into his wife or any of her girlfriends. When had he realized that he didn’t love Tina anymore? He couldn’t figure out what had changed. It had to be something he’d done, because Tina was the same as always. She was content with the life they shared, but it had suddenly gotten too confining for him. He slipped unnoticed out of the tent and took the shortcut through the club bar. Too late he realized his mistake. His father was sitting with his friends at the bar, as he did almost every evening.
“Hey, Marcus!” Manfred Nowak wiped the beer foam off his mustache with the back of his hand. “Come on over here!”
Marcus Nowak felt his stomach turn over, but he obeyed. He could see that his father was already sloshed, so he steeled himself. A glance at the clock on the wall told him that it was 11:30.
“A weizen beer for my son!” his father bellowed. Then he turned to the other older men, who were still clad in track outfits and running shoes, even though they’d had their modest success in sports decades ago.
“My son is a real big shot now. He’s rebuilding the Old Town of Frankfurt, house by house! I bet you’re all surprised, right?”
Manfred Nowak slapped Marcus on the back, but his eyes held neither recognition nor pride, only scorn. He kept on mocking him, and Marcus didn’t say a word, which merely egged his father on. The men were smirking. They knew all about the bankruptcy of Nowak’s construction company, and Marcus’s refusal to take over the firm, because in a little town like Fischbach, nothing was ever secret, especially not such a grandiose failure. The bartender set the weizen beer on the bar, but Marcus didn’t touch it.
“Cheers!” yelled his father, raising his glass. Everybody drank but Marcus.
“What’s the matter? You’re not too stuck-up to drink with us, are you?”
Marcus Nowak saw the drunken anger in his father’s eyes.
“I don’t feel like listening to any more of your stupid pronouncements,” he said. “Talk to your friends, if you want. May
be one of them will believe you.”
His father tried to release his pent-up fury by slapping his youngest son’s face, as he’d done so often in the past. But the alcohol slowed down his reflexes, and Marcus easily avoided the blow. He looked on without sympathy as his father lost his balance and crashed to the floor, along with the bar stool. Then he escaped before his old man could get back on his feet. At the door of the clubhouse, he caught his breath and hurried across the parking lot. He got into the car and peeled out of the lot. Not two hundred yards farther on, the police stopped him.
“So,” said the first officer, shining his flashlight in Marcus’s face, “finished celebrating May Day at the dance?”
The cop sounded nasty. Marcus recognized his voice. Siggi Nitschke had played on the first-string team in the Ruppertshain club when Marcus had been the top goal scorer for years in the circuit league.
“Hello, Siggi,” he said.
“Well, lookee here. It’s Nowak. The big entrepreneur. Driver’s license and registration, please.”
“I don’t have them with me.”
“Now, isn’t that a shame,” Nitschke mocked him. “Then please exit the vehicle.”
Marcus sighed and obeyed. Nitschke had never been able to stand him, mainly because he’d always been a step below Marcus as a soccer player. For Nitschke, pulling him over for a traffic violation must be like having a field day, he realized. Marcus submitted without protest to being treated like a felon. They made him blow into the Breathalyzer and were clearly pissed off when zero popped up on the display.
“Drugs?” Nitschke wasn’t going to let him off that easy. “Been smoking anything? Or snorting it?”
“Nonsense,” replied Marcus, who didn’t want any trouble. “I’ve never done anything like that, and you know it, Nitschke.”
“Don’t get so familiar. I’m on duty. Officer Nitschke to you, understand?”
“Oh, let him go, Siggi,” said his colleague in a low voice. Officer Nitschke gave Marcus a fierce stare, wracking his brain to think up something he could run him in for. In his whole life, he’d never get another chance like this.
