A Thousand Devils (Max Heller, Dresden Detective Book 2)

by Frank Goldammer

  “Before you say anything . . . I was in Spain. Did you know that? I saw people die there, good people, freedom fighters from all nations, murdered by the fascists. And I saw what the German fascists did in Russia. I was in the concentration camps. Were you ever in one?”

  Heller shook his head.

  “Your job, Comrade Oberkommissar, is to solve crimes. And the rigor and determination you show in doing so is commendable. Even when you’re conflicted. But I see a higher aim. Fascism must be exterminated, root and branch. There must never be fascism again. I see a better society, a socialist state with people who are equal and free.”

  Heller could hardly contain himself. As soon as Niesbach paused, he cut in. “But people need to eat, above all, otherwise they won’t be able to think straight. You don’t improve a society from on high, with orders and banners. You have to begin at the bottom and offer people a real future. Keeping things a secret creates the exact opposite of what you want. You think people don’t know about the two dead Soviet officers? My wife already knew before I got home, just from going to the local water pump.”

  Niesbach nodded. “I understand, Heller. But the people you’re talking about are the same ones who supported Hitler, or at least tolerated him.”

  The phone rang. He picked up.

  “Yes, sitting right here . . . Absolutely . . . I’ll send him down.”

  Niesbach hung up and gave Heller an almost-triumphant look, as if his view had been confirmed. “There was an attack on a meeting of the Victims of Fascism. Münchner Strasse, corner of Bienertstrasse. A vehicle’s waiting for you downstairs.”

  The three-axle Russian truck hurtled Heller through rubble-laden streets. To Heller it seemed like the cleared roadways and pedestrian routes only emphasized the city’s destruction, just as a doctor only recognizes the true extent of an injury after cleaning the wound. The tidy lanes cutting through the ruins gave the impression of pioneers carving trails through dangerous wilderness.

  And yet life went on. The people made use of anything not entirely destroyed. Smoke rose from old downspouts, which had been converted to chimneys. Exposed facades were sealed with boards and blankets. Though it was strictly forbidden, children climbed through the ruins, searching for firewood. They ducked down when the truck neared, its retrofitted siren squealing. Streetcars traveled the ghostly roads. Women pulled carts. Bricks had been knocked apart and stacked up for reuse. Huge posters announced joyous socialist tidings and showed Marshal Stalin in uniform with his bushy mustache and puffed-out chest, so much like the Kaiser of old.

  The truck droned by the ill-fated block of buildings around Münchner Platz, where first the Nazis’ sham courts and now the MVD’s secret offices resided, and continued on to Plauen, to the large hotel called the Münchner Krug.

  Heller didn’t know what awaited him. But he had his duty pistol, a Walther PP, in his leather briefcase. The uniformed police officers riding in the truck’s canopied bed were armed with pistols as well, the Soviets forbidding them from having more powerful weapons.

  Soviet soldiers who were blocking the street let the truck through. Heller sighed. The Soviets had appropriated official procedure yet again, apparently intending to deny the German police even the slightest authority. To make matters worse, Heller spotted Colonel Ovtcharov of the MVD exiting the hotel with a large entourage. A crowd of people had gathered at the junction of streetcar tracks across the street. They had all attended the event. The onlookers talked with one another, but most of the excitement seemed to have faded. In front of the building, Soviet soldiers and People’s Police were picking leaflets off the ground.

  Heller climbed out and went up to the intelligence colonel.

  Ovtcharov gave out a few more orders before turning to Heller. “All right if I give you the latest?”

  “If you would be so kind.”

  “The second meeting of the Victims of Fascism was supposed to begin at two p.m. The last of the attendees had just arrived when a young man asked to enter the building. He couldn’t identify as VoF, so the guard turned him away. Shortly after, an explosion went off on the other side of the building, here along Münchner Strasse. A hand grenade had gone off in a guest room, then a second exploded on the street. The guards rushed around the corner and saw the young man throwing leaflets into the air before running away.”

  Ovtcharov gestured for one of the leaflets, handed it to Heller, and added, “I heard the explosions all the way at my office and headed over at once.”

  “‘Defend Yourselves, Germans—Fight Bolshevissm,’” Heller read out loud. “They wrote ‘Bolshevism’ with two s’s.”

  “I noticed. We’ve gathered up hundreds of them already.” Ovtcharov stepped closer. “Comrade, there are Nazis among us! Someone has a printing press, which is strictly forbidden. It’s worse than murder. This must be your mission, Comrade Oberkommissar. Our mission! Our authorities must work hand in hand. And I want you to be my liaison officer. I will see to it. I am certain that both these attacks and the murders of the two Soviet officers were perpetrated by the same group.”

  Heller kept the leaflet, putting it in his pocket. “Any dead or injured here?”

  “The attacker probably got the wrong window. One grenade landed in an empty room. The other missed altogether and bounced off the exterior.”

  “He got the wrong window? And then he had to take cover from his own grenade? Then he ended up tossing the leaflets around and running off?”

  Ovtcharov raised an eyebrow in amusement. “Tell me, is this an interrogation? You don’t believe me? The guards are right over there, you can ask them yourself. You do know Russian, don’t you?”

  Heller didn’t respond. The Russian was just making fun of him. Ovtcharov and Medvedev were fighting a silent war. Each was envious of the other’s authority and kept elevating his own claim to more power. And Heller was stuck between their front lines. He needed to navigate his way out of there as quickly as possible.

  “Come on, Heller, no need to be glum. We will get you an interpreter. I know someone who speaks very good Russian.”

  Heller wasn’t surprised to see Constanze Weisshaupt walk up to him at the scene. The young woman gave him a warm hug.

  “Is your Klaus back yet?” she asked. “How’s he doing?”

  “He’s two, no, three days late,” he told her.

  After the war ended, Constanze, who was half Jewish, had lived under their roof for nearly a year. She practically became a daughter to Karin during that time. They hadn’t seen each other for some six months now. Constanze had gotten employment in the offices of the Victims of Fascism organization, as well as her own small apartment, which was practically a miracle these days.

  “Are you all doing well? I’ve wanted to come visit for a long time, but there’s always so much to do.”

  “Karin and I are well. But Frau Marquart is very sick. I’m worried it might be typhus.”

  “Have you taken her to the hospital?”

  “It wouldn’t help.”

  “But you could get infected!”

  Heller was well aware of that. “Can you tell me what happened here?”

  “There’s not a lot to tell. The opening speech was about to start. We heard a bang, then another a few seconds later, down on the street. Someone screamed, ‘Death to Bolshevism.’ At first everyone hit the floor, but then things calmed down. Soviet soldiers came and secured the building. Then we were told to leave.”

  “Was it one person? Several? Did you see them?”

  “No, I didn’t see anyone. I dropped down right away after hearing the first bang. Still ingrained in us since the war, you know?”

  Heller nodded, thinking it over. “Let’s head over to those two guards.”

  Their conversation with the two Russians didn’t produce much. They described the attacker as a young German, about eighteen, maybe younger, medium height, blond. He had tried to slip through with the other attendees, but one of the soldiers stopped him and asked for
his invitation. Since he didn’t have one, the soldier turned him away. The soldiers couldn’t recall the man’s clothing, his haircut, or if he wore glasses. They weren’t even sure if he had been carrying a pack.

  Heller wrote it all down, then looked up when he heard a familiar sound: Oldenbusch’s unmarked police car. The Ford’s engine had recently been pinging—the car would likely break down soon.

  “Werner, you go in first,” Heller said. “Secure the evidence in the room on the second floor. I have a sentry posted. I’m afraid any evidence outside the building has been trampled.”

  “Max, you sound so serious,” Constanze said.

  Heller showed her the leaflet. “From a printing press, even though they were all supposedly requisitioned. Private ownership of a machine like that is forbidden, under maximum punishment.”

  “Well, apparently they can’t control every person.”

  “Just four hours ago, both Ovtcharov and Niesbach separately talked to me about Nazi resistance fighters. And now this happens. Mere coincidence? And take a look at this.” Heller pointed to the last word on the leaflet. “‘Bolshevissm’ with two s’s.”

  Constanze looked over the leaflet and frowned. “Are you trying to say . . .” She started to whisper. “Say that this was faked? But doesn’t it just confirm what Ovtcharov and Niesbach were telling you? Niesbach is a good man.”

  “I’m not trying to say anything, but something just doesn’t fit. Why did the attacker get the wrong window? It’s pretty obvious from outside where the main hall is located—all the lights were on. And yet he also missed the window with that second grenade? From how many yards away? Four, five?”

  “He was definitely flustered, inexperienced. Max, I see assaults on Jews and Communists nearly every day, both veiled and open. I’m talking anonymous letters, graffiti, red paint on windows. Car tires slashed. Windshields smashed in. Plenty of the old phantom Nazi is still lurking inside people. So folks like me are happy that the Soviets are here. If they weren’t, a brand-new fascism would rise up.”

  “Boss!” shouted Oldenbusch from above.

  Heller pursed his lips in annoyance. How many times had he told Werner to call him by his proper title in public?

  Oldenbusch loudly cleared his throat, then tried again. “Herr Oberkommissar!”

  Heller looked up now.

  “It was a German stick grenade. I’m coming down to see if I can detect signs of the second one down there on the street.”

  “Please do.”

  “Could that mean anything?” Constanze asked.

  “Not on its own.” Russian grenades were used in the attack on the Schwarzer Peter bar. Yet both attacks were carried out in a similarly clumsy manner.

  “Max, listen. I can help you. Come to my office and enroll as a victim of fascism. I’ll vouch for you. I know you were never a part of any Nazi organization, that you were passed over for promotion, and you helped a Jew. And you helped me. I can vouch for you.”

  Heller raised a hand. “I can’t do that, Constanze. It would be hypocritical of me.”

  “Nonsense, Max. Don’t be so narrow-minded. You’d get extra bread ration coupons and preferential treatment at the housing office. Once Klaus gets here, it’s going to get cramped real quick. And you can get furniture too, seeing how you lost all you had.”

  “Constanze, stop, please. It feels false to me. And it is false.” He’d be receiving an allocation of furniture seized from Nazis, who’d likely seized it from Jewish homes in the first place. The thought made him nauseous.

  “You’re too good a person, Max. And stubborn. That can be a good trait, but not always. The least you could do is join the Party.”

  “This is from Constanze?” Karin asked when Heller came home that evening and handed her the payek package.

  “No, another one from Ovtcharov.” Heller was about to take off his overcoat but decided to leave it on. It was too cold in the kitchen, even with a fire burning in the stove.

  “What does he want from you, this secret service agent?”

  Heller shrugged wearily.

  “Look here—more meat, crackers, margarine, and a little tin can. What’s this? Caviar?” Karin put the items down and shook her head. “This is just absurd! Where are they getting all this? Sometimes it seems like they want to see us starve.”

  “Karin!” Heller warned her, but she was already angry.

  “Oh no, you don’t—don’t ‘Karin’ me. Can you explain it to me, Max? People have enough out in the country. Just ask the Schaffraths and the Meyers across the way; they’re from the country. Just today they gave me two eggs for a whole package of sugar. I put them in some broth for Frau Marquart, and she spit it all right back up. And the Russians meanwhile? You’ve seen it yourself; they sure seem to have enough. We don’t even get anything with ration cards. I stood outside Wippler’s for two hours in the freezing cold, and once I finally got in, you know what I saw? ‘All Out of Bread.’ Two hours round-trip on foot, and for what?”

  “But so? It’s the Germans, after all. You just said it yourself. Anyone who can is getting rich. Anyone who’s befriended a Russian is getting something and isn’t about to give anything away. You get two eggs from the neighbors for a couple of cups of sugar? Karin, that’s profiteering! The man I had to get out of bed for this morning? He’s got so much stocked up, you wouldn’t believe your eyes.”

  Heller sighed. He didn’t want to argue, not now, not while Frau Marquart might be on her deathbed and Klaus still hadn’t returned. Karin was clearly just as worked up.

  He stepped closer to her, but she moved away. “And on the radio?” she shouted. “Always the same idiotic slogans. ‘We Must Pull Through!’ ‘Socialism Will Prevail!’ ‘This Rail Line Is Open Again and Electric Power Restored.’ It’s all window dressing, just like with the Nazis. And these posters everywhere—‘Progress,’ ‘Socialism,’ ‘Unity,’ ‘Stalin Is Our Hero,’ ‘Stalin Will Save Us,’ ‘Stalin Our Liberator’! Is that us Germans? No, it’s the Russians. And why do they forbid us from getting newspapers from the western occupation zones? Why don’t any packages arrive? Why is Erwin’s last letter six months old? Where’s Klaus? Why won’t anyone tell us where he is?”

  Karin had worked herself into a rage and now seemed to regret it. She leaned into him. He put his arms around her. There they stood a moment, in silence.

  “I chopped up the chair by the telephone today—it’s burning in the stove right now. Frau Marquart’s going to be mad when she hears. She liked that old chair a lot.” Karin’s voice had lowered to a whisper. Heller said nothing. They stood in silence again, leaning into one another.

  “How is Constanze doing?” Karin asked after a while.

  “Good, apparently. She wanted . . .” Heller fell silent. His stomach suddenly growled and wouldn’t stop.

  Karin pulled away and started busying herself with pots and pans. “What did she want?”

  Heller wanted to avoid putting Karin in the awkward position of contemplating posing as a Victim of Fascism. “Well, she thought it would be good for me to join the Party.”

  “But you’re not going to,” she said, and he could sense the reproach in her words.

  The lights flickered. It was the warning from DREWAG: use less power, the municipal utility was telling them, or we’ll shut you off. Karin quickly switched off the light.

  “I’m cooking the meat from yesterday, making a stew out of it. We’ll save it for Klaus.”

  Heller woke in the middle of the night because he was freezing. His down blanket had slipped off. He pulled it back over him and waited for his body to warm up. He wouldn’t get to sleep otherwise. Now the alarm clock ticking on the nightstand bothered him. He made himself keep his eyes closed, but all the sleepiness had left him. Where was Klaus anyway? They hadn’t worried as much after receiving that first postcard from him in the summer of ’45. But this gap—for three days now, of not knowing what was happening and why Klaus hadn’t returned home yet—sat on his
chest like a huge weight, an invisible hand pressing him to the floor.

  And then there were all the people pressuring him to join the Party. They had to know it was complete hypocrisy. Was that what they wanted, a giant following of hypocrites? Hadn’t anyone learned from the Nazis’ twelve-year reign? Many people only joined the Nazi Party because they hoped to benefit professionally and personally—or because they feared losing their jobs if they didn’t. There had been so many joiners that the Party eventually stopped admitting people, because even the Nazis themselves weren’t sure who the committed National Socialists were anymore. Nowadays, everyone claimed to have joined only because they felt they had to. So had they all been hypocrites? And what about now? Were there actually people who’d truly been swayed? Niesbach, possibly. He was an idealist, which was probably why Heller liked him—not simply because he was an idealist, but because he hoped for a better world for all people and not just for one Volk. He had put his life on the line for his ideals, had even left his homeland, and he really did seem to stand for what the Soviets and the Socialist Unity Party professed to be. But why? Because he did seem to believe in them wholeheartedly. And that made him blind to their faults.

  Then there was Constanze. She had been a victim of fascism, yet she had never been a Communist. Was she interested in building a socialist state? Was she only seeking security? Or was this her own way of seeking amends for her suffering?

  What was he supposed to make of Medvedev and Ovtcharov? Should he take their coaxing as simply good advice, because they liked him? Did they really value him enough to wish he’d become their confidant, someone they could speak openly to about needing to legitimize himself publicly by joining the Socialist Unity Party? Or were they only using him as a tool for their personal power struggles? If Medvedev had his way, Heller would’ve taken Niesbach’s job. Such a position had once been his goal, many years ago. The Nazis had blocked Heller’s career. So it would have been fair and correct for him to now take advantage. But maybe the cause of his refusal lay deeper? Maybe he didn’t even want the position anymore. All the tedious office work and eternal meetings. Administration. Agitation. Playing politics. The cliques. Perhaps his refusal to comply had more to do with escaping that sort of obligation—that of playing the boring desk cop?