The March Fallen

by volker Kutscher

  Returning to Friedensplatz, it became clear that not everyone shared the former Engel Furniture store’s good fortune. Outside each store Rath passed, two or three SA officers were glueing the now familiar poster to display windows, some of which had also been painted with a Star of David. As yet no windows had been smashed. The Central Committee had explicitly spoken against property damage, but had been unforthcoming when it came to the topic of bodily harm.

  The boycott was meant to be revenge for the so-called Jewish atrocity propaganda in the foreign press. Seeing these SA men with their chin-straps and stern faces, defacing display windows with ink and posters, Rath understood why things were being written about Germany’s new government. It was all so tasteless, so repulsive, so unworthy of the Fatherland. He was starting to realise what Charly meant when she said the Nazis had stolen the country she called home.

  Some pedestrians gazed to the side in embarrassment and occasional disapproval. Most looked the other way.

  Just then Rath saw a woman enter a clothing store in spite of the unwanted attention of two SA officers, and thought perhaps the old Germany was still alive after all. He would have liked to follow suit, if only to show that not all Germans went along with this Nazi bullshit, but he had made himself conspicuous enough already. It was a ladies’ clothing store anyway.

  Moments later he had renewed cause for doubt. Passing a shoe shop, a poster in the display window caught the eye immediately, adorned as it was with the black-white-and-red of the imperial German flag, in the middle of which was a swastika and the words Christian Enterprise. Underneath that: Buy German Goods from German Shops! Combat League for Middle-Class Employees and Artisans.

  How quickly the Christian middle-classes had realised there was profit to be made from the travails of their Jewish competition.

  87

  Winter returned on Sunday morning. Sleet that smelled of cold, high winds; foul weather. For the first time since being transferred to this house, into the care of these men whose motives were still unclear, and who might yet turn out to be cops, Hannah appreciated her warm confines. None of them had revealed much. Nor had she asked them. Try as she might she simply couldn’t get the words out.

  The pain in her side had been agonising, worse than that in her arm. They had given her morphine from an infusion bottle next to the bed. Hannah recognised old Sister M immediately. Only she had made her final days in the Crow’s Nest bearable. Before the fire that changed everything.

  She could barely remember it now, only the warmth of the flames on that bitterly cold December night. She’d set the shack on fire while high, she told the court. She was high, she said, and mad, but it wasn’t true. The fire had been an attempt to free herself. To deliver her once cheerful, carefree father from his suffering, this bitter cripple who had lost the most essential part of himself in the no-man’s-land between the trenches. She had sought to erase the nightmare years in the Crow’s Nest, in the hope of achieving some new future. Only to be packed off to the madhouse, where she had bust out and almost been killed.

  Now, with her strength returning, she started to consider her future again, making plans and thinking about her next move. The first thing was to get out of here.

  She could make it to the window without assistance and, on a few occasions, had struck out, pulling the infusion bottle behind her. The gardens were surrounded by a high wall, with armed men posted everywhere. The police officer from a few days ago was still the only woman she’d seen, but all her questions had achieved was to tighten the knot in Hannah’s tongue. She couldn’t talk about Huckebein and the Crows and everything the bastards had done to her, nor the approval of the man in whose crippled, morphine-addicted body her father had once resided. Her father who had gone permanently missing in action, and would never have allowed such things to occur.

  She was being held in a kind of fortress, better guarded than the sealed unit in Dalldorf. If her hunch was right, this was a criminal’s hideout.

  The doctor who never wore a white coat, the friendly but inscrutable man so adept with stab wounds, was none other than Johann Marlow. Never in her life had she imagined she’d see Dr M. in the flesh, and she’d spent the last few days racking her brains over what business this policewoman could have with him. He was no ordinary criminal, that was for sure. Compared with the misery of the Crow’s Nest, the tawdriness of begging and petty theft, this was a whole new world; a world in which, contrary to popular belief, crime appeared to pay handsomely.

  Hearing the tottering sound of high-heeled shoes she knew she had visitors. As the footsteps turned into the corridor she heard low voices, and a knock. The door opened and Fritze peered cautiously inside. He took a few steps towards her bed. ‘How are you?’ he asked.

  She took him in her arms and hugged him tight. ‘Better,’ she rasped. ‘Better.’

  The knot in her tongue, the bung in her throat, were gone, and here was someone who wanted nothing from her but to be near.

  ‘I was worried you’d die,’ he said, when she let go.

  ‘Without you, I might have done. Was it you who brought me to this palace?’

  ‘Friends of mine.’

  ‘The house belongs to Dr M.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. Tell me about these friends.’

  ‘They’re cops, only different somehow. Nice. I’m living with them.’

  Hannah sat upright. ‘The cops had me brought here?’

  ‘Not the cops. Two cops. I’m telling you, they’re different. They took care of everything. The man trying to strangle you was some killer.’

  Hannah felt her throat constricting. ‘Huckebein.’

  ‘That’s not his name.’

  ‘In the Crow’s Nest he . . .’ She couldn’t carry on.

  ‘There’s no need to be afraid. He’s dead.’

  She reached for his hand, knowing what it meant to have killed someone. Several people. Even people you despised.

  ‘I just wanted him to stop,’ Fritze said. ‘I kept stabbing until he did.’

  ‘Let’s talk about something else. Do you know what the plan is?’

  ‘I’m to start school, they say.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘My aunt Charly, and Gereon. The two cops.’

  ‘They’re sending you back into care?’

  ‘No, she gave her word. They’re looking for something else. A family or something.’

  ‘What about me?’

  She hadn’t meant to say it, but it came out with the tears she could no longer hold back. All of a sudden she felt more alone than ever before, and she had spent a hell of a lot of time feeling alone.

  Fritze shrugged. ‘The main thing is to get yourself healthy again.’

  ‘I am healthy.’

  ‘Hannah, listen,’ he said. ‘Charly wants to ask you a few questions, and . . .’

  ‘I know,’ she interrupted, a little too sharply. ‘She’s been here already.’

  ‘I mean, don’t you want to talk to her, she’s nice you know . . .’

  ‘Sometimes I just can’t. I want to, but I can’t.’

  He held her hand. ‘I’ll stay with you if you like.’

  ‘I was wondering why she’s been outside all this time.’

  At that moment the door opened and the policewoman came in.

  Hannah didn’t understand. Moments ago she’d been talking a blue streak, but no sooner did she lay eyes on the woman than the lump in her throat returned.

  ‘Hello, Hannah,’ the woman said. Aunt Charly. ‘You look a lot better than the last time I saw you. How are you?’

  ‘Fine.’ She squeezed the word out.

  The woman sat by her bedside. ‘I don’t want to push you, but there’s something I need to know about the man who was trying to kill you.’

  The lump in her throat grew bigger. The woman was talking about Huckebein. Why did everyone always want to talk about him? It was just like back in court.

  ‘Do you think we ca
n manage?’ The woman smiled and said, ‘Listen, we’ll do it like this. I’ll ask my questions in such a way that you need only nod or shake your head.’

  Hannah nodded.

  ‘The man who was trying to kill you . . . his name is Heinrich Wosniak?’

  Yes.

  ‘When I showed you that photo in Dalldorf, of the corpse from Nollendorfplatz, you realised it wasn’t Wosniak, didn’t you?’

  Yes again. Answering like this made her feel almost euphoric.

  ‘You recognised Gerhard Krumbiegel, even while I spent the whole time talking about Wosniak.’

  Yes.

  ‘Did you realise Wosniak had killed Krumbiegel in order to fake his own death?’

  Hannah wasn’t sure if she’d realised anything that day, only that the name Wosniak meant Huckebein was back in Berlin, and that something couldn’t be right if Kartoffel had been found dead in Huckebein’s coat.

  ‘I’m certain that’s why he meant to kill you. Because you were a potential threat.’

  In truth she didn’t care why Huckebein meant to kill her, the main thing was that he no longer could.

  ‘One more question, then I’ll leave you both in peace,’ the woman said and fetched the photograph from her bag. ‘Do you know this man?’

  No.

  ‘His name is Achim von Roddeck. Perhaps you saw him with Wosniak, or he came to the Crow’s Nest . . .’

  ‘No,’ Hannah said, surprised by her own voice. She had never seen the blond, arrogant-looking prig in lieutenant’s uniform. Such a man could not have been in the Crow’s Nest. It had been others who dwelled there, former front soldiers who, time and again, had been thrust into battle by people like this lieutenant, and who, crippled emotionally and physically by the experience, had been condemned to beggarhood when the war came to an end.

  ‘Good,’ the policewoman said. ‘I suspect they didn’t make contact again until after the Crow’s Nest burned down. Perhaps it was the fire that told him his faithful Heinrich was also in Berlin . . .’

  As the woman reached the door Hannah managed to ask the question that had been on the tip of her tongue all this time. ‘What’s going to happen to me?’

  ‘Don’t worry. You won’t be going anywhere near Dalldorf again. I won’t allow it.’

  She sounded so certain that Hannah believed her. Falling back on her pillow, she took Fritze’s hand and, for the first time in life, thought that, just maybe, everything was going to be all right.

  88

  Rath stood by the open patio door and watched Kirie romp around the wet garden with a big stick in her mouth. She brought it to Johann Marlow, who hurled it across the lawn for the game to begin again. Charly joined him to watch.

  ‘Did she talk?’ Rath asked.

  ‘After a fashion.’

  ‘And, is it Wosniak?’

  ‘Yes. He tried to kill her in Dalldorf, but she defended herself and fled. She recognised Krumbiegel from the crime scene photo and must have sensed something was up . . .’

  ‘Why didn’t she say at the time? She could have spared us a lot of hassle.’

  Charly looked at him reproachfully. ‘Besides revenge for the fire, it could be the reason he wanted her dead. She was the only witness who could expose the fraud. Dalldorf was his first attempt. The second time, in town, she gave him the slip. The third time he was the one who copped it.’

  ‘Fine, but it doesn’t tell us why Wosniak killed his former comrades.’

  ‘Shame we can no longer hear his own take on the matter.’

  ‘Then perhaps we’ll get more out of the man who hired him.’

  ‘Roddeck?’

  ‘I’m almost certain he’s behind it. It all fits too well together. Whenever we begin to question his fanciful story about Engel, another dead body appears to back him up.’

  ‘Murder, in order to prove a theory? Well, that would be unusual. I wonder if Gennat’s come across that as a motive.’

  ‘I think it’s best we leave Gennat out of this.’

  She agreed, and Rath savoured their keeping a secret together. The only thing Charly had ever failed to share with Gennat was their engagement, but it hadn’t taken long for Buddha to find out.

  ‘Seriously though, perhaps he has something to hide and is ridding himself of troublesome witnesses.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Rath mumbled. ‘His old comrades, you mean? Who know a secret from the war?’

  ‘Precisely. Something that casts Roddeck in a negative light.’

  ‘Why eliminate them now?’

  ‘Perhaps there was a reason for them to be quiet, and this reason no longer exists. Something like that . . .’

  ‘This is fun. I’m beginning to understand why Gennat sets such great store by you.’

  ‘Beginning to understand?’

  ‘But for now it’s just speculation, and where does Krumbiegel’s murder fit into all this?’

  Charly had an answer to that one, too. ‘An identity switch. Wosniak needed to disappear and, since his old friend had been equally badly disfigured in the Bülowplatz arson and had no next of kin, he made the perfect victim.’

  ‘Meanwhile Roddeck could pin it all on Engel, the murdering Jew, already blamed for the heinous excesses of Operation Alberich.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Even if it was him, how are we ever going to prove it?’

  ‘I don’t think we can.’

  ‘We can prove that he lied in the morgue. We have Krumbiegel’s photograph.’

  ‘Pretty thin, don’t you think? He’ll worm his way out of it.’ Charly made a sceptical face. ‘The way I see it, we have nothing. At least, nothing we can use in court.’

  One of the guards signalled to Marlow from the library. Kirie trotted after the gangster as though she were his. The men discussed something briefly and looked over towards Rath and Charly before going inside.

  ‘We can’t pretend nothing’s happened,’ Rath said.

  ‘What do you have in mind?’

  ‘I don’t know, but we can’t simply stand by.’

  ‘I tell you now, there’s no way you’re dragging the kids into this.’

  ‘Nothing could be further from my mind. I just can’t bear to watch Achim von Roddeck make as if he’s the perfect fit for the new age, when really he’s a lying, murdering, arsehole.’

  ‘Maybe that’s why he’s such a good fit.’

  ‘Do you have to always make things political?’

  ‘Life is political. Everything we do is political.’

  ‘Everything you do. All I want is to make sure killers don’t go free.’

  ‘That’s just it. Once you’ve set your mind on something you can’t help yourself, and hang the consequences. You’re taking this business with Roddeck too personally. You take everything too personally!’

  ‘That’s the reason I became a police officer,’ he said. ‘Yes, I take it personally when someone commits murder, or incites others, and thinks he can get away with it. It’s the getting away with it I can’t stand.’

  ‘Our killer’s dead,’ said Charly. ‘He won’t be murdering anyone else and, if I’ve understood correctly, his victims were hardly saints, not even Krumbiegel who treated Hannah like a slave.’

  ‘No, they weren’t saints, but the biggest sinner is still alive. Strutting about the place like the hottest literary property in town. I’m sorry, but I can’t allow it. The man belongs in jail.’

  ‘We’re going around in circles here. It won’t work. You don’t have to have studied law to see that.’

  ‘You don’t? Well, there’s a relief. Poor drop-out such as myself . . .’

  ‘Gereon . . . I didn’t mean it like that.’

  Before their conversation could deteriorate further Kirie came pitter-pattering over, and let both of them pet her. Kirie never took sides. Marlow followed. ‘Nice dog,’ he said.

  ‘I hope you’re not planning on keeping her.’

  ‘You needn’t worry there.’ Marlow handed him a sheet of paper. ‘Thi
s just came through.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A radio transmission from Police Headquarters.’

  ‘You listen to police radio?’ Charly asked.

  ‘I need to know what’s happening in Berlin,’ Marlow said, and pointed to the message. ‘I think this concerns the two of you more than me.’

  Rath looked at the paper. Charly had already begun to read.

  Security Service Berlin: notice to all frontier posts for the arrest of Dr Bernhard Weiss, ex deputy police commissioner, born 30/7/80, Berlin, formerly resident at Steinplatz 3, Berlin Charlottenburg. Description: 165 to 170cm, stocky, dark-grey hair, glasses, typical Jewish appearance, long nose, toothbrush moustache. Confirm upon arrest. Police Commissioner, Berlin, Sect. 1A.

  Section 1A, the Political Police, the department Bernhard Weiss helped establish, and even led in the years following the war, had put a warrant out for his arrest.

  89

  The man was sitting in exactly the same spot, white stick beside him, hat and cardboard sign in front. Sub-zero temperatures hadn’t deterred him in February. Today he was here just the same. With the Rothstein report submitted, Rath had put in for the rest of the week off, which Buddha had grudgingly approved. At some point he would have to use up the overtime he had accrued before the Reichstag fire, and with no new investigations running this was the perfect opportunity. He turned up his collar.

  Reaching the elevated railway Rath climbed a few stairs, turned and descended slowly, keeping an eye on the site where, around a month ago now, he had collected the soiled canvasses. The pillar where Gerhard Krumbiegel, and not Heinrich Wosniak, had been found.

  At the bottom he crouched beside the beggar and tried to adopt his perspective. Though partially unsighted by a steel column, he would have an excellent view of the crime scene. The man wore dark glasses, and from the side Rath could see his eyelids twitch as they blinked. Rath stood in front of him. The stench was unbearable.