The Fatherland Files

by volker Kutscher

  The man had been in his home city for a week now, and Rath wondered when he would return to business in Treuburg, especially since his manager was dead and the distillery was operating without a leader. Perhaps he had already anointed a successor? Whatever, he’d have to return tomorrow at the latest, since there was no way someone as politically-minded as Gustav Wengler would miss the Reichstag elections.

  The previous four days had been hard on Rath. Buddha’s secret weighed heavily. He’d have liked to tell Charly, but it was Gennat’s express wish that not even she be admitted. The secrecy was worse than last year, when they had disbanded the Weisse Hand, a clandestine troop of frustrated police officers who had taken it upon themselves to eliminate career criminals using vigilante justice.

  Apparently the troop’s last remaining member was still out there killing, only now he did so against a fee. Rath wasn’t entirely surprised when Gennat gave him the name. ‘Detective Inspector Dettmann.’

  ‘Dettmann, but you gave him his own case? Why, so he can eliminate all evidence?’

  ‘There is no evidence. I wanted to lull him into a false sense of security.’

  ‘You’d have been better making an arrest.’

  ‘Without proof, that’s not possible.’

  Gennat was right. They had no proof, only clues that would never stick in court, and would have to be patient.

  As luck would have it Rath wasn’t alone in guarding a secret. Charly hadn’t said a word about this black she’d eaten lunch with on Monday. Rath thought he’d heard colleagues gossiping about it in the canteen, but the whispering died as soon as he entered the room. Even so, he was certain he’d caught the word black, and the scorn and pity in the eyes of colleagues. He’d tried not to think about it, remembering Hella Rickert in Masuria. There was no way he’d be telling Charly about Hella, it was none of her business. He wondered if that was why she’d failed to mention . . .

  His jealousy grew by the day. Rarely had he slept with Charly so often as in recent times, and it was starting to feel as if he were doing it to possess her, that she might belong to him and no one else.

  Who was this black, and why hadn’t she said anything about him? He’d briefly considered hiring a private detective, only to abandon the idea, since it would mean yielding to his jealousy. Besides, Berlin sleuths were a notoriously shady bunch.

  Meanwhile, normal service had resumed in A Division. Charly had been recalled at exactly the right time and didn’t complain, simply got on with it. Clearly she was on good terms with her office colleague, and no one in G seemed to envy her having spent three weeks in Homicide.

  Three times this week he had eaten lunch with her in the canteen, introducing her as my fiancée, Fräulein Ritter, and enjoyed being seen together at last.

  Perhaps it was jealousy that bound him to her, but he didn’t care. Already they were living a kind of trial marriage, sitting together in the evenings, listening to the radio or records, and talking about work. As well as keeping their own secrets. Perhaps that, too, was part of married life. He tried to make peace with the idea, however difficult he found it.

  On Sunday they would cast their vote together, as he’d promised they would. He still didn’t know where to put his cross. The whole thing seemed pretty pointless. At the end of the day, it’d be Hindenburg who had the final say on the identity of his chancellor, and perhaps it was better that way. The Nazis were beneath the old man; there was no way he’d let one of them run the country.

  Rath’s sole wish was that Nazi and Communist votes might tumble, reducing the frequency of street battles. Perhaps the new government would ban the SA and SS again, so that life in Berlin and elsewhere in Prussia might return halfway to normal. That way the police wouldn’t have to keep hearing about how they had lost control.

  With all these questions running through his mind, one refused to let go: who in the hell was this black man?

  Perhaps on polling Sunday he’d casually steer conversation onto the Nazis and their asinine racism. Were there even black Germans? It was a legitimate question, surely?

  He put the thought to one side and concentrated on the file in front of him. He’d spent much of the week trying to write down everything that had happened in Masuria. He hated drudge work like this, but at last the report was ready for Böhm. Hopefully it wouldn’t be thrown back in his face.

  Perhaps Böhm was no longer here. Most colleagues had finished for the weekend. Charly had said her goodbyes about an hour ago, after arranging to go shopping with Greta. Or was she meeting . . . Again his thoughts turned to the black man, sitting with her at the window table in Aschinger.

  The telephone rang, the call he’d been waiting for all week. ‘Kowalski. I see you’re racking up overtime, just like me.’

  ‘I’ve been spending a lot of time with my colleagues in Robbery Division.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘This university break-in from October ’30 . . .’ He paused, as if to make sure no one was listening. ‘Nothing was ever proved, but my colleagues are certain it was Marczewski’s gang. Their prints are all over it.’

  ‘Marczewski?’

  ‘It’s how the gang’s still known, though the boss has been in Berlin a few years now.’

  ‘Polish-Paule.’

  ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘That’s what we call him here. He took over a Ringverein. Clearly a major player where bootlegging’s concerned.’

  ‘There’s an informant. I showed him the photo you sent, and he recognised the man.’

  ‘And?’ Rath felt his hunting instinct awaken.

  ‘He says not only did this man buy the stuff from the clinic, he ordered the theft himself; knew exactly where the drugs could be found.’

  ‘Interesting.’

  ‘It wasn’t the only job he gave Marczewski’s men either. He wanted a new passport, as well as the addresses of four Treuburgers who’d moved away.’

  ‘Let me guess: these four men are no longer with us?’

  ‘You got it.’

  ‘Did these gang members know they were handing a killer his victims on a plate?’

  ‘The informant denies it, but that lot would sell their grandmothers. Polakowski must have laid down thousands of marks – just like that, enough to make any hood go weak at the knees. Only thing I’m wondering is how a fugitive could have so much cash.’

  ‘His jail-friend was a bank robber, wasn’t he? It’s probably from his stash. Thank you, Kowalski. Excellent work.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir, anytime, but there’s one more thing. Our informant saved the best until last . . .’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘He was there again.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Polakowski paid another visit to Marczewski’s gang last Sunday. He needed more tubocurarine, and he got it.’

  Wilhelm Böhm was still at his desk, but dressed in his hat and coat and speaking on the telephone. ‘Keep your eyes open. He’ll be back soon enough.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Rath asked.

  ‘Our colleagues from Danzig. They’ve lost Gustav Wengler, somewhere in the covered market.’

  Rath placed a thick file on Böhm’s desk. ‘Apropos Wengler,’ he said. ‘My Masurian operation. Here’s the report.’

  ‘Finally.’ Böhm reached across and opened it. ‘About time.’ There was no such thing as a friendly thank you from Wilhelm Böhm.

  ‘I think you’ll find it’s pretty comprehensive.’ Rath was unsure whether or not he should report Kowalski’s call.

  Böhm looked up from skimming the file. ‘Was there something else, Inspector?’

  ‘Yes and no.’

  Böhm furrowed his brow.

  ‘Polakowski,’ Rath said. ‘I think he’s in Treuburg, waiting for Gustav Wengler.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Just a feeling.’

  ‘Why not check if this feeling has any substance, and get in touch with the local police? A man like Polakowski should stick out like
a sore thumb.’

  ‘With respect, Sir, I don’t trust the police in Treuburg.’ Rath gestured towards his report. ‘As far as I’m concerned, Chief Constable Grigat’s perfectly capable of killing Polakowski himself.’

  ‘A police officer who kills?’

  ‘No doubt he’d dress it up as self-defence, or say Polakowski was trying to escape. Grigat and Wengler are in cahoots, and it’s not in Wengler’s interests that Polakowski should fall into police hands, the sole witness in an age-old homicide case.’

  ‘A mass murderer, besides.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean vigilante justice should prevail.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Böhm rubbed his chin.

  ‘What sort of impression does it make if Berlin asks for assistance on the basis of a feeling?

  ‘Yet you expect me to green-light an expensive operation on precisely the same grounds?’

  ‘It’s the weekend,’ Rath said. ‘It could always be an unofficial trip.’

  ‘Don’t you want to cast your vote tomorrow?’

  ‘There are more important things.’ Rath started downstairs. On this occasion ‘hmm’ would have to suffice. If he let Böhm say anything else, he’d only end up back in his office.

  The Buick had a full tank, and he had over a hundred marks in his wallet. More than enough. He steered onto Kaiserstrasse, then Frankfurter Allee. There was a build-up as far as Lichtenberg, but once he was past the S-Bahn bridge he could step on the gas.

  He’d have liked to take Charly with him, but she was with her friend on Tauentzienstrasse, spending her hard-earned cash. Screw it, there was no way of reaching her, but perhaps it was better if she didn’t come, thinking of Hella Rickert, and the prospect of their crossing paths.

  He knew what he had to do, and he had to be quick about it. If he made good time, the journey would take around fifteen hours. Gustav Wengler would be back in Treuburg tomorrow at the latest to cast his vote, and he wanted to be there too. He drove as fast as he could, but still took almost five hours to reach the border. In Schneidemühl, the last German town before the Corridor, he found a gas station with a coin telephone. He made his way over while the attendant looked after the Buick. It was almost eight, she’d be long home by now.

  The connection wasn’t good; Charly’s voice scratched in the receiver. ‘Gereon, where are you? Overtime again?’

  ‘No.’ He decided to make it short and sweet, to tell the truth for once, instead of talking all around it. ‘I’m at a gas station,’ he said. ‘In Schneidemühl.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘In Schneidemühl, on the Polish border.’

  Charly stressed each individual word. ‘What. Are. You. Doing. In. Schneidemühl?’ By the time she finished, she was shouting.

  ‘Settle down. It’s Polakowski. I know where he is.’

  ‘Going it alone again. Gereon, didn’t you want to . . .?’

  ‘I’m not going it alone. Böhm knows.’ She was speechless. Great. ‘Don’t worry, Charly. I have to say goodbye, I’m out of coins. I love you.’ He hung up.

  It wasn’t far to the border, but he wasn’t the only one heading to East Prussia for the weekend. A long queue had formed in front of the checkpoint. Gennat hadn’t been exaggerating. First of all he required a transit visa, which cost him sixty marks and no little patience, before it was finally stamped and signed. It took just as long for the serious-minded Polish border officials to search his car, in the process of which they discovered one of Kirie’s rubber balls, which Rath had misplaced long ago.

  Next, his Walther was confiscated. In its place he was issued with a receipt, which entitled him to reclaim the pistol on his return journey. On top of everything else, he then had to pay a toll of five Zloty. The officials refused to take Reichsmark, meaning he had to use the bureau de change, where the commission bordered on daylight robbery. He was beginning to regret taking the car. The train ride had been more pleasant; even the plane had been preferable, despite his fear of flying, but there was no going back now that the paperwork was complete. His transit visa granted him twenty-four hours to clear the Corridor; he did so in two and a half. Bromberg and Thorn were both pretty towns but, fearing the hostility of Polish border officials might be matched inland, he carried on, refusing to stop until he’d reached German Eylau, and with it Prussian territory once more.

  Entering East Prussia proved far easier than entering Poland; the border officials requested his visa, his passport and his driving licence. No more than half an hour, and he was back on German soil.

  In the meantime it was just after midnight.

  97

  A pleasant day greeted Charly as she stepped outside with Kirie. She felt the sun on her skin, and a gentle breeze made her forget her fatigue. She was so angry she had barely slept. Gereon bloody Rath, but she wasn’t so much angry at him, as at her own stupidity, at having to stay put while he was gallivanting round the country. This time he hadn’t even left her the car. Couldn’t he have flown again? It seemed highly unlikely that he was hot-footing it back to Masuria with Böhm’s blessing.

  To think, she had been looking forward to getting out of town together, and to casting their vote. She couldn’t help thinking back to the last week, during which she had rehearsed eagerly for married life. Was this part of it too? Spending her weekends alone? Not if Charlotte Ritter had anything to do with it! She’d catch up on that Wannsee trip she still owed Greta. Her polling station was in Moabit anyway; she could call by Spenerstrasse at the same time, perhaps even spend the night. Her role in life wasn’t restricted to keeping Gereon’s bed warm!

  She pulled hard on the lead as she crossed the street. Kirie, who had been slow to react, looked at her in astonishment, and she immediately regretted venting her anger on the poor beast. Kirie was least of all to blame for her master’s antics.

  At Steinplatz she came to a halt in front of an advertising pillar bearing election posters. Down with the system, demanded the Communists. The Workers have awakened, the Nazis proclaimed. Here in Charlottenburg, these slogans would most likely fall on deaf ears, though the German National People’s Party might gain traction with their Power to the Reich President, with Hindenburg at its core. None of the three parties were interested in democracy. As far as these elections went, they were interested in power, and power alone.

  She was about to cross to the park when a man emerged from a bright, imposing-looking house on the corner. Donning his hat he looked through thick spectacles as he made his way towards her.

  Charly couldn’t contain her surprise. ‘Deputy Commissioner, Sir,’ she cried. ‘ Good morning.’

  Bernhard Weiss lifted his hat. ‘Good morning, Fräulein Ritter.’ He hadn’t needed a moment to remember her name, which flattered her more than she cared to admit. ‘I fear you’re one of the few who still recognise that title.’

  ‘You’re still in charge as far as I’m concerned, Sir.’

  ‘Strictly speaking, I’m only on leave of absence. I signed a declaration in custody which prevents me from exercising any official powers.’

  ‘Your removal from office wasn’t legal. As for our government – that was a putsch.’

  ‘These are matters for the State Court to decide.’

  Charly’s next question had been on her mind ever since she had seen Reichswehr soldiers leading away her superiors like criminals. ‘Why didn’t we defend ourselves?’ she asked. ‘Twenty thousand police officers. We could have prevented this putsch.’

  ‘No doubt Prime Minister Braun and Commissioner Grzesinski didn’t want to risk civil war. Enough blood has been spilled already.’ Weiss gestured towards the advertising pillar. ‘Who knows, perhaps these elections will result in a new government.’

  ‘You think an election can really change anything?’ Charly asked, smiling as she saw his face. ‘Don’t worry, I haven’t given up hope. Of course I’ll be voting. I’m just sorry I couldn’t do more.’

  ‘I wouldn’t give our Republic up yet.’ Weiss stroked Kirie, who
was sniffing at his shoe. ‘Is this your dog?’

  ‘I . . .she belongs to Inspector Rath. I’m looking after her while he’s in East Prussia.’

  ‘Rath still isn’t back?’

  ‘He’s gone again. I think he’s on the trail of a murder suspect, but, honestly, I’m not sure any more. I was reassigned from Homicide last week.’

  Weiss seemed surprised that she was still looking after Rath’s dog. For a moment she considered mentioning their engagement, but it hardly seemed appropriate.

  ‘You live here?’ she asked, pointing towards the house from which Weiss had just emerged.

  ‘Not yet, but this is where my family and I will be moving to. We need to vacate our official apartment in Charlottenburg within the next few weeks.’

  Charly felt a great sadness. ‘So it’s permanent, your withdrawal from police office?’

  ‘I hope to be reclaiming my desk at Alex very soon. Once the State Court has delivered its verdict, or the new Reich government.’

  ‘If there is a new government, and it isn’t worse than the one we already have.’

  98

  Rath pulled over just before Allenstein, parking on a forest path, struggling to keep his eyes open. When he awakened it was already dawn. He washed using water from a nearby stream, and drove on, encountering more and more people the closer he came to Treuburg. Again and again he had to brake as a horse and cart straggled along. Occasionally he met a group of pedestrians, who stood gawping at the Buick and took an age to clear the road. It was almost midday when he arrived in Treuburg, suit rumpled and stomach rumbling.

  The Masurians were on their way to church and the polls. Almost all the towns and villages he had driven through were decked out for election day, with people hanging flags out of windows to denote their political persuasion. Far too many swastikas, he thought, far too much black-white-and-red, and not nearly enough black-red-and-gold.