The Fatherland Files

by volker Kutscher

  ‘If Berlin is happy, why are you in such a bad mood?’

  ‘Kowalski,’ Rath said. ‘Do you know what a death knock is?’

  The assistant detective blanched.

  Gustav Wengler, on the other hand, remained composed. More composed, at least, than Rath had dared hope. It was almost as if he had anticipated the news. They had collected him from his employees’ table inside the marquee, where celebrations were in full swing. Only once they were at some remove from the hullabaloo did Rath come out with the news. He conveyed the message as per Gennat’s training: Don’t blurt it out, but don’t wait too long either.

  ‘Sad news,’ he began. ‘Your brother in Berlin . . .’ Gustav Wengler reached for the cigarette case in his pocket and fumbled out a cigarette. He had understood. ‘I’m sorry, Herr Wengler, but your brother is dead. He was killed on duty.’

  Wengler placed the cigarette between his lips and checked his pockets for a light or matches, finding neither. Rath gave him a light, lit an Overstolz himself, and explained when and where Sergeant Major Siegbert Wengler had died.

  Gennat’s next piece of advice was: Don’t quiz them straightaway. Let them talk if they want to. If not, fill in the silence yourself.

  Wengler didn’t want to talk.

  ‘We suspect it’s the same man who has your former employees on his conscience.’

  Wengler took a deep drag. ‘Artur Radlewski?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s how it looks. Only, there’s still no trace of him. Seems the man can make himself invisible.’

  ‘Killed on duty, you say?’

  Rath wanted to spare Wengler the details for now. ‘I’m very sorry to have to break the news at a celebration that already has unhappy associations for you.’

  Kowalski kept himself in the background the whole time. Rath could see the situation made him uneasy. No wonder, he had known Siegbert Wengler as a police officer, and even ten years ago his brother Gustav would have been an important town figure.

  ‘We need to ask you a few questions, Herr Wengler,’ Rath said.

  ‘I understand. You’re only doing your job.’

  ‘We have some names here. Men who were also implicated in the moonshining scandal. I’d like you to help us find them. We need to warn them, and, if possible, protect them. So that no one else dies.’

  Wengler took the list Kowalski handed him. ‘Assmann is in Berlin,’ he said. ‘As for the others, let me ask around.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Rath waited until Wengler had pocketed the list before posing his next question. ‘Your brother – is it possible he suspected he was in danger?’

  ‘We didn’t talk much, at least not in the last few years.’ Wengler shook his head. ‘Damn it. How can someone just cease to exist like that?’

  ‘Did you know your brother had recently moved?’

  ‘He’s no longer in Schöneberg?’

  ‘No. I’d hoped you might be able to provide his new address. Your brother doesn’t appear to have told anyone where he was moving. If I didn’t know better I’d say he was trying to hide – even if he appeared for duty each day as if nothing had happened.’

  Wengler drew on his cigarette and gazed thoughtfully into the middle distance, towards the war memorial and the Treuburgers drinking themselves blind on Luisenhöhe Distillery produce. ‘You think he moved because he felt threatened?’

  ‘He probably felt safer on duty.’

  ‘Clearly he was wrong.’

  ‘Can you tell us who your brother was friendly with? People with whom he might have shared his new address.’

  ‘Siegbert was never one for friends.’ Wengler stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Now if you would please excuse me. I’d like to be alone.’

  Rath and Kowalski gazed after him as he made his way down to the shore, alone with himself and his thoughts. Suddenly the great man appeared rather lonely.

  56

  Manfred Unger sat in his office behind the glass pane, watching Charly wide-eyed as she entered the central kitchen four or five hours late in the company of a lone man. After a moment to process what was happening, he rushed to the door and flung it wide open. ‘Who the hell do you think you are!’ he shouted. ‘Swanning in like this. Do you realise what time it is? Collect your papers, and get out!’

  ‘We’ll be on our way soon enough, Herr Unger.’ Lange showed his identification, and suddenly the head chef appeared to twig. ‘Only, you’ll be coming with us.’

  ‘On what grounds?’

  ‘How about multiple extortion? I would ask you to come quietly. It’s not in your interests to make a scene.’

  ‘But . . .’ Unger gestured towards the central kitchen, his realm. ‘The work here . . .’

  ‘You needn’t worry on that score, Herr Unger,’ Charly said. ‘There are plenty of people who’d do anything to work at Haus Vaterland.’

  He gawped at her, still apparently unaware of her role. He looked at Lange. ‘Did that little bitch report me? Don’t believe a word she says. Fucking Sarotti-sweetheart.’

  ‘I’d advise you to choose your words more carefully,’ Lange said. ‘Little bitch is an inappropriate way to describe a CID officer.’

  ‘Pardon me?’ Unger stood open-mouthed, looking unusually stupid.

  ‘Fräulein Ritter here is a CID cadet,’ Lange explained.

  ‘What’s the world coming to?’ Unger said, shaking his head. ‘Women police officers!’

  ‘You’d do well to get used to it. You’ll be seeing rather a lot of Fräulein Ritter in the coming days.’

  ‘It won’t be long before we have a woman minister. Chancellor, even, knowing these Social Democrats.’

  ‘Keep this up, Herr Unger, and I’ll have a squad of uniform officers cuff you and turn your office upside down.’ Lange took a couple of official-looking documents from his pocket. ‘These search and arrest warrants give me every right.’ He smiled at the chef. ‘So, how about we tone things down a notch, and wrap this up as discreetly as possible.’

  Unger said nothing more. They closed the door and showed him to a chair. Lange took up position while Charly filled two cardboard boxes with files, and the contents of Unger’s desk. The man threw her a venomous glance. Through the glass pane, she could see that just about every kitchen employee had realised that something was up. They carried on as before, but continued to look furtively in Unger’s direction.

  Lange took one of the heavy boxes, and gestured for Unger to take the other.

  ‘Why would I do that?’

  ‘Very well,’ Lange said. ‘Fräulein Ritter? Put a call through to the 16th precinct and request assistance with a defiant suspect, and with carrying boxes.’

  She reached for the receiver and was on the verge of dialling when Unger had second thoughts. He lifted the box sulkily from the desk. She held the door open and they left the office, encountering a fat man at the time clock who was putting on his chef’s hat. Unger stared at him.

  ‘Fritzsche? What are you doing here?’

  The fat man smiled in embarrassment. ‘Director Fleischer called to say I’d be standing in for the day.’

  ‘I think it’ll be longer than that,’ Lange said.

  Carrying his cardboard box in front of him as they left the central kitchen, Manfred Unger looked like an employee who had just been given the sack.

  57

  By now the atmosphere was far removed from the solemn patriotism of the morning speeches. People were laughing and having a good time, while the first inebriates stared into space or began weaving their way home. Soon a fight would break out, and new couples would form. Devoid of all the nationalist bombast, this was just another run-of-the-mill public festival. Behind the war memorial, on the bridge leading over the light railway platform, the celebrations were no louder than a distant murmur.

  Rath tapped an Overstolz against the lid of his cigarette case and gazed over the sports ground towards the lake and public baths. He had sent Kowalski to remind old Adamek of their agreement, and was glad to ha
ve a minute to himself. Informing a person that a relative, or friend, had died, sometimes in violent circumstances, was a part of the job he despised – even if that person was as slippery as Gustav Wengler. He threw the match onto the railway tracks.

  A voice called out behind him, and he gave a start. ‘Inspector, do you have a moment?’ Maria Cofalka, the librarian, stood looking at him, appearing altogether less shy – and sober – than before. ‘If it suits you, of course . . .’

  ‘Absolutely.’ He tried to sound friendly. ‘Is it to do with Artur Radlewski?’

  ‘You could say that.’ Maria Cofalka smiled and suddenly appeared ten years younger. Probably the same ten years added by her bun. ‘Karl tells me you can be trusted. Herr Rammoser, I mean.’

  ‘I’m honoured. Is there something you’d like to tell me in confidence?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ she said. ‘What do you make of Herr Wengler?’

  ‘In my line of work it doesn’t matter what I make of someone. What matters is what they’ve done, and what you can tell me.’

  ‘You’re probably right. What did Wengler want to speak with you about just now?’

  ‘You were watching?’

  ‘I just happened to see the pair of you strolling through the park. Was it something important?’

  ‘You’ll understand that I can’t go into detail. Only, it wasn’t Wengler who wanted to speak with me. I had bad news for him.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ She seemed surprised. ‘His brother?’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘You suspect Artur of killing these moonshiners, don’t you? The ones responsible for his mother’s death.’ Rath nodded. ‘That’s not his style, believe me. Artur has always let Wengler’s moonshiners go about their business in peace. Even though they brew and smuggle their rotgut in his forest.’

  ‘They’re not Wengler’s moonshiners, though, are they? Gustav Wengler has nothing to do with all that.’

  ‘That’s certainly the impression he likes to convey but, Inspector, you shouldn’t believe everything Gustav Wengler tells you.’

  ‘You don’t like him very much, do you?’

  ‘I have my reasons.’

  ‘Perhaps you should enlighten me.’

  ‘That’s why I’m here.’ She looked around to check no one was listening. Whatever she had to say, it was costing her a lot of effort. ‘Don’t believe Wengler’s stories, Inspector. About his fiancée and her death. It’s lies, all of it.’

  ‘Let’s head down to the lake. We can talk in private there.’

  ‘Apologies, Inspector. I’m not in the habit of speaking ill of people.’ The noise grew ever quieter the nearer they approached the lake. ‘It’s just . . .I have the feeling no one here can separate good from evil any more.’

  ‘And Gustav Wengler is evil?’

  She agreed without a moment’s hesitation. ‘Gustav Wengler is a hypocrite. He sent an innocent man to jail. The Polack didn’t kill Anna von Mathée.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The Polack. The great Polish agitator Wengler never tires of mentioning in his speeches.’

  ‘Polack, eh? Sounds like he might be onto something.’

  ‘That’s just the name he was given by Wengler and his men. His real name was Polakowski.’

  ‘Was?’

  ‘He died trying to escape from Wartenburg Jail. He’s buried in the cemetery over by the lake.’

  ‘The Catholic cemetery . . .’

  ‘Being Catholic was his first mistake – alongside his Polish name. At least in the eyes of the Homeland Service. His second was to want no part in the anti-Polish frenzy of twelve years ago.’

  ‘He didn’t belong to the Agitation Bureau?’

  ‘He was a doctor. A young registrar who worked at the hospital over on Graudenzer Strasse.’

  ‘A doctor who spoke up for the Polish cause . . .’

  ‘I’m afraid you’ve let yourself be taken in, Inspector, just like everyone else. Jakub Polakowski didn’t speak up for the Polish cause; he spoke up for Polish people.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Go on.’

  ‘Back in those days brawls were a common occurrence. On one occasion alongside a member of the Agitation Bureau, one of Wengler’s goons was hurt. Lamkau.’ Rath nodded. ‘Both men needed treatment, but Polakowski’s mistake was to tend to the Bureau member, Roeska, first, who was unconscious and the more seriously hurt. Suffice it to say, the decision didn’t go down well with Lamkau and Wengler and the others. After that Dr Polakowski became the Polack.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’

  ‘The man often came by the library, and I can tell you one thing. He never took out any Polish books, although we had any number back then. Still do, in fact, even today, when Polish is only spoken behind closed doors.’

  ‘Why are you telling me this?’

  ‘You’re a police officer. Perhaps you’ll see that justice is served. Jakub Polakowski didn’t kill Anna von Mathée, he was just a convenient scapegoat. Wengler serves up the same old lie each year, and people here are only too happy to believe it. It soothes their conscience about the bad old days. The Poles were much worse, they’ll say, they actually killed someone, when all we did was fight, or smash windows, or set fire to barns.’

  She had talked herself into a rage.

  ‘I’m not sure there’s much I can do for you,’ Rath said. ‘Who benefits if I go digging up these old stories? Not Polakowski. He’s already dead.’

  ‘It was Siegbert Wengler who arrested him . . .’

  ‘So?’

  ‘He knew that Polakowski was innocent, and Gustav Wengler knew it too. Yet they took him to court, and both made statements against him.’

  ‘You realise these are pretty enormous accusations you’re making?’

  ‘I appreciate that, Inspector, but you’re the first person I’ve told.’

  ‘Karl Rammoser doesn’t know?’

  She shook her head. ‘No one here does. No one would believe me. Like I say, you’re the first I’ve told.’

  ‘Why do you suppose I’ll believe you?’

  She took a folder full of papers from her bag, some of which were so curled and yellowed that they must have got very wet once upon a time. ‘Read these, then decide whether you should take another look at the Polakowski file.’ She pressed the folder into his hand. He felt a little ambushed. He had underestimated her. ‘Inspector, you have to promise me something,’ she said. ‘Don’t show this folder to anyone. Don’t tell anyone where you got it. No one, do you hear, not even Karl Rammoser . . .’

  ‘I don’t know if . . .’

  ‘Look after it.’ She gave him a pleading look. ‘This is . . .something very private. It isn’t easy for me to part with, but you have to make sacrifices for the truth. Take the time and read it, I beg you.’

  He looked at the closely written papers. ‘What is this?’

  ‘That,’ Maria Cofalka said, ‘is the truth about Anna von Mathée’s death.’

  58

  The truth about Anna von Mathée’s death wasn’t easy to read, scrawled as it was in tiny letters, and with the ink smudged in various places or grown faded.

  Rath began leafing through the papers immediately, taking up position on a bench by the shore and doing his best to decipher a few lines, but it was mostly guesswork. The only thing he could discern with any conviction was the signature that concluded each text, even if the word itself made little sense. Tokala, he read, and, after comparing a few times, he felt certain he was right, since the word appeared over and over again in the documents. Someone was writing about themselves in the third person . . .

  Tokala will never live among humans again, ran one of the opening lines. The letters, if indeed that’s what they were, had no date, no salutation, no sender, just a signature that was always the same.

  There was no point carrying on; he’d need a magnifying glass to get anywhere with these. He snapped the folder shut and strolled along the shore towards town, passing the d
istrict office and reaching the Catholic cemetery. Noticeably smaller than its Protestant counterpart, it was nevertheless better situated, behind the modest Catholic church by the lake. He didn’t take long to find Jakub Polakowski’s grave. Plain, with a wrought-iron cross, there were no flowers, nor anything to suggest it was looked after.

  For love is strong as death;

  jealousy is cruel as the grave:

  The coals thereof are coals of fire,

  which hath a most vehement flame.

  Jakub Polakowski

  * 18th May 1895

  † 5th August 1930

  Why had the man been buried in Treuburg, when he had no relatives or friends here to tend to his grave? Why hadn’t they laid him to rest in the prison cemetery at Wartenburg? Jakub Polakowski was only thirty-five when he died, scarcely older than Rath now. A generation betrayed. He’d probably fought in the war, and, barely two years later, they’d thrown him in jail for a murder he hadn’t committed. If, that is, what Maria Cofalka had said was right.

  Jakub Polakowski didn’t kill Anna von Mathée, he was just a convenient scapegoat.

  Rath returned to the marketplace, but the stationer was closed, the bookstore likewise. Almost all shops had ceased trading; only the Treuburger Zeitung remained open.

  ‘A magnifying glass?’ a secretary said from behind the counter. ‘There should be one in the editorial office. I don’t know if I can lend it out, though. Herr Ziegler will be here any moment. His article on the plebiscite anniversary is due in tomorrow’s edition.’

  Rath showed his identification. ‘Would it be possible for me to use the magnifying glass here?’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  She smiled and disappeared towards the back. Rath looked around. On a table by the wall was a pile of old newspapers from 1920. Evidently the editor, Ziegler, would be making use of the archive for his latest report. He leafed curiously through the pages, tickled by the Polish Agitation Bureau, which was having difficulty recruiting a female copyist; even the 500 Mk. monthly salary had failed to find any takers.