by Chris Petit
‘Cards on the table time?’ asked Morgen ironically.
‘Ha-ha!’ said Gersten. ‘Metzler complained the Jews had no money and I said – as a joke – tell them to forge it, not thinking he would take me at my word. It comes back to me now. Anyway, he told me although they had excellent document forgers there was no one of sufficient expertise to fake money. That was the end of the matter, as far as I was concerned, but from what you are saying Metzler went ahead. I admit it has been nagging at the back of my mind. That’s what I must have been hinting at the last time we talked when I wondered if Metzler hadn’t played me for a fool.’
Schlegel wondered how good Gersten was on the accordion. Listening to him play them was like watching the improvisations of an accomplished musician.
‘And stealing the money?’
‘I heard they fell out among themselves.’ Gersten paused. ‘Metzler was very good and wasted in many ways. Most of them you can read like an open book, but he was different and I admit I spent much of my time trying to double-guess him.’
Gersten stood, looking no more ruffled than if he had been strolling in the park.
‘I hear Stoffel has pulled the cat out of the bag and Lampe’s endless confession is being referred to as the crowning glory of his career.’
‘What else did you hear?’
‘Lampe is about to be given a grand tour of the sites of unsolved murders all over the country and will sign off on each and every one. I have to say, from what I’ve heard, the man gives sadism and necrophilia a bad name. Not the sharpest knife in the drawer. All made up, wouldn’t you say?’
Morgen changed the subject. ‘I think my colleague has a question about Fräulein Todermann.’
Gersten’s slight recoil, tilting back on his heels, reminded Schlegel of a boxer riding a punch.
‘We would like to speak to her.’
Gersten produced his chapstick.
‘Fräulein Todermann is engaged in confidential work.’
‘Ten minutes.’
‘She is not available. Later, perhaps. I will tell you when. I don’t mean to be difficult.’
Schlegel wanted to take issue but Morgen said, ‘Have it your way.’
As they left the building, Morgen said, ‘I have an idea about Fräulein Todermann.’
38
It took all morning for Sybil’s papers to be put in order. Later Gersten appeared and issued her a laminated pass, using the photograph taken by Abbas, and a certificate of passage. The card carried the Gestapo stamp and stated: Fräulein Todermann is permitted to take measures in Jewish matters. The authorities are asked to support her in this.
Sybil was hard-pushed not to weep with shame.
‘This is a standard card. Normally you would have to check a quota of fifteen addresses a day. As agreed, you will concentrate your search entirely on this one man. Now what clothes do you have?’
Only what she was standing in.
He took her to a room that had more than any shop. She should select three wardrobes.
‘Help yourself to silk underwear. I like the feel of silk next to skin. It’s a small luxury we will permit you. Call it our secret. The rest should be modest and unostentatious without being threadbare or dowdy. I recommend practical shoes because you will be doing a lot of walking.’
She knew he would stay and watch. He insisted on inspecting everything down to her choice of underwear.
She understood she had to make a show of getting undressed, revealing everything while retaining a becoming modesty. She calculated the man was too full of himself to do anything more than observe, for the moment.
He confirmed as much, saying he liked to watch. Feminine beauty was the great single wonder of the world.
‘How can so few parts result in such infinite variety?’
He grew philosophical contemplating Sybil’s body, wondering at what point beauty ceased to become beauty, not that she had anything to worry about. Most women had ugly feet but hers he could gaze at all day.
‘A shame about the chilblains. We’ll give you something for those.’
He confessed that he always found a woman dressing after sex almost unbearable for its erotic tension. The act became the repository for what had gone on before.
‘Try the stockings with the corset and garter belt next, not that you need a corset, but let’s see it anyway. You are lucky you haven’t ballooned like so many women on this atrocious diet we now have. Perhaps as a treat you could come out with me one evening. I could take you to a restaurant where we can still get a good meal, as unbelievable as that sounds.’
Gersten kept it light and hid his threat. He seemed to possess too much irony for that, making out the whole show of her dressing and undressing was a foible for his decadent amusement. Because she didn’t feel afraid, Sybil started to feel safe with the man, which was exactly what he wanted. She considered him extremely dangerous.
She presented herself wearing a suit with a tighter skirt than normal.
‘When does the cat show its claws?’
Gersten was puzzled.
‘What am I supposed to do when I find this man?’
‘That’s up to you.’
‘Am I supposed to seduce him?’
‘Up to you, dear.’
He tilted back in his chair, legs straight out, feet crossed, jacket undone, hands in trouser pockets. Sybil saw he had an erection.
‘It’s good if there is a tension between us. Try on something else.’
As she undressed again, he said, ‘You have nice areolae,’ as if inspecting a broodmare.
He preferred a green coat to a blue one and helped her select a suitcase.
‘Take a leather one.’
They could have been a couple shopping.
‘Have you had many lovers?’ he asked idly.
She could see he didn’t want her to be a whore so told the truth, which was not many. She omitted Lore.
39
Schlegel and Morgen watched as a backward, clumsy man in shackles, surrounded by a dozen armed policemen, led them a merry dance. Lampe was having the time of his life: the nonentity whose every word was now hung on. They accompanied Stoffel and Lampe to the murder sites of Abbas and the still-unidentified woman where Lampe gave accounts that were full of holes and yet eerily accurate. When challenged by Schlegel or Morgen he accused them of trying to take his story away.
Any mention of Russian being heard on the night of the Abbas murder was attributed to the neighbouring woman’s fantasy. Using a uniformed policeman, Lampe demonstrated how easily capable he was of carrying a body on his own.
‘A strong brute,’ said Stoffel in approval.
For the location of the murder – as opposed to where he had dumped the body – he never came up with a satisfactory answer and resorted to one of his black states of forgetting, wrestling with himself and banging his forehead with his handcuffed hands.
He denied meeting the woman in the dancehall until Morgen said they had witnesses, then he backtracked and asked to be taken there.
‘Yes, it could have been here,’ became, ‘I can see myself standing outside now I am here,’ then, ‘Yes, I remember now.’
Morgen said sotto voce to Schlegel he was sure Lampe hadn’t been in on either night, but no one was going to stop the canary singing. Feeble-minded and fitted up was his verdict and Schlegel found it impossible not to agree.
Stoffel’s professional stance, that he was compiling a lexicon to decipher the dark text of Lampe’s murderous mind, made it all the more dispiriting. Only occasionally did he have to raise his voice when Lampe threatened to make a nonsense of everything by trying to retract his confessions.
They ended up at Guenstiger’s, a small printing press which leased space in the huge AEG Montagehalle complex in Gesundbrunnen, north of where Schlegel lived. This being a Saturday afternoon, the place was closed and they had to get the watchman out.
This, Lampe proudly announced, was where he and an army pal, with th
e helpful name of Mueller, carried out a robbery the year before. Mueller’s current whereabouts were unknown to Lampe.
In a twist Schlegel could only admire, Abbas was turned from chance acquaintance into a long-term pal of Mueller. Abbas, furthermore, generously shared his knowledge of a considerable sum of forged money being produced and stored there. As no one would dare report the theft of illegal money they decided to break in.
Stoffel said he had expected Schlegel and Morgen to be more grateful. He had solved the case of the counterfeit money for them.
‘He stole it and left it on the bodies of his victims.’
‘It doesn’t explain Metzler having it,’ said Morgen.
‘Come on, man, Abbas was bent. Whatever the Jews were up to stopped when the Austrians came. The money was lying around. Abbas knew about it and he and his two cronies took advantage.’
Stoffel prodded Schlegel in the chest. ‘Enough of the long face. Live on easy street for a change.’
Back at headquarters Schlegel and Morgen checked the crime sheet for the Guenstiger break-in. A small amount of cash was reported stolen. The incident was described as a routine robbery. The paperwork was scrappy and barely literate.
The October date coincided with the arrival of the Austrians; at least that part of the story stood up.
Morgen said, ‘I had three names for the possible forger, remember. The third was a fellow called Plotkin whom I discounted because he was dead.’
‘Jumped off a roof.’
‘More precisely, off the roof of Guenstiger’s the same day the robbery was reported.’
‘And if Plotkin was responsible for producing the money . . .’
‘He either threw himself off because he was scared of the consequences or a third party assisted, when it found the money gone and suspected him of having a hand.’
Morgen sat back. ‘Nebe can be very pleased with Stoffel’s efforts. Everything is answered in one go. It would be headline news if such matters could be reported. Stoffel will retire promoted and Nebe will probably get a push up the ladder too. There still remains one big problem.’
‘Which is that?’
‘Someone may yet take the basic facts and distort them to their own ends. I now suspect Lazarenko could be right. There may be a dimension of internal feuding. It’s why I think we should go to this party of Gersten’s, though I personally cannot stand the accordion, outside the context of Texas border music, which I doubt will be entertaining us this evening.’
The barracks was so crowded it was almost impossible to move. With all the smoke the upper half of the room was invisible. Whatever they were drinking was raw, extremely powerful and quickly induced double vision. One reeling couple delivered slow-motion punches as they tried to hit each other as the result of a row. People lay passed out. Maudlin ballads that could have made a dog cry gave way to raucous foot-stompers.
Isolated islands within the room were dedicated to intense games of cards where the players ignored everything around them. One man near Schlegel, unable to stand, keeled over and forced enough space to lie down, where he lay drumming his heels. Morgen made no concessions to the music while appearing to regard the surroundings with intense fascination.
Such wild revelry and colossal drunkenness, even by the standard of office leaving parties, was unlike anything Schlegel had seen before. The top of Gersten’s head bobbed in time to the music. The fiddler scraped away so fast he expected to see sparks. The room was like a pressure cooker about to explode. And all on the junction of Ostseestrasse and Goethe, in one of those huge compounds of temporary barracks that had sprung in the last years. No one paid Schlegel any attention, being too caught up with getting plastered or winning and losing hypothetical fortunes in cards. It was the Russians’ one night off and they had the whole of the next day to recover. A contingent of German workers seemed to have found their way there too – money was being taken on the door – for the obvious reason that Russian music was more full-blooded and raucous than the usual oom-pah-pah. When the band embarked on a Polonaise the audience, lurching and crashing around, refused to let it end, applauding for encores as soon as the music showed signs of flagging. It was far too noisy to speak. From time to time one of the card tables came to blows and the fights resembled violent dancing.
Inviting Gersten to play there looked like sound Russian strategy. Otherwise the local cops would have been round to put an immediate stop to it.
The band finally took a break. Gersten came and found them. He wore a white Russian-style shirt, drenched in sweat. He was grinning and exhilarated.
‘Come and meet Josef. We have about twenty minutes before the next set.’
Josef sat in a back room away from the rest, playing a lazy game of cards, surrounded by bodyguards. He was baby-faced and mean, no more than thirty, younger than Schlegel expected for a barracks leader. He inspected Schlegel with uncurious eyes. He did not offer to shake hands, though he had Gersten’s. Schlegel stood with his behind his back, not wishing to anyway.
Josef gave his cards to a bodyguard and suggested they step outside. It was breathtakingly cold. Josef told Schlegel it was the one time in the week the huts warmed up. His English was fair. Schlegel asked where he had learned it. Josef appeared unwilling to answer, not being the type for pleasantries, then said he had attended the School of Oriental and African Studies in London for two years.
Morgen wandered off into the night, looking like he wouldn’t bother to come back, leaving Schlegel to arbitrate what he could only suppose was the trap being set for Lazarenko. Negotiations were lubricated with the passing of a bottle, which Josef told Schlegel was better than what the rest drank, which would turn them blind.
Gersten appeared intent and businesslike, studying Josef as he spoke English to Schlegel.
Josef said, ‘I will only say this once. Translate it the way I say it. No interpreter’s gloss.’
He spoke rapidly, forcing Schlegel to absorb what was said, rather than translate as they went along. It took all his concentration. His world was spinning and unless he shut one eye he saw everything double.
Josef didn’t appear at all drunk although he had knocked back two enormous swigs.
Schlegel addressed Gersten. ‘He says the three men dying in the paint vat was Lazarenko’s work, and Lazarenko is a cruel man with a habit of weeding out Russians. More to the point, he is not Ukrainian as he pretends but former secret police GPU. One of the dead men recognised him from the time when he committed many atrocities around Zwiahel in northern Ukraine. He murdered hundreds of Germans and collaborators too. His expertise on the subject is based on his own crimes. He used a slaughterhouse hammer and knives to dispatch his victims. He is, furthermore, really a Bolshevik spy operating with a false passport. Such passports are easily obtained from the émigré office by going along at lunchtime when they are handed out for cash. He says that while Lazarenko’s passport is a proper one all the information on the paperwork is false.’
Josef took another huge pull. Between the three of them they had almost finished the bottle in ten minutes.
Gersten appeared in a state of shock.
‘Can this be true? I thought Lazarenko was suspect, but this?’
‘It’s what the man said.’
Someone came out and told Gersten the next set was about to start. He went inside without another word. Josef stuck his fingers down his throat, threw up copious amounts of liquid, straightened up and held out the last of the bottle for Schlegel. Seeing he had little choice, he downed it in one go, the searing liquid burning his throat. He wanted only to stagger off after Morgen but Josef said, ‘As our guest it is rude to leave before the end.’
The music went on and on. Schlegel found himself a corner, where he managed to prop himself and more or less pass out, coming to from time to time, when the stamping reached a crescendo. There was no sign of Morgen, which didn’t surprise him.
It was the only time he experienced drunkenness and the hangover to be si
multaneous. He was too far gone to leave and supposed he would have to throw himself at Gersten’s mercy for a ride home.
At last the evening broke up, though the card games showed every sign of carrying on. Schlegel found himself staring at a dark, gaunt man sitting at one of the tables. The room was still reeling. The man came briefly into focus. Grigor! Schlegel wondered what on earth the Jewish hearse driver was doing playing cards in that crowded and deafening, smoke-filled room. A look passed, perhaps one of sardonic amusement on the other man’s part, except Schlegel was too drunk to tell.
When he looked again the man was gone. Schlegel shook his head and wrote it off to drunken hallucination. The room was full of dark, gaunt men as it was.
Gersten had a driver waiting. Schlegel collapsed in the back failing to make sense of what he had translated. Gersten was still high, going on to the driver about what a great time had been had by all.
They dropped Schlegel off outside his house because Gersten wanted to go around the corner to Grosse Hamburger Strasse.
Sybil was asleep and gasped when she woke to find Gersten sitting on the end of her bed. She presumed he had come to extract his price.
Seeing her fright he said she was quite safe.
‘Look, I didn’t shut the door and the light in the corridor is still on.’
He told her about playing music with a band of Russians, ‘As unbelievable as that sounds.’
He said what a strange and sentimental people they were, so long as you didn’t cross them.
‘I wanted to see how you were settling in. I can’t sleep. I sometimes stay downstairs. Don’t worry, I won’t make a habit of this.’
Sybil prayed for him to go away. She supposed such men helped themselves as and when. But he made no move other than to say to give him her arm.
‘Not your hand. Pull up your sleeve.’
He cut her across the inside of the arm, just a shallow cut, whether with a scalpel or a knife she was too astonished to tell. It didn’t hurt as such. The action struck her as more mundane than cruel, although she was reminded of her previous observation.
