Straight into Darkness

by Faye Kellerman

  Berg smiled. “I was born in Denmark, but my family moved to Münster when I was three.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” she said dismissively. “You are still a Dane.”

  “Some would consider that a compliment.”

  “And some do not.” Her smile was slow. “You know, Herr Inspektor . . .” She rubbed her stomach. “I eat the same lunch day in and day out: sausage with mustard. Sometimes I eat it with potato salad, sometimes cabbage salad.” She sighed. “I wonder what it’s like eating lunch in one of those fancy restaurants in the old city.”

  As much as Berg wanted the information right away, he wasn’t going to bankrupt himself to get it. Restaurants were for special occasions, not for some woman attempting to freeload a meal. “I wouldn’t know, Fräulein Reinholt. Those establishments are way beyond a policeman’s budget.”

  Ilse quickly reassessed her options. “Yes, I’m sure they are overpriced for what they serve. I’d be just as happy with a quick lunch at Das Kochelhaus.”

  “Well, you are in luck, Fräulein Reinholt. I am hungry myself. Perhaps you’d like to join me for lunch?”

  “What a nice invitation, Inspektor.” Her smile glowed like a gaslight. “Wait here. I’ll get my coat and hat.”

  • • •

  SHE WAS HIS AGE, although she looked younger. Likes scores of women in their thirties, she had had a fiancé, but he had come back from the war without a set of legs. A year later, he died of influenza. After that, she had lost her taste for love.

  Certainly not her taste for food, Berg thought. She wolfed down a plate of schnitzel served with potato salad, beet salad, and two slices of rye bread. She washed her meal down with two pints of beer, then ordered some apple compote for dessert. By the time she had finished her meal and tale of woe, an hour had passed and it was time to get back to work. On the walk back to the Stadthaus, she asked about Storf. Berg’s response was one of guarded optimism.

  “I’d still like to visit him. When I was eighteen, I took special training and volunteered to go into the fields. But then my brother was lost in the first battle at Ypres and my family said no. I suppose the thought of their young daughter tramping up the Marne was too much for them to bear. There was enough work for me to do behind the lines.”

  Absently, Berg nodded.

  “Your mind is elsewhere, Inspektor.”

  The sharpness of her tone made him focus. “I suspect it is, Fräulein Reinholt, and I apologize.”

  “What are you thinking about?”

  “Work.”

  “And that is usually what you think about?”

  “Thinking about work is preferable to thinking about the war.”

  • • •

  GUNNAR SCHOENNACHT had first married at forty-four. His bride, Lily, was twenty-five at the time of her nuptials. Ten months later, she pushed out what was to be the first of four children before her demise six years later. She had succumbed to puerperal fever—childbed fever—making Gunnar a widower with four small children at the age of fifty. Two years later, Della Weiss took over the role of wife and mother, bearing her own child eight months after the wedding.

  How difficult that must have been! An eighteen-year-old American girl in a foreign land, trying to settle into a life of hearth and home with an old, no-nonsense Bavarian, saddled with the responsibilities of five children.

  How had this happened to her?

  Then, ten years later, she took the almost unheard-of action of divorcing, losing her son in the process. How desperate she must have been to break free of Gunnar’s bonds.

  Or maybe it had been Gunnar who had initiated the legal action.

  Berg thought about Rolf Schoennacht, and about Julia, who was at least twenty years younger than he was.

  Like father, like son.

  Berg skimmed through Gunnar Schoennacht’s divorce papers, through the court documents that gave him sole custody of Rolf, ten years old at the time of the divorce, twenty by the time Della left for Russia. At that age, he was old enough to make his own decisions. Berg wondered if he had tried to contact his mother before she left Munich. And what did any of this have to do with Rupert Schick and the murders?

  Was Rolf assuming the identity of his younger half brother, the product of an adulterous union between his mother and Dirk Schick . . . or possibly even another man? Oskar Krieger had said that the boy didn’t look at all like his father. Was Rolf acting out his fury at women because his own mother had been branded a fallen woman with loose morals?

  Berg flipped through the last of the documents, then stopped short. Staring back at him was a third marriage certificate.

  Two years after divorcing Della Weiss, Gunnar Schoennacht had remarried. So Rolf had not only a mother considered a fallen woman to contend with, but also a stepmother. And unlike Gunnar’s first set of children, he had no full-blooded brothers and sisters with whom to share his misery.

  That could make a man very angry.

  Gunnar, at the age of sixty-four, walking down the aisle a third time. There weren’t any other marriage or divorce certificates after number three. Apparently, Gunnar stayed married to his bride until he died at the age of seventy-seven in 1910. No records of children from the final union; Gunnar either couldn’t reproduce or had no desire to.

  The third wife’s name was Hannah. At the time of her marriage, she was thirty-two years old, probably a widow herself or an old maid. Suddenly, Berg gasped out loud, clutching the paper as he read the name over and over and over.

  Hannah Schoennacht.

  Hannah Schoennacht née Hannah Weiss.

  Way too much a coincidence.

  Della, Dirk, and Rupert Schick were long gone and buried in that vast ice cap known as the Soviet Union. A death certificate had been filed for Gunnar Schoennacht, but none was there for Hannah.

  Hannah Weiss Schoennacht.

  She’d be about sixty-five if Berg could find her.

  That turned out to be the easy part. Her address was listed in the current city registry.

  FORTY-SIX

  The address was located just a few short blocks from Der Blumengarten rooming house, the last known living quarters of Marlena Druer. It was an area of old, shuttered tenements, of rutted streets and backwater. Hannah Schoennacht’s building was the exception. Recently constructed of flat gray stone, the apartment complex had four stories with a peaked red roof and an arched entrance. Basic in design but the structure had indoor plumbing, gas lines for the kitchen, glass windows, and electricity.

  The woman lived on the third floor. Her white hair was tied into a bun, and her cheeks were smooth and plump. She was compact, thick in the arms and neck. A short-sleeved plum wool dress curved around a generous bosom, a dense middle, and wide hips. Short legs were covered by black stockings, and on her feet were black rubber-soled walking shoes. With a forest-green shawl draped over her shoulders, she looked like an eggplant.

  After Berg identified himself as a police Inspektor, she invited him inside. Her smile was wide, revealing tea-stained teeth. They may have been discolored, but they were all her own. The one feature that showed life’s vicissitudes was milky eyes—hooded, red-rimmed, and tired. They said that her sixty-five years on earth had been long and hard.

  The flat was warm, the windows revealing the city’s steely sky. The furniture had seen better times. The sofa and chairs were faded and lumpy, but cheered by the multicolored crocheted afghans thrown over their backs. Doilies in all shapes and sizes abounded, concealing the torn upholstery and covering scarred tabletops. Mounted on the walls on either side of the couch was a set of double-decker light fixtures in which round white glass balls holding electric lightbulbs were on top, and candle-shaped gaslights ringed the bottom. Both were shining equally bright, indicating that the woman had converted the bottom set over to electricity. Hanging between the sconces was a sepia-tinted portrait—an old man in military dress standing next to a zaftig young bride with big eyes. It could have been father and daughter, but Berg k
new better. A radio was perched in the corner of the room, leaking out snippets of static-laced polkas.

  Without asking, Hannah had put on the kettle. It whistled almost immediately, and she brought in tea and cookies. Berg sat on the edge of a chair.

  “Sugar? Milk?”

  “A little milk if you have it.”

  “I do, and it’s fresh.”

  Berg smiled. “I’m sure it is.”

  She poured him a glass and added a spot of milk. “I just went to the Viktualienmarkt this morning. I go every morning. It’s not that I don’t trust the icebox, but there’s just no substitute for fresh. My husband, Herr Schoennacht, used to say that.”

  “He did, did he?”

  “Every day. He loved his fresh seed roll and coffee.” She paused a moment, then handed him the glass of hot tea. “He’s passed on . . . my husband . . . but I still hear him talking to me. Sometimes it’s as though he is right next to me.”

  “How long were you married?” Although he knew the answer, he had to make conversation.

  “Thirteen years.”

  Berg had been married longer than that. “A long time. When did he pass on?”

  “Almost twenty years ago.”

  “Your husband was Gunnar Schoennacht, correct?”

  She regarded him with faraway eyes. “You knew him?”

  “No, Frau Schoennacht, I didn’t have the pleasure. But I have met your son, Rolf Schoennacht.”

  “Ah.” A pause. “Rolf.”

  “Actually, he is your stepson, is he not?”

  “No, he is my son. I legally adopted all of Herr Schoennacht’s children.”

  She smiled at him, and he smiled back.

  “Are there grandchildren?”

  “Fourteen.” Her eyes darkened. “I don’t see the grandchildren that often. I saw them more when Herr Schoennacht was still with us. They loved to visit Opa. He loved them, too.” Her voice became disapproving. “He used to spoil them rotten. Whenever the parents weren’t looking, he would give the little ones candy. It was very surprising to me because he was a strict father.”

  “I suppose spoiling is the prerogative of a grandparent.”

  “Of a grandfather, at least.” Said with a tinge of resentment. “I am and always will be the sensible and moderate one. I was less strict as a mother, but I wasn’t nearly so indulgent as a grandmother. Of course, one must be flexible when raising adopted children.”

  Stronger resentment had crept into her voice. Berg said, “Do you see your children often?”

  “As often as I can.” Her smile was sad. “They are very busy these days.”

  “With the care of their children?”

  “With everything, it seems.”

  “Rolf doesn’t have children.”

  “Not yet. But his wife is young.”

  “Ah, that’s true.” Berg waited a moment. “Rolf travels a great deal, doesn’t he?”

  Hannah nodded.

  “To The States.”

  Another nod.

  “You were born in The States, were you not?”

  “An odd question.” This time she directed her eyes on Berg. “I suspect that you already know the answer.”

  He smiled broadly. “You caught me.”

  “I’m sharper than I look.” She wagged a finger at him. “You are here for a certain purpose. What would you like to know, Inspektor?” She sipped tea and waited. As self-described, she was a sensible and moderate woman.

  “I’ve actually come here to find out information about your sister, Della.”

  Hannah stared at him for what seemed to be a very long time. “I’m sorry, but I can’t help you. I haven’t spoken to my sister in twenty-two years.”

  “I see.” Berg’s head was spinning. What to do? “Were you close as children?”

  “Not really, no.”

  Neither of them spoke. The silence lingered until Berg broke it. “How long have you been out of contact with her?”

  “Twenty-two years. I believe I’m repeating myself.”

  Think of something to say! “I know it must be difficult to talk about her.”

  She sipped tea, regarding him over the rim of her glass. “Why are you so interested in Della, Inspektor? The past is over and forgotten.”

  “Not for me, Frau Schoennacht, because I believe it has bearing on the present. How did you come to raise your sister’s child as your own?”

  “Rolf was not my sister’s child, he was my husband’s child. And someone had to step in after she abandoned him.”

  “But he would not allow her to see him.”

  “She abandoned Rolf a long time ago, Inspektor, when she wasn’t true to her loving husband. Herr Schoennacht was devastated when he found out. He had been madly in love with her. He had tried so hard to please her. My sister was the beautiful one—beautiful on the outside, at least. She threw everything away.”

  “She was seventeen when she married. Raising four stepchildren when she was just a child herself must have been very hard.”

  “Ach . . .” Hannah waved her hand in the air. “She had servants, she had nannies, she had anything she wanted. Herr Schoennacht would have given her the world. He was madly in love with her.”

  Said a second time but without rancor. It was just a statement of fact. Berg repeated, “She was still very young.”

  “Young, yes. Also rash and stupid.” Her voice lowered until it was barely above a hush. “Herr Schoennacht saved my sister from a life of shame. Della was already in the family way when he married her.”

  “So he did the right thing and made an honest woman out of her.”

  “Did the right thing!” She practically spat. “You don’t understand, Inspektor. Rolf wasn’t even his child! Herr Schoennacht was an old friend of my father’s and was visiting The States when it happened. Della had always looked up to him as a kindly uncle. When she found out about the baby, she was too scared to tell our parents, so she told him. He stepped in like a gallant knight . . . offered himself to her, sparing my sister wretched humiliation. They married just three weeks later. Herr Schoennacht moved her to Munich, hoping that a sensible life as a Bavarian wife and mother would change her ways. But it didn’t.”

  “She continued to have a roving eye?”

  “It was terrible.” Hannah bit her lower lip. “Then . . . when it happened again, Herr Schoennacht was stunned.”

  “What happened?”

  “What do you think?” Her hands patted her tummy.

  “Ah . . . another child on the way.”

  “Another . . .” Again she started to whisper. “Another bastard!” Her eyes moistened. “Gunnar had wanted to have children with her, but she always claimed she had enough babies raising his children. Of course, he wouldn’t argue with her. She was the pretty one!”

  Berg recognized the family pattern. Hannah was the older, homelier, sensible sister; Della was the beautiful and wild young thing. He had some empathy for her, but more for Della. Berg had always been the favorite son.

  “What happened when Herr Schoennacht found out she was pregnant?”

  Tears rolled down her cheeks. “He was just devastated.”

  “How did he know it wasn’t his child?”

  “It happened when he was on a long business trip. Even so, he still took care of her.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He made arrangements for her to . . .” She lowered her gaze. “A righteous Catholic man . . . and still he made the arrangements for her! Because that’s what she wanted. Do you know how hard that must have been for him?”

  “Terrible—”

  “Disgusting!” she broke in.

  Berg nodded. “But she decided to have the baby anyway.”

  “No. In the end, she decided to get rid of it, even after Herr Schoennacht offered to raise it as his own!”

  Now Berg was confused. “She got rid of it?”

  “They claimed the child died at birth. I have my doubts.”

  “What do yo
u mean?”

  “I think she gave it up for adoption and told people it died.” She wrinkled her nose. “Of course, I have no proof.”

  Berg scratched his head. “If that baby died or was given up, who was Rupert?”

  Hannah let out a bitter laugh. “That was the second time, Inspektor, after Della freed herself from the first. Herr Schoennacht was sure that such a trauma would have an impact on her, that she would change her ways. But she didn’t. Even after all she went through, after all Gunnar went through to save her, she refused to give up her paramour. When my husband found out who it was, he had had enough. Immediately, he filed for divorce and sole custody of Rolf.”

  “Even though Rolf was not his child—”

  “Nonsense,” Hannah fired back. “Herr Schoennacht was the only father Rolf had ever known.”

  “Yes, of course.” Berg picked up a poppy-seed cookie and bit into it. “Delicious.”

  “Thank you.” She managed a stiff smile. “More tea?”

  “Yes, please.”

  She poured him another glass, then refilled her own. Berg tried to approach the subject as delicately as possible. “So . . . when did Rupert come into the picture?”

  “Rupert . . .” Hannah shook her head. “Just a few weeks after the divorce was final, Della found out she was with child . . . again . . . and by the same man . . . the same married man. My sister was in a terrible bind because it was well known that she hadn’t been with Herr Schoennacht as husband and wife for months. She was no longer married; she couldn’t pretend anymore. That’s when she made history repeat itself.”

  “Meaning?”

  “It was clear by now that her married man was never going to leave his wife. So Della found an older sap to marry her. Dirk Schick was not a handsome man. He was a confirmed bachelor and much older than she was. She must have seduced him and somehow managed to convince him that the child was his.”

  “Could it have been possible for the child to be his? After all, he arrived only a month early.”

  “You have really investigated this, haven’t you?” Berg’s expression was enigmatic. “The baby was two months ‘early,’ but weighed over three kilos. Dirk had to have known something was awry, but the fool had already married her.”