“Davai, davai, davai,” Zaitsev said, and the driver yanked at the wheel, made an awkward turn, and sped after her so fast that Zaitsev was nearly tossed from the jeep.
“Just keep going,” Heller insisted as he searched for the woman’s white head bandage. But it wasn’t easy for the driver. The street was clogged with people and cars, and the jeep had to either swerve around spots a bicycle could snake through or wait for traffic to open up.
“There!” shouted Heller. He’d spotted her, the trails of her overcoat flapping in the draft as she pedaled onward. She kept getting farther away, her head just one white dot among many.
Heller tapped Zaitsev on the shoulder. “She rides into the ruins, we won’t be able to follow.”
As soon as she reached the Neustadt area, she turned into the rubble fields along Tieckstrasse, deftly dodging rocks and people, and disappeared. The driver followed as far as he could before the route became too narrow and the roadway too damaged.
“She must be heading for the Elbe,” Heller said.
“No, think about it. She’s taking the shortest route—where does this end up if we keep going this way?”
“The river? Königsufer. Kaiser Wilhelm Square!” Heller shouted. “Have the driver take us down along the river.”
“But everything’s destroyed around here.”
“Then cut back to the Rose Garden, over by Löwenstrasse. I’ll tell you the way.”
Zaitsev agreed, the driver backed up and turned around, and they drove upriver along the Elbe. The traffic wasn’t much better. Bombed-out locals and refugees were camped out in the Rose Garden and on the river meadows. Only the driver’s constant honking made people disperse.
They headed back the right way but had to give up near the fire-gutted ministry buildings around Carolaplatz. Zaitsev punched the dashboard, and the driver winced.
Heller looked around. He could see the destroyed city skyline, the steamers half-sunk in the river, the now-vanished Belvedere Palace, what remained of the Frauenkirche, and the spire of Trinity Church standing all alone. He couldn’t stand to look for long, and turned away before his emotions overwhelmed him.
Suddenly he realized where the woman was heading.
“Alexei, that smell, remember?”
“Smell?”
“Remember that strange smell coming from Strampe’s jacket, when he was lying there dead? It’s the slaughterhouses. That’s where she’s heading.”
Zaitsev whipped around. “Where are they?”
“Farther down along the bank. She’ll need to cross the river.”
The driver had understood, and sped off.
They spotted the woman right before the Marienbrücke, the bridge completely destroyed. She had stopped along the bank, and was looking around. Their jeep halted at a distance, and Zaitsev and Heller stepped out. Zaitsev gave rapid instructions to the driver, who drove away.
They used the cover of a pier to inch their way closer.
“Klepp’s hiding in a slaughterhouse?” the Russian said, sounding skeptical.
“It’s not as dumb as you think. Large premises, all bombed, cellars throughout, with ways to escape on all sides. There! She has a boat.”
The young woman was awkwardly hauling her bike into a rowboat. A man sat in the boat, holding the oars.
Zaitsev and Heller ran farther along the bank until they reached the harbor where smaller boats moored, their owners somehow still making a living with them. The woman’s boat had already traveled nearly a hundred feet, out into the middle of the river.
Zaitsev bounded onto the first good boat. “Out!” he barked at the people just getting on, loaded down with suitcases and packs. “We need to get across! Hurry!”
The boat owner didn’t bother trying to negotiate a price. It seemed to take forever for them to reach the opposite bank, and they nearly got carried past the slaughterhouses on the other side.
Zaitsev jumped out of the boat. “Let’s go, nemets!”
They ran up to Pieschener Allee, the avenue parallel to the slaughterhouse yards. They crossed the traffic circle and were soon standing in the middle of the decimated grounds.
It was vast and bewildering. The young woman was nowhere to be seen. She could be anywhere. Or maybe she had a different plan after all? Would Klepp really have dared to remain so close to the city, right within reach of Soviet headquarters?
They climbed over debris and waded through murky puddles. Some buildings were partly standing, offering countless hiding places. Here too were people trying to find refuge, erecting little hearths for cooking, building campfires, and constructing shelters from boards. Elsewhere on the slaughterhouse grounds, some work was starting up again even though there was hardly a thing to slaughter. In civilian clothes, Klepp would have been able to mix in with people here and likely wouldn’t be recognized.
“Should we split up? Or wait for reinforcements?” Heller asked, stealing side glances at Zaitsev. He didn’t like how quiet the Russian had become. Even loud and irate was better.
The Russian suddenly raised his head, startled. “Did you hear that?” he asked and gave Heller a signal not to move. He pointed westward. Heller shook his head.
“A gunshot—I’m certain,” Zaitsev whispered, and started running in that direction.
Heller could barely follow the Russian swiftly scrambling through the rubble. Soon Zaitsev crouched down and waved Heller over.
“There’s an opening to a cellar,” he whispered, pointing around the corner.
“You want to go down there? That’s crazy. It’s all a maze.”
“I want that Nazi pig. All mine! Understand me?”
“It’s stupid,” Heller said.
“You know what is stupid? Unquestioning obedience to your Führer, right to the death.” Zaitsev had likely meant this sarcastically, but Heller wasn’t in the mood.
“What about you?” he snapped. “Isn’t Stalin just your own brand of Führer?”
Zaitsev turned to face him, and they glared at one another. Heller stood firm until Zaitsev relented.
“All right, fine,” he said, “take this.” He pulled a second pistol out of his jacket and pressed it into Heller’s hand. “A Tokarev, built in Tula, eight rounds.” Without another word, he climbed down through the blown-open cellar ceiling and into the cold darkness that gave off a musty smell of stagnant water and decomposition.
Heller, amazed by Zaitsev’s show of trust, stuffed the gun into his pocket, sighed, and climbed down after Zaitsev. They descended a mountain of rubble to reach rock bottom, much deeper down than Heller had guessed.
Little stones scattered and rolled down as they climbed off.
Their shoes sank into mud and sludge as soon as they stepped onto the cellar floor. All was cool and dripping and pattering, like inside a cave, with moss already growing on the rubble. Darkness loomed, surrounding the narrow shafts of light shining down.
“This way,” said Zaitsev. Every footstep made a disconcerting sucking sound in the mud. The light soon dimmed, and Heller peered around for each new point of light ahead as the holes in the ceiling grew farther and farther apart.
“You smell that?” Zaitsev whispered.
Heller smelled an extinguished fire, steam mixed with ash.
They heard a whistle, then found cover and remained there a long while.
“Not meant for us,” Zaitsev eventually said, then kept going, aiming his pistol. Heller used his left hand to feel along the slippery cellar wall, holding his gun out with his right.
“We have to watch out,” he warned the Russian in a whisper. “This could be an ambush.”
Zaitsev ignored him. Then they heard a scream. A woman in pain. Zaitsev crouched next to Heller.
“That’s the ambush,” Zaitsev whispered. Another scream. “They know we’re here. They want to lure us in.”
“I told you we should’ve called for reinforcements.”
“Well, we’re here now.”
Heller shook h
is head in anger yet had no choice but to keep following the Russian, peering into the darkness all around them, trying to find any point of reference to fix his eyes on. He lost contact with the wall. Then the whistle sounded again.
“Take cover!” Zaitsev hissed, and Heller threw himself into the mud. A volley of gunfire shredded the darkness. Water sprayed, and mortar and stones trickled down on them.
The echoes faded. Quiet and blackness returned. Heller couldn’t see or hear Zaitsev.
“Alexei?” Heller whispered. Shots rang out again. The shooter had to be to their right, judging from the muzzle flashes that had lit up the room—just enough for him to make out that they weren’t in a corridor anymore but had entered a large underground hall supported by heavy columns resembling logs. But he didn’t spot Zaitsev.
It turned silent again. Heller raised his weapon, then reconsidered, since he couldn’t know where the shooter was now. It was too dangerous firing into the darkness on a hunch, and it might give away his position.
“There you are, Heller.” It was Rudolf Klepp’s voice.
Heller started, but he didn’t reply.
“We lost the war because of people like you. Traitors to the Volk. People like you doomed us to destruction. Now you’re cavorting with the Ivans. I should’ve done you in when I had the chance. Should’ve hanged you from the first good tree.”
Heller lay motionless in the mud. It was his only option.
“You think we don’t know everything about you? We know where you live, where your wife is right now. We’ll get her and do to her what we always do with traitors.”
Heller broke out in a sweat. He needed to maintain his calm, couldn’t let himself be provoked. Where was Zaitsev? Why wasn’t he saying anything? Had he been hit?
“This here is my very own Reich, Heller. So you keep on hiding—go ahead and shit yourself just like back in the trenches. You should’ve croaked there like that. That was your destiny. What a coward! Got out of the whole thing with one little wound.”
Heller gritted his teeth.
“We’re going to create a new world, Heller. Neither of your boys will have died in vain! I’m not giving up. That’s why I’m here. We’ll start underground. But we’ll be back out in the light soon enough. That’s when we rise up, against the Bolsheviks, and a tribunal will make people like you—” Several shots rang out. Klepp went silent.
A machine gun rattled away, and erratic fire spread across the cellar floor. Whole stones burst from the columns. Heller pressed himself to the floor. Then it was calm again, and the ringing in Heller’s ears stopped. A hasty clattering sound revealed that the inexperienced shooter was trying to insert a new cartridge. The next second, a hand grenade exploded where Heller judged the machine gun was. Someone started screaming. Shots were fired sporadically, and Heller crawled along until he felt a column. He went into a crouch, listening. The wounded person was still screaming, and Heller couldn’t get Klepp’s words out of his head; did he really know something about his sons?
“You’re not getting out of here alive, Heller, if it’s the last thing I do,” Klepp yelled. Yet he also sounded exhausted, panting heavily between words.
“Klepp!” someone shouted. It was Zaitsev, from a completely different direction than Heller had guessed. He was alive. “We have your wife! She betrayed you. She told us you’re here. Give it up! She doesn’t want anything more to do with you.”
Klepp said nothing. There was only the wounded person screaming, though the voice was waning. It gurgled and rattled.
“Is that true, Heller? Heller? Is that true?” Klepp sounded frantic. “I have that Jew bitch right here. I’ll cut off her ears, her fingers, every last one. Heller, listen to me. Heller?”
The person started screaming again, a woman. Heller sprang up, started running while crouching—and slammed into the next column. More shots came, and he threw himself down. The shots zipped across the room.
“Hold your fire!” Klepp yelled, his voice alarmingly close. “Hear me out, Heller. We do a deal. The girl for my wife.”
Heller couldn’t reply without giving away his position. And the Russians would never allow an exchange like that—Klepp had to know as much. Yet Heller didn’t want to have this young girl’s death on his conscience as well. He thought he could hear her moaning. And Klepp kept silent, waiting it out. Heller was trapped in absolute darkness, between two columns, with armed foes all around him.
“Obersturmbannführer?” someone whispered, and Heller could hear others speaking softly. And then it all happened so fast.
A glaring light flashed on, shots rang out. Russians shouting. Heller pressed himself to the floor and tossed his pistol away.
“Hands up! Drop your weapons!”
A whole unit of Red Army soldiers had infiltrated the cellar. They ran, ducking among the spotlight’s beam, releasing brief bursts of fire. When they spotted Heller, one stomped on his back, and he felt the hot barrel of a gun on the back of his neck.
May 18, 1945: Early Afternoon
The sun beat down on Heller’s neck. He sat on a block of stone next to the cellar opening that the Red Army soldiers had infiltrated. He had taken off his wet overcoat. Zaitsev stood off to the side, smoking and observing the scene with a dispassionate expression. The Red Army men were carrying out one dead body after another, six men, all in civilian clothes. The Russians had discovered their hideout in the catacombs, together with crates of food, guns, and bazookas.
One of the dead was Klepp. He had a beard, had let his curly hair grow longer, and had become skinny. Heller probably wouldn’t have recognized him on the street. Klepp’s throat was cut. Zaitsev’s doing, quite obviously. He’d been cleaning his knife with a cloth, out in the sunlight near the cellar opening.
A military truck neared, braked hard, and threw up a whirlwind of dust that settled on everyone standing around. Ovtcharov, the NKVD officer, climbed out of the cab and walked over to Zaitsev with his legs still a little stiff. Zaitsev pushed his peaked cap to the back of his head and awaited his comrade with hands on hips. Ovtcharov was snorting fury. He asked Zaitsev something. Zaitsev held up his index finger, clearly enjoying his success.
“Let me go!” said the young woman. Two soldiers were leading her out of the cellar. She was holding her right arm. Blood ran down her face from the bandage around her head. Zaitsev blocked their path, said something, and the soldiers let the woman go.
“Who are you?” Zaitsev said.
She ignored him and instead went over to Heller, who had stood up. “Why did you have to interfere like that?” she said. “That was my business and mine alone!”
“We were looking for Klepp, just like you,” he said.
“Just like me? That’s a laugh. Who do you think you are? Why haven’t you been arrested? You’re a filthy pig just like Klepp!” She screamed at the Red Army men now. “Go on, arrest this man. He’s just as much a murderer!”
Heller held out his hands to calm her. “That’s not true. Please.” If only he could figure out why she seemed so familiar.
Ovtcharov had drawn his pistol. He grabbed Heller’s arm. “SS?” he asked. “You SS?”
“No. Zaitsev, tell him it’s not true. You heard what Klepp said.”
Zaitsev turned away. “I have no idea what is true. You know this man Heller?” he asked the woman.
She went up to Heller and held her fist to his face, overcome with rage. “Yeah, I do, he’s a pig just like all the rest. And that one over there, that beast, he killed my parents.” She pointed at Klepp’s corpse. “But you took even that from me—even my revenge!” She was swaying now.
Heller was ready to catch her if she fainted. “But he was going to finish you off,” he said.
She only screamed at him. “You be quiet, you Nazi pig!” She started sobbing, then she sank to her knees. Ovtcharov gave an order, and the soldiers trained their guns on Heller.
“Listen to me. I’ve never been a Nazi,” Heller said. “I know you. Help
me remember: Where have I seen you?”
The woman looked up, and the blood ran down her nose and dripped from her chin.
It suddenly occurred to him. “You were in the interrogation room. With the Gestapo man. I was the one who knocked on the door.”
“Yeah, and what did you do about it? Did you help me?” the woman asked. “No! You simply left.”
Heller fell silent, staring at the ground. She was right.
Ovtcharov and Zaitsev started deliberating again, this time in a more peaceful tone. Zaitsev was looking worn down and barely objected anymore. Heller could guess what that meant: he had fulfilled a need for the political commissar and now wasn’t worth it to him.
“On ne fashist,” the young woman muttered.
She looked up and reached out for something to hold. “On ne fashist,” she repeated.
Zaitsev and Ovtcharov nodded at each other, yet neither offered her a hand. So Heller bent down and took her hand.
Ovtcharov was letting Heller go. He turned away and started ordering his men around.
Zaitsev came back over to Heller. “I will release that Uhlmann fellow if it makes you feel better.”
Heller gave him a half-hearted nod.
“This does not make you happy?” asked the Russian.
“I can’t get Magdalena Klepp out of my head. That one thing she said.”
Zaitsev made a face. “Come on, Heller. It’s all fine now. Can’t you ever be happy?”
He didn’t wait for Heller’s answer. He ordered his men back in the truck, climbed up, tapped his cap with two fingers, and Heller and the woman were left all alone.
“You have to help me; my arm is broken,” she said. “I didn’t even get a shot off at him. They’d already found me out. One of them held my arm on a rock and then stepped on it.” She looked at him. “What’s your name, anyway? And who are you?”
“Max Heller. Former detective inspector.”
“My name’s Constanze Weisshaupt. You’ll have to excuse me for back there. I got really angry.”
The Air Raid Killer (Max Heller, Dresden Detective Book 1) Page 23
