Straight into Darkness

by Faye Kellerman

  “Upstairs,” Berg ordered. It was a three-flight climb, then Berg knocked at the familiar door. “Open up, Margot!” Another bang. “Open this minute!” A sliver of light came through the doorway. Again, Berg pushed his way in, knocking Margot’s shoulder and causing her to stumble backward. “Sorry.”

  Her eyes were wide with fear. Even terrified, she was beautiful, incredibly delicious in fright and weakness—a lithe angelic body and a face so pale she was otherworldly. She wore a heavy blue sweater over her blue work dress. Solid shoes encased her feet. She was shaking so hard, she had to clasp her hands to keep her balance.

  “We heard the shouting from work, Axel. The others tried to make it home, but I didn’t want to take the chance. How bad is it?”

  “Bad.”

  “Another putsch?”

  “Another murder—”

  Margot gasped.

  “Two murders, one just a young girl. Hitler is using the slayings to whip the people into a frenzy.”

  “And where are the police?”

  “We are badly outnumbered. We’ll have to wait it out until morning, when people should be restored to their senses.”

  “Until morning?” Margot was shaking. “Night has just fallen.” She looked around, her eyes landing on Gottlieb. “Who is this man?”

  “A Jew. You have to hide him—”

  “Are you insane? I came here to hide myself.”

  “If you don’t, he will die.”

  “Better him than me.”

  “He has two young daughters. If he dies, they are orphans.”

  “And how old do I look?”

  Indeed, she looked much younger than her eighteen years. Berg said, “Let him hide under the trapdoor, and you hide under the bed. If they break into the room looking for whores, I’ll flash my badge and send them away.”

  “I am not stupid, Axel. I remember ’23. I remember how effective the police were.”

  Her nettled barbs tore straight into his gut. Still, he postured. “We are more prepared now, my love.” He lowered his voice. “Listen to me, Margot. Hide under the bed. I will protect you.”

  “Why should I listen to you?” she shot back. “You’re a cheat and a liar. I know what will happen if they see you here. Both of us will die. First they will kill you. Then they will find me under the bed and rape and kill me.”

  Outside the words of hate grew louder.

  Margot shook with revulsion. Abruptly, she moved aside the end table and lifted the trapdoor. She looked at Gottlieb. “Get inside.” When the Jew paused, she said, “Go before I change my mind. Pray for all of us.”

  Berg pushed Gottlieb forward. “Stay inside until morning, then get out of the country. Don’t get caught, and don’t ever come back!”

  Gottlieb wiped his wet eyes. “I won’t forget this.”

  “Yes, you will, but it doesn’t matter. Take care of your daughters. Go!”

  Carefully, the Jew lowered himself beneath the floor. When he had cleared the opening, Margot shut the door tightly and put the end table back over it. She glanced out the window. “They’re coming in!” Her face was white with dread. “You have children, Axel. Hide under the bed—”

  “Absolutely not!”

  “If you don’t, I will betray the Jew.” Margot was breathing quickly. “Then it will all be for nothing.”

  “Bist du verrückt?” Berg laughed. “You wouldn’t do that!”

  “Try me!” Her eyes were adamant. “If God is with me, all that will happen is I’ll get raped!”

  A loud crash echoed through the interior of the cigarette house, the din causing both of them to jump, the clomp of footsteps as the thugs climbed the stairs. Doors opened and slammed shut. The sudden screams of the Jewish whores hiding within.

  “Under the bed!” Margot yelled. “Now!”

  Still Berg waited.

  “Do it!” she commanded. “And don’t come out no matter what you hear. You have a choice, Axel. Choose life!”

  Knife in hand, Berg dropped to the floor and squeezed between the rough wooden planks of the underside of the bed, settling himself on his back just as he heard the door break open.

  Margot screamed as the mattress suddenly sagged, dipping so low that it nearly touched Berg’s stomach. Hellish screams mixed with low, drunken laughter. The stink of beer and rye permeated the small room. Berg could hear the awful sounds of flesh slapping skin and loud, hard blows mixed with softer screams.

  More drunken laughter. More sharp slaps.

  Words penetrating his skull . . .

  Jew bitch.

  Over and over and over as the bed bounced up and down.

  Up and down, up and down amid Margot’s pleas to stop, her moans that begged for mercy.

  You like it, don’t you . . . disgusting Jew bitch.

  Another crack.

  More sounds—grunts and snorts and squawks mixed with weeping.

  Berg pressed his fingers to his ears, praying that he could muffle the sounds—the horrible and pitiful groans. He closed his eyes. Still, he could sense the motion of the bed.

  Up and down, up and down, up and down.

  The ghastly sounds of a man reaching climax—more grunts and snorts and squawks.

  Berg’s blood began to boil.

  Think of your children. Don’t be stupid. She will survive.

  Another hard crack! He startled upward, his feet hitting the frame of the bed, but no one above appeared to feel it.

  Margot’s screams had subsided to simpering moans.

  Again the bed started to move.

  He opened his eyes, but all he could see was hot white stars.

  His body temperature rising!

  His head pounding!

  Up and down, up and down.

  He closed his eyes and again tried to plug his ears, but the racket was too loud to be silenced by two fingertips. He broke into a rich, ripe sweat. It stank but what difference did that make? The entire room reeked from male violence and discharge. As the perspiration evaporated from his skin, he felt clammy . . . buried alive.

  Up and down, up and down.

  Grunting and groaning. Snorting . . . oinking like a pig.

  Think of your family! Think of your children! She’s not worth dying for!

  Up and down, up and down, up and down.

  He could no longer hear Margot. There were no more screams, no sobs, no moans. Her silence was all the more devastating: a life snuffed out as her soul died.

  Up and down, up and down.

  Think of your children, Axel!

  Up and down, up and down.

  Grunt, grunt, snort, snort.

  Clenched jaw, clenched fist. The fingers of his right hand grasping something hard.

  His knife!

  Up and down.

  Think of your children.

  Rational thoughts could no longer penetrate his delirious mind. It was as if someone else had directed his actions. Without conscious intent, he had freed himself and was standing upright, witnessing with his own startled blue eyes the terror in full color.

  Boys really. Not much older than Joachim but they had gone too far for their youth to save them. The three of them were stunned by Berg’s appearance. Without a hint of warning, a vengeful poltergeist had materialized.

  Berg grabbed the one closest to him by his flaxen hair and yanked his head back until the bony rings of his neck were neatly exposed. With a quick, strong, and deft hand, Berg slit the boy’s throat ear-to-ear with surgical precision, then pushed him away. Since the blade was sharp, the incision was deep and smooth. The boy grabbed his throat as he staggered about, gurgling out protests, his hands drenched in his own blood. Then he dropped to the floor.

  The next one was a skinny punk with acne, curly black hair, and horror-struck blue eyes. Berg pulled him off of Margot, espying a glimpse of his puny, semi-erect penis. He jammed the knife into the depression of the punk’s neck just below the Adam’s apple, then twisted the blade until he could feel the vertebrae s
eparate from each other. Immediately, the kid’s head fell backward as if he were looking up at the sky, blood squirting out like a red fountain, his neck hissing like a radiator as air leaked from his lungs. He dropped down at the side of the bed, his head slamming against the floor and detaching from the body, rolling a meter until it hit the wall.

  By the time Berg looked around for the third boy, the punk had run out the door.

  It took about five minutes for the first boy to stop shaking from his mortal throes. Berg simply watched his handiwork as they expired. There was nothing poetic in their demise, nothing glorious or noble. Berg was back in the trenches of the Great War. First, he was shooting or throwing grenades at the enemy. Then the enemy was shooting or throwing grenades at him. Bursts of gunfire, bullets flying past him. The mortally wounded, crying out for help. Stabbing them with his bayonet to put them out of their misery . . .

  Twenty million people had died—and for what?

  These two boys . . . just two more messy and protracted deaths.

  Berg stood welded to his spot, his chest heaving in and out, his body sodden from sweat. He closed his eyes and let the blade drop from his hand. When he opened his eyes, he saw Margot, her face purple and puffy from where she had been punched. Her lower lip was split, her left eye swollen shut. The night wasn’t over yet, but it was over for him.

  He had chosen his course.

  He looked out the window at the Brownshirts: staggering, reeling, retching, hurling stones, and waving sticks.

  A loud boom was followed by the crackle of smashing glass.

  The uproar continued.

  Death to the Jews! Death to the Jews!

  Once he had been guardedly optimistic about the future of the Fatherland. Once . . .

  He walked over to Margot and held out his hand, and she took it. Slowly, he lifted her into a sitting position on the mattress. Her face was bloody and wet. Using her still-functional eye, she groped in the faint light for her clothing. Her dress had been torn, but her sweater was in one piece. Berg wrapped it around her shoulders. He looked into the Jewess’s good eye and saw vengeance and anger, nothing in the way of defeat.

  “Danke,” she whispered.

  “Bitte,” he whispered back. He exhaled forcefully and, with great effort, willed himself to stand. The room was awash in red, glistening and sticky. It was an abattoir, rife with the smell of slaughtered meat. An errant scream shot through the hallway. Berg shuddered.

  Abruptly, something shrill stabbed through the droning mantra outside. The distinct and welcome sound of a police whistle, more than one actually. Berg got up and peered through the window.

  Pandemonium reigned outside as the Brownshirt marchers broke rank and fled in all directions. Down the lane, two motor wagons filled with officers had stopped next to the curb, and policemen spilled into the dark streets, waving batons and nightsticks.

  Inside the cigarette house, panicked yells filtered through the doors.

  “Polizei! Polizei! Raus hier!”

  The whistles grew louder . . . nearer.

  Margot choked out, “You have to get out of here!”

  “Nein.” Berg shook his head. “I will not leave you here to be blamed for my deeds.”

  “It will ruin you.”

  “They attacked me.” A shrug. “They provided me with reason to kill them.”

  The door to the room flung open. Berg was staring at the wrong end of a gun barrel, face-to-face with death.

  It wasn’t the first time. With God’s help, it wouldn’t be the last.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Well, well, well.” A tongue clucked. “You’ve made quite a mess of things!”

  With the barrel of a P.08 Artillery Luger aimed between his eyes, Berg thought it best not to respond. Military firearms had been outlawed for years in Munich, stockpiles of weapons having been destroyed en masse over a decade ago. Yet it was well known that many men had hidden their old weapons: Luger handguns, bayonets—Berg had even seen MG 13 Dummy light machine guns stowed away in closets. This certainly wasn’t done out of sentimentality but out of fear of what the future might hold. So far Munich was surviving, one step ahead of the anarchists because guns were hard to come by. History had shown that an armed Germany was a Germany at war.

  “Do I even want to know how this happened?”

  Berg could barely detect the words. The cigarette house echoed with hellish screams, barked orders, and piercing whistles. Several rounds of fisticuffs were taking place right outside the door.

  “I . . .” Berg swallowed hard and raised his voice to be heard over the chaos. “I was attacked.”

  “I don’t see any marks on you, Inspektor.” Volker nodded in Margot’s direction. “On her, there are many marks. But on you?” A shrug. “Nothing.” Slowly, the gun was lowered until the four-inch barrel was pointed at the floor. “And the question is not whether you were attacked or not, Axel. The question is what were you doing here in the first place.”

  “Probably the same thing that you’re doing here.” With the gun out of his face, Berg became bolder.

  “That’s not much of an answer.”

  “The best I could come up with under the circumstances.” Berg wiped his sweaty, bloody hands on the pants of his uniform. “Look at her, Volker!” His eyes traveled over his handiwork . . . two dead youths. “Look at what I was faced with . . . as a police officer . . . as a man. Then you tell me what I should have done.”

  There was a long silence.

  “I really don’t know,” Volker answered. “But this is clearly overdoing whatever it was that you were supposed to do.”

  “It’s too late for hindsight,” Berg whispered.

  “There you are right.” Volker threw Margot his handkerchief. “Patch yourself up, my dear. You have to get out of here.”

  Margot got up from the bed and poured water from a pitcher into the washing bowl. She dipped the kerchief into the water and meticulously began to wipe off the filth and blood from her face. As she rinsed the handkerchief, the clear water turned rosy pink.

  “I thought you had more sense, Axel,” Volker said. “However, it’s too late for a reprimand. You’re buried in deep shit.”

  That he was . . . up to his neck. Berg awaited his sentencing.

  Volker’s lips compressed into a sour pout. “All right. If you can get out of this without anyone else knowing, I’ll say nothing. If you’re caught, I’ll personally feed you to the dogs. Do we understand one another?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “What were you thinking?” Volker was baffled. “With all that was going on in Königsplatz . . . coming to a Jewish whorehouse?”

  “I don’t know what I was thinking, sir.”

  “I suppose that if you do get caught, you can blame it on her.” Volker looked at Margot and shook his head. “You’ll have to leave the city, my dear. Leave and never come back. If you do return, I’ll have you arrested and executed.” He pointed to the bodies. “Two murders, my dear. If the good people of Germany don’t hang you first, the crowd will tear you limb from limb.”

  Margot shuddered as tears ran down her cheeks. “I don’t have any papers.”

  Volker reached into his rucksack and pulled out a sealed envelope. “Inside is everything you should need, including enough marks for travel money.” He stared at her. “I hope you have other clothes.”

  “A few.”

  “Then get on with it.”

  Margot removed a pillow from its case, exposing a small bedroll. She untied a knot and sorted through her wardrobe—two skirts, two blouses, a pair of long underwear, and a sweater. Quickly, she changed under the scrutiny of two sets of male eyes. When she was done, she stowed what was left into a neat bundle.

  Volker put his hand on the doorknob. “Well done. Wait for me downstairs; I’ll take you to the train. It’s not safe for a woman to walk the streets alone in these uncertain times.”

  “Can I say good-bye to my parents?”

  “No, you ca
nnot. I’ll see you downstairs in fifteen minutes. If you try to escape, I will send out my men to hunt you down.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Margot said modestly.

  “You’re welcome.” Volker opened the door. “Go.”

  Immediately, she left. Volker slammed the door shut and leaned against it. “Anyone see you come in here besides that sack of lard downstairs?”

  “You found him?”

  “There weren’t many places he could be. Answer the question, Berg.”

  “I don’t think so, no.”

  “Very good. Leave by the fire escape. Go home and don’t go out again tonight. I am loath to say this but I can’t afford to lose you. There is still a murderer loose. Once this Austrian nuisance blows over, I expect you to find this monster.” Volker flicked lint off of his suit. “It seems you are the last man standing for this job.”

  Berg’s heartbeat quickened. “Why? What happened to Storf and Müller?”

  “With God’s help, they will recover—”

  “How bad?”

  “Müller has a broken leg.”

  There was silence. Berg sat down on the edge of the bed, sidestepping the dead youth at his feet. “And Ulrich?”

  “He took quite a beating from the bastards. He was taken to the hospital.”

  Berg bolted up. “I must see him!”

  Volker grabbed him by his shirt. “No, Axel, you must not. Didn’t you hear me? Go home. The police are winning but the battle is far from over. If the streets are quiet in the morning, I will see you tomorrow at nine.”

  Berg didn’t answer.

  “At nine. Am I clear?”

  “Very.”

  Once again, Volker appraised the situation. “If I were an Inspektor and came upon this scene, I might assume that there was a quarrel over whores.” He smiled. “Women are the death of our species.” The Kommissar bent down and retrieved Berg’s knife. “I believe you’ll be wanting this.” Berg took it and slid it into his boot. Volker pointed to the fire escape. “Your wife is waiting.”

  “What did Himmler say to you, sir?”

  “Pardon?”

  “At the rally, sir. You handed him the megaphone. You weren’t happy about it but you did it anyway. What did he say to you?”