Heller didn’t bother responding. He’d gotten to know Klepp well enough to tell when he wasn’t actually asking a question but simply repeating. It was his way of playing for time—before unleashing another one of his diatribes.
“Heller, this is the hour of the German Volk, the true German Volk. What you’re now discovering is the offspring, what occurs when a pure Aryan race intermixes with inferior races. A race becomes infiltrated and weak. All these people coming into our city, who gave up their homelands to the Russians, who refuse to fight for the Fatherland, they all are the stuff of inferior human beings. Good enough to work in the fields, but not strong enough to be of service to our race. So here he comes, creeping through the night, snorting and drooling, hungry for that white flesh. A subhuman. A monkey. Thousands of the very same are now in town, just look. They’re said to be Germans, but they’re hardly any different from Slavs and Mongols, none of them able to prove their bloodline. This is our signal, Heller—we’re the ones who must fight. The wops have only brought us bad luck, the Romanians cost us Stalingrad, and all these fringe and ethnic Germans only want to profit from our power. Now they come to us, wanting protection. This is our struggle, Heller, the final battle, and so let this be your very own battle, you against all these saliva-drooling and grunting subhumans.”
Klepp eyed him eagerly. But Heller kept silent, staring back blank-faced. Klepp raised his eyebrows. “Well, what are we going to do about it?”
Heller had seen the question coming yet hadn’t been able to come up with the answer.
“I’m providing you with even more men, retired old cops, thirty total. And Strampe,” Klepp added, sticking to his guns.
That angered Heller. He didn’t want the young SS sergeant. “Strampe? I thought he was indispensable.”
“He still is, but in this case? He’s my eyes and ears on the ground. You think I don’t hear all the rumors? It only distracts people from the struggle ahead! So I want law and order in that goddamn neighborhood. The men will be armed, with carbines. Anyone without a pass and out on the streets during an air raid siren is suspect. Maintain calm, understand? No shenanigans. Results instead. Check open doors, search attics, cellars, abandoned buildings, any properties grown over. There must be a hideout somewhere.” Klepp rose from his chair.
“One other thing, Heller. Several Jews got away from me after receiving their marching orders. Here in the area. An Aryan mother with two little Jew brats among them. They can’t have gone far. Now get going, Heller!”
Heller stood.
“And Heller!” Klepp said, his tone threatening, his eyes revealing a certain shrewdness. “I hear you were interfering in an interrogation. Just what did you think you were going to do?”
“I—”
“I also know, on good authority, that you’ve mucked up the Gestapo’s handiwork many times.”
No one had ever dared speak to Heller like that. He kept his composure. Karin’s words echoed in his head: just hold on, a little while longer.
“You are weak,” Klepp droned on. “You’re too lenient. Maybe once you were hard, say in 1915, but now you’re old and weak. Because of people like you, the German Reich is now fighting for survival at its very borders. Because you are undermining all the Führer has created. Because you protect what needs to be eradicated, because false compassion determines your actions. I’m watching you. Now go find this madman, find that Jew-loving slut and her brats, and when you do find them, arrest anyone who helped them in any manner, even if it was looking the other way. The strong must eradicate the weak or our race will perish. Do you understand that?”
Heller nodded. “Eradicate. Understood!”
Klepp leaned over his desk, his face red and swollen. “You need to understand. Hard, merciless, fanatical to the death! Now get out of my sight.”
January 6, 1945: Night
“Put out that fire,” Heller said.
Bitter silence. Several dozen pairs of eyes stared at him. Wild-looking characters, haggard, destitute, stinking, their breath steaming, their hands and feet wrapped in rags. All their worldly goods tied onto carts, with more draft animals left. These people had filled the park at Walderseeplatz. Their desperate searches for firewood had stripped the trees of any branches at a reachable height.
Heller was standing close to the fire himself, feeling its warmth on his face and hoping to savor it as long as possible.
“That’s an order!” he repeated. “Put that fire out. If you don’t follow my instructions, I’ll have to arrest you all.”
Soon the people got moving. They feebly started stamping out the fire at its edges, yanking out larger branches. They kept silent, but Heller knew what they thought of him.
“Have you all reported in with the Strehlen Station collection point?”
“They sent us here,” someone said in the darkness.
“You’re going too slowly,” Heller said. “Pour water on it.”
“That’s our drinking water,” someone said.
“There’s water at Fürstenplatz. Do it, I’m ordering you!”
Someone grabbed the pail and poured water over the fire with one full swing. A steam cloud full of ashes rose into the air, hissing, making Heller step back in a hurry. He got covered with bits of ash anyway and angrily patted down his overcoat. Karin had just washed it after happening to come across some soap—drying it had cost her several days of coal.
On top of that, there had nearly been a scene at the coal distribution point after Karin received more than a hundredweight with her coupon. Someone was complaining about her in a low voice. But the man distributing coal had said, “You have a nice day, Frau Detective Inspector,” and after that no one dared scoff at her.
“Go to the collection point tomorrow,” Heller said. “They’re doing medicals there.”
“Place ain’t there no more,” said a deep male voice in Silesian dialect.
Heller ignored him. He withdrew and left the people to their frigid night. He didn’t feel good doing it, knowing how the people were suffering. He was freezing himself. Temperatures had risen above freezing days ago, but a bitter frost had returned to permeate all.
Today he’d read Hitler’s New Year’s speech in the newspaper and wondered how many still actually put faith in his babble. Yet he also knew that people were only too happy to believe in his words. People needed to believe in something. So why stop now, right when it was becoming most crucial to do so? Otherwise, they’d have to question their whole lives over these last few years. They’d have to question just what they were thinking when they voted for Hitler, when they kept receiving their allocated food ration cards, when they had to hand over all available metal that first time and buy government bonds, when they had to donate their furs and overcoats, when they were called upon to eat only potatoes with the skins on, when those first death notices arrived and the next ones and the next, until eventually so many were coming that it became all too clear that every one of them would be affected at some point.
Heller headed toward the river and crossed the paths of several of his men on patrol so he could get their updates. They were constantly having to force refugees to put out their fires and warn residents to black things out correctly. The only person not appearing was the Fright Man, not even when the air raid sirens were at full alarm. Had their patrols scared him off? Or was his next victim already in some attic or cellar and just hadn’t been discovered yet?
Heller looked at his watch, having to hold it close to his eyes. The little moonlight they had was much too weak. It was nearly midnight.
Hungary had switched sides, declaring war on Germany. Fifty thousand soldiers were stuck in Budapest while the Russians blasted the city into rubble and ashes. He wondered if his Klaus was among all those soldiers.
Heller was now waiting on Holbeinstrasse. One of his men would be showing up in the next few minutes, at the stipulated time. He stepped in place for warmth, pivoting around because he wasn’t sure what direction hi
s man would be coming from. He wore as many layers as possible under his coat, yet the cold was finding its way in, creeping through the soles of his shoes, to his ankles, up his legs, and into his belly.
Then the shrill peep of a whistle sounded, and a shot rang out. Heller started and tried to make out which direction it came from. Another whistle sounded. It was coming from the north. He took off.
He reached Dürerstrasse, where he heard the brief rattle of a submachine gun firing. He knew that was Strampe and changed direction since the shots were clearly coming from farther behind him, possibly Zöllnerplatz. Someone was shouting, “Over here!” More whistling. A flashlight lit up, then was extinguished immediately. Heller rushed along Zöllnerstrasse toward the square, but the incident seemed to have moved on, suddenly behind him now. More shots, from pistols. “Don’t move!” someone barked. Heller stopped and ran back the way he’d come. Suddenly someone was peeling out of a building entrance, running away from him.
“Halt!” Heller shouted, grabbing for his pistol. Right then a bright headlight flooded the street, a motorcycle approaching. He went to move out of the way, but the person fleeing did the same and right in his direction. Heller’s men were now running up from both ends of Holbeinstrasse, cutting off the fugitive, who turned back, running right at Heller. The motorcycle braked, squealing tires no more than twenty yards behind him. The machine gun rattled fire. Plaster scattered from the building behind Heller, and a window pane broke. The man fell to the ground, silent. Yet a second, longer burst of fire followed. The bullets ricocheted off granite slabs, whizzing aimlessly, striking doorways and walls. Heller had thrown himself to the ground and tried to find cover behind a lamppost.
“Stop!” he shouted. “Cease fire!”
“That you, Heller?” shouted Strampe.
Heller pulled himself up, irate. He’d heard the lethal bullets whizzing right by his ear. “You nearly shot me, you moron!” he screamed. “Didn’t you see me here, not to mention those two other men over there?”
Strampe, looking humbled, lowered his weapon. “All I saw was someone fleeing.”
“That was me,” Heller snapped, “running after him! Now turn off that headlight,” he added, trying to regain his composure. The light went out.
Heller hauled his stiff legs over to the man lying on the ground and placed his fingers on his neck. The two reserve cops came over, along with Strampe.
Heller looked up at Strampe. “Dead.” He asked the group, “What happened?”
“I was going down Fiedlerstrasse,” the one named Fleischauer explained. “That’s when I heard a bicycle clattering along. ‘Halt,’ I shouted, ‘don’t move.’ He got spooked but pedaled faster. I ran after him. When I saw him turning into Lortzing, I whistled. I knew Ullrich had to be one street over on Holbeinstrasse. The fugitive tried turning right into Dürer but crashed, got up, and kept running. That’s when I fired.”
“He didn’t say anything?”
“No, nothing. Then Peter showed up.” He pointed at Strampe. “When the fugitive heard the motorcycle, he jumped over into someone’s property so I shot again. Then he ran onto Zöllnerstrasse, so I made for Schumann, hoping to cut him off. Peter followed the fugitive onto Zöllner. That’s all I know from there since I was just getting here up Holbein.”
Heller stood before Strampe. “You see someone running away so you turn your light on, start pulling the trigger? A whole magazine? Can you explain why?”
Strampe lowered his head. But Heller wasn’t fooling himself. He’d known it all along: it was fun for Strampe. No normal person emptied a whole magazine in the dark.
“I’m guessing you’ve killed plenty of people,” Heller said.
Strampe raised his head and proudly jutted out his chin. So much for humility. “I was in Poland,” he said, “under Obersturmbannführer Klepp.”
Heller turned to the other men. “Have the dead man brought over to headquarters, right to my office. And where’s that bicycle?”
“Must be where the man left it.”
“I have it in my sidecar,” Strampe said.
January 7, 1945: Early Morning
They had cleared off Heller’s desk before spreading out a few blankets to soak up the blood. Then they’d laid the dead man there and covered his face with a thin cloth. Four of the twenty-three machine-gun rounds had struck him. One got him right in the heart, the other three in the chest and stomach.
Heller sat in his chair, a little farther away from his desk. He was exhausted and freezing despite the warmth of the office. Hopefully he wasn’t catching that cold. Oldenbusch was with him. His marching orders had been delayed. He had a few more days left and could’ve easily just stayed home, yet here he sat in a chair on the opposite side of the desk.
Klepp was standing at the window, hands clasped behind his back, staring out at Pirnaischer Platz, at all the streetcars crossing the square and the always-busy traffic. Three swastika flags waved in front of the building.
“Look at it this way, Heller,” Klepp began, and faced them. “It turned out to be a success in the end. All will be calm from now on. Excellent work. So it’s a Frenchman. He who eats frogs also eats little girls . . . We would’ve had to hang the man anyway. Get this here finished up so you can finally devote yourself to more important work. And you, Oldenbusch, you’ll go fight for our German Reich, our children, our future. This is an epic struggle between good and evil, and one day the world will be grateful that we sacrificed ourselves so dearly to put a stop to Bolshevism.”
Klepp stepped toward the door, and Heller and Oldenbusch started to rise. “Don’t get up!” he told them merrily and left the room.
Neither Heller nor Oldenbusch said anything for a long time.
“What next?” Heller finally said.
Oldenbusch stood, grabbed his chair, came around the desk, and sat next to Heller.
“Yesterday, in interrogation rooms 4 and 7, they beat two people to death,” he whispered, so quietly that Heller could barely hear. “One was an older man, the other was said to be a woman.”
Heller had known such things were happening. He’d known it for a long time. He’d been powerless to prevent it—there was no way to intervene without risking his life. He wasn’t even sure he could trust Oldenbusch. He wanted to trust the forensics man, every part of his being wanted to, but reason forbade him. No one could trust anyone anymore, not friends, not neighbors, not colleagues. As Oldenbusch’s direct superior, he should have explained why two people needed to be beaten to death during interrogation, that it benefited both the German people and the Reich, and that the strong had to eradicate the weak. The fact that he hadn’t already could be considered treason. People ended up in concentration camps for such things.
Oldenbusch ignored Heller’s uneasiness and kept whispering. “Klepp was at Gestapo headquarters twice yesterday, taking away detainees. One was choked to death on the way over. What a fucking pig, a real bastard. Be sure to watch out for him, Max. Once things really start getting tough, he’ll string you up from the nearest tree.”
“Goddamnit, Werner, be quiet. Why do I have to tell everyone to keep quiet?”
“What are they going to do? They’re already sending me to the Eastern Front, and I won’t end up in the rear. They need cannon fodder.”
“Last night, Strampe fired a whole magazine at me.”
Their eyes wandered to the desk, the shot-up body lying there.
“Strampe was shooting from the hip. I haven’t been so close to dying since 1915.”
Oldenbusch stared at Heller in shock. “Have to hand it to you, Max. You’re staying quite levelheaded.”
“I haven’t been home yet. I’m scared Karin won’t let me out of the house again if I tell her.”
Oldenbusch made a face. “Word will get around. Better you tell her before she hears it on the street.”
Heller couldn’t take his eyes off the dead body. A gaunt man of twenty-eight, with relatively long hair and beard stubble trimme
d with scissors. He was missing some teeth. His clothes, a brown coat and drab corduroy pants, were old and patched. His shoes were well-worn and splitting, bound with string to keep them together.
“A Frenchman, right? Prisoner of war?”
Heller shook his head. “Not a POW. Forced labor, in Germany since ’42. Was building bunkers, first in Hamburg, then Wuppertal. Been in Dresden for over a year.”
“Why is he here?”
“According to his papers, he was working in the hospital. He was repairing equipment, evidently, so maybe he’s a mechanic or an engineer. He’s had a permit to use public streets since ’42 and was allowed to take the tram.”
“So why run away?” Heller stood and went up to the table. Oldenbusch followed. Heller pushed the lapels of the dead man’s slimy coat to the sides. He reached down into the shirt and pulled out a leather holder shoved behind his belt. He opened it and put it on his desk, at the man’s feet. They saw two knives: a large one about twelve inches long and a relatively short one with a hand-carved grip and small blade. Heller lifted the smaller knife and held it up to the light. “So sharp, it could cut through paper.” He lay the knife back on the leather flap. “You have those footprints from the tennis courts with you?”
Oldenbusch grabbed his leather case and pulled out some papers. They compared the prints with the dead man’s shoes.
“No match,” Oldenbusch said after a few minutes.
“You know something?” Heller said. “I can grasp that it was a good thing I did, letting that poor girl die. But now, sitting here, I wish I had at least tried talking to her.”
Oldenbusch nodded at that. “So the shoes don’t match—it doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Everything got covered up at the tennis courts. The man fled, which did make him suspect, even with all his papers on him.”
“Up until now, the killer had always found his victims during the air raid sirens. But there was no air raid siren last night.” Heller watched Oldenbusch, eager for his take.
“The possibility of an air raid siren is more than fifty percent,” Oldenbusch said. “He could have been gambling on it happening and was out on the prowl.”
The Air Raid Killer (Max Heller, Dresden Detective Book 1) Page 10
