He couldn’t remember anything after that. He felt his head for a bump, his neck for a puncture site, but there was nothing.
What would the Kaubuk do when he realised his unwanted guest was awake? He must know by now that Rath was a police officer: badge and identification were gone, along with his service pistol.
At least he wouldn’t kill him; if he wanted him dead he’d have killed him long ago.
Rath opened a drawer in the desk and was astonished to find piles of virgin white paper. Standing side by side were various leather-bound notebooks, some good as new, others well worn.
He snapped open his pocket magnifying glass and attempted to decipher a few lines of Radlewski’s tiny handwriting. Diaries, no doubt about it. In order to preserve his sanity out here in the wilds, Artur Radlewski had kept a diary.
The notebooks were from a stationer. The inkwell and letter paper too, no doubt. Rath sat down and opened the book that looked the oldest and most worn. Radlewski had filled the pages with the same tiny script he had used to write his letters to Maria Cofalka.
On the move again, stealing through the forest, he leaves his shelter and advances through the trees. No one will hear him, no one will see him. There is a heaviness in the air, deep in the thicket he feels the warmth; summer has arrived with a vengeance. Tokala pauses and takes a deep breath. The scent of lime-tree blossom and winter barley fills the air in the fields over by Markowsken, and already he can smell the lake . . .
70
Dietrich Assmann didn’t trust them. His alibi had collapsed, but still he was cautious. Playing the blackmailers Unger and Riedel off against each other had been a doddle in comparison, but Assmann smelled a trap and, for the time being, refused to say anything against his alleged accomplice. It didn’t matter whether it was the customs man, Kressin, asking the questions, or CID Officers Ritter and Böhm. Even Charly made him wary; he wouldn’t fall for her kindness.
After three and a half hours of more or less fruitless questioning, Böhm had Assmann escorted back to his cell. They had already requested an arrest warrant from the magistrate. Time was on their side. Sooner or later, Dietrich Assmann would be in absolutely no doubt that his boss had left him in the lurch and would make his statement, whereupon they could, likewise, issue a warrant for Wengler’s arrest – or so they hoped. They just had to make sure he didn’t give them the slip in the meantime. Fortunately Gräf, who had taken the day shift, was a dab hand at surveillance. They had chosen to deploy a new officer with each shift, alternating between CID and Customs so that Wengler didn’t smell a rat.
‘What do you think? Will Assmann make a statement today?’ Bruno Kressin asked. The man was dry as a bone.
Böhm shook his head. ‘Let him sleep on it, I say, and speak to his lawyer. Tomorrow he’ll be ripe.’
‘Why would Assmann choose an alibi like that if he couldn’t be sure Wengler would cover him?’ Charly asked.
‘Maybe,’ Böhm said, ‘he was sure.’
The customs man nodded, and it seemed plausible to Charly too.
Suddenly there was a commotion outside, loud voices, cries. The officers looked at one another. Charly exited the interview room and stepped into the corridor, crossing to the stairwell where various colleagues had gathered. She heard Böhm and Kressin follow, but didn’t turn around, the action before her was too compelling.
She didn’t know what had happened in the hours they had spent interrogating Dietrich Assmann, or what had taken place in the police commissioner’s office. She only knew that Albert Grzesinski hadn’t found the time to change his clothes. Flanked by two soldiers, he still wore his mourning suit. The Reichswehr had arrested the Berlin police commissioner and were relieving him of office.
Behind Grzesinski followed Deputy Police Commissioner Bernhard Weiss, uniform immaculate as always, and Uniform Commander Magnus Heimannsberg, each man escorted, in turn, by two Reichswehr officers. Though the eyes under the steel helmets stared straight ahead, the young men were clearly afraid that the members of the Berlin police force, hundreds of whom were employed here at Alex alone, might foil the arrest. Yet not a hand stirred; officers whispered and murmured, grew indignant, but none intervened.
The customs officer mumbled an apology along the lines of ‘best not to interfere in police matters’, and took his leave.
Charly couldn’t believe it. They had actually been so bold. Papen and his reactionary ministers didn’t just want to take the Free State of Prussia, the only province that had been continuously governed by the Social Democrats since the war, they wanted its police force too. It wasn’t enough to exile the interior minister, they had to replace the entire Berlin Police executive: the Social Democrat Grzesinski, the Liberal Weiss and the Catholic Centrist Heimannsberg.
‘They can’t get away with this,’ Charly said to Böhm. ‘We have to do something!’
‘The commissioner need only say the word, and thousands of men will stand behind him.’
‘Then let him, goddamn it. He’s going without a fight, like a lamb to the slaughter.’
‘He knows what he’s doing. Armed resistance could provoke a civil war between the police and Reichswehr. The bloodshed would be worse than 1919.’
‘Papen can’t want civil war. No one can. Isn’t there enough violence on our streets as it is?’
‘What Papen wants certainly isn’t democracy.’
The black cutaway and top hat was a fitting outfit, even if Grzesinski had been prevented from attending Superintendent Mercier’s funeral. A fitting outfit with which to mourn the death of Prussian democracy.
More and more office doors opened, and more and more officers stepped into the corridor to look, pushing towards the stairwell to watch the soldiers in field grey leading away their superiors. A few colleagues, above all those in uniform, showed their respect to the police chiefs by performing a military salute.
‘Long live the Republic!’ someone cried suddenly, and the faces under the steel helmets looked about nervously.
‘Long live the Republic!’ More and more officers joined the cry, and now Charly, too, cried at the top of her voice, and even Böhm, whom she’d not have thought capable of such a thing, stood by her side and chanted. ‘Long live the Republic. Long live our chiefs!’
The cry echoed through the corridors and stairwell, growing ever louder. ‘Long live the Republic. Long live our chiefs!’
With increasing nervousness, the youthful soldiers gazed left and right, hands on their weapons, ready to fire. At any moment a CID officer could draw his service pistol and shoot. The Prussian Police could put an end to this nonsense.
No one did, of course. The officers assembled were far too Prussian. In the absence of an explicit command, no one would reach for a weapon, but the disregard in which these insurrectionists were held was plain to see.
Amidst the chants of her colleagues, every so often an isolated cry of ‘Freedom!’ rang out, and Charly felt a hitherto unknown sense of pride in the Berlin Police and her Prussian homeland. Notwithstanding men like Dettmann, she felt inordinately proud to be a part of this police body which, despite the Reich government’s display of force, stood in democratic solidarity with its executive officers.
The officers followed the cortège through the stairwell down to the ground floor, and Charly stood with them. Right now she didn’t care about Gustav Wengler, Dietrich Assmann and the rest, she was simply glad to be a part of the Prussian police force, protesting against its most senior officers being led away like criminals.
Below on Alexanderstrasse was a Mercedes with a Reichswehr number plate, into which Grzesinski now climbed with the Reichswehr captain. Heimannsberg and Weiss followed in a second and third car. Where they were headed, no one could say, only that it was somewhere out west.
Once the cars had disappeared around a corner, Charly looked up at the brick façade of police headquarters. Almost all Castle windows were open, everywhere officers stood following the unworthy spectacle, and the cries t
hat moments before had filled the stairwell resounded still from open windows and the mouths of colleagues: ‘Long live the Republic! Long live our chiefs!’
But Charly no longer felt any desire to join them. Suddenly she recognised the futility of their actions. Her pride and euphoria evaporated, and she felt only impotence. She sensed, no, she knew, that, in the face of the Reich government’s staggering effrontery, words could never be enough. She looked across for Wilhelm Böhm but couldn’t find him among her fellow officers, and with only unfamiliar faces for company she felt utterly alone.
It was Wednesday evening, shortly after half past five, and the death knell for Prussian democracy had just sounded.
71
Rath didn’t know how many pages he’d read. They were confused and not necessarily in chronological order, but made for fascinating reading all the same. The style was similar to the letters, only here Radlewski seemed to reveal more of himself. Sometimes relating details from his everyday life, sometimes dim memories from childhood, they were filled even now with hatred for his father and love for his mother. But there was one event he kept coming back to, the same event he’d described to Maria Cofalka: the murder of Anna von Mathée in the shallows of the little lake.
Radlewski had seen a man rape Anna, and failed to intervene. Returning to the same spot, full of remorse, he had found her dead.
How many times had he recounted the scene? The young woman’s corpse floating on the water as, still stunned, he registered the fact of her death. A young man discovering her body. The killer returning to the scene of the crime in the company of a uniformed police officer. The same officer striking the grieving young man with the butt of his revolver as he knelt by the corpse. Even the perpetrators’ exchange was recorded.
‘Should we drown the dirty Polack, here and now?’ the cop asks.
The wicked one shakes his head. ‘Let him pay for it,’ he says. ‘Let him spend the rest of his miserable life paying for it.’
And then he looks at the cop, as if he can issue him with instructions.
‘Arrest him,’ he says. ‘Arrest him, and we’ll have him tried. Let everyone know what he has done.’
There was no mention of the name Polakowski, but perhaps Radlewski hadn’t known the young registrar. Who else could it be?
Should we drown the dirty Polack?
Rath thought back to the furniture dealer on the aeroplane. He, too, had spoken of dirty Polacks. In jest, perhaps, but the sentiment was real. In the meantime, far too many Germans spoke of their Polish neighbours in a hate-filled and contemptuous manner. Not that the Poles were any less guilty, the feelings cut both ways.
He spun around as, suddenly, the door flew open. He felt as if he had been caught out. Whatever form these notebooks might take, they were still a man’s private diaries. The book was snatched from him, and he was pushed from the chair with no more than a twist of the hand.
Landing on the floor he gazed at the force of nature that stood above him. Artur Radlewski was bareheaded, his hair plaited in two braids and complemented by an Indian-style headband. With his full beard and leather garb the man only partially resembled the vision of his dreams.
Seeing the Kaubuk in person, fever now dissipated, Rath knew that, with his long hair and beard, there was no way this man could have wandered the streets of Dortmund, Wittenberge and Berlin avenging his mother’s death. He’d have been spotted immediately. Even in Berlin, where events that might elsewhere trigger a popular uprising were greeted with a shrug, someone would have seen him. As for the enormous black dog that stood guarding the door, tongue hanging out of its mouth . . .
‘Herr Radlewski!’ Rath chose to be friendly, knowing the man understood High German. He smiled. ‘Good to meet you after all this time.’ Radlewski silently removed the notebooks from the table, and stowed them back inside whatever this strange item of furniture might be. ‘You rescued me from the moor. Many thanks.’
Radlewski threw him a suspicious glance as he placed the diaries alongside the letter paper, muttering sullenly.
‘I came to, not knowing where I was. When I saw your books, I thought I might find some clue there.’
Radlewski’s gaze flitted between Rath and the desk. Though no less suspicious, his expression was at least a little friendlier. Or rather, a little less unfriendly.
‘My apologies. I had just opened the book when you came in,’ Rath lied.
Radlewski mumbled something and went to the hearth, finding the tin plate with the gnawed-off bone. On top of everything else, it looked as if Rath had bolted his lunch. He took the plate and looked at his guest.
‘That was me. Apologies.’ Rath wondered if the apologies would ever stop. ‘But . . .I was ravenous. I’ll pay for it if you like. As well as any other inconvenience you’ve suffered on my behalf. If you just tell me where my wallet is.’
‘You’ll pay for nothing. You’re my guest.’ The blonde beard could speak, and the voice wasn’t nearly as dry as Rath had imagined. No doubt he spoke regularly with his dog. The beast, at any rate, wasn’t surprised to hear its master, but remained in the door, watching Rath. ‘I’ve made another catch.’
‘Catch?’
‘Just needs to be skinned and gutted, then we can roast it.’
With that he disappeared outside. The dog remained in the door. Rath didn’t move.
Soon Radlewski returned, holding a metal skewer on which three scrawny, suspiciously small-looking rodents with long tails were impaled one on top of the other.
‘Are those . . .rats?’ Rath asked.
‘Rats?’ Radlewski laughed. ‘Yes, rats.’ Giggling, he reached into a small bag and rubbed the bloody, skinned animals with salt. Rath’s stomach briefly threatened to rebel, but soon settled. ‘Special rats,’ Radlewski continued, stoking a small fire. His cackling was starting to grate. ‘Tree rats!’
‘Tree rats?’
‘Squirrels,’ Radlewski said, hanging the skewer with the three animals over the hearth. He was still shaking his head and grinning in amusement.
Rath breathed a sigh of relief, though he didn’t especially feel like eating another squirrel.
Radlewski set the meat on the tin plate and handed it to him. ‘Eat,’ he said, taking a second animal from the skewer and biting. ‘You need to eat. You were sick.’
Rath examined the skinned, roasted thing on his plate, so stringy it really was more reminiscent of rat than squirrel, closed his eyes and bit inside. His stomach didn’t protest.
The two men ate in silence for a time until, when Radlewski offered some of the third squirrel, Rath gratefully declined. Radlewski shared it with the dog. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked suddenly. ‘What are you doing in my forest?’
Your forest, Rath almost asked, thinking the possessive pronoun incongruous. ‘I’m a police officer,’ he said. ‘I catch killers.’
‘I’m aware you’re a police officer, but you’re not from here.’
‘No.’ Rath debated whether he should tell Radlewski the truth, but it was so clear the man had nothing to do with the curare murders that he preferred to keep it to himself.
‘Why are you here?’
‘I wanted to meet you.’ At least it wasn’t a lie; it sounded almost friendly.
‘You won’t bring me in. I’m no killer. I just wanted justice.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘My father. I assume that’s why you’re here?’ The fourteen-year-old boy who had scalped his father.
‘No,’ Rath said. ‘You witnessed the murder of Anna von Mathée,’ he said at length. Radlewski looked at him. Surprised, perhaps even a little upset. ‘You need to testify in court. You saw the man who killed Anna. An innocent man went to jail.’
He had said too much, he could see straightaway from Radlewski’s reaction. The man was thinking. ‘You read them,’ the Kaubuk said at last, the old suspicion returning to his voice. ‘You read my notebooks.’
‘No more than a glance, but Maria Cofalka .
. .’
‘I’m not leaving the forest,’ Radlewski said. ‘I’ll never return to the world of men! Did Maria send you?’
‘Yes and no, it’s . . .’
‘I’m not leaving my forest,’ Radlewski interrupted. ‘Neither you nor anyone else can persuade me.’
‘I just want . . .’
Radlewski stood up. Seeing his size Rath started. No wonder everyone here spoke of the Kaubuk. He was really not the kind of man you’d want to run into alone in the forest. ‘You’re fit and healthy again,’ Radlewski said. ‘You don’t need nursing any more. Time for you to leave.’
‘You nursed me?’
‘You had a bad fever, but now you need to return to your people, and never enter my forest again!’ As he spoke, Radlewski fetched a canteen from a windowsill next to the hearth. Seizing Rath so suddenly that there was no chance for him to react, he forced his jaw open and held the bottle to his mouth. ‘Drink,’ he said over and over. ‘Drink!’
Rath had no choice, so firmly were the Kaubuk’s thumb and index finger wedged between his jaw, as if he were a horse being bridled.
The broth tasted better than the Kaubuk’s dirty fingers, and soon Rath realised he was dozing off.
What the hell had the bastard given him? Was he trying to poison him? Why . . .? Wh . . .y?
The only response came in the form of darkness, enveloping him once more.
72
At eight the lights went out, and it grew colder. Dietrich Assmann wrapped himself in his blanket and shivered on the plank bed.
So, he’d have to spend a night here, but the lawyer would get him out soon after. Hopefully the man was good. He’d have preferred Dr Schröder, but Schröder ate out of Gustav Wengler’s hand and, as matters stood, wouldn’t be much use – if, that is, Gustav really was trying to do the dirty on him.
The Fatherland Files Page 36
