Straight into Darkness

by Faye Kellerman

  Monika stood at his bedside and plopped a kiss on top of his head. “You have a giant bump, Papa. The size of an egg. I didn’t know a bone could grow a bump so big.”

  “It’s not broken, Papa,” Joachim told him. “Just bruised. Very badly bruised.”

  “It’s all purple and red and icky,” Monika told him.

  Joachim pushed blond hair out of his pale blue eyes. “The doctor was amazed, Papa. None of your bones are broken. He said you must have bones like lead.”

  “He has a brain like lead,” Britta whispered. But he heard her. He offered her his hand and she took it. Again the tears escaped her eyes, trailing down her cheeks.

  “Come, come,” he told her. Gott in Himmel, how he hurt. “I’m tough. You’re not going to get rid of me that easily. What’s going on?”

  Storf said, “If you rest properly, the doctor thinks that you’ll be up and about in a week.”

  “A week?”

  “Maybe a little sooner,” Müller said.

  “Maybe a little longer . . .” Britta turned her head.

  Footsteps. Berg homed in on the source of the sound.

  Volker.

  “Our patient has awakened.”

  Fuck you, Berg thought. But he must have spoken out loud—and clearly, too. Volker bristled. “Britta, dear, can you take the children out for a spot of air.”

  Britta didn’t move. As Volker repeated his request, she told him that she had heard him the first time. She looked down at her hand, her fingers laced with her husband’s.

  “Can’t it wait, Herr Kommissar?”

  “I need to speak with your husband, Britta.”

  Without the dear. Volker was angry. Fuck him. But this time, Berg managed to keep his words in his head.

  With reluctance, Britta let go of her husband’s hand and took Monika’s small, soft hand. “I’ll be back in five minutes, Axel.”

  As soon as his family was out of earshot, Volker said, “I’ll assume the profanities were due to your delirious state. How do you feel, Axel?”

  “I’ll recover,” he said softly. “What . . . what happened to Anton Gross?”

  Müller blew out a gust of air; Volker played with the knot in his tie. “He died . . . trying to escape arrest.”

  Berg sat up, his eyes filled with fury. “That’s a lie!”

  Volker ignored his outburst. “He was trying to escape justice, and you were beaten up by him as you tried to restrain him. A true hero you are, Axel, risking your life for the honor of your profession. Deserving of a citation. I have talked to the Lord Mayor in regard to this—”

  “This is pure shit!” Berg interrupted.

  “Don’t excite yourself, Axel.” Volker smiled. “And don’t waste your breath talking. No one can understand a word you say.”

  “It was your nephew who . . .” Berg suddenly felt a bomb of pain detonating in his head. For a brief moment, he was back in the trenches. He couldn’t complete his sentence.

  “Did you say something about Lothar?” Volker shook his head and clucked his tongue. “Quite a troublemaker. You needn’t fret about him, Axel. He will be dealt with. You need to summon all your energy into recovery. I’ll try to drop by tonight . . . after the rally.” Volker took out his pocket watch. “Quarter to nine.” He flipped the cover on his watch. “Are you gentlemen coming? It would not look good to our citizens for their officers to arrive late for duty.”

  “Five minutes, Kommissar,” Müller said.

  “No longer than that, Georg. You know how I frown on tardiness.”

  “We’ll be there, Kommissar,” Storf said.

  “Good man, Ulrich, good man.” Volker turned and left.

  “Motherfucker!” Berg said. “It’s all bullshit!”

  “Axel, you must understand,” Storf said. “There was a riot. People were hurt. Not only you.”

  “Badly?”

  “None as badly as you were,” Müller said. “But there were some bruises and broken bones.”

  Storf said, “They blame it on the Jew.”

  “It wasn’t the Jew!” Berg said. “It was Hitler’s gang . . . thugs and hoodlums.” Lord, how his head hurt—but he couldn’t let go. “They were there from the very beginning, throwing rocks at Gross . . . at me, too. Absolutely no regard for the law!”

  “The Nazis say the Jew was trying to escape—”

  “Lies!”

  “It is in the official police report,” Storf said. “It is over and done, Axel. There is no sense protesting because you cannot change it.”

  Berg leaned back on his pillow. It was all a nightmare—the pain that racked his body, the humiliation of being beaten by thugs, Gross’s horrifying death. “I hurt” was all that he could say.

  “Then you must sleep,” Müller said.

  Storf tapped Berg gently on the shoulder. “Heal up, Inspektor. All is not lost. We’re still working on Marlena Druer’s murder. Come back soon. We need your help—not to mention the extra duty we must work with you gone.”

  Extra duty? Like tinder against a flint, Berg’s brain began to spark. “What rally was Volker talking about?”

  “Herr Hitler is holding another gathering at Das Kellnerhaus this evening,” Storf said. “Big crowds are expected. Emotions will be high.”

  “The department fears another ’23 putsch,” Müller said. “The Nazis are taking their politics to the streets. Volker has assured Mayor Scharnagl and Polizeipräsident Mantel that he will keep things under control. If another riot breaks out, he can wave his job good-bye.”

  Berg sat up. “And it’s tonight?”

  “Yes, Axel, tonight,” Storf said. “Don’t worry. This time the police will not be caught with their pants down.”

  A political rally by a hot-tempered maniac, and he was in a hospital. He was trapped, confined, and caged, a mere spectator of life. Berg broke into a cold sweat. “My wife will be back any moment.” He grabbed Müller’s hand. “I’ll get rid of her by lunchtime. Then you need to come back here. In a bag, bring in two pillows, and under them hide a long coat, a scarf, and a hat. If anyone asks you what you are carrying, simply say extra pillows for me.”

  The men appeared stupefied. Perhaps they couldn’t understand him. Berg said, “I want you . . . to bring in—”

  “We understood you,” Storf said.

  “Good. Then there is no problem—”

  “Axel, you need to rest,” Müller said.

  “Don’t argue with me, Georg. I don’t need rest. What I need is you two helping to get me out of here!”

  Georg sighed. “Axel, it’s—”

  “I’m giving you an order. You have no authority to countermand me.”

  “Volker does,” Storf said.

  “Volker does not need to know about this any more than he needs to know about the contents of Marlena Druer’s strongbox.”

  Storf’s eyes darkened. The binds of sin were stronger than the bonds of duty. Berg sank into his pillows. “You’ve got to help me. I order it.”

  Müller shrugged. “An order is an order. I will do it. Take care of yourself.”

  He and Storf hadn’t gone more than a couple of feet when they heard Berg strain his vocal cords. His words were: “And bring a cane!”

  • • •

  BERG INSISTED that Britta go home to care for the children. They had been living at his side for two days and needed to eat properly and rest. Having rid his family from the hospital, his next tactic involved having Storf accompany him to the bathroom while Georg stuffed the pillows under his bedsheets. It was agony to walk and, just for a moment, Berg doubted his sanity. But as in every action, it was always the first step that was the hardest. Once he found his balance, he was able to move at an acceptable pace for the old man he was dressed up to be.

  The cane really helped.

  Storf was supporting him on his left. “This is lunacy.”

  “No,” Berg countered, “this is stupidity. Hitler is lunacy.” He was barely audible behind the scarf wrapped aro
und his mouth.

  Georg was at his right. “Careful . . .” A pause. “Exactly what do you hope to accomplish with this breakout? You’re not in any position to go anywhere except to a bed.”

  In silence, Berg slowly shuffled down the stark white hallways until they reached the elevator. The doors parted; the operator gave them barely a glance. They rode down in silence. As soon as he stepped out of the hospital doors, Berg felt an exhilarating surge of newfound freedom—the sights, the sounds, the smells of life. Even Munich’s dowdy skies seemed bright and hopeful. “Take me to your apartment, Müller. I’ll rest there until the rally tonight.”

  “And who do you think your wife will run to when she finds out that you’re gone?”

  “Tell her you know nothing about my whereabouts.”

  “I’m not a good liar.”

  On the contrary, Müller was an excellent liar. Berg had learned how to handle a mistress from him. Never admit to anything.

  “Then I’ll check into a Wirtshaus. That way you really won’t know where I am. I’ll find my own way to the beer hall.”

  “This isn’t a good idea,” Müller told him. “You don’t show up, we worry that you’re lying on a street run over by a wagon.”

  “Such is life,” Berg said. “Nothing is certain.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  The Brownshirts had chosen a spacious beer hall for their circus and filled it to capacity. Das Kellnerhaus was packed and ripe with body odor, but better to sniff at the smells of life than to fill the nostrils with the reek of hospital decay. There was not a chair to be had even if Berg had belonged to one of the Vereine, the clubs and unions that laid claim to most of the tables. He was sweating profusely under his coat and scarf but there was nowhere to stow them. The coatracks were sagging under the weight of wool, and many a jacket and bowler lay in a puddle of cloth on the floor. Besides, he didn’t dare remove his scarf. He’d scare anyone who looked at his face.

  The first time he had regarded himself in the mirror, he’d almost passed out. His face could have been a model for a Cubist painting. Although he couldn’t change the asymmetry of his bones—only nature’s healing would do that—he could, with deft use of powder and rouge, smooth out the blotches. His artistry had its practical applications.

  Berg inched his way to the back of the establishment, sharing the rear wall with the coppers who lined the drinking hall. The police were all business, nightsticks in hand, hard eyes scanning the room for signs of disorder. The powers in Munich weren’t taking any chances. The police had been given instructions to quell any social disturbance, no matter how seemingly insignificant.

  The singing had started: rival unions declaring their superiority in verse. The metalworkers, waving their table flag, went first. A stocky, florid-complexioned man with thick arms held aloft a stein of beer. His voice was nasal, and his speech was slurred. He was more than a little drunk. He wore traditional Bavarian garb except that his lederhosen were long.

  The civil service worker sits in his cell,

  Stamping his papers and inking his well.

  Enslaved by papers, the whistles, and his bell,

  He makes our lives a wreck.

  But metaler’s arms are forged in steel;

  The work is honest, tough but real.

  At day’s end, he deserves his hot meal,

  Having produced much more than dreck.

  The hall broke into hoots and wails of laughter, the clinking of flagons, the yells of “Auf ihre Gesundheit.” Berg looked at a red-faced Staatsbeamter, a civil servant, sneering and snorting and ready for the challenge. He was a short, slight man with a thin mustache, a bald head, and spectacles perched on the tip of his nose.

  A man who forges metal and steel

  Using andirons and air pumps,

  Works by dint of muscle and zeal

  And has arms the size of log stumps.

  Working and slaving all day and night

  To earn his family its bread,

  He must be strong in body and might

  For no brain has he in his head.

  More hoots, more laughter, and so it went for about an hour, each union getting increasingly raucous, the police poised to strike when the inevitable drunken fistfights broke out. But tonight the rivalry was broken up before the tempers flared, interrupted by the entrance of the Schutzstaffel—Hitler’s minions known familiarly as the SS in their brown uniforms bedecked with metals and stars, their knee-high boots, and military caps. Pushing their way into a room crammed with people, shoving bodies to the sidelines to make room for the Kampfbund—the elite from the NSDAP.

  They came in one by one led by Hitler’s favorite, the round, pudding-faced Ernst Röhm. They were all there: the thin-lipped Hermann Göring, Rudolf Hess, Heinrich Himmler, and Putzi Hanfstaengl, a head taller than his compatriots. In the shadows another man marched in with the Kampfbund—a new face but easily recognizable. Berg’s eyes widened in surprise but of course, the logic was there: Kurt Haaf—Anna Gross’s father—showing his solidarity with the Nazis by wearing a black-and-red swastika armband that clashed with his elegant blue silk suit. The troops pressed their way to the front while an out-of-tune brass band played Deutschland über alles. Men leaped to their feet, their right arms stretched out from the shoulder.

  Sieg Heil!

  Sieg Heil!

  Sieg Heil!

  Berg was repulsed. Little men playing at war, dressed in their properly starched uniforms and their handsome leather boots. War was not so beautiful in actuality, the attire ruined by bullet holes and blood spatter of flying limbs from a grenade blast.

  The noise grew deafening when Hitler entered, walking erect, his eyes forward and without expression. The Austrian had emerged armed with the sympathies of the people and an unstoppable ambition. He spoke the workingman’s language of simplicity. There were rights and wrongs. The Germans were right and all others were wrong. All others were the devil. And the Jews were the worst devils of all. And so it went. Because it was easier to dismiss the success of the Jews than it was to explain the failure of the Germans.

  On and on. He screamed. He yelled. He stabbed his fist into the air for punctuation. He crumbled pumpernickel rolls in his hands as he opined, letting the brown crumbs fall upon his shoes. One of his little boys crawled on all fours and periodically dusted his boots as Hitler spoke without interruption.

  His demagoguery was all-encompassing and he stoked the crowd. He brought Kurt Haaf to the stage and, with tears in his eyes, Haaf spoke of his daughter, the beautiful German maiden raped and murdered by the horned, split-tailed, pitchforked Jew: the most evil type of Jew, the one masquerading as a good German citizen. He spoke about all that was vile in the city—the Jews, of course, along with the other Kosmopoliten—the depraved artists, actors, writers, and homosexuals. He segued into the Kommunisten, especially the Jewish Kommunisten, but all Kommunisten were bad. He spoke about the conniving Gypsies, the heinous Weimar government, the lawlessness in his own beloved Munich, even though he was Austrian.

  A lowly Austrian.

  Maybe that was the problem.

  He ranted about the thieves, rapists, and murderers of the pure, German virgins on pure German soil. His oration was met with applause and approval. He was preaching to the converted. The pitch grew more hateful and more strident. A red-faced man with veins throbbing in his neck. Spittle spewing from his mouth. Eyes flashing lightning bolts as he shouted words of redemption for the German people while articulating axioms of hate. The police rocked on their feet, some of them uncomfortable with the exuberant zeal of the throng. But Berg felt an equal number were caught up in the rhetoric.

  With each remark, the mob got increasingly restless, itching for windows to break and heads to bust.

  Finally, Berg saw Volker get up from his chair and approach the dais. Although the Kommissar was a man of incomparable arrogance, could he possibly think that he could stifle Hitler in his moment of glory? Berg felt his heartbeat slam into his rib
cage. It would have been wise to leave the scene before it erupted, but curiosity overcame him.

  What would Volker say?

  As usual, the Kommissar was dressed in finery—a three-piece suit with a white shirt and broad red ascot. His collar and cuffs were starched to rigidity, diamonds winking at his wrists. His face was shaved smooth and red, his blue eyes as equally intense as those of Hitler.

  What would Volker say?

  At first, Hitler didn’t notice the interloper. And when he did, his eyes shot out from his face, bubbles of spit brewing in his mouth and leaking over his lower lip.

  His expression was a frieze of horror and indignation: Who dares to interrupt me?

  What would Volker say?

  “Herr Hitler,” Volker said. “Interesting as your comments may be, closing time approaches. Soon it will be necessary to disperse and I’d advise you strongly to give instruction to all your good people to behave themselves. ”

  Hitler swept an arm over the crowd.

  “You come up here . . . and interrupt me . . . to tell me this!”

  No one spoke.

  “It is not up to me to tell the good people of Munich how to behave!” Hitler screamed. “It is up to their conscience for that! They have bigger things to consider than petty laws instilled by weak men who seek to sell a birthright that is legally ours!”

  The crowd broke into roars of jubilation.

  Sieg Heil.

  “You will not stop the movement!”

  Sieg Heil!

  “You will not stop the will of the people!”

  Sieg Heil!

  A man of lesser ego would have backed down, but Volker was no such man. Still, he had a brain in his head. There looked to be hundreds of bodies stuffed into the beer hall, twice as many spilling out onto the streets. Volker had about one hundred police officers at his disposal. The odds weren’t good and Volker, though a betting man, wouldn’t play with marked cards.

  It was time for appeasement.

  “Herr Hitler,” Volker spoke in his most soothing voice. “You command such well-deserved respect. You must tell your followers that the law is supreme above all, that a civilization cannot exist without law and order.”