The Nuremberg Puzzle

by Laurence O'Bryan

  The priest coughed. She glanced up, looked down again, as a respectful nun was supposed to do. Her white wimple was tight against her chin and covered the front of her hair, but she pulled it another half inch forward with two thin fingers while she waited for him to speak.

  It was unlikely he’d have a problem with the nun from Italy, even if she was clearly African. Her Italian was perfect and her letter of introduction simply asked for her to be allowed do some research for her doctorate in their 20th century document archive. The Diocesan Museum of Bamberg, fifty minutes’ drive north of Nuremberg, had few items of value, and those, such as the Imperial star cloak, were on display on the floor above, not stored in this underground archive room.

  “We are closing in thirty minutes, Sister.” He smiled, thinly. “Are you staying in the convent?”

  She shook her head.

  He stepped forward, bent down to look at the yellowing magazines she had stacked in front of her.

  “Are you sure these magazines will help you, Sister? Das Katholische Korps had a very limited run. It was closed by the Vatican in nineteen forty-four. I don’t expect anything in there is of interest to someone pursuing church history. If I remember right it mostly contains lists of masses, and who was officiating.” He went around the table to stand beside her.

  “Ja, that is right. See.” He pointed at the open magazine in front of her. Its thin pages were covered in a tiny German typeface, broken into three columns per page. Each column had a line drawing of a saint at the top with ornate, almost black, line drawings of the Holy Cross, and a Crown of Thorns above them.

  Footsteps could be heard in the wide, flag-stoned corridor outside. He glanced at the still open door, as if afraid of being caught alone with the tall, thin, young nun.

  He stepped back. “Thirty minutes, Sister. Then we will close.”

  The footsteps stopped at the door. She moved her hand to her thigh.

  “Father.” Came a thin voice, calling from the corridor.

  As soon as he was gone Xena placed the magazine she had been poring over back in the middle of the stack, which she returned to the yellow cardboard box. She stood, went to the shelves and reinserted the box, moving some of the others, so he wouldn’t be able to see which issues she’d been looking at.

  She closed the door softly as she left. The priest was standing at the end of the corridor by the exit. He was waiting for her.

  16

  The Inspekteur picked up another picture from the small pile he had placed face down on the table and turned it over. It was a picture of a black boy’s torso, the limbs cut off above the knees and elbows, and the top of the head sliced away above the ears. The torso was lying among long shiny leaves, in a jungle clearing.

  Sean’s skin prickled. The acid in his throat wanted to come up again. He swallowed fast. Why was the Inspekteur showing him this?

  The cuts in the picture were weeping blood and the brain was exposed, a coiled gray rope. Sean wanted to look away, but he couldn’t stop staring.

  On the boy’s chest an arrow symbol had been roughly cut deep into the flesh, exposing white bone in places.

  “We do an international check on all symbols we find at a murder scene these days, Herr Ryan. Our computer systems are getting better. This came back straight away. The symbol was used during the massacres in Rwanda in nineteen ninety-four. You are old enough to remember that time, I am sure, ja?”

  The Inspekteur was a real charmer. He could have taught arrogance at University level.

  “I remember it.”

  “Did you know Jerome Ruzibiza, Eleni Kibre’s boyfriend was a junior member of the Akazu, the Hutu extremist group who led the genocide against the Tutsi, and that his father was one of its leaders?”

  That was the moment Sean felt the weight of suspicion shift, as if a cloak had been taken from his shoulders. He shook his head.

  “Did Eleni speak to you about Jerome’s background at all, Herr Ryan??

  “No.”

  “Did either of them talk to you about African rituals or the occult?”

  “We spoke about the occult when we were in the Congress hall. Eleni recited an exorcism prayer.”

  The Inspekteur paused. He looked satisfied with himself.

  “Would you say she was obsessed by the occult?”

  “I don’t know where you’re going with all this Inspekteur.” Sean stared at him. “You’re clutching at straws.”

  The Inspekteur’s eyeballs had a metallic sheen.

  “Did you hear Eleni and Jerome argue, Herr Ryan?”

  Sean hesitated. The policewoman was staring at him. Her black plastic biro was poised above a page in her notebook. So, this was the real reason they’d shown him the photographs. They wanted him to incriminate Jerome.

  “It wasn’t an argument. It was more of a discussion. They were worried about neo-Nazi stickers on a street light outside their apartment. I already told you about them.” Sean paused, looked down. Memories of what happened during his visit to Eleni’s apartment came flooding back.

  “Are you questioning the idiots who created those stickers? Jerome thought someone was targeting him and Eleni. Have you questioned the local neo-Nazi groups for suspects? I’d say that would be a good place to start your investigation.”

  “We have no neo-Nazi groups in Nuremberg, Herr Ryan. Your British media exaggerates such things. We have left-wing groups and right-wing groups and every shade in between. But none of them are neo-Nazi groups. You are mistaken. Such groups are banned in Germany.”

  Sean made an exasperated noise.

  “Mistaken? I suppose that demonstration I saw earlier today in the centre of Nuremberg came from my imagination.”

  “No, this is not what I said. The march this afternoon here in this city was organised by the National Peace Party. We cannot say that the National Peace Party are a neo-Nazi party. I advise you not to listen to those who try to stir things up.”

  “But they marched to commemorate the bombing of Nuremberg.” Sean’s mouth opened. Could this guy be for real? The dress of the protestors, the confrontation between black-clad thugs and ordinary people, and the presence of anti-Nazi protestors, were clear evidence to him that the march had been what Eleni had told him it was: a march by neo-Nazis.

  He leaned forward. How could they be in such denial?

  “Do you still need me here, Inspekteur, if you think Jerome killed Eleni?”

  “We do not confirm our suspects, Herr Ryan. And now.” The Inspekteur leaned forward in his chair. He was half way over the table. His lips were pressed together, his head like a snake’s moving in to strike. “When you saw Eleni Kibre and her boyfriend arguing, did you see any violence between them?”

  “No. I didn’t see any violence.”

  As Sean said it a flashback came to him. It was of Jerome swinging his arm, pushing Eleni, and Eleni backing away. He closed his mouth, stared hard at the Inspekteur, and felt the blood draining from his face. Could he be wrong about Jerome?

  “Ah, you have remembered something, Herr Ryan. You must tell us. We take withholding information from the Bundespolizei very seriously in Germany. The offence is punishable by up to seven years in prison. You do not want to see our prisons, Herr Ryan. You will have a hard time with your talk of neo-Nazis there.”

  Sean looked straight ahead. He didn’t want to hide anything, but the Inspekteur’s keenness to find evidence against Jerome didn’t feel right. Whatever he’d seen, it wasn’t evidence of Jerome’s violent inclinations. The tension in the room rose, as the Inspekteur stared at him.

  Did he have an obligation to tell what he’d seen?

  “Come, come, Herr Ryan. I see you have something you want to say.” There was a hint of glee behind the steel in the Inspekteur’s gaze.

  The policewoman was writing furiously in her notebook.

  “Where is Jerome right now?” said Sean.

  “I can’t answer this question. It is not permitted.” The Inspekteur’s tone wa
s final, sharp, like a filing cabinet door slamming shut.

  “If you decide to withhold information, I will arrange for a state lawyer to see you and for a place for you in the cells here, until the allocated lawyer arrives. I must warn you though, on a Saturday night it can take up to eight hours for one to come. Then we will have to arrange an official interview and an interpreter. Is that how you wish to proceed, Herr Ryan?” He looked at his watch.

  Sean stared at him.

  “I cannot stay here all night, Herr Ryan. I need to know what you are withholding from me.”

  Sean pressed his hands together, then rubbed them, as if to warm them.

  “It was nothing. Jerome told Eleni to be careful, and he touched her arm, lightly, that’s all. He was worried for her. I just thought he must have had a premonition, that’s all I was thinking about. Go ahead, arrest me if you want to. I’ll have nothing different to tell you tomorrow or whenever you interview me.”

  The Inspekteur looked at Sean, as if he’d told him a dead dog was under the table.

  “I must press you again, Herr Ryan. Would you consider what Jerome Ruzibiza did intimidation, or physical violence, towards Eleni Kibre (as spelled above)?”

  “No, Inspekteur. Definitely not. And I will give evidence to that effect, if needed,” he replied, quickly.

  They were in a staring match now. The other officer coughed. The Inspekteur turned to her and gave her a dismissive look.

  “Inspekteur, may I leave now?” said Sean.

  The Inspekteur turned back to face him. Then he looked at the pictures on the table and turned over the last one. For a moment Sean couldn’t work out what was in the picture. It looked like a black club, something from a movie special effects department, with a vaguely familiar rectangle at the end.

  Then he saw the stubs of fingers. It was an arm with the fingers cut off. It was sitting on a white plastic board. His pulse quickened. A squirming motion filled his stomach.

  “Have you ever seen injuries like this, Herr Ryan?”

  Sean couldn’t answer. He suspected whose arm he was looking at, and where the tiny outcroppings of bone had been attached to only hours before.

  “What is this?” He wanted to ask was this Eleni’s arm, but the words wouldn’t come out.

  The Inspekteur was examining him. The policewoman was too. They both had an intense curiosity in their eyes.

  “We do not know, yet,” said the Inspekteur.

  Sean shook his head. “This is sick.” He paused. “Why would you would show me this, while my friend’s body is still warm? I’m considering making a formal complaint, Inspekteur. Please take these pictures away.” Those last words were spoken fast and loud. He didn’t care what they thought. This was wrong.

  The Inspekteur and the policewoman were still staring at him. “Please, answer our question, Herr Ryan. Do not assume you know whose arm this is.” He turned the picture over, peered at a corner of it, then drew away. There was something printed there.

  Sean moved towards the picture to get a clearer view. The Inspekteur let him get close, within about twelve inches, then he took hold of the picture and pulled it away from Sean’s gaze. He handed it to the policewoman. He said something fast in German to her. She put the pictures under her arm, then exited the room.

  “Our interview with you is finished, Herr Ryan.” The Inspekteur said something official-sounding in German, then pressed a red button on the recording device.

  While they walked to the front door of the station the Inspekteur said nothing. His final words to Sean were spoken in a dead, unemotional manner.

  “We will contact you at your home in London, if we need any further information. Now you are free to go. Thank you for cooperating.” He put his hand out and stiffly shook Sean’s. As he did he clicked his heels together and bowed, just a half an inch, but there was something formal and official about it.

  Sean stepped out of the police station. Outside, there was an icy wind blowing. The street was deserted. He looked back at the station building. The glass door had already closed. Were they really letting him go so easily? As he looked up he saw a face at a window on the second floor. It was the face of the young officer. He was staring at Sean.

  17

  “Where the hell were you?” said David, as Isabel came towards him. He was sitting at a small table near the door to the bar in the Intercontinental Hyde Park Hotel, the remains of a pint of lager in front of him.

  “Upstairs. What’s the problem?” Isabel gave him her warmest smile. There was no reason for him to be so angry.

  “I was worried.”

  “Why?”

  “You’ve gone to meet an informant. Then you’re late meeting me.” He looked like a wounded dog.

  “Let me get you another drink,” she said. “I need one.” She waved at a waiter, ordered a glass of Pinot Noir. The bar had a faux-Victorian style, all dark wood, deer heads and low glass chandeliers. Most of the tables were busy.

  She told him everything that had happened.

  “You’re going to write all this up?” he asked.

  Isabel nodded.

  “Do you believe that stuff about your grandfather, that he was murdered?”

  “I don’t know. Honestly, it could be true or it could be a total fantasy.” She shivered. Had she just been conned?

  “But I have to find out the truth. I can’t let this go.” Something deep inside her had been touched. She sat straighter, then continued.

  “My grandfather’s death affected my whole family, David.” She bit her lip. She’d said enough. Talking about it all made her feel angrier with every word.

  “What about this other stuff, the letters that will incriminate the Vatican, do you believe all that? Do you think there are more of them?”

  “Encouraging Hitler to attack Russia is bad enough, isn’t it?” said Isabel.

  “Most of the world was anti-Semitic back then. Racism was everywhere. You do know that, don’t you?” He was leaning forward, to ensure the people around them didn’t hear what he was saying.

  “My family was lucky to be let into England in thirty-nine. Many of our relatives died in Auschwitz.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “The whole world was guilty. That’s what my father used to say.”

  He smiled at her. She got the sudden and disturbing notion that he liked her. She looked away. Across the room a large bald man in a black suit turned to look at her. He did it deliberately, as if he wanted her to know he was watching her. She remembered what she’d heard about the bars in big hotels being full of hookers. She stared at him, frowned, in distaste. He looked away.

  “This place is full of creeps.”

  David shrugged. “Do you think they’re right about a new holocaust being on its way?”

  She was about to say something about pogroms happening in cycles, but the noise of an ambulance siren, whooping louder and louder, filled the room. Then it stopped. It seemed to be just outside the door of the bar. A blue flashing light filled the doorway.

  People were craning to look. Seconds later two ambulance crew in green uniforms went rushing past the door. They were carrying a shiny steel gurney.

  David was speaking. She looked at him. She hadn’t heard a word he’d said. He smiled, leaned towards her.

  She stood. “Sorry, David. I need to see what’s happening.”

  He looked up at her, as if she’d grown an extra head.

  18

  The reception desk at Sean’s hotel was empty when he passed by it. It was twenty-past ten on Saturday night, one hour ahead of London time. There wasn’t even a receptionist manning the front desk. The elevator could only be accessed by using the room card he’d been given. There was a shiny plastic notice propped on the reception desk, in English and German, with a number to call in emergencies. Whether it was the number for the hotel staff in a back room or at the other side of town wasn’t said.

  Sean hadn’t texted or called anyone during the taxi ride back.
He’d been going over and over in his mind everything that had happened since he’d met Eleni. His light-headedness hadn’t gone away. Looking out at strangers walking from one bar to another, or on their way home, made the ache of sadness inside him stronger. He was seeing the city for the first time.

  He thought about calling Isabel, but decided against it. The last thing she would want to hear about would be the death of someone they knew in Nuremberg. He would break it to her in person after he got back to London. When he reached his room the TV was on, as were all the lights. The TV had been switched to a German station. It came to him that someone had been in the room until a few minutes before. Had the police stayed, searching his room? He looked around, found no other evidence that anyone else had been there. He turned the TV off. Then he went to bed. He listened for hours to noises in the street, people shouting, cars passing.

  He woke at six that Sunday morning, still exhausted. Thoughts about Eleni, and how she’d died, and the pictures the police had shown him, kept going around and around in his head, as if they would never disappear. There was no nice way to think about what had happened to her.

  Were the police right, could Jerome be responsible? And if he wasn’t, who had killed her, and why had they done it in such a grotesque manner?

  He took a shower, hoping that his mind would clear. Maybe a shower would help get the sickening pictures out of his head, even for a few minutes. He wondered if attending the conference would help take his mind away from the images. There were a few lectures that afternoon that he could go to, and he could make his apologies for his non-attendance the night before in person.

  As he dressed, he knew any enthusiasm for meeting people and putting on a front would be impossible for him muster. He looked at the conference schedule; perhaps he would attend just one lecture. He stood at the window and gazed out onto the busy avenue. Should he return to London?