Yet there was a noise.
“It’s coming from downstairs.”
Zaitsev tiptoed down the stairway. All was quiet on the ground floor.
“We never tried the cellar,” Heller whispered.
“The outside door was under rubble,” Zaitsev whispered back.
“There must be another way in, from inside the house.” Heller led the Russian into the demolished kitchen and found a small wooden door painted white. It opened down to the cellar. He automatically reached for the light switch, but of course there was no power. A kerosene lamp stood on the highest step. Zaitsev quietly shook it, splashing the liquid around, and lit the wick.
They went down into the cellar. The walls were sandstone, the tiny windows plugged up with rags. Rugs lay around, blankets, pillows. Children’s toys made of wood. Various bowls stood in the corners, with brownish water in them or worse. It reeked of ammonia. A leather ball, bones, pieces of clothing, everything a complete mess. Heller bent down and picked up something—women’s underwear. Then he reached for the ball. He clearly made out bite marks in the leather. The wooden toys were chewed on too.
Zaitsev took the underwear from him. “You think this is from a victim?”
“Impossible to know,” Heller said.
Zaitsev raised the lamp, took a few steps around. “No one’s here.”
They suddenly heard moaning, muffled but so near they both jumped to the side. It was coming from right below them. Zaitsev handed Heller the lamp and started clearing the layers of blankets and rugs from the floor. He eventually found another layer, of loose tar paper. He removed it to reveal a trap door, constructed of heavy wood, built into the floor. A large sliding bolt kept it locked. Zaitsev opened the bolt and lifted open the door. Below, they could see a dungeon of less than twenty square feet. A revolting smell rose up, and they held their hands over their noses and mouths. Zaitsev took the lamp and shone it down. On the damp ground, among shapeless rags, lay the young woman in the gray overcoat who’d escaped from them twice, her face familiar to Heller. Her hair was sticky with mud and blood, and she was gagged and blindfolded, her hands tied behind her back, legs bound.
“Don’t be frightened!” Heller shouted. “We’re here to help!” He knelt down and tried to reach for the woman. That wouldn’t work. Like it or not, he would have to climb down into the stench. The muddy earth sucked at his shoes as he did. He grabbed the woman by the arms, yanked her up so Zaitsev could get hold of her, and together they hauled her up and out. Heller scrambled to get out of the hole, the thought of the door slamming shut with him trapped inside sending him into a mad panic. He desperately clawed his way out, helped Zaitsev remove the woman’s restraints, and started on the blindfold and gag. She started screaming, gasping desperately for air, her eyes rolling around in a panic, her hands reaching for Heller’s arms and neck as if seeking something, anything, to grasp onto, like someone drowning.
“Be calm, you’re safe! What’s your name? Who took you here?” Zaitsev pulled out his jackknife and cut the rope around her legs.
When she saw the knife, the woman started hitting Heller. She kicked frantically, trying to free herself from the Russian, who kept trying to get control of her legs.
“Calm yourself. I’m with the police!”
But the woman didn’t stop. She kicked her feet loose and knocked the lamp into the pit, where it went out. In the ensuing darkness, Heller took a strong blow to the face. The woman ran away, just a silhouette at the cellar entrance revealing itself in the dark. Heller and Zaitsev found the stairs at the same time. Zaitsev pushed past Heller.
“Stoi!” he shouted. “Stoi!” Heller, keeping up with him, ran out onto the ground floor and made a hard left for the window to cut the woman off. But she was faster and already out into the street. The Russian aimed his gun.
“Don’t shoot, for God’s sake! Wait, Fräulein, wait!” Heller shouted after her. “Please, Fräulein, don’t run away.”
Zaitsev cursed. The woman had disappeared into the ruins.
“Don’t move!” someone shouted in broken German—Red Army soldiers on patrol.
Zaitsev shouted back in Russian to call the patrol over. He gave Heller a serious look. “Let’s take another look at that cellar. We’ve found your Fright Man, it appears. Or at least his lair.”
The Red Army soldiers illuminated the hole with their flashlights. Zaitsev slid down into it, and his boots sank a couple of inches into the mud. Heller checked his own shoes and shook them.
“This is earth, just dug out, no cement.” Zaitsev rubbed the walls. “And you see this here?” He pointed in disgust at a long bone. “There’s more of them.”
“Human bones?”
“I can’t tell. He must have been holding his victims here.”
“Then Klepp must have known.” Why the bones, though? Heller wondered. Could there be more victims?
Zaitsev nodded and pulled himself out of the hole, using the edges to wipe mud off his boots. “You know anyone who can examine bones like this?” he asked.
“The only one I can think of is Schorrer.”
“That’s fine by me. I must take a closer look at that one anyway.”
“Wait, did Professor Ehlig put you on Schorrer’s trail?” Heller asked. “Ehlig was an ardent Hitler worshipper . . .” Heller shut up. This was one of those things he had sworn he would never do. If they questioned him as a witness, he would testify to the best of his knowledge and conscience. But anything else was just informing, and suspiciously like trying to gain advantage. And there had been more than enough informing to go around during the years of the Third Reich.
“You are naïve, Herr Heller, if you think your Dr. Schorrer is such a good man. That helps explain your behavior during the Third Reich. You are naïve.”
Talk like this made Heller furious, especially coming from young Zaitsev, of all people, who seemed to believe whatever his party dictated. Yet he controlled himself and kept quiet.
Something hissed. Everyone glanced up the stairs, where a Red Army soldier stood whispering in Russian. Zaitsev waved Heller over, and they quietly went upstairs, followed the soldier in a crouch, and squatted near a window. Night had come, the stars twinkling, the passing clouds illuminated by moonlight.
Then they heard it. It sounded like an animal panting. Rocks and stones got knocked around. Someone was softly giggling, gurgling.
Heller cautiously raised his head above the window ledge. The nearest mountain of rubble was only a faint outline. Something rustled in the tall grass, the branches of bushes seemed to move, and then they heard a throat clearing, and again, louder. Then snorting.
“What is that?” Zaitsev whispered.
Heller listened to the darkness. Soon he thought he heard someone loudly sucking up their spit. Crying followed. It was weeping, nearly silent, like a child whimpering.
Zaitsev whispered a command to the soldier, who promptly left. Then Zaitsev moved in the other direction without telling Heller. He was cautious yet still kicked a few stones loose. The noises outside silenced. Soon they heard hasty footsteps, twigs breaking, and the clunking of clay bricks. Heller crouched below the window in anger. Why did Zaitsev always have to be so impatient? If Heller had had his way, they’d have waited and watched in silence. Now they were squandering another chance.
He leaned his head against the wall, disappointed, and only now did he notice how hungry he was, and above all tired. Yet as soon as he closed his eyes, all the episodes from his day mixed into a tangle of car trips, shootings, screaming, and that nightmarish sensation of being buried alive. No wonder the young woman had been so panicked. Still, he wished she could’ve just kept calm.
Zaitsev returned and spoke to the same soldier. Heller rubbed the weariness from his face, thinking, That damn language of theirs—he’d have to learn to understand it somehow.
Zaitsev dropped down beside him, tapped a cigarette from his pack, and lit up. “He’s gone.”
“Did you see anything?”
“Limping?” Heller thought of Glöckner the caretaker and his prosthesis.
“I’ve ordered the house guarded,” Zaitsev said. “There’s a billet near here—we will stay the night there.”
“I was actually hoping to go home,” Heller said.
“No, no home for you!”
In the darkness, Heller lost track of where they were. Everything was just as destroyed here, farther south in Dresden. He barely recognized any streets and could only guess where the main train station stood. Campfires burned on street corners. They were halted by soldiers several times before they finally reached a large building that had survived the air raids. It had five floors and might have belonged to the university. Armed guards stood outside, laughing, smoking, and drinking a lot. Zaitsev marched inside with impressive self-assurance. Heller followed at his heels, an uneasy feeling nagging at him. They climbed the stairs and entered a large hall. Thick clouds of smoke hung in the air. It stank like booze and unwashed men; the noise level was unbearable. Everyone carried a gun, and some men staggered around the room from boozing it up while others were already half-unconscious. Heller attracted angry and derisive stares, yet Zaitsev acted unconcerned and gave a rough shove to a man who didn’t want to let them pass.
“Here, take a seat,” he ordered, and sat Heller down at a table in a corner. Heller sat, trying to ignore all the stares. It took a brief eternity for Zaitsev to come back and set down a large bowl of soup. He pulled out two spoons from a jacket pocket and a piece of bread that he split in two, then he sat across from Heller and started eating.
“Well, what?” he asked, and pointed at the second spoon. Only now did Heller understand what he meant and began eating from the same bowl.
The soup had an amazing amount of meat, but it was so tough and unfamiliar that Heller couldn’t get it down. He nearly gagged and had to keep pausing to chew it well enough. Zaitsev shouted something. A man came with a bottle that he handed to Heller. He took a big drink and nearly choked on it because he was expecting water, not vodka, and the soldiers standing around roared with laughter. Zaitsev smiled and drank down a quarter of the bottle.
It was getting late. Heller sat dazed in his chair, dead tired yet unable to fall asleep. Whenever he was just about to nod off, something clanked or someone shot into the air. Zaitsev slept bent forward over the table, his head on his arms. Seeing him like this, Heller was painfully reminded of his sons. Where and how were they sleeping right now?
Out on the street, the Russians got louder. Did these people never sleep?
The rest happened so fast. Two young women were shoved into the room. One of them already had a torn blouse and was making a futile attempt to cover her breasts. A couple of soldiers yanked down her skirt.
“Mama!” cried one of the women, and a bunch of men mimicked her voice. A soldier grabbed her and hauled her onto a table. Several soldiers pressed in close, and others left the room, yet the majority just stayed and watched.
“No, please, I’m pregnant, I have a child in me, please no!” screamed the young woman in pure terror. The other girl had already lost consciousness.
Heller jumped up without thinking about it. “Stop it,” he shouted. “Stoi! Stop at once!”
An abrupt silence fell. The only sound was the woman sobbing.
“What you say?” snarled a soldier with his pants undone as he came over to Heller and brandished a submachine gun. “You dead, fascist!”
Heller stared back, his eyes fixed. He’d started this and was going to have to end it. “Stop it. You should be punished for this kind of behavior.”
“I no understand, Hitler Youth! You make Russia kaput! My father kaput, my brother kaput. City kaput. Now I make Germany kaput, see? You kaput, woman kaput! With this!” He raised his weapon. He pointed at his genitals. “And with this. One word and you dead!”
“I can’t allow it. Commissar Zaitsev! Alexei!” Heller looked to Zaitsev and noticed that he’d been awake the whole time, watching. Zaitsev rose sluggishly, and the soldier exposing himself backed away.
“You know, Heller, these men have seen it all. They were fighting this war for four years, without leave, without letters, without knowing if their parents were still alive. They’ve seen their wives and children dead, the old ones dead, cities burned down. These men have had such hunger, and thirst, and wounds, and everyone who becomes a friend has fallen, killed by a German bullet or a German shell. And so now they come here as the victors. They defeated the Devil, so they eat and drink and behave how they want. And you want to forbid it?”
Zaitsev had said it very quietly, watching Heller. But Heller didn’t admit defeat.
“Zaitsev, you’re an officer! You can’t allow that.” He pointed at the girls. “Those two there can’t help it.”
He had judged Zaitsev wrong. Zaitsev leaped at Heller, grabbed him by the collar, and hurled him against the wall.
“No one can help it!” Zaitsev roared, his spit spraying Heller’s face. “A whole nation of people votes for Hitler. And suddenly no one knew anything, no one did anything, everyone just followed orders. You all say you’re victims. Good old German order, that’s all that matters.” Still furious, he gave Heller another shove. Then he whipped around and barked at the soldiers. “Zamolchi i odevaysya!”
Grumbling sounded around the room. Zaitsev repeated the order just as harshly. Then he went to the women, heaved them up, and shoved them over to Heller.
“Here, you protect them,” he said, then spat at their feet and stormed out.
The women pressed close to Heller. The naked one wrapped her arms around his neck, her body shaking with fear, while the other one looked listless and shocked.
“It’s all right,” Heller whispered, and went to pick up the naked one’s clothes, yet the women clamped on to him and wouldn’t let go.
“Here, take my overcoat.” Heller pulled off his overcoat and draped it around the naked woman. Then he held each woman on either side of him and hauled them toward the door. A soldier stood tall before him, the barrel of his gun pointing to Heller’s left wrist, which held the watch that Frau Marquart had given him.
Heller unfastened the watch and gave it to the Russian, who moved on.
“It’s all right now,” Heller said to the girls, though he had no idea how they were supposed to survive the night.
May 18, 1945: Morning
Dr. Schorrer waited until Zaitsev left his office. The Russian needed to use the toilet after forgoing his billet’s overburdened facilities.
Schorrer stood, went over to the door, and shut it.
“You dragging this Russian around with you every day?” he snapped.
“I’m doing my work and have to rely on his help.”
“You brought him here, and now he’s set his sights on me.”
“You hiding something?”
“That’s not the issue. He wants his hands on a Nazi. He can’t have Ehlig, not as long as he’s on good terms with the Russian authorities. So he’s latching onto me. You really aren’t so naïve as to believe that any of this has to do with justice. You think that man’s helping you with your investigation? Zaitsev wants to make a name for himself. He wants his medals. They’re not a whit better than our party comrades were.”
Heller was too tired to contradict the doctor, even though it annoyed him to be called naïve for the second time. He stepped to the table instead, laid out the large towel holding the bones they found in the hideout, and gave Schorrer an urgent look.
Schorrer pulled on his rubber gloves and sorted the bones. “This here, clearly an ulna. Here’s part of a femur, broken off. This one could be from a pig or cow. And these here, now, these are human ribs.” The doctor held the two broken bones up to his body. “See here.” He pointed at scratch marks on the bones. “Knife marks. Someone scraping here. And this, right here, might be marks from human teeth.” Schorrer made a disgusted grimace, though Heller doubted if anything sh
ocked him anymore.
Heller took a closer look at the bite marks, hoping to tell how the incisors were positioned, but he knew it wasn’t going to get him anywhere.
“Klepp had a cellar in his villa with a dungeon underneath. We found blood, feces, urine. We’re assuming someone’s been living in the cellar. I also found a photo . . . Zaitsev took it.”
The two men stared at each other in silence.
“People . . . ,” Schorrer began, sounding suddenly pensive. “They must think it can’t get any worse. The war lost. Germany destroyed. Their Greatest Ever Führer of the Thousand-Year Reich dead. And yet despite all the hardship, they seem relieved.”
Heller nodded.
“Pray to God,” continued Schorrer, “that this impulse lasts awhile. We’re in for more hard times. Next winter. My only hope is that it’s not just turnips again.”
Zaitsev burst into the room.
“I need that photo,” Heller said.
Zaitsev pulled it out and gave it to him.
“Recognize anyone?” Heller asked, showing Schorrer the photo.
Schorrer eyed the picture, and the corners of his mouth turned down with contempt.
“Ludwig Klepp. Rudolf Klepp’s son. Must be about twenty-one now.” He pointed at the timid-looking boy at the left edge of the picture.
“How do you know that?”
“He was there in ’41 for Operation Barbarossa, when we invaded the Soviet Union, but he was declared unfit for active service and sent home. Severely mentally ill. Not to mention a complete imbecile.”
“Complete imbecile?”
Schorrer wiped the tabletop clean with a flat hand. “Klepp was always embarrassed by that. He really would’ve liked to kick him out. Considered him a weakling. Kept trying to get him to sign up for the Reich Labor Service. His wife surely put her foot down.”
“How do you—”
“He came and asked for my help after I’d barely started my post here. Ludwig had severe diarrhea; Klepp thought it was dysentery. That’s when I learned the story. Very distraught, the young man. Wouldn’t let himself be touched at first. He kept twitching uncontrollably, and he would jump at every loud noise, laughing crazily in the process. Klepp was keeping him from public view by that point.”
The Air Raid Killer (Max Heller, Dresden Detective Book 1) Page 20
