by Nele Neuhaus
“On August twenty-third, 1942, our son came into the world. In the meantime, Edda had left Lauenburg Manor. She and Maria Willumat, the daughter of the local Nazi Party group leader from Doben, had reported for duty at a women’s prison camp. Because she was away and could no longer sniff around, Elard and Vera secretly smuggled money, jewelry, and valuables over into the West and into Switzerland. Elard was convinced that the war was lost, and he wanted at least Vera, Heini, and me to go to the West. His mother’s family owned an estate near Frankfurt, and he was going to settle us there.”
“Mühlenhof,” Pia said softly.
“But it never happened. In November 1944, Elard was shot down and came back to Lauenburg Manor with serious wounds. Vera had secretly left her Swiss boarding school and was back at home over Christmas. We helped Elard plan our escape, but we didn’t receive the ‘trek’ permit until January fifteenth, which was much too late. The Russians were only twenty kilometers away. Those on the trek set off at dawn the morning of January sixteenth. I didn’t want to leave without Elard and my parents, and because I stayed, Vera stayed, too. We thought that there would be an opportunity later to make it to the West.”
They heard Auguste Nowak heave a deep sigh.
“Elard’s parents would rather have died than leave the estate. They were both well past sixty and had lost their eldest sons in World War One. My parents were seriously ill with tuberculosis. And my younger sister Ida was in bed with a fever of one hundred and four. We hid in the cellar of the castle, provided with food and bedding, and hoped that the Russians wouldn’t discover us and just move on. It was around noon when a vehicle drove into the courtyard, a jeep. Vera’s father thought that somebody had sent Schwinderke to transport those who were sick, but it wasn’t true.”
At that point, Ritter asked her who had come.
“Edda and Maria, Oskar and his SS comrade Hans.”
Once again, Auguste Nowak’s account corresponded with the statement of the former forced laborer. Pia held her breath and leaned forward tensely.
“They came into the castle and found us in the cellar. Oskar threatened us with a pistol and forced Vera and me to dig a pit. The ground was sandy, but it was so hard that we couldn’t manage it, so Edda and Hans took over shoveling. Nobody said a word. The baron and baroness knelt down and…”
The voice of Auguste Nowak, until then calm and involved, began to tremble.
“… began to pray. Heini was screaming the whole time. My little sister Ida just stood there, tears running down her cheeks. I can still picture her today. We had to line up facing the wall. Maria tore Heini from my arms and dragged him away. The boy screamed and screamed.…”
It was so still in the conference room that they could have heard a pin drop.
“First Oskar killed the baron and baroness with shots to the back of the head. Then came my sister Ida. She was only nine years old. Then he gave the pistol to Maria, who shot my mother in both knees and then in the head, and then she shot my father. Elard and I were holding hands. Edda took the pistol from Maria. I looked her in the eye, and she was full of hate. She laughed when she shot first Elard in the head, then Vera. Finally, she shot me. I can still hear her laughing.…”
Pia could hardly believe it. What power it must have cost the old woman to speak so soberly and objectively about this massacre of her whole family! How could anyone live with such memories without going crazy? Pia thought about what Miriam had told her about the fates of the women in the East after World War II, the ones she had interviewed as part of her research project. These women had experienced unspeakable things and never talked about them for the rest of their lives. Like Auguste Nowak.
“It was a miracle that I survived being shot in the head. The bullet came out through my mouth. I don’t know how long I was unconscious, but somehow I managed to get out of the pit under my own power. They had shoveled sand on top of us, and the only reason I could breathe was that I lay halfway underneath Elard’s body. I dragged myself up, searching for Heini. The castle was ablaze, and I ran straight into the arms of four Russian soldiers, who raped me in spite of my wounds and then took me to a field hospital later. When I had somewhat regained my strength, I was crammed with other girls and women into a cattle car. It was too crowded to sit down, and only when the guards occasionally were in a good mood was there a bucket of water for forty people. We came to Karelia and had to work by Lake Onega laying rails, felling trees, and digging trenches, at a temperature of forty below zero. All around me they were dying like flies, and some girls were only fourteen or fifteen. I survived five years in the work camp only because the camp commander seemed to like me and gave me more to eat than the others. I didn’t come back from Russia until 1950, with a baby in my arms, a going-away present from the camp commander.”
“The father of Marcus,” Pia said. “Manfred Nowak.”
“I met my husband in the Friedland camp. We got work on a farm in Sauerland. I had long since given up hope of finding my eldest son. I never spoke about it. Even later, I never had the faintest idea that the famous Vera Kaltensee, whom we were always hearing and reading about, could possibly be Edda. Not until my grandson Marcus and I took a summer trip to East Prussia two years ago, and we met Elard Kaltensee in Gizycko, the former Lötzen. That’s when I realized who he was and who had been living very close to me after I moved to Fischbach.”
Auguste Nowak took another pause.
“I kept my knowledge to myself. A year later, Marcus was working at Mühlenhof, and one day he and Elard brought home an old steamer trunk. It was a shock when I saw all those things: the SS uniform, the books, the newspapers from the war. And the pistol. I knew right away that it must have been the exact same pistol used to shoot my whole family. Sixty years it had lain in that trunk, and Vera had never gotten rid of it. And when you, Dr. Ritter, Marcus, and Elard told me about Vera and her three old friends, I knew at once who they really were. Elard kept the trunk, but Marcus put the pistol and the ammunition in his safe. I found out where they lived, the murderers, and when Marcus was out one evening, I took the pistol and went to Oskar’s place. To think that he, of all people, had disguised himself as a Jew all these years! He recognized me immediately and begged for his life, but I shot him the way he had shot Elard’s parents. Then I got the idea to leave Edda a message. I knew that she would understand at once what those five numbers meant, and I was sure they would put the fear of death in her because she would have no idea who could know about it. Three days later, I shot Hans.”
At the point, Ritter interrupted Auguste Nowak’s narrative to ask, “How did you get to where Goldberg and Schneider lived?” She then explained what she had done.
“I took one of my grandson’s vans. That was also the biggest problem with Maria. I had found out that there was going to be a theater performance at the old folks home, with fireworks afterward. But that evening I had no car, so I went there on the bus and had to ask my grandson to pick me up later. The boy never wondered what I was doing at the elegant Taunusblick; he was too wrapped up in himself and his problems. I gagged Maria in her apartment with a stocking and then pushed her in the wheelchair through the park and into the woods. Nobody paid us any mind, and during the fireworks no one heard the three shots.”
Auguste Nowak fell silent. It was deathly quiet in the room. The tragic life story of the old woman and her confession had shaken even the most experienced Criminal Police officers.
“I know that the Bible says ‘Thou shalt not kill.’ Then Auguste Nowak resumed her story, her voice all at once sounding brittle. But the Bible also says ‘An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.’ When I realized who they were, Vera and her friends, then I knew that I couldn’t let this injustice go unavenged. My little sister Ida would have been seventy-one today; she could still have been alive. I had to keep that in mind the whole time.”
Thomas Ritter then inquired, “So Professor Elard Kaltensee is your son?”
“Yes. He’s the son I had
with my beloved Elard. He is the baron of Zeydlitz-Lauenburg, because Elard and I were married on Christmas Day, 1944, by Pastor Kunisch in the library at Lauenburg Manor.”
The K-11 team sat for a while in silence around the table when the tape ended.
“She was here today and wanted to talk to me,” Pia said, breaking the silence. “I’m positive she wanted to tell me this same story, so that we wouldn’t suspect her grandson anymore.”
“And her son,” Bodenstein added. “Professor Kaltensee.”
“And you let her go?” asked Nicola Engel, uncomprehending.
“How was I to know that she’s our murderer?” Pia retorted. “Nowak’s cell phone had just been located, and we had to go to Frankfurt.”
“She probably went home,” said Bodenstein. “We’ll go pick her up. And it’s likely that she knows where Elard is now.”
“It’s much more likely that first she’s going to kill Vera Kaltensee,” Ostermann ventured. “If she hasn’t done it already.”
* * *
Bodenstein and Behnke drove to Fischbach to arrest Auguste Nowak, while Pia read the biography of Vera Kaltensee on the screen, searching for an explanation for Katharina Ehrmann’s relationship to Eugen Kaltensee. The life story of Auguste Nowak had shaken her deeply, and although as a police officer and the ex-wife of a pathologist she knew plenty about the dark side of humanity, she was stunned by the ice-cold cruelty of the four murderers. This crime could not be justified by the will to survive in an extreme situation; rather, they had even put themselves in mortal danger in order to commit their atrocity. How could they repress something like that and live with such a bloody deed on their consciences?
And Auguste Nowak, what she had been through! Her husband, her parents, her best friend, and her little sister had all been shot before her eyes. Then her son had been abducted, and she herself had been taken away by the Russians. Pia couldn’t comprehend how the woman could have summoned the will to survive labor camps, humiliation, rape, hunger, and illness. Was it the hope of finding her son again that had kept her alive, or the thought of revenge? At the age of eighty-five, Auguste Nowak would have to accept responsibility for a triple murder before the court, as the penal code demanded. And now, when she had finally found the son she’d thought was lost, she would have to go to prison. There was no proof that could justify her actions in any way.
Pia stopped reading. But maybe there was. The idea at first seemed crazy, but the more she thought about it, the more plausible it seemed. Just as she dialed the number of Henning’s private line, Bodenstein came into the office with a glum look on his face.
“We have to instigate a search for Auguste Nowak,” he announced.
Pia put a finger to her lips, because Henning had just picked up on the other end.
“What’s up?” he asked, clearly in a bad mood. Pia didn’t pay any attention to that as she briefly gave him a summary of Auguste Nowak’s story. Bodenstein shot Pia a quizzical look. She put the phone on speaker and informed Henning that her boss was listening in.
“Can you still extract DNA out of bones that are over sixty years old?” she asked.
“Under the right circumstances, sure.” The irritated tone was gone from Henning’s voice; he sounded curious. “What have you got in mind?”
“I haven’t talked with my boss about it yet,” replied Pia, looking over at Bodenstein. “But you and I need to go to Poland. Flying would be best, of course. Miriam can pick us up.”
“What? Right away?”
“That would be best. No need to waste any time.”
“I don’t have anything left to do tonight,” said Henning, lowering his voice. “On the contrary. You’d be doing me a favor.”
Pia understood the reference and grinned. DA Löblich was on his back.
“By car, it would take about eighteen hours to Masuria.”
“I was thinking of Bernd. He still has his Cessna, doesn’t he?”
Bodenstein shook his head, but Pia paid no attention.
“I’ll call him,” said Henning. “I’ll call you back soon. Oh—Bodenstein?” “The stat analysis of your blood sample showed traces of gamma-hydroxybutyric acid, GHB for short. It’s also called liquid ecstasy. According to my calculations, last night around nine o’clock, you must have ingested a dose of about two milligrams.”
Bodenstein looked at Pia.
“A dose of this size produces a restriction of motor control, similar to alcohol intoxication. Occasionally, an aphrodisiac effect is also noted.”
Pia noticed that her boss was actually blushing.
“What do you make of it, then?” he asked, turning his back to Pia.
“If you didn’t take it yourself, someone must have slipped it to you. Probably in a drink. Liquid ecstasy is colorless.”
“Now I understand,” said Bodenstein. “Thank you very much, Dr. Kirchhoff.”
“Don’t mention it. I’ll call you back soon.”
“So,” said Pia, satisfied. “Jutta set a trap for you.”
“You can’t go to Poland,” said Bodenstein, changing the subject. “You don’t even know if this castle still exists. Besides, the Polish authorities won’t be happy if we ask for their cooperation in the middle of the night.”
“Then we won’t. Henning and I are flying there as tourists.”
“You make it sound so simple.”
“It is simple,” Pia said. “If Henning’s friend has time, he can fly us to Poland tomorrow morning. He flies businesspeople to the East all the time and knows the regulations.”
Bodenstein frowned. There was a knock on the door, and Nicola Engel came in.
“Congratulations,” she said. “You’ve solved three homicides.”
“Thanks,” said Bodenstein.
“How do you intend to proceed? Why haven’t you arrested the woman?”
“Because she wasn’t home,” said Bodenstein. “I’m sending out an APB now.”
Nicola Engel raised her eyebrows and looked suspiciously from Bodenstein to Pia.
“You’re up to something,” she said.
“That’s right.” Bodenstein took a deep breath. “I’m sending Ms. Kirchhoff and a forensic anthropologist to Poland to that castle. If possible, they are going to recover bones so that we can then analyze them here. If it turns out that Auguste Nowak is telling the truth—which I’m positive she is—we’ll have enough evidence to charge Vera Kaltensee with murder in a court of law.”
“That’s out of the question. We don’t have anything to do with this woman’s horror story.” Nicola Engel shook her head energetically. “There is absolutely no need for Ms. Kirchhoff to drive to Poland.”
“But then we could—” Pia began.
“You have two more homicides to clear up here,” said Engel, cutting off any further objections. “Besides, Professor Kaltensee is still at large, and now Mrs. Nowak is as well, a confessed murderer. And where are the diaries that Ritter received from Nowak? Where is Ritter? Why are six men sitting downstairs in the detention cells? You’d better talk to them before you drive off to Poland on a wild-goose chase.”
“But it’ll take only one day,” Pia argued, but her future boss proved intransigent.
“Dr. Nierhoff has authorized me to make decisions on his behalf, and that’s what I’m doing now. You will not drive to Poland. That’s an order.” Engel held a file in her carefully manicured hand. “Here are some new problems you have to deal with.”
“I see.” Bodenstein showed little interest.
“The lawyer for the Kaltensee family has filed an official complaint with the Interior Ministry regarding your interrogation methods. At present, he is preparing a lawsuit against both of you.”
“What nonsense.” Bodenstein snorted contemptuously. “They want to scare us off by any means possible because they know that we’re on their heels.”
“You have another much more serious problem right now, Mr. von Bodenstein. Mrs. Kaltensee’s lawyer has described it merely
as coercion. If he wants to get nasty, it will soon turn into an accusation of rape.” She opened the file and held it out to Bodenstein. He turned beet red.
“Ms. Kaltensee led me into a trap, so that—”
Engel cut him off. “Don’t make a fool of yourself, Chief Inspector. You invited State Representative Kaltensee to a tête-à-tête and then forced her into sexual intercourse.”
The veins visible at Bodenstein’s temples showed Pia that it was costing him a great effort to avoid losing his self-control.
“If this matter in any way becomes public,” said Engel, “I will have no alternative but to put you on suspension.”
Bodenstein stared at her furiously. She stood her ground.
“Whose side are you on anyway?” he asked. Clearly, he had forgotten that Pia was present. Nicola Engel had also stopped paying attention to anyone else.
“Mine,” she replied coldly. “You should have realized that by now.”
* * *
It was 11:15 P.M. when Henning showed up at Birkenhof with his suitcase and complete equipment. Bodenstein and Pia were sitting at the kitchen table, eating tuna pizza from Pia’s deep-freeze reserves.
“We can take off tomorrow morning at four-thirty,” Henning announced, leaning over the table. “I can’t believe that you still eat this junk.”
Only then did he notice the oppressive mood.
“What’s wrong?”
“How do you commit the perfect murder?” Bodenstein asked glumly. “You probably have a few good tips for me.”
Henning gave Pia a quizzical look.
“Oh, I’m sure I could think of something. Above all, you have to avoid having your victim land on my table,” he said lightly. “Who are we talking about?”
“Our future boss, Nicola Engel,” said Pia. Bodenstein had told her in strictest confidence why Engel disliked him so much. “She’s forbidden me to drive to Poland.”
“Well, to be precise, we’re not driving; we’re flying.”
Bodenstein looked up. “That’s right.” He grinned hesitantly.
