by Chris Petit
He asked for ham. They had run out. More would be in tomorrow, they hoped. The same with everything. The daily supply sold out early.
Morgen asked for Nöthling. He gave his name and rank. One of the counter girls addressed the cashier, who spoke to Nöthling on an intercom and a minute later the man emerged, preceded by the smell of expensive aftershave, rubbing his hands with bonhomie and professional concern.
He bore little resemblance to the traditional shopkeeper. His clean looks and antiseptic air made him appear more like a scientist, as though shopping were a modern discipline. Unlike the women in their white coats his was blue, under which he wore an expensive suit. His shoes were well-heeled. Schlegel thought them handmade.
Nöthling was manners itself, leading them into a back office, done out as smartly as the front, with armchairs, an Oriental rug and a huge rosewood desk whose size reminded Schlegel of criminal masterminds in old films, unlike the man, who sounded about as engaged as a speak-your-weight machine.
Nöthling’s brown hair was brilliantined, parted, worn short at the back and sides, with a cowlick at the front. His expression was guileless. Schlegel wondered how he had avoided the army.
He denied knowing anyone from the tax office called Keleman; his books were in order.
‘Tell us about your pigs,’ said Morgen.
Nöthling pointed to himself and assumed an expression of surprise.
Morgen said, ‘We are bound to ask whether the import of pigs is a criminal business.’
‘Of course not! I have the paperwork.’
‘We would expect nothing less.’
‘They come from Sweden. Keleman, you say?’ He shook his head again.
‘Can we import from neutral countries?’
‘There’s nothing illegal about it.’
‘Swedish pigs?’ asked Morgen as though he didn’t quite believe it.
Schlegel asked if Nöthling had unloaded anything else from the train.
‘Human cargo?’ he prompted.
Nöthling blustered.
Morgen said, ‘A grocer with fingers in a lot of pies.’
He stood with his hands thrust in his pockets, looking suddenly miserable. Pigs were the bane of his life, he confessed. Food in general, but pigs in particular, as he was expected to provide according to previous standards.
‘How much do you know about pigs?’
Morgen said he knew about dead ones, having eaten them, not so much about when they were alive, except they were not stupid.
‘They’re not unlike us. They eat the same. They are not a grazing animal, like cattle and sheep, which means they compete with us in the food chain. Two years ago, the cereal crop that was their staple diet failed. So they had to be fed potatoes, which in a wartime economy is our standard diet. It caused rationing to be introduced, to allow enough for the pigs.’
‘And after that the market became harder,’ suggested Morgen.
‘For some. I had an employee transferred to the catering corps who was able to arrange regular transports of livestock from the Ukraine.’
He also had a brother who was a pig breeder in East Prussia.
‘Fat, healthy stock and no complaints until the herd was decimated by swine fever.’
‘And beef and mutton?’ asked Morgen.
‘The same shortages, though pork is more of a national dish.’
‘Yes, I suppose. A civilised animal, not nomadic. Principles of husbandry and tenure.’
‘You are right!’ replied Nöthling, apparently enthused. ‘As the British have their roast beef, we expect pork. Even the humble Schnellimbiss requires its bratwurst. I wonder if the basis of our argument with the Jew isn’t that he regards such an upstanding animal unclean. One can have a relationship with a pig in a way one never can with a cow or a sheep. Some say they are as intelligent as small children.’
Schlegel had once made the mistake of ordering chicken bratwurst from a food stand. He complained. The stall owner agreed not only was it unpopular because tasteless, it was seen as a sign of a fundamental right being taken away.
Morgen said, ‘About your Swedish pigs.’
Nöthling pulled a long face. ‘My wife is Swedish. Her brother sends them from his farm in Ystad. He started breeding them upon my recommendation.’
‘Not happy pigs from what I am told.’
‘My brother-in-law blames shortages but the truth is he is a careless farmer and he drinks from early in the morning.’
Schlegel found Nöthling slippery and impressive – the cool demeanour, the appearance of openness, his answering in an apparently honest way. The real expertise probably lay in what he chose not to reveal.
‘So your clientele is eating inferior pig,’ said Morgen.
‘My clientele is lucky to get what it has,’ answered Nöthling, showing a flash of anger that was the first sign of the pressure he might be under.
As they passed back through the shop, he asked them to wait and returned with a brown paper bag and handed it to Morgen, saying, ‘Wild boar sausage. Not a bribe, gentlemen, but I would like you to appreciate the efforts to which we still go to satisfy our customers. It is hard these days to bring enjoyment into the world, but . . .’
He gave them a charming, boyish smile of embarrassment and dismissal.
The sausage came wrapped in greaseproof paper and had been sliced. They demolished it at a sitting on a bench down from the shop.
Morgen said, ‘The man most likely believes he will be protected by those he serves, instead of being hung out to dry. Still, he makes an excellent sausage.’
Over the road the local branch of the Commerzbank was closing for the day.
‘Come on, quick,’ said Morgen, wiping greasy fingers on his trousers.
The banking hall was the usual well-appointed temple to security. Morgen was betting Nöthling banked there.
The manager appeared huffy, unused to being summoned. He was formally attired in a wing collar and morning jacket. They were closing, he said. Business was terminated for the day.
Morgen insisted they speak in private. The manager reluctantly took them to his capacious office. Morgen said they were there to inspect a client’s accounts. The manager protested until Morgen threatened him.
‘But I have done nothing!’ he exclaimed.
‘Exactly. When I asked you to do something.’
The manager pleaded client confidentiality until Morgen offered to arrest him on the spot. Schlegel knew a warrant was required but the manager conceded, inclining his head stiffly, in the way of minor authority bested.
While the manager was fetching the files, Morgen inspected the furnishings and pictures on the walls.
‘Look at this.’
It was a formal group photograph of men in uniform. They wore old-fashioned spiked helmets. It was dated 1917 and identified as part of a local regiment.
‘Look at the names,’ said Morgen.
Schlegel read along the list until he came to ‘Metzler’.
Standing on the right, one in from the end.
‘Can that be him?’ asked Morgen.
‘Hard to say with that helmet and size of the photo.’
The manager returned with an armful of ledgers. His absence made him mindful of his authority.
‘I will have to make a report on this. It is not regular.’
‘As you wish,’ said Morgen. The man appeared thrown.
‘Metzler,’ said Schlegel.
He had to be reminded.
‘That was years ago. What about him?’
‘He put a bullet in his head recently.’
‘Why?’
They said nothing, waiting.
‘Oh, I see,’ the manager eventually managed.
‘Did being a Jew make a difference? In the good old days,’ asked Morgen.
‘All that mattered was whether you were a good soldier.’
Morgen was curious. ‘Was he?’
‘Drilled. Disciplined. Brave.’
Schl
egel produced Metzler’s medal, surprised he was still carrying it. The manager inspected it as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was looking at. Morgen studied the photograph again and pointed out that the manager was an officer.
‘Metzler wasn’t?’
‘Later. He worked his way through the ranks.’
Metzler was the best shot in the regiment.
‘He won many shooting competitions. He was a sniper. He would spend days in the field alone. Usually they worked in pairs.’
‘Because he couldn’t find a partner?’ asked Morgen.
‘He preferred it that way. I used to see him go off at dusk. He could be gone three or four days then I would see him return at first light.’
The manager stopped, confused. Schlegel suspected that for a man of such professional impartiality any personal observation was almost never ventured.
‘Did you know him after the war?’
‘Only through regimental dinners. The regiment was disbanded but they kept the dinners going for ten years. Metzler came for a while, then stopped from what I remember. He was known as Dead-eye.’
‘Because of what he could hit?’
‘One day in the trenches he was using the periscope to scan enemy lines. It was sweltering and we were in shirtsleeves. He was smoking a cigarette and said to me, “Hold that,” picked up his rifle, stood on the platform, stuck his head above the trench – which was dangerous because you could get shot back – lined up his sights, fired, stood down, placed his rifle, asked for his cigarette and said that had put Tommy’s lights out. The whole episode took perhaps three seconds. I asked where he had hit the man. He smiled and pointed to the bridge of his nose. I congratulated him and he looked annoyed and said he had been aiming for the eye.’
The manager seemed no longer sure who he was. The pedantic figure of authority had briefly revealed himself, before reverting to type by insisting as the bank’s custodian he was bound to state what they were doing was highly irregular.
Schlegel said, ‘Metzler didn’t miss when it came to shooting the warden through the eye.’
The manager looked uncomprehending.
‘He must have had good reason,’ he said after Schlegel explained.
‘What do you mean?’
‘In spite of what I have told you, he was reluctant to take up arms. The only time I heard him offer anything close to a confidence, he said, “The rifle makes me.” I asked what that meant and he said he didn’t like what guns did to him, but a gun in his hand became the perfect extension of himself. Metzler always was complicated. The rest of us were simple soldiers. We obeyed orders and complained about the command and the food and just about everything else.’
They inspected the ledgers. Nöthling’s staff wages were paid in cash, drawn on a Friday. Cheques were paid to suppliers and received from clients.
‘An impressive clientele,’ said Morgen. He asked if the manager had an account with Nöthling. Seeing where that might be going, he replied that all such business was left to his wife.
Morgen finally shut the ledger and said, ‘The marching columns of numbers broadly confirm what we know. Herr Nöthling appears transparent in banking terms. We suspect anyway his misdemeanours take place off the books.’
Schlegel was inspecting a different ledger with each entry handwritten in formal script, with black and red ink. So many figures made him dizzy.
‘There’s a payment in on the fifth of every month.’
Always for 5,000 marks. The ledger listed the payer on each occasion as ‘Konto 5’, and the amount as recompense for expenses.
‘What expenses?’ asked Morgen, adjusting his spectacles. ‘Nöthling is the trader. You would expect him to be the one paying out.’
The manager had gone very quiet.
‘Will you tell us what Konto five is?’
The man visibly shrank. ‘I couldn’t possibly say.’
‘Not even if we offered you boarding arrangements at headquarters for the foreseeable future?’
He still refused.
Morgen appeared unbothered. He would ask Nöthling instead. The manager let out a wail and said Morgen had promised.
Morgen replied he had decided he wasn’t so principled after all.
They found Nöthling still in the shop, now serving behind the counter.
Morgen walked straight through to the back telling him to follow.
Nöthling was outraged when they told him about inspecting his statements. He invoked the law and Morgen shouted, ‘I am the law!’
Undeterred, Nöthling threatened them with the top end of his client list.
Morgen said he could call whomever he liked, after he told them what Konto five was.
Nöthling paled at its mention, more nervous than the bank manager. They would get nowhere by asking.
‘Are you telling us you don’t know?’ asked Morgen.
‘It is not for me to say, and if you find the right people with whom to take up the matter you will be out of your depth.’
The smooth manner was gone. Nöthling’s lips were flecked with spittle.
Morgen said, ‘Five thousand a month is a lot of money when you think of what a regular fighting soldier gets.’
Schlegel thought about the world getting smaller. Its daily unfolding now seemed to depend on unsuspected connections, as though ruled by deeper assignment rather than chance.
At headquarters they found several messages from Nebe, demanding an immediate appearance. They were shown straight into his office, where he was pacing.
Another flayed body had been found, on the banks of the Spree. The area had been cordoned off and a guard mounted.
‘Get down there now and sort it out. No doctor. No photographer. No autopsy. Get rid of it.’
The body was to be delivered not to the hospital but straight to a local animal crematorium and Morgen and Schlegel were responsible for co-ordinating its collection for delivery to its incinerators.
‘And any future ones,’ Nebe added ominously before proceeding to address them in the manner of the newly converted, subscribing to what had previously been dismissed. Lazarenko’s theory had been absorbed and endorsed, and Nebe regurgitated the latest version as if it were his own.
Fear was being expressed of a persistent Judeo-Bolshevik link operating in the heart of the city, as a result of contamination from the east. Malignant elements were operating within the huge underclass of zombie slaves that now inhabited Berlin.
Since Goebbels’ screening of I Walked with a Zombie it had become the latest watchword among the upper echelons.
Morgen took a photographer anyway. A tent had been erected around the body. At the top of the bank, the incinerator company’s van waited rather than the usual ambulance. Nebe had insisted on no paperwork.
Morgen did little more than glance at the body, and left Schlegel with the option of not looking. Schlegel stared at the black river gleaming, thinking how these killings had become their own dirty secret. No Stoffel. No Gersten or Lazarenko now. Just a nervous patrol of junior police who had been ordered to keep their traps shut.
Morgen appeared like a man in a trance, mumbling to himself, smoking furiously. He reminded Schlegel of people talking in strange tongues.
The corpse was taken away covered with a tarpaulin. The tent went. The photographer came over and Morgen became normal, asking if he had his own darkroom.
‘Don’t put them through the police lab, and give them to me in person afterwards, with the negatives.’
Morgen dismissed him and said to Schlegel, ‘Walk with me.’
It was just light enough to see. Morgen talked at such speed that he appeared barely in control of his thoughts. Most of his fizzing monologue went straight over Schlegel’s head.
Morgen seemed to understand as much himself. He stopped suddenly and said they should climb the bank and walk back along the road.
Once on even ground he said, ‘The dog eats its own tail in the system we have created. A state of supe
r-vigilance has to be maintained. With the Jews nearly gone that fear has to relocate.’
He pointed to the last of the city skyline and said nearly all the men are away now, leaving the bulk of the male population consisting of aliens.
Nebe had said as much.
‘It is what we always feared. The foreign presence. The racial virus. The Russians are a sullen, grumbling attendance in our midst, cowed for the moment but the beast will awake. We’ve had our time in the sun as divine monsters. All that’s left now is this mutating state, a side effect of the war machine, which is technical, rational and scientific, in contrast to the irrationality given to inventing improbable grandiose enemies. The insecure hysteria that swept us into power was bound to reveal its dark Wagnerian heart and that implosion is starting to happen.’
He surprised Schlegel by collapsing with laughter.
‘Of course, it’s all true. That’s the irony. The paranoia is justified for the wrong reasons. It isn’t the avarice and mind games of the Jews that is our greatest threat, as they insist, but the Ivan peasant with his strapping hard-on, which he will stick up our womanhood. They were right all along, but not in the way they thought, and now they invite it on themselves because what is most feared is what is secretly desired. Their darkest fantasy is to be spread-eagled and fucked up the arse by the Ivans rather than watch them do it to our women. You may think it a matter of simple hydraulics, but never underestimate the complexity of male desire, Schlegel.’
Sybil watched Grigor watch her, seeing he suspected or could not trust her, any more than she could him. Suspicion festered. Grigor was right to be wary, because Sybil still could not decide which way to jump.
Grigor accused her of being in cahoots with the Kübler woman, however much she insisted otherwise. He accused her of working with Gersten to trap him, in which case he would have to kill her. He asked if she was Gersten’s lover and didn’t believe her denial. What excited Grigor most was sexual jealousy. It led her to make up stories, taunt him with suggestions of betrayal. His rages grew ecstatic. The hardening core inside her learned to interpret his beatings as loss of control and therefore weakness.
He pulled her out of the lockup, saying it was no longer safe, and forced her to come up with somewhere else. Sybil didn’t know anywhere. Grigor put his hands round her throat. She hoped the act was less homicidal than an expression of deep frustration.
