The officer suddenly whipped around and grabbed Heller by the shoulders. He dragged him through the barricaded grounds and into the building entrance where the detainees had disappeared. Heller resisted as little as possible, even when roughly shoved up the stairs. The officer pounded on a door, cursing under his breath. When a voice sounded from inside, he flung open the door, reported in the military way, and shoved Heller into the room.
The room must once have been a large dining hall. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling, the walls were paneled chest-high, and Heller saw a mural above: hunting scenes, idyllic landscapes. A rope had been strung through the middle of the room with various blankets hanging off it, apparently serving as a room divider. In the front area was a single desk, where a young staff clerk sat pounding on a typewriter with clumsy fingers. His telephone wouldn’t stop ringing, so the soldier picked up while typing with one finger, said something, hung up again. Right after that the door flung open with a bang and a young man entered, taking forceful strides. He wore brown uniform pants and a black leather jacket instead of the usual soldier’s tunic. His black polished boots glistened. He was tall and slender, his straw-blond hair showed from under his peaked leather cap, and his bright gray eyes glared. He was clearly a political commissar, and Heller knew what they had done to captured commissars during the war. They’d shot them on the spot.
The man bristled at the sight of Heller. He barked a question at the staff clerk, which made another man appear from behind the curtain of blankets. Heller recognized him as the man in the window. He was a high-ranking officer—Heller figured he was the commandant. The two men conversed for a moment, then ordered Heller into the rear area. The Russians sat; Heller had to stand.
“Who are you? What do you want?” asked the young political commissar in remarkably good German.
“My name is Heller—”
The commandant cut him off. “You lie! You told the guard you’re the father of someone named Uhlmann.”
“I said that so I’d be allowed inside,” Heller conceded. “I used to be a police detective—”
“Police?” the young commissar asked and stood. “Overcoat off!” he ordered.
The commandant showed no expression. Heller took off his overcoat.
“Shirt off!”
Heller took off his shirt. The young commissar started checking his arms. “What’s this?” he demanded, pointing at Heller’s old scars and freshly healed ones.
“The war, 1915. Grenade. And then the air raids. Here.” Heller pointed out the window at the opposite side of the Elbe.
“SS,” whispered the young commissar. The commandant growled.
“No. I was a detective. I was on the trail of a murderer.”
The young commissar grimaced. “A murderer? You all are—”
“Zamolchi!” the commandant said, and the young commissar shut up.
“A man was arrested today,” Heller said. “Erwin Uhlmann. He allegedly murdered a young woman. But I don’t believe that.”
The commandant said something in Russian.
“You don’t believe that he’s the murderer?” the young commissar said, then sat down again.
This shell game of theirs was ridiculous. It was obvious the commandant understood German and could speak it. Heller turned to face the commandant.
“Please, Herr General, I don’t wish to be a burden. I simply don’t want to see an innocent man punished without us knowing for certain—”
“We are certain!” growled the commandant. “He’s to be executed, early tomorrow morning.”
Heller knew they wouldn’t budge. “May I put my clothes on?” he asked. He didn’t want to appear servile, which wasn’t easy in this situation.
The commandant nodded. The young commissar started urgently trying to talk him into something.
“Major General Medvedev would like to know why you believe he is the wrong man,” the young commissar said.
“The circumstances don’t fit.”
“Were you in the Gestapo?”
“No. Never.”
“Were you in your fascist Nazi Party? NSDAP? SS? SA?”
“No.”
“Did you kill Jews? You know what a concentration camp is?”
“Yes, I know,” Heller said, hesitating, his heart aching. “But I never murdered anyone.”
The young commissar shook his head in disbelief. “You have no papers, you were police, you deny being in the SS and Nazi Party, yet you come here because of a strange man and all because you wish to save his life?”
Heller could only nod and bite his lip. A thought hit him hard: he hoped Karin would never hear of what he tried doing here.
The young political commissar appealed to Major General Medvedev again. The general didn’t look very moved. The commissar sprung up.
“Come with me,” he told Heller and gave him a reassuring look. “My name is Zaitsev, by the way, Alexei Zaitsev.”
“Max Heller,” Heller said, and followed the young man out of the room.
Zaitsev grabbed Heller roughly by the arm. “Well, come on, then.”
He couldn’t be much older than Klaus. Midtwenties.
“There.” Zaitsev took Heller into a room, where five soldiers sat at typewriters and radio sets. They glanced up as Heller got shoved past them over to a window.
“Here, take a look.”
Heller looked out at the hazy day. He saw the Elbe and the broad meadow on the opposite bank where they used to hold the Vogelwiese carnival, all brown and scorched, covered with bomb craters, shanties and tents, refugees’ carts, and the bomb-gutted city for a backdrop.
“Well?” Zaitsev prodded Heller’s shoulder blade.
Heller wasn’t sure what the Russian wanted to hear, so he kept quiet. Zaitsev stepped next to him. “That there? It’s Tula.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I was born in Tula, same size as this city. Your city. Much industry. Tula was destroyed, looks just like this.” Zaitsev side-eyed him. “Germans?” He shrugged and aimed a finger like a pistol. “Bang! All those there.” He pointed at the Russian soldiers outside. “All of them out there killed Germans. Medvedev killed Germans. Germans mean nothing to me, you understand? Erwin Uhlmann means nothing to me, and the dead woman does not either.”
Heller stared at him. He now understood but was trying not to show it.
Zaitsev stepped closer. Heller could smell cigarettes and leather. “I don’t trust you,” he said. “You have no papers, nothing. I will be watching you.” Zaitsev then whipped around and glared at the soldiers. “Rabotayte!” he yelled, and they got back to work.
“Davai!” he ordered Heller.
The two of them descended the stairs. Constant hustle and bustle filled the hallways. Soldiers passed them, messengers ran their way, and plenty was carried around—typewriters, food, radios, water. Now and then they’d see men and women being led away in handcuffs. Heller heard screams coming from the basement.
That was exactly where Zaitsev was taking him. They walked down a lit basement corridor that stank horribly. Heller stole glances into the cells made of wood or metal bars. Dozens of prisoners were inside, sitting on straw.
“Traitor swine!” shouted an older man as he passed. Zaitsev didn’t react, but Heller hesitated. “Beat you to death, you bastard . . .”
Zaitsev stopped at another cell. “Uhlmann?”
A young man started and pulled himself up using the wall. One leg was stiff.
“Don’t give in, boy,” someone whispered.
A guard unlocked the door, and the prisoner stepped out. He was a large young man, the type prone to gaining weight. A disgusting smell radiated from him, and he had blood on his hands and face. The victim’s blood?
“Well?” Zaitsev glared at Heller to get on with it.
“Right here?” Heller asked, and Zaitsev’s jaw tightened.
Heller said to the young man, “You are Erwin Uhlmann?”
“I didn’t kill her—p
lease tell them that!” The boy was frantically trying not to cry, and his despair and exhaustion were obvious.
Heller switched to his official tone for questioning. “You are the prime suspect. Answer the questions. Why were you found with the dead woman?”
“I was looking for wood in the rubble and anything I could use. Was bombed out, lost all I had. I was the boiler man at the hospital. The Russians were out patrolling all day, so I was going out at night.”
“You’re a plunderer.”
“No, please, I only wanted to . . . I just needed something to barter. It was close to morning, it was getting light. I heard noises so I hid. But that thing, it was so . . . I don’t know what it was. You have to believe me!”
“Tell me.”
“It wasn’t normal noises. Grunting and all these strange sounds, words like some different language.”
“What language? French? Russian? Silesian? What?” Heller was growing impatient.
“No, not an actual language, completely different, more like cackling, someone’s tongue clicking. I even tried getting closer. Then I made a noise, and that’s when I saw something running away!”
“Something? So you saw it?”
“Only from a distance. It was leaping over debris and rocks. So I went over to where it must have been before . . . You must believe me . . . I got such a horrible shock, seeing this woman there with . . . with her . . . her . . . skin was peeled off, but she was still alive. Her throat was making this terrible gurgling sound. She was just staring at me. That’s when I started yelling for help. And then soldiers came and arrested me.”
“He had a knife,” Zaitsev said as if that explained it.
Uhlmann stared, aghast. “Sure, but only a little one, just three inches.”
Zaitsev stared back, unmoved. “And there was blood. Everywhere.”
“But I was only trying to help her.”
“Where were you on the thirteenth of February?” Heller asked.
“At the hospital, in the cellar, the women’s clinic. Lots of people were there. And so many burned to death.” Uhlmann shook his head and uttered a sudden laugh. Heller knew that well—people reacted like that when the horror was too great to comprehend.
“All done!” Zaitsev told them and shoved Uhlmann back into the cell. He turned to Heller. “The commandant will give you three days—before he’s hanged,” he said without caring if Uhlmann heard. “You be here early tomorrow morning, at seven. Come back upstairs. I’ll give you a pass.”
“What about the victim?” Heller asked. “The woman. Where is she?”
Zaitsev only shrugged.
Heller pulled out his metal mess kit and set it on the table. “That’s all there is.”
Karin opened it and shook out the contents into a little pot. “Have you eaten?” she asked, and Heller nodded. It was dark by now. “You’re lying. I can tell. Frau Marquart was able to get some bread. I’ll make you a couple of slices and cook off some old bacon.”
Heller’s stomach tightened. He was exhausted yet too shaken to be tired.
“You remember how it was during the war, Max? We thought we were suffering. And yet we still had quite a lot. Honey, potatoes, butter, marmalade. Now we’re happy for a cube of sugar.” Karin placed the pot on their wood-fired cooker and slowly stirred the contents.
Frau Marquart came into the room. “You made it back!” she said when she saw him, sounding relieved.
Karin turned and shot him a stern look. “Max, why were you at the commandant’s?”
Heller didn’t need to ask how she knew. Someone must have seen him, and news traveled like lightning. There was no way to fool Karin.
“There was another murder. They think they have the killer, but he’s not the one.”
Karin nodded.
“They actually want to help me solve the case, Karin. Just imagine!” He figured he should leave it at that.
“They had their way with the Walthers’ daughter last night. Tried to kill herself after, the poor child,” said Frau Marquart. She truly was a nice woman, and Heller liked her a lot, but she never knew when to shut her mouth and leave the room.
Karin took the pot off the stove and came over to the table. “Frau Marquart, we need some more candles. They’ll be turning off the electricity soon.”
It was just the right prompt—Frau Marquart left.
Karin gave Heller an accusing look. “I endured so much fear down in the air raid shelter. It wasn’t for my sake, Max—it was for yours! I was so worried about you.” She raised her head. “And now, after having endured all that, the war, the Nazis, here you go off to the Russians even though you know how they’re treating everyone. Especially former officials, policemen like you. You’re so goddamn pigheaded!” She folded her arms, glaring at him. They stared at each other for a long time.
“Maybe they could tell you something about our boys,” she said.
Heller took her hand and caressed her cheek. Her hair was growing back, her skin looking less ashen. Despite all the misery around them, the end of the war had allowed her to blossom again. She had listened to the news of Hitler’s death in complete silence, yet it seemed her spirit had been relieved of a great burden.
“I will try,” he said.
May 17, 1945: Seven in the Morning
Zaitsev sat waiting for Heller in a flashy black DKW F7 convertible—the last thing Heller needed to be seen in. The young commissar rode on the passenger side and directed Heller to the back seat.
“Where to?” the Russian asked, almost cheerfully, full of energy.
“I’d like to go to the hospital, on the other side of the Elbe.”
Zaitsev looked amused. “Last night, a young woman told me about this Fright Man.”
Heller was amazed. Word got around so fast. “I didn’t give him that name,” he muttered.
They could only make slow progress. The driver kept honking frantically, driving like a beginner. People glared as the car passed, and all Heller could do was sit there frozen, looking straight ahead, feeling embarrassed. On the Loschwitz Bridge, they moved at a walking pace. The bridge had been hit repeatedly, and the roadway was only patched up for now.
Zaitsev turned around. “Have you ever wondered why this bridge still stands?”
Heller hadn’t, and didn’t guess now.
“You were supposed to detonate it, but that got sabotaged.” Zaitsev laughed.
Heller wondered if he was drunk. The Russian officers in the villa above Frau Marquart’s house had been drinking themselves unconscious every night.
At the hospital, the same bustle reigned as the day before even though it was still quite early. Seibling was nowhere to be seen. Zaitsev jumped out of the car. “Where to now?”
Heller nodded at a burned-out building that was obviously unoccupied. “Over there, I’m guessing. I’m looking for a man who was caretaker there: Ewald Glöckner. After that, I need to find out where the dead woman was living.”
He looked around. A feeling told him he was being watched. But it was impossible to tell with so many people around.
He headed for the ruins of the nurses’ quarters and waved down a nurse. “Excuse me, do you know Glöckner—the caretaker?”
“I haven’t been here that long,” she replied, trying to avoid Zaitsev.
But the Russian grabbed her arm and pulled her to him.
“Where is the head physician?”
Heller placed a calming hand on Zaitsev’s arm.
The nurse pointed behind her, her hand shaking. “In that building there, third floor.”
Zaitsev let her go, and she hurried away.
The Russian’s crude approach angered Heller. “You can’t do it like that. And the head physician won’t know who the caretaker is, let alone where he’s living.”
“Let alone . . . ?” Zaitsev apparently hadn’t understood the phrase. “I don’t think you have time to ask around like this. Who’s she over there?” he abruptly asked. “The one against the blac
kened wall, to the left, next to the burned tree.”
Heller turned around. He saw a young woman wearing a gray overcoat with black cuffs and a white knitted cap. When she saw she was being watched, she disappeared behind ruins.
“No idea.” Heller pushed back his flat cap, wiped the sweat off his brow. It wasn’t even 8:00 a.m. and it was already hot. Then he noticed Seibling. “Herr Seibling! Heinz!” he yelled. Seibling began to give Heller a friendly wave but then turned away once he saw Zaitsev and tried to rush off on his crutches.
Zaitsev snorted. “Stoi!” he hollered, and drew his pistol from his holster. All the people around froze. Seibling halted too. Then he slowly pivoted and, showing a tortured smile, waited for Heller and Zaitsev to reach him.
The Russian looked like he wanted to get rough. Heller stepped in front of him. “Leave him to me, please,” he said.
“Heinz, pardon me,” he told Seibling, who looked as filthy as he had the day before, his neck and face, his hands, and even his teeth black. “I just have one question. You know Glöckner, the caretaker? He was living at the nurses’ quarters. Was he killed?”
Seibling started shaking his head, then his face suddenly brightened. “Wait, the caretakers have a workshop in building 19. It’s nearly untouched. In the basement.”
“Thanks a lot.” Heller and Zaitsev started off, but Seibling held Heller back.
“Nice friend you got there,” Seibling whispered. “He’s one of the worst.”
Heller freed himself with a smile and followed Zaitsev, who was already a good stretch ahead of him, his expression not revealing whether he’d heard Seibling.
It wasn’t far to building 19, and the throngs of people parted in deference to Zaitsev. The workshop was easy to find. The men there started and sprang to their feet when the Russian pushed open the door, what with their military ways still so drilled into them.
“I’m looking for Glöckner!” Zaitsev roared.
No one replied.
Zaitsev placed a threatening hand on his holster. “Answer me!”
“He took off on the eighth,” said the oldest man, who was at least seventy.
“He still have a place to live?” Heller asked.
The Air Raid Killer (Max Heller, Dresden Detective Book 1) Page 17
