“How did Marta wind up in St. Louis?”
“Her husband was an executive in Anheuser-Busch. Marta loves St. Louis. I don’t like St. Louis. It is searing hot in the summer and bitter cold in the winter. Snow is nice, but the city has no mountains except the Ozarks . . . very sorry mountains. Ten years ago, I came to Solvang for a visit. After being in Copenhagen so long, it was very familiar for me. I loved the cooler temperature. I love the real mountains. Here, a home I found. Twice a year, I visit Marta. Twice a year, Marta visits me. She gets the good deal.”
Rina laughed. “I think so.”
“Would you like more tea?”
“I’d love some more tea,” Rina said.
Anika picked up the teapot and disappeared into the kitchen.
Rina held in a laugh. “What a character!”
“She has a personality,” Decker said.
She came back several minutes later with scalding hot tea. “Ah, the steam, the aroma . . . only thing English do well is tea.” She poured three refills. “I try to think back that far, Mrs. Decker, to the time of the deaths. It was a very peculiar time.”
“How so?” Rina asked.
“All of Germany was imploding. Munich was no exception. The city was in terrible chaos, and the deaths made even more chaos. München held much militaristic presence, of uniforms and armies and parades. It was the birth home of the Nazis, yes, but they were not the only political party. There were many and every group has its own flag, its own identity. Every party is color coded. Brown for Nazis, the Social Democrats are green, Communists are red or black shirt with red bow ties. Then there are the royalists. The Bavarian monarchs were expelled by the Communists in 1918, but many relatives remained and dressed in oldBayerischen royal uniform for every parade on every occasion. There were always demonstrations in Konigsplatz . . . in every public square. I go to a school in Turkenstrasse—”
“My mother’sschule, ” Rina said.
“Yes, your mother’sschule, too. Next door was the seat of the Nazi newspaperVolkischer Beobachter. We used to see the Brown Shirts goose-step. A few times Hitler, too. It was all part of the show. Looking back as an adult, I was very frightened, I think, because these groups used to come to theschule and talk. They ask about our parents—what they did, who they knew, what newspapers were at home. The newspapers in Europe are different than newspapers in America. They are political-party papers, so by asking about the newspapers, the groups know the parents’ party affiliation. So when the deaths happen, like your grandmother, Mrs. Decker, the talk is that maybe your Omah was on the wrong side politically.”
“Do you think her murder was political?”
“After the first one is found, everyone says that yes, it must be political. Everything in Munich was political. There were several other murders of young women that were political, one very famous—a farm girl named Amalie Sandmeyer who was murdered by theFememord, a very secret right-wing group. Everyone is afraid of theFememord. ”
“Why was Amalie Sandmeyer murdered?” Decker asked. “Was she a spy?”
“On the contrary. She was a working girl and was too naive to realize what was happening. Weapons at the time were illegal in München. If you find weapons from World War One, to the police you must bring them. But all the groups have secret caches. Amalie found a secret cache of weapons, and like the dumb good girl she was, she reported it to authorities. The problem was she found a Nazi cache and the police had many members in the National Socialist German Workers Party. Everyone knew her murder was political.”
Anika drank her tea and appeared to collect her thoughts.
“But then another is found dead. Then it was your grandmother. By then, mothers tell their daughters never to walk the streets alone. That there are madmen other than Hitler.”
“I found my grandmother’smordakte— her homicide file,” Rina said.
“Mein Gott,how did you find?”
“It’s a long story. But her file was found with those of the two others murdered before her. The cases were all packaged together in one big box apparently. I was sent a copy, not the original.”
“What was in your grandmother’s file?”
“Not much,” Decker said. “A pathology report, interviews, witnesses, crime scene report. Comparison of her murder to those of the two other women—Marlena Durer and Anna Gross. From what I could tell, the police investigation was pretty primitive. Do you remember any other murders?”
“There were two more after your grandmother, Mrs. Decker. Then we move. But the last I remember well because it was a young girl who lived near me in Schwabing. Her name was Johanna, a little older than I was but close enough in age to truly frighten.Ach, it was terrible murders in a terrible time that only got more terrible before it got better.”
The woman had turned red and was panting hard.
Rina said, “Thank goodness it’s in the past, Anika.”
“Yes . . .” The old woman took a few moments to steady her breathing. “Yes, it is all in the past and every day I walk past mountains, sky, and beauty.” She exhaled loudly. “Your grandfather did a good deed when he moved your mother away. The other families stayed, the motherless children receiving not pity but suspicion: ‘What did your mother do to deserve her death?’ If you want my opinion, Mrs. Decker, I say your grandmother was murdered by the same hand, even if the women were different. Thinking about it . . . it was all so much the same.”
“Any idea who might have done it?”
“Ach,no, sorry. A madman, a political man, a man who was both mad and political. You choose.” Anika clenched her jaw. “There was one investigator . . . he talked to us. I remember him well—strong, blue eyes, and black curly hair. He had . . . I don’t know . . . a swagger in his step . . . a charisma. He spoke softly but with much intensity. If we see anything, if we hear anything, we must tell him. He was terrifying and appealing at the same time. I don’t remember his name.”
“Heinreich Messersmit?” Decker tried.
She shrugged.
“Rudolf Kalmer?” Decker paused. “Axel Berg?”
“Maybe that was it. I wonder what happened to him?” She waved a bony hand in the air. “Now he’s dead. They’re all dead. I should be dead.”
“God forbid!” Rina said.
Anika smiled. “I was glad when we moved. Hamburg was different—a free state, a port city, more international, less Bavarian. And the beer in Hamburg is stronger.” She looked at an empty wrist.
Decker said, “It’s twelve-ten.”
“Marta should be here soon,” Anika repeated. “Maybe we take a walk?”
But just then, the door opened.
Marta was definitely Anika’s sister, having the same wrinkled face, same long jawline, and white hair, except she had it tied into a bun. She wore a fitted blue suit but had orthopedic shoes on her feet. She met Rina’s eyes, then clamped a hand over her mouth. “Ohmein Gott, it is Marta Gottlieb!” Tears welled in her blue eyes. “I can’t believe . . .”
She started to cry. Anika said, “My sister is emotional.”
Rina held out her hand. “I do look like my mother.”
But Marta was weeping too hard to respond. Anika hit her shoulder. “Stop!”
“You stop!” Marta choked back. Finally, she took Rina’s hand and clasped it. “How is your mother?”
“Mama is fine. Very fine and very well.”
Marta exhaled. “We were very good friends once. A lifetime came between us.”
“I know.”
“She was in Auschwitz?”
“Yes.”
“Ach . . . terrible, terrible.” She brought her hand to her chest. “Such a strong woman. If anyone could survive, it would be Marta. I would have surely died.” She wiped her eyes. “It smells good, Anika. I am hungry.”
“They can’t eat. They are kosher,” Anika explained.
“Yes, yes . . . I should have thought of that.”
“It’s really fine,” Rina said. “Peter and
I have to start heading back. We still have a young child at home. How long are you staying in town, Mrs. Wallek?”
“Marta, please. This time, I stay through August. A long time. I must see your mother. Please. It would do well for me. I think it would do well for her, too.”
Rina nodded. “I’ll ask her. But I have one favor—no more talk about the murders. It should be only pleasant recollections.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Marta said. “So many bad memories.” A sigh. “It is bad to be senile,ja? But not so bad to forget some things.”
“Selective repression,” Rina said.
“Exactly,” Marta said. “Our lives now are very short. It is not a time to dwell on the past.” She squeezed Rina’s hand. “We can come to Los Angeles.”
“We can?” Anika said.
“Yes, we can,” Marta insisted. “I can drive.”
That thought was truly terrifying. Decker said, “How about if I arrange to have you driven down? Arrive in style.”
“No, I wouldn’t accept!”
“As a present to Rina’s mother,” Decker insisted. “It would be my pleasure.”
“He doesn’t want you to drive,” Anika told her sister.
“I want you two to be comfortable,” Decker said. “Let us talk to Magda—Rina’s mother—and I’ll e-mail you some dates.”
Again Marta brought her hand to her chest. Again, her eyes watered. “That would be wonderful. Thank you so much.” She kissed Rina’s left cheek, then the right one. The tears came streaming down. “I am so sorry!”
“Please, Marta—”
“All the pain and suffering that we did to your people!”
“Marta, it’s a new world.” Rina squeezed her hand and sighed. “Hopefully.”
“Yes, hopefully.” She smiled. “That’s all we have . . . hope.”
∇
As soon as they hit the freeway, Rina said, “I wonder how Mama will react when we tell her we’ve found Marta Lubke.”
“We?”
“I was hoping you’d help me out. Give me a logical reason for why we’d be looking up Marta.”
“That’s easy. Tell your mother that talking about her past made you curious.”
Rina nodded. “I think that will work just fine, you devious devil you.”
“I take exception,” Decker said. “You’re just as devious as I am. I’m just better at it than you.”
“More practice.”
“That’s true enough.” Decker stroked her cheek. “Are you really all right with the outcome? Having your grandmother’s murder remain an open file?”
“Honestly, yes. Like I said, it wasn’t about the murder, it was about my mother’s childhood.” She felt her eyes mist. “I have only known my mother as a burdened woman. I think I needed to know that once she was a little girl.” She put her hand on Peter’s knee. “Areyou okay with not knowing the specifics?”
“Doesn’t bother me at all.” He let his thoughts go for a moment. “Besides, we both know a little more now than we did going into it.”
“You think it was a political thing?”
“Maybe. But it also could have been a serial killer who used politics to mask his murders. We really don’t need the gruesome details.”
“I agree.” Rina felt her eyes closing. “Do you mind if I take a nap?”
“No, of course not. Do you mind if I listen to a CD?”
“No. As a matter of fact, the background noise will help me sleep.”
Decker turned on the L.A. Quartet—four guitarists, four virtuosos. A beautiful woman by his side, superb weather, great music . . . soon he was flying at eighty plus, ready to take on the big, bad world.
Eyes still closed, Rina said, “Serial killers have this sameness to them.”
“Man, you are right about that. Cut from the same mold.”
“Why is that?”
“I don’t know,” Decker answered. “But I’m sure if the German police ever found this psycho and interviewed his neighbors, they’d say what an ordinary guy he was—although he tended to keep to himself.”
41
The days passed to weeks,the weeks melded into the months of summer, an intoxicating time of night-blooming jasmine, warm nights, and fiery lovemaking. Afterward, as we lay in a pile of sweat-soaked sheets, swatting mosquitoes that had squeezed through the screens of the open bedroom windows, my legs draped over Koby’s lean and sinewy body, I was thankful for the moment and hopeful for the future. Yaakov and I went from a dating couple to an item. I met his friends; he met mine. Between the two of us, there was always someplace to party, but most of the time we elected to spend our rare free evenings together sharing a bottle of wine in between our physical calisthenics.
When our schedules didn’t coincide, I spent my off-hours hunting—for Joseph Fedek, for Leonard Chatlin, for poor David Tyler, who had dropped out of sight. The good news was Raymond Paxton was true to his word, helping Louise Sanders and me with cash as well as with personal items. I had several good pictures of David. I went through dozens of homeless camps and shelters, and lots of abandoned buildings, flashing David’s photo and receiving blank looks for my efforts. I called local municipalities and got addresses. I checked them out. I found nothing.
Sometimes Koby would come with me. One hot day toward the end of August, I specificallyasked him to come with me. The address I had was southeast in a black area outside of L.A. I thought that maybe David would go there because he was black and might feel safer, less conspicuous among his own.
It was a twenty-minute freeway drive into a district of heat and smog and dirt and concrete. The apartment buildings were run-down, the streets pocked and littered, and the buildings desecrated with graffiti warfare. The area held many more liquor stores than schools and libraries, and not much hope where hope should be. It had a few storefront churches and a lot more thrift shops.
The directions I had were good. Once we were off the freeway, I gave Koby a series of rights and lefts and he found the shelter sandwiched between a fast-food joint and a Laundromat. But there was no parking directly in front of the building, forcing us to pull into a space a half block away. I knew I was out of my element, but Koby appeared comfortable. Maybe more protective than usual, looping his arm squarely around my shoulder. This wasn’t our usual Hollywood beat and was probably as foreign to him as it was to me. I was dressed for the heat in knee-length cutoffs and a green tank top, my hair pulled back in a ponytail. Koby wore a red muscle shirt and jeans, his skin now the color of chocolate, made much darker by all of our forays into the California sunshine.
As we headed toward the shelter, a couple of homeys passed by. Big men, both as tall as Koby; the one with a shaved head was at least twice as wide as my boyfriend. But it was his dreadlocked partner with the tattooed arms who spoke up.
“Yo’, niggah! Whatchu axin’ for yo’ ho’ bitch?”
Koby’s eyes narrowed and I saw him clench his fists. Immediately, I pulled out my badge and flashed it in front of their faces.
“Move along, gentlemen,” I told them.
“Dreadlocks” stared and started to speak, but I didn’t give him a chance. “I said, move along!” Then making solid eye contact, I added a please.
They paused long enough to give me ’tude and defiance, but then they probably figured I wasn’t worth the effort. They ambled on, Dreadlocks spitting a couple of inches from my foot. Koby looked over his shoulder, his eyes fuming. When he started to turn around, I took his hand and pulled him forward.
“Here we are.” I opened the boarded door, and still holding Koby’s hand, I dragged him inside. We stood in a small anteroom with peeling stucco walls that held a rack filled with flyers and pamphlets of services. Through an archway, I saw a communal dining room. There was a lone desk, the woman behind it around fifty and completely round with clipped kinky hair of gray-and-black knots. She wore a white tank top and was sweating profusely. It was hot inside and the lethargic ceiling fan didn’t help much. She e
yed us suspiciously. Again, I took out my badge.
She read it, then scowled. “LAPD? Someone should give you driving lessons. You’re in thewrong district, sister.”
I ignored the hostility. “I’m trying to locate a runaway.” I took out his picture. “He’s twenty-four with Down’s syndrome characteristics. Black, obviously. Originally, he’s from my district in Hollywood. His retarded girlfriend was gang-raped. He was beaten up and tossed in a trash can like garbage. No one has seen him since and that was around nine months ago.”
She listened to me, then turned her eyes to Koby. “I don’t see your ID.”
“He’s not a cop,” I told her. “He’s my boyfriend.”
Instantly, her eyes narrowed as she studied my face. There was disapproval of me, of course, but also an ever so slight softening in her expression. I had seen it in other blacks before—that by dating Koby, Imight be more trustworthy than an average white cop.
“What do you want?”
“For the last three months, I’ve been trying to find this kid on my off-hours. I’m going through the lists and this place popped up. I’m just asking if you’ve seen him. And if you haven’t, do you know of other places where I should look?”
She took in the picture. “You already looked in L.A.?”
“Everywhere. I was thinking that because he’s black, maybe he perceives himself safer here.”
“That’d be a switch.” Her laugh was bitter. “Comin’ here for safety.”
“I’m grasping at straws. What smells so good?”
“The kitchen.” She hooked a thumb over her shoulder, indicating the location was through the doorway behind her. “Cookin’ up supper.” She glanced at Koby, then returned her eyes to me. “What’s your business in a nine-month-old crime?”
Street Dreams Page 34
