The Basel Killings

by Hansjörg Schneider

  “That wasn’t a man from Lesser Basel.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Casali smiled, a nice, charming smile. “It’s merely a hunch. Unfortunately I don’t actually know anything, otherwise I would take action.”

  Hunkeler felt weary and despondent. It just came over him out of the dark November night. He would have liked to have taken action himself, but he knew almost nothing either. He recalled the yellow roses in the front garden. He would have liked to have one now, he could have given it to Angel.

  “There’s nothing sadder than a brothel with no customers,” he said.

  The next morning he parked out by Allschwil Pond and went up to the nature reserve. Single shots rang out from the pistol-shooting gallery. There was no one to be seen round the caravans. Only the Căldăraru family’s dog was there and it didn’t quite know whether to growl or wag its tail.

  Up in the nature reserve Hunkeler sat down on the little bench. There were lots of flowers where Eva Căldăraru had lain, roses and asters and others he didn’t know the names of. They had been put in vases or laid down by children from the Allschwil schools. There were candles among them, two still burning. Beside them were letters of sympathy, written in red, blue, green crayon. Dear Eva, he read, I’m keeping all my fingers crossed for you. Come and see us when you’ve recovered. And: My dear friend Eva, please stay with us.

  He looked out across the water, which seemed to have a faint mist rising from it. A pair of ducks swam past along the opposite bank, the female in front, behind her the male with the crest on its head.

  At twelve he was in the Birseckerhof waiting for Frau Hebeisen. He’d studied the menu and decided on tripe with beans and Parmesan, but he wasn’t going to order yet. He’d read through the papers, the BaZ and the Zurich rag. There was nothing in them to arouse his interest.

  She arrived at half past twelve. She was a lady of about thirty, very slim and pale. She was wearing stockings with coloured stripes, which she’d presumably knitted herself. She was also wearing horn-rimmed spectacles that concealed her eyes. She immediately apologized for the delay, she’d unfortunately missed the train she’d intended to take. She ordered tomato salad and camomile tea.

  “Tripe,” she said, “how can anyone eat something as revolting as that? Just looking at it makes me want to spew.”

  “Then you’d better not watch.” She sat there, very upright; she had two severe lines going down to the bridge of her nose.

  “Right then, what’s this all about?”

  “I told you that on the telephone. We’re looking for a serial killer.”

  “What has that to do with Rosa Minder?”

  “She was the mother of the murder victim Barbara Amsler.”

  “But she presumably had no immediate connection with the murder?”

  “No,” Hunkeler said.

  “Right then. We’ll leave Frau Minder out for the moment. What does Thomas Garzoni have to do with your serial murderer?”

  “That’s precisely what I’d like to know.”

  She wrinkled her brow, the two lines became even deeper.

  “I’d like to hear a plausible reason. These files are very problematic.”

  “Why are they? What happened back then has long since been in the public domain.”

  “In the first place, the Travellers had to fight for years to get access to them. They were given that. Then the umbrella organization for Travellers decided that the files were not to be published, out of consideration for people who knew nothing of their past and didn’t want to know. There are people who don’t know that they were taken away from a Traveller mother. Those people have to be protected.”

  “How is it possible to withhold knowledge of someone’s own mother from them?”

  She took the teabag out of the glass that the waiter had brought.

  “A lot has happened in this business,” she said, “that people today consider impossible. The whole problem has not yet been sorted out. There’s still a lot that has been swept under the carpet that ought to come to light. And it was very highly respected people who were responsible for it. There are various parties who are trying to keep those respected people out of the discussion.”

  “That is a point that surprises me. Why have those responsible not been brought to account?”

  “The federal ministers Pilet-Golaz and Motta and the later Lieutenant General Ulrich Wille were all on the committee of Pro Juventute, which partially financed the babysnatching. They were such highly respected people that they couldn’t be called to account. We can’t do that even today.”

  “But baby-snatching is a criminal act,” Hunkeler cried.

  The waiter brought the tomato and the tripe.

  “I’m sorry,” Hunkeler said, “for shouting like that.”

  She giggled merrily.

  “You are a one. Nobody would think you’d been working for the police for fifty years.”

  “Not quite, just thirty-two.”

  He stuffed a forkful of tripe in his mouth.

  “Don’t slurp like that,” she said. “You’re bolting your food. It’s revolting.”

  “There aren’t just beans in it. There’s also celery. And a shot of white wine. Together with the Parmesan it’s a symphony of flavours.”

  “Then eat it just the way you like.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “Where are the files?”

  “They’re in Bern. But I’ve learned the important bits off by heart.”

  He spluttered. Then he took his glass of wine to wash it down.

  “You’re a strange old bird.”

  “And you’re eating like a pig.”

  He finished all the tripe on his plate then cleared up the tomato sauce with bread.

  “Fair enough,” he said. “Let’s start then. I’ll presumably not get to hear anything about Rosa Minder then. Is that the way things are?”

  She shook her head firmly.

  “That’s not a problem,” he said. “I know what I need to about Barbara Amsler. Grew up in Schinznach Dorf, difficult early years, father a farmer and wine-grower. Ran away from home when young, clearly a wild thing. Later on became a prostitute in Basel. All that’s clear as far as it goes.”

  She nodded, pushing away her plate, on which there were still several slices of tomato.

  “What about Bernhard Schirmer?” he asked.

  “Born 1940, in the Muri/Aargau District Hospital. Mother unmarried. After the birth was sent to the care home of the former convent. Bernhard was sent to an adoptive family in Hägglingen/Aargau. At three ended up in the St Benedikt children’s home in Hermetschwil/Aargau. Run by Benedictine nuns of the Melchtal Institute. Purpose of the home: to bring up and educate poor children in need (boys and girls) in the spirit of Christian love according to the principle of the founder of the order: pray and work. Room for 120 boarders. School education in the home. At sixteen started an apprenticeship as a car mechanic in Wohlen/Aargau. Completed the apprenticeship at twenty. The following four years not accounted for. From twenty-five training as a truck driver in Liestal. Followed by work as a truck driver for a haulage company in Basel. Regular trips to Turkey. The file ends in 1971.”

  “So what should be secret about that life? The man seems to have made a decent show of it.”

  “Don’t ask such stupid questions. I need to concentrate.”

  “Right then. The Thomas Garzoni file, please.”

  She closed her eyes and recited off by heart what she had learned.

  “Born 1941 in Lucerne Cantonal Hospital. Mother’s maiden name Waser, married to Adrian Gerzner.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Don’t keep interrupting. So, mother married to an Adrian Gerzner. After birth assigned to the foster home of the former St Ulrich Monastery. At the time of his birth his father was in the Herdern/Steckborn District work camp. That institution was a place for men who had become temporarily unemployed through no fault of their own – an institution, that is, where thos
e who were in danger of sinking into a life of idleness and vagrancy could be reaccustomed to an ordered way of life. On entry each colonist had to undergo an inspection of body and clothes.”

  “Blah-blah-blah. Can’t you just get down to the main point?”

  She opened her eyes and gave him a very severe look. Then she started reciting again.

  “Thomas Garzoni was sent to a foster family in Sursee/Lucerne. At eight he was sent to the Sonnenberg/Lucerne reformatory, an institution run by three teachers. Those admitted had to be Swiss, or homeless children in need of moral improvement for whom a Swiss canton bore responsibility. They had to be physically healthy and mentally able to cope with an education. Lessons in handicraft and housework. At sixteen started an apprenticeship as an installation engineer in Emmenbrücke/Lucerne. At twenty completed his apprenticeship. Basic and NCO training in Brugg/Aargau with the Pioneers, who specialized in river-crossing. At twenty-three his father found him. Moved to Herznach/Aargau. Worked in his father’s business, a filling station in Herznach/Aargau that also disposed of used oil. 1966 father died. 1967 moved to Basel. Changed surname from Gerzner to Garzoni. The file ends in 1972.”

  “Thank you,” Hunkeler said. “Will you join me in a coffee now?”

  “Of course. But decaffeinated, please.”

  He ordered two coffees.

  “Is Gerzner not a Yenish name?”

  “Yes, of course. Waser too. Otherwise he wouldn’t be in our files.”

  “Have you any idea why he might have changed his name?”

  “I couldn’t say exactly, but I do have a hunch. Perhaps he no longer could or wanted to stick with his Yenish origins. Could I please have your sugar?”

  “Why?”

  “Because otherwise the coffee will taste too bitter for me. Basically, I don’t like coffee.”

  “Oh, sorry.”

  He watched her stir four lumps of sugar into her coffee.

  “Can you imagine that Travellers might have a longing for a settled existence?”

  She took a drink, she nodded.

  “The longing of settled folk for the adventure of travelling corresponds to the longing of Travellers for the normality of a settled existence.”

  The lady really was astonishing. Hunkeler took a sip of his bitter coffee.

  “Can you imagine a Traveller suddenly beginning to hate his own origins?”

  Again the two lines over the bridge of her nose appeared. She was thinking. Then she looked up and scrutinized Hunkeler through her horn-rimmed spectacles.

  “Oh right. So you think Thomas Garzoni could be the culprit?”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “How does that work? Are you at all allowed to express such a terrible suspicion publicly?”

  “I haven’t expressed anything.”

  She emptied her cup, then put it down in a decisive gesture.

  “After everything the young Thomas Gerzner must have experienced with his foster parents and in the reformatory,” she said, “I can well imagine that he was brought to hate himself and his origins. What had he been hearing all the time? That he came from an inferior family. That he belonged to the work-shy riff-raff. That he was scoundrel, a vagabond. That his parents, grandparents and great-grandparents had thieved and stolen like magpies. That he absolutely had to make himself a better person by praying and working. It is quite possible that these reproaches and demands became internalized. A child cannot be so self-confident as to be able to resist these reproaches in the long run. Perhaps that was why he wanted to get rid of his name and background.”

  Hunkeler nodded. He found the lady immensely impressive.

  “How ever did you find that position in the Central Archives?” he asked. “And why did you take it?”

  “I’m writing a book.”

  “What about?”

  “About the relatively recent phenomenon of a settled existence among Europeans. It only started in the New Stone Age, when the shepherds and nomads became farmers. They learned back then that you could sow and harvest. For that, however, they had to wait for the seeds to sprout and ripen until they could be harvested. And for the harvest they had to build houses in which to store it. That meant a settled existence. But even today there are still nomads, for example the shepherds in the Swiss Alps, who founded the Confederation. From spring to autumn they follow their cattle from one grazing area to the next. Down in the valley over the winter, up to the alpine pastures in the late spring. It’s called transhumance. With my book I want to prove that the ancient culture of the Swiss is a culture of Travellers.”

  Hunkeler grinned with delight. He beamed at the lady. “I’ll buy that book,” he said. “And I’ll read it.”

  “I studied history and philosophy. During the first semesters I believed everything we were told. Then we had a seminar on the Travellers in Bern Canton. The writer Sergius Golowin came and told us about his research. That was an eye-opener for me. I realized that nothing at all was right about the view of history we were taught at the university. I gave up the university at once. And now I want to write this book. We have to tear this bourgeois-patriarchal view of history apart, we women have to do that. You men can’t, because you’re all a product of precisely that bourgeoispatriarchal upbringing.”

  “That could well be,” he said, “but we can’t do anything about it.”

  She gave him a very severe look through her hornrimmed glasses. Then she glanced at her watch. “Oh my goodness, my train’s leaving. I’m always getting there too late.”

  She picked up her bag and ran out. He followed her to say goodbye. He saw her running up to the station.

  He went across the Heuwaage to the high-rise building and took the elevator up to Harry’s sauna. First of all he lay down in the rest room to digest what he’d eaten and learned. He fell asleep at once.

  Later he had two sessions in the steam room. He enjoyed the heat, the sweat coming out of his pores. Then the cold in the pool, the warm shower, shampooing his hair. He was pleased that he could afford that luxury, he, Peter Hunkeler, presumably a product of bourgeois-patriarchal miseducation.

  He went up onto the roof terrace. The town was once more enveloped in fog. Just a few headlights could be seen up there.

  He settled on one of the damp loungers and thought of his mother. He’d loved her above all else, he still loved her. She came from a village in the Schenkenberg valley and had taken a course for women teachers in Aarau. At twenty she had returned to the valley, to Kasteln Castle, where there was a home for problem children. She had told him about the boys who were locked up there. About the bed-wetters whose sheets were hung up in the playground. And the bedwetters had always had to stand by their wet sheets during the break. The poor boys, she’d said.

  He wondered if among them there’d been a few boys from Children of the Road, who’d been taken away from their parents. Whether his mother had known about that. He couldn’t imagine that, surely she wouldn’t have gone along with it. Or would she? Perhaps she’d been happy just to find a position as teacher and hadn’t asked any questions. Moreover, she had never, at any point in her life, had any power at all, not even over her children. His father had had the power. It was the men who had had the power. They had set up Pro Juventute and Children of the Road. They’d taken the children away from their mothers. Hunkeler could not imagine a woman being capable of that. Or would they be? Had Frau Hebeisen not said that the St Benedict children’s home was run by Benedictine nuns?

  He lay on his lounger and looked up into the fog. He thought about Thomas Gerzner, who had changed his name.

  At ten in the evening he went into the Billiards Centre and sat down at the regulars’ table. Laufenburger was there. He was asleep and in his lap the Siamese cat was asleep too. Beside him were Nana, little Cowboy with his dog on the floor, Rentschler the pensioner, Senn the second-hand bookseller and Joseph the Bavarian, alone this time.

  Standing at the bar were the two well-dressed Albanian gentleme
n. At the back on the left were a few couples, on the right the billiards players. An evening like most in November, dull and stale, it was the month of depression.

  The second-hand bookseller was moaning about the department stores that were ruining the small, honest stores in the quarters outside the city centre. Joseph the Bavarian was cursing women in general, pensioner Rentschler complaining about pensions in particular.

  The two Albanians at the bar seemed to be nervous. They kept looking across at the entrance, as if they were expecting someone.

  Once again Hunkeler was asking himself why he was there anyway. He knew the conversations off by heart, there was nothing new to be heard. He didn’t want to get drunk, he didn’t feel hungry at all. Anyway, there would have been nothing to eat apart from a packet of peanuts from the bar. So why was he sitting there as unmoving as a raven and mute as a fish? Because he couldn’t stand the lonely waiting in his empty apartment, the prattle from the TV, the darkness on the ceiling.

  Shortly after eleven shouts could be heard from outside. A man seemed to be calling for help in a foreign language. Swiss German curses could be heard mingling with it.

  Hunkeler was up on his feet at once. He rushed to the exit. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that the Albanians were also heading for the way out. He turned round and showed his gun.

  “The two of you will stay in here. And please take your hands out of your pockets.”

  They stopped. Slowly they took their hands out of their pockets.

  Hunkeler went out into the street. Richard was standing on the pavement with a young man. He’d grasped him from behind and was trying to choke him with his left elbow. It was the man Hunkeler had seen coming out of the ladies’ room. Little Niggi was standing beside them and punched him several times in the belly.

  “You bastard,” he said, “you fucker, you filthy swine.”

  “Stop,” Hunkeler said, “stop hitting him. What’s the problem?”

  “That’s the one,” Niggi said, “I recognized him at once. He was the one who set off the tear-gas grenade.”