When the time came to go back into the army, Reinhardt’s education and background had got him a captaincy. Brauer’s had secured him an NCO’s billet. In many ways, Hitler’s army had not changed from the Kaiser’s. It was still riven by divisions along class lines. Brauer had been mobilised into the infantry as an instructor. He lived in Berlin with his wife, but, he now wrote, they had moved out to the country to stay with his in-laws. The implication – unwritten, to get past the censors – was because of the bombing. Details followed, this and that, small things. Then the news that made Reinhardt go cold.
They have released more names of those fallen at Stalingrad, Brauer wrote. I am afraid Friedrich’s name is not among them.
Reinhardt slumped in his chair. His son had been with the Sixth Army. A young lieutenant in a panzergrenadier regiment. Reinhardt had not wanted his son to have a military career. But in an echo of what Marija’s mother had said that afternoon, what Reinhardt wanted had stopped being important to his son a long time ago. Much as it pained him to admit it, Reinhardt had lost his son to the Nazis. Not, he would sometimes comfort himself, that there was very much he could have done about it. Friedrich had been thirteen when the Nazis came to power in 1933. The Hitler Youth, the warping of history lessons in school, the endless parades, the oaths, the songs, the summer camps, the after-school activities, the discipline and uniforms and militarisation of school life, all produced a child increasingly alien to his parents.
It was a strange thing, Reinhardt remembered, to look at your child and look at a stranger. It was a stranger thing to feel scared of your child, to the point sometimes of not wanting to go home. There were stories in those days of children reporting on their parents. As a policeman then, he knew it sometimes happened. Father and son diverged on nearly everything, and only Carolin seemed able to maintain any sort of space where they could still, from time to time, be a family. Friedrich had watched Reinhardt’s struggle with his conscience over the politicisation of the police with contempt, and had joined up himself on his eighteenth birthday. Reinhardt had not seen or spoken to him until last year, but only followed the news from Russia with increasing worry and trepidation.
Reinhardt was pulled out of North Africa in early September, wounded when a British aircraft strafed his convoy. Recuperating in Italy, with time on his hands and his mind skirting the implications of the censored news from the east, he finally wrote to his son. The first letter in years, written with a hand that trembled. When a reply finally came several weeks later, delivered by an officer on leave and thus free of the censor’s black, Reinhardt could hardly bear to open it for fear the son still rejected the father.
Friedrich had been wounded and was recuperating at an army sanatorium on the coast of the Sea of Azov, not far from Mariupol. The letter was long, written over the space of several days, and not all of it made sense. Friedrich talked of many things. Of his war, his comrades. There were hints of things seen, and done, but not mentioned. Things perhaps too awful to contemplate. And nothing about the past. Nothing of them as a family. Reading the letter, Reinhardt could see, though, the spite and the spleen of his teenage years had been burned out of him. The Friedrich that came through the long, scrawled lines was purer, somehow. It was something Reinhardt recalled happening to him, in the first war. Everything not necessary for survival got burned away.
Mostly, Friedrich wrote about Stalingrad.
The worst thing, Father, the worst thing about it is nowhere is safe. Nowhere. They come at you from everywhere. Out of the sewers. Down from the roofs. From under the rubble. Out of factory chimneys. From ground you’ve fought over and liberated ten times. You live your life with your head down and your shoulders hunched. Every day is like a week, and you live every day as if it’s your last.
But, Father, fear cannot be all I feel. Yes, I am scared. We all are. But there is purpose to this. I must believe that. I passed a hospital train, yesterday. It was full to the brim with casualties, mostly from Stalingrad. Looking at it, your heart twists around its own contradictions. You rejoice it is not you among them. You envy them their ticket home. You hope for yourself the end comes clean if ever it does. You wonder what the future holds for such as they.
If I could hide them from the world, I would, though. Some things bear a heavy price, and not all prices are worth revealing. I now understand better what you went through as a young man. No one can know what it’s like who hasn’t gone through it. No one, Father, no one must know what it’s like. What we suffer for them. Promise me you’ll tell no one.
There was a photograph with the letter, and Reinhardt had to look carefully to recognise his son. Friedrich was burned away, whittled down, looking ten years older than he actually was. Reinhardt read and reread the letter, trying to find perhaps some hidden meaning. Some indication that what Friedrich had experienced might have opened his eyes, if only just a little, to what the Nazis had done to him. To them, as a family. But the faith was still there. Even after all he had seen and done and suffered.
Even if Reinhardt had wanted to write back, he could not have. Friedrich’s letter arrived at the beginning of December, just over a week after the Red Army coiled itself around the city. He spoke only to Brauer of Friedrich’s letter. Christmas leave in Berlin, hunched over glasses of beer, heads close together, Brauer had listened to Reinhardt in silence.
‘Do you think we’re different this time?’ Brauer had asked. ‘You and me?’
‘How?’
‘That we haven’t burned away enough to get through this.’
Reinhardt had nodded slowly. ‘It’s different. We’re different. This isn’t our war.’
‘Not our war,’ he whispered, pushing his pack of cigarettes around the table, knowing it was only with Brauer he could say things like that, and even then… Stalingrad had fallen. The Sixth was wiped out, they said. Only a few survivors. He tossed a handful of kuna on the table for the coffee. He had to get moving or face another evening that would end with him at the bottom of a bottle, or staring down the barrel of his pistol.
9
The Ragusa was in the heart of the Austrian city, sandwiched between Kvaternik and King Aleksander Streets. The roads all ran at right angles to each other, and the buildings were much alike, heavy carved stone façades rising three or four floors, doorways flanked by columns or statues, all so different from the serpentine jumble of the Ottoman city. At the club’s entrance, Reinhardt stared up at a brightly lit sign: Ragusa written in gold on blue, thick red stripes above and below the lettering. He looked at the cars parked in front of the club. A couple of army staff cars, but most of the vehicles were private, including one impressive-looking Maybach. ‘Claussen, you stay out here with the car, please. Hueber, you’re with me.’ He pushed open the doors and strode into a short hallway with what looked like fishing nets hung on the walls, with shells and other nautical paraphernalia wound into the strands, along with a big painting of a coastal city, thick stone walls wrapped around a crowded port. The hall ended in a tall set of opaque glass doors. The strains of what sounded like a Gypsy orchestra became suddenly louder as he opened those and stepped into the club proper.
A lectern stood just inside the entrance, a book open on its surface. Reinhardt paused a couple of steps in and looked around. The place smelled strongly of alcohol, cigarettes, and roasted meat. It was dimly lit, what lighting there was glowing through clouds of smoke or reflecting back off pictures arranged haphazardly around the walls, a mix of photographs of revellers and imitation prints of coastal scenes and cities. More fishing nets were draped across the walls. The overall colour was a heavy red, on the tablecloths and wallpaper. Round tables were spread across a surface split into two levels, the farther level lower than where Reinhardt stood. Down there was the stage, with a group of four musicians in traditional costume playing on what looked like fiddles, a clarinet, and a small handheld drum. Most of the tables were taken by men in uniform
s, but some men wore civilian clothes. A few women were scattered around the tables, flecks of colour in a sea of black and field grey. Waiters moved to and fro, wearing brightly coloured waistcoats with white shirts and black trousers.
A man in a tuxedo slid smoothly behind the lectern. His hair was black and shiny, brushed straight back and held with some sort of pomade. Reinhardt could smell it. ‘Yes, sir? May I help you?’ The maître d’ spoke perfect German, offering Reinhardt a reserved smile as he took in his uniform.
Reinhardt glanced at him, then around the bar again. ‘I’d like some information, please.’
The maître d’ put his head slightly to one side, the smile tightening somewhat. He managed to flick his gaze up and down Reinhardt without losing eye contact, taking in the captain’s field uniform and the wear and tear on his boots. ‘Information, sir?’ He took his time looking over Hueber in his corporal’s tunic, who flushed under the maître d’s gaze, which was unfortunate as it turned his acne an even darker shade of red. ‘What kind of information could that be?’ From the accent he was Bavarian, thought Reinhardt.
‘Information,’ repeated Reinhardt. He fixed the maître d’ with his eyes as he took Hendel’s photo from his pocket. He put it on the lectern. ‘Have you seen this man before? An army lieutenant.’
The maître d’ leaned over the photograph for a moment, then back up. He looked at Reinhardt, and Reinhardt could see him pondering whether he had the weight to ask what this was all about. A maître d’ in a place like this? Popular, frequented by all kinds of officers… He might just feel confident enough to do it. Overimportant maître d’s had been an occupational hazard back in Berlin. Especially once the Nazis had begun to colonise all the best restaurants and hotels, turning everywhere black and brown with their uniforms, and leaving men like this maître d’ out at the front, pretending the barbarians had not taken over and everything was normal.
‘Yes,’ said the maître d’, finally. ‘He is a frequent guest here. But not tonight. I’m sorry,’ he said, handing the photograph back.
Reinhardt left him with his hand out, the photograph in it. He looked around the club again. ‘He won’t be coming back. He’s dead,’ he said, turning back to look at the maître d’ as he spoke. The man blinked, the hand with the photograph drawing back, and down. He looked at it again, then up at Reinhardt.
‘I am… sorry to hear that,’ he said. He proffered the photograph again, wishing to be rid of it.
‘Murdered, in fact,’ said Reinhardt. ‘What is your name?’
The maître d’ looked back at him. ‘Name… ?’
‘Your name,’ said Reinhardt, moving closer to him, still ignoring the photograph. ‘I am conducting the inquiries into his murder.’ He said nothing about his unit, his function, letting the maître d’ draw his own conclusions.
‘Dietmar Stern.’
‘You have worked here long?’
Stern nodded, tentatively. ‘Nearly one year, now.’
‘You say Lieutenant Hendel was a frequent visitor?’
Stern nodded, again, the photograph hanging forgotten in his hand. ‘Every few nights.’
‘Alone? With friends?’
‘He would often come with friends, yes. Excuse me, one moment,’ said Stern, as a man in a grey suit and burgundy tie came in. The maître d’ put the photograph down, took the man’s hat, and escorted him to a table. Reinhardt stepped up to the lectern, picking up the photo and looking down over the list of bookings and reservations. Stern came back over, saying nothing as Reinhardt scanned the book, then stepped back.
‘When was the last time he was here?’
Stern ran a finger down one of the pages, turning back one. He tapped an entry. ‘Thursday night.’
‘This last Thursday?’ Stern nodded. ‘Was he with anyone?’ There was a burst of applause from the patrons as the band ended one song and started another.
‘The entry does not say, sir,’ said Stern.
‘Do you know Marija Vukić?’ asked Reinhardt.
‘Of course I did. She was a regular guest here. It is terrible, what happened to her.’
‘Did Hendel know her?’
Stern nodded, frowning. ‘He did. I believe they met here quite frequently.’
‘When would have been the last time?’ asked Reinhardt, motioning at the ledger. ‘Check, please.’
Stern looked back to his book, then back up at Reinhardt. ‘Also Thursday. But she was with someone else.’
‘Who?’
‘A General Paul Verhein.’
The name meant nothing to Reinhardt. Sarajevo was full of generals these days. ‘Is there anything that comes to mind about Hendel?’ he asked. ‘Anything at all. How he behaved. How often he came. Who he talked to.’
Stern shook his head. ‘I’m afraid I would not really know, sir. You might ask Dragan, the barman.’
Reinhardt held Stern’s eyes a moment longer. ‘Down there?’ He turned to Hueber, motioning him to follow.
‘Sir,’ Stern said, softly. ‘Your cap, if I may.’ He did not offer to take Hueber’s forage cap, but the corporal took it off and folded it into one of his tunic pockets.
Reinhardt threaded a path through the tables, past German and Italian officers, Ustaše, men in suits and women in dresses that were probably fashionable a few years ago, before the war. Reinhardt flicked his eyes from German officer to German officer, hoping not to make eye contact with any of them. Some looked up at him as he passed. Most turned away; those that looked longer had eyes more for Hueber than for Reinhardt. A corporal in a club like this was not usual and would eventually cause comment.
He walked past the last table and into a space in front of the bar, with the band playing to his left in front of a long mirror that gave a poor illusion of space and light. He felt terribly exposed, imagining all those who might be watching him from the smoke-shrouded gloom behind him. A couple of men, an Ustaša in his black uniform and a man in a suit, stood at the bar, shoulder to shoulder in conversation. A barman in white shirt and black waistcoat stood to one side, polishing a glass with a cloth. Reinhardt walked to the far end of the bar, motioning to him to join him.
‘What may I offer you for drink?’ asked the barman, eyebrows raised and head tilting back slightly as he spoke. His German was thick and accented.
Continuing the place’s nautical theme, the bar was decked out with fishing paraphernalia. Reinhardt scanned past nets and seashells and a ship’s lantern and sepia-toned prints of coastal towns along the limited display of bottles behind the barman, and noticed a bottle of red standing open, with what looked like a Mostar label. ‘Give me a glass of that.’
The barman poured with an exaggerated care, filling the wineglass almost to the brim, then placing it in front of Reinhardt. He made to move away, but Reinhardt raised his hand, slightly. ‘One moment,’ he said, as he raised the glass to his lips. The wine was cold, the way they drank it here. Despite that, it was still heady and thick, lying heavy on the tongue.
‘Is all right?’ the barman asked.
Reinhardt turned his lips in between his teeth and squeezed the tip of his tongue. ‘Fine,’ he nodded. It was diabolical. Reinhardt took another sip. ‘Mr Stern said we should talk to you, Dragan.’ The barman looked back at him expressionlessly, flicked his eyes at Hueber, then picked up his cloth and began drying a glass.
‘About?’
‘About a lieutenant. Called Hendel. Do you know him?’
Dragan nodded. ‘I know him. He come often here.’ He ran his cloth around the glass with a practiced move and put it away in a rack over his head, taking another from just below the counter.
‘When was he last here?’
The barman wiped and dried the glass, his eyes turned inward and somewhere else in a ploy that, to the policeman in Reinhardt, was transparently one to gain time. Dragan could not know what this wa
s about, but he was surely not wanting to get in the middle of whatever was making a German Army captain ask questions about a lieutenant’s whereabouts. ‘Maybe I think last week?’
‘A day?’ replied Reinhardt.
Dragan stayed expressionless as he cleaned his glass, his eyes elsewhere, then focused back on Reinhardt. ‘Thursday?’ he said, at last.
‘You remember anything special about him?’
‘Special? Sorry, my German. Not so good.’
‘Hueber, please,’ said Reinhardt, half turning away from the bar and motioning the corporal forward. ‘Ask him what he remembers in particular, if anything, about Lieutenant Hendel.’
Dragan frowned at him as he spoke to Hueber, and then his frown deepened as Hueber began talking in Serbo-Croat. The barman’s eyes flicked back and forth between the two of them, then settled on Reinhardt as he began to talk back. Hueber held up a hand after a moment.
‘Sir, he said Lieutenant Hendel was in here twice, sometimes three times a week. He usually drank at the bar. He liked the ladies. He did not cause any trouble.’
‘Does he know who Marija Vukić is?’
‘I know. Of course, I know,’ said Dragan, stepping forward as if to push Hueber out of the conversation. ‘She is here many, many times.’
‘Did you ever see the two of them together?’
Dragan nodded. ‘Yes. Two, maybe three times.’
‘What do you remember?’
Dragan opened his mouth to speak, then paused. He looked between the two of them again, and then, as if deciding that Hueber was the lesser of two evils, began to talk to the corporal. The Ustaša at the bar peered over his companion’s shoulder at them, making the other man turn and look as well. Reinhardt looked back at them expressionlessly until the civilian turned away, and the Ustaša shrugged, and they went back to their drinks and conversation.
The Man from Berlin Page 9
