The Butchers of Berlin

by Chris Petit

  ‘Is it legal for her to have her own clients? I am thinking of her Jewishness.’

  ‘She had a special work permit.’

  The woman was hiding something. She resisted a little longer, then collapsed and admitted that Sybil had come back there on Saturday as they were closing.

  ‘Did she say anything about a shooting?’

  ‘A shooting! Of course not.’

  He gestured at the suit. ‘I need to borrow this for a few days.’

  The woman knew enough not to ask.

  ‘If you have a bag.’

  She found one.

  ‘Have you the name and address of the client who this is for?’

  ‘It’s pinned to the suit.’

  ‘Is it ready to go out? No more fittings?’

  He looked at the address. It was near his mother.

  ‘Why don’t I deliver it in person? I have to go that way.’

  Frau Zwicker looked at him as though he were mad, and he wondered too.

  ‘There’s nothing else you have to tell me?’

  She stared at him miserably.

  ‘Such as where she might be now.’

  ‘She wouldn’t want to get me in trouble.’

  ‘Anything at all. I can always come back with others.’

  ‘There’s the attic,’ she said.

  It was up a flight of stairs at the back of the building, quite unprotected in terms of security. Frau Zwicker’s story was Sybil had kept some items there. He saw from the old buttons on the floor that the place had once been used as a sweatshop. It didn’t explain the discarded typewriter ribbon. An S-Bahn rumbled past, making the building shake. It would make a good safe place. Had she stayed there? Was there someone else?

  26

  They were in what was known as the bar with the green door. Its elderly barman was from another era, with a central parting and Kaiser moustache. Otto Keleman, certified accountant and unlikely party boy, was possessive of his haunts, and this was his favourite. He appeared put out when the barman made a point of welcoming Morgen.

  ‘Haven’t seen you for a day or two. Thought you were dead.’

  Morgen had already got the evening off to a bad start by referring to Keleman as the man who had been showing his file around. Schlegel tried to explain, which only made matters worse. Keleman believed a confidence had been betrayed when all Schlegel wanted was for everyone to be open for a change. He dreaded Morgen following that with his mother’s remark about Keleman getting into women’s knickers.

  Morgen asked if his bottle was still behind the bar. Privileged regulars could leave theirs. By no means everyone was invited to and it was a sign that one had arrived. Keleman admitted he had been trying for years.

  Dozens of bottles, showing different levels of consumption, stood on shelves in front of the mirrored wall behind the bar.

  Seeing Schlegel for a newcomer, the barman said, ‘Sometimes ten years can pass before the owner comes back to claim his.’

  He treated Morgen with impeccable insolence that was clearly affectionate.

  ‘Been anywhere interesting?’

  ‘Not really. You know how it is.’

  ‘East, I would say.’

  ‘Any reason?’

  ‘You have the look.’

  ‘Which one is that?’

  The barman sighed. ‘Think of something funny to say. People have been trying to get me to laugh for years.’

  Keleman weighed in with an unfunny joke about fucking a nun.

  Schlegel spotted Francis Alwynd sitting in a corner with what looked like a couple of young Foreign Office pals. He was in his fisherman’s jersey and a tweed coat. He gave a lazy wave and saluted with his glass.

  There were no women in. The atmosphere was one of masculine clubbability, with a clientele of professional suits who looked like lawyers, and a few uniforms. A lack of windows cast the place in a greenish light that made it resemble an underwater cocoon. Keleman was now on best behaviour, quizzing Morgen on how long it had taken him to get his bottle.

  Schlegel produced one of the false notes and gave it to Keleman, who inspected it.

  ‘It’s a fifty-mark note.’

  ‘A forged fifty.’

  Keleman looked again, then got out a real one. Schlegel pointed to the discrepancies. Keleman agreed it would be much harder to spot without the telltale points at the corners of the frame.

  ‘Even so, you never really look at the stuff. It’s just a transaction. Short of it having “funny money” written on it, most people wouldn’t notice. But that’s not your point.’

  ‘We want to know who is producing it,’ said Morgen.

  ‘Much in circulation?’

  ‘Haven’t got that far.’

  Keleman looked at them knowingly. ‘But you are required to go through the motions. I know all about that.’

  ‘We are at least supposed to come up with a plausible report on who is producing it,’ said Schlegel.

  ‘Don’t you have stool pigeons?’

  Keleman seemed amused by his slang.

  Schlegel said not really. Crime in wartime had become petty.

  ‘There are no gangs left. There’s not much murder. No cat burglars or jewel thieves. It’s mainly about nicking food now. Nothing sophisticated.’

  ‘It’s pretty sophisticated in terms of corruption,’ said Keleman. ‘But that’s quite close to the surface and often brazen.’

  Morgen interrupted to say, ‘It would make sense if the forged notes belonged to some pre-war operation and were only just reaching the market.’

  Keleman said, ‘Are you saying it’s not in people’s interests to forge now?’

  Morgen inspected his empty glass and shrugged. ‘Opportunity. Wherewithal. Expertise. Everything is dispersed. There is also the black market. We live in an age of barter. Solid goods.’

  ‘Let me pour you another,’ said Keleman, the ever-gregarious host, availing himself of Morgen’s bottle. The round finished it.

  Keleman knocked his back and said, ‘Then you have to ask in whose interests it is to forge money.’

  ‘Opportunity. Wherewithal. Et cetera,’ repeated Morgen.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Schlegel, who was already having trouble focusing.

  Keleman said, ‘A criminal gang seems unlikely because, as you say, people are away. There is one obvious answer. I’ll tell you, but first let me buy you another bottle.’

  As Keleman stood up, Morgen said to tell the barman to put the bottle in Keleman’s name. Keleman stood beaming, saying it had to be one of the best evenings of his life.

  While Keleman was at the bar Schlegel went to the toilet and paused to chat to Francis Alwynd. They exchanged pleasantries until something struck Alwynd as funny and he beckoned Schlegel closer. The Foreign Office boys were talking money among themselves.

  Alwynd seemed barely able to contain his mirth and in a loud stage whisper announced, ‘Those girls staying with me, I might be harbouring a couple of Jews.’

  Schlegel quickly looked around. They were speaking English, but even so. The Foreign Office boys were still discussing expenses.

  Alwynd behaved like a man who had no inkling and grinned like he had come up with the funniest remark. He mouthed the word ‘Jews’ again.

  ‘Be careful who you say it to, Francis.’

  Alwynd made a show of behaving like a reprimanded schoolboy, shrinking down in his seat. He was completely drunk, which he confirmed by saying, ‘I am altogether bladdered, but you’re right. Mum’s the word!’

  ‘Seriously, Francis,’ Schlegel said, thinking he must sound like the man’s maiden aunt.

  Alwynd put his finger to his lips and said, ‘Shh!’ and collapsed into giggles.

  Schlegel left him to it and rejoined the others. Keleman filled their glasses and saluted them.

  ‘Well, cheers. I can’t tell you how happy this makes me.’

  Schlegel found it difficult to see the real difference between having a bottle behind the bar and buying dr
inks over the counter. He wondered meanly whether Keleman really did have much luck with women.

  Schlegel saw Alwynd continue to put his finger to his lips and make shushing noises. He hadn’t known the man was such a liability.

  Keleman picked up the forged note and said, ‘I should have paid with this.’

  ‘Be our guest,’ said Morgen. ‘Schlegel was going to avail himself of it anyway.’

  Keleman looked at Schlegel, who turned to Morgen and said, ‘That was in confidence.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t. You placed no conditions or terms when you told me so I am free to tell who I like, for the purposes of entertainment, social lubrication, or whatever.’

  He made the point so amiably that Schlegel was forced to concede. He supposed it hardly mattered if Keleman knew of his old habits; it would probably make him think more of him.

  Keleman looked at the note again. ‘You need to ask yourself who’s left and who needs the money.’

  ‘We all do,’ said Morgen.

  Schlegel said, ‘Cigarettes probably have more buying power than money these days. Where’s the sense in forging?’

  ‘Unless,’ prompted Keleman.

  ‘Unless what?’ Schlegel prompted back.

  ‘Unless you really need the money. Again the question is who does? Most forgers working at the moment make a good living providing false papers. I expect your forger is one of them.’

  ‘You mean Jews,’ said Morgen.

  Keleman nodded. ‘Though I would have thought it’s getting a bit late for them.’

  Morgen said, ‘Everyone knows Jews are clever with money but if you’re saying they’re the forgers we’re going to have to show it.’

  ‘Get yourself a stool pigeon, that’s what everyone else does.’

  The remark struck everyone as funnier than it was. They were sliding fast into drunkenness.

  Keleman said Jews and money went together. During the big inflation crisis local Jewish presses turned out money round the clock. Printing, money and Jews belonged historically. The point now was all their money had been confiscated, but they were still expected to pay for everything.

  ‘They’re being charged for their own roundup and cost of deportation. I’ve seen the books. Even concentration camps, which were previously tax exempt, are having to file returns, as part of the new initiative to turn them into proper economic concerns.’

  Keleman stared uncertainly at his glass and leaned forward.

  ‘How much do you know of what goes on? Or went on. I am not sure it still does.’

  Schlegel pointed out that such affairs did not fall into their domain.

  ‘It’s the fleecing that counted as much as anything.’

  ‘Meaning?’ asked Morgen.

  ‘Those that could afford it were allowed to buy their way out for exorbitant sums. The practice still exists, or did until very recently.’

  ‘How does it work?’

  ‘On a ransom basis, more or less. Perhaps it is still possible to buy people back or bribe the right official to stay off the list.’

  ‘And how would one go about this?’

  ‘Through the correct Gestapo official.’ Keleman sniggered. ‘Or rather the incorrect Gestapo official.’

  ‘Names?’ asked Morgen.

  Keleman shook his head. ‘My information is not first-hand. Besides, I believe there has been a cleanup, so I’m probably out of date.’

  They ended up completely drunk. Keleman missed his film preview and didn’t care, being too excited about getting his own bottle. Schlegel asked Morgen whether Keleman was inert or paranoid, according to his theory. Keleman took a while to grasp the basics then said, ‘That’s brilliant. I am inert and paranoid.’ He slid down in his seat.

  Alwynd had fallen asleep in his corner, a beatific smile on his face, his companions gone. Morgen sat like a buddha, amused by the chaos.

  Keleman briefly rallied to say, ‘Actually, I am completely paranoid.’

  He gave a rambling account of the corruption he was investigating.

  ‘Huge slush funds. Names you wouldn’t want to know about. Big, big stuff. They’re all paying each other off. I need help.’

  He frowned and looked morose, then perked up, saying he had another party and did they want to come. They made their excuses and stood out on the street, trying to work out the best way to get where they were all going, until Schlegel was left with Alwynd, who joined them and said he didn’t know how to get home. The two staggered off together in search of taxis, gave up and stood waiting for a bus.

  Alwynd said, ‘I shouldn’t have said what I did about the you-know-who.’ He appeared unrepentant. ‘I reserve the right not to like Jews, but your people should not be doing what you are doing, do you know what I mean? Bonny girls, but I know they have to go. I am just a way station on their road to Calvary. We each have our cross to bear. And there’s my bus.’

  He was gone, leaving Schlegel befuddled. He had missed the others leaving. He lurched drunkenly home; the night before sober by comparison. The walk seemed to take forever.

  27

  The sky remained the colour of sulphur. Schlegel was nursing the usual hangover, his mood not helped by oversleeping. Morgen had hauled him out of bed, banging on his door with news of another body.

  ‘With money.’

  The crime scene was nearby, only about five minutes, past Rosanthaler Strasse in a bomb-blasted building, not far from the cattle shed from which the rampaging cows had escaped. A guard stood outside. The rest were down in the basement.

  They were taken down by a uniformed policeman with a torch. The hall and stairs were strewn with rubble. Wafting up came the aroma of decomposing corpse.

  The way down to the basement grew dark. The electricity had gone.

  To access the murder scene they had to crawl through a hole. There in a dark cave Schlegel sensed the presence of several men.

  ‘Good afternoon, girls. Better late than never,’ said Stoffel. ‘Save your batteries. We’re waiting for the light.’

  They stood around in the darkness, apart from the occasional flare of a match and flash of a torch as the electricians fed cables down. Schlegel held his nose. Boots crunched on rubble. Stoffel told everyone to move as little as possible in order not to disturb the evidence.

  ‘Money stuffed up the vagina of this one,’ he announced, as though he were a tour guide. ‘Female, obviously. Not so young. Hard to say with the bloating. She may have been a pretty one. Two or three days since death, at a guess. Rigor mortis subsided. Black putrefaction setting in. A nice bouquet. The pancreas will be in the course of digesting itself. The flies, such as they are at this time of year, are having a feast. Probable cause of death, strangulation. Whether sexual intercourse took place remains to be established, but she has been interfered with.’

  He switched on his torch and gave them a brief glimpse of splayed, mottled legs, the exposed thatch of pubic hair and money, a few notes lying crumpled between the legs, the rest stuffed into the vagina.

  ‘Who found the body?’ Morgen asked.

  ‘Rescue workers. Alerted by the bruising to the throat. They must have been too scared to help themselves.’

  ‘Is the money the same as before?’

  ‘Don’t know yet.’

  Gersten spoke up for the first time. ‘I would still say we are talking about acts of terror perpetrated by a Bolshevik Jewish slayer.’

  Schlegel was surprised he was there. He supposed Lazarenko was lurking one step behind.

  ‘Says you,’ said Stoffel.

  Their voices echoed in the dark. There seemed to be none of the usual crime scene activity in terms of doctors or medical orderlies and general police. It was as though they were being granted a special preview.

  ‘Has the body been cut, like the other one?’ Morgen asked.

  ‘Not obviously. We must wait for an examination.’

  The lights arrived and didn’t work so they continued with torches, pointing half a dozen at the body,
whose top half was clothed. The head was turned away, russet hair covered in dust. Schlegel saw livid bruising on the throat. The hands were thrown up, as if in surprise. One shoe was gone, the other half off.

  The dimly lit scene, within the greater destruction, was too bleak to invite comment, other than Stoffel saying she looked like a great big rag doll, which prompted him to add with a guffaw that the children in the house must have been giants.

  Nebe put in an appearance and looked irritated at getting his boots dirty. The mood remained strangely lethargic until he clapped his hands and said the clock was ticking. They had until four o’clock to come up with a presentable theory for Dr Goebbels, otherwise he was cancelling all leave.

  He lectured them about how the Jewish maniac had struck again. He demanded to know whether this latest lot of money was forged like last time.

  No one had looked because of rules about disturbing the scene of crime.

  ‘Fuck the crime scene!’ Nebe screamed. ‘Schlegel!’

  Schlegel stepped forward while someone shone a torch. Not wanting to look, from modesty as much as revulsion, he saw one of the crumpled notes that lay outside the body was a fifty. He passed it to Morgen who confirmed it was fake.

  Nebe put his hands on hips, looking expectant.

  Morgen said, ‘We are working on the theory it was Jews that printed the money.’

  That set Nebe off.

  ‘Jews printing their own money! Jews running around killing people! What next?’

  Nebe was at his most insufferable, throwing his weight around because he hadn’t the faintest idea what to do. He was notorious for getting others to do the work and taking credit or attributing blame accordingly.

  Morgen said, ‘Perhaps you could advise us, sir, as it is not clear whether you want these cases solved or for them to go away so they don’t become part of some underground propaganda.’

  ‘Both! Both!’

  Morgen said, ‘In that case, you should hear what Herr Lazarenko has to say.’

  ‘Who’s Lazarenko?’

  Lazarenko was produced out of the shadows and Gersten explained who he was. Lazarenko, ever pushy, immediately offered his translation services to Nebe.