He woke up when the compartment door slid open and the conductor and border official came in. The train was moving slowly. They were coming into Salzburg. The train stopped with a lurch and a mighty sigh. The bus to Bad Stauffenheim was waiting on the square out front.
In Bad Stauffenheim Maximilian ran from the stop by the Hotel zum Post to his parents’ house, but he was too late. His mother held Maria Christine, tiny and oblivious to everything. Maximilian took the baby and kissed her again and again.
Two police officers escorted Sophie back to Munich. They were respectful. They helped her in and out of the car. One of them asked about the baby. ‘How old?’
‘Eight weeks,’ said Sophie.
‘I’ve got a one-year-old,’ he said.
In Munich she was taken directly to the courthouse. She sat between the two policemen and waited. They didn’t talk any more. After an hour or so a man hurried toward them and introduced himself as her attorney. ‘Robert Fitzmorris,’ he said. ‘My father was a Scot.’ His name was everyone’s first question, so he always answered before they asked. Fitzmorris wanted a little time alone with his client, and the two policemen moved to chairs across the hall.
Finally – it was after six – the four of them were escorted into a small courtroom where the charge was read: second-degree murder for shooting Konrad Milch to death.
The prosecutor, a fat, balding man with thick glasses and a small mustache, asked that Sophie be held without bail because of the seriousness of the crime. Robert Fitzmorris argued that Sophie had an infant daughter who was nursing and needed her mother. Moreover, she lived in Munich, where she was gainfully employed as a newspaper reporter, and, thus, posed no flight risk. Besides, she was innocent of the charges.
‘How old is the baby?’ said the judge.
‘Eight weeks, Herr Vorsitzender,’ said Sophie.
‘What’s the baby’s name, Frau Auerbach?’ said the judge.
At that moment, Maximilian hurried into the courtroom with the baby in his arms.
‘Maria Christine,’ said Sophie. Hearing her mother’s voice, Maria Christine started to cry and worked her first miracle: Sophie was released on bail. ‘But you may not leave Munich before the trial, Frau Auerbach, except with the court’s permission. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, Herr Vorsitzender.’
The trial was scheduled to take place in early October, before three judges: a presiding judge along with two lay judges, as was usually the case for serious crimes. The judges now had eight weeks to study the case, and Robert Fitzmorris had time to plan his strategy and line up witnesses.
Sophie passed the rest of the summer in Munich. The days were sunny and warm and she took Maria Christine on long walks under the linden trees along the broad boulevards and beside the Isar. People sat in the grass along the banks of the river. On hot days they rolled up their sleeves and lay back facing the sun with their eyes closed.
She ambled through the Nymphenburg Palace Park pushing Maria Christine, taking a path just because it pleased her to do so. People stopped to peer into the stroller, to ask the baby’s name, to ask how old she was. They then invariably told Sophie about a baby in their life. Despite everything, Sophie was happy.
When the trial opened, Sophie sat with Robert Fitzmorris facing the judges in their red robes. Maximilian was to be called as a witness, so he could not be in the courtroom. The prosecution presented their case, which was based almost entirely on the testimony of Jürgen Veit and Karl Meier. Both men had new haircuts and wore ill-fitting suits. They had been carefully coached by the prosecutor, which seemed to have the effect of making them even more uneasy than they had been before. They fidgeted in their seats and couldn’t figure out what to do with their hands.
Questioned by the chief judge, both men swore that they had been out for a stroll with Konrad Milch when they came upon Maximilian and Sophie in the English Garden and that she had shot Konrad as they passed by. ‘What was your reaction?’ said the judge. Both men said they had run away. ‘She was going to shoot us too.’
‘So, let me get this straight,’ said Fitzmorris when he was allowed to cross-examine Veit and then Meier, ‘you’re saying the three of you were strolling in the middle of the night, minding your own business, and this woman pulled out a pistol and shot Konrad Milch without provocation?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And why did you run away again?’
‘I told you. I didn’t want to get shot, man. She was crazy.’
‘You were in a cafe before you went for your stroll, weren’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘You saw the accused leave an art gallery and followed her into the park, didn’t you?’
‘Like I said, we were …’
‘You were arrested not too long ago, weren’t you? In a pool hall?’
‘Yes.’
‘What was your reaction when the police officer identified himself as a police officer?’
Jürgen shifted this way and that on his chair. ‘I was just minding my own business.’
‘You charged him with a knife, didn’t you?’
‘Well, he had a gun. I was defending myself. How did I know he was really a cop?’
The judge read aloud the long list of Jürgen Veit’s arrests, following each citation with the question, ‘And were you found guilty as charged?’ To which Veit and then, when his turn came, Meier, had no choice but to answer, ‘Yes, Herr Vorsitzender.’
‘Did you know that Konrad Milch had a record of arrests?’
‘No, Herr Vorsitzender.’
‘You didn’t know?’
‘No, Herr Vorsitzender. He never told us … me.’
‘So three convicted criminals are out for a stroll and are attacked by a small woman for no apparent reason?’
‘That’s the way it happened, judge.’
‘Herr Vorsitzender,’ the judge reminded him.
‘That’s the way it happened, Herr Vorsitzender.’
‘Were any of you carrying weapons that evening?’
‘No, Herr Vorsitzender. We were just out for …’
‘Did you know Konrad Milch was carrying an unregistered pistol and a heavy metal pipe?’
‘No, Herr Vorsitzender, I didn’t know.’
The bailiff brought out the pipe and pistol and laid them on the exhibit table with a thump.
‘That’s a heavy pipe at least a half-meter long, and you didn’t know he had it with him? Did he have it hidden in his pants or what?’
‘I don’t know, Herr Vorsitzender.’
‘After Frau Auerbach shot and killed Konrad Milch, did you notify the police?’
‘No, Herr Vorsitzender.’
‘Once the crime was reported, did you come forth as witnesses?’
‘No, Herr Vorsitzender.’
‘And why didn’t you come forward?’
‘We would have, Herr Vorsitzender, but …’
‘Was it your idea to have false witnesses come forward in your place?’
Veit and Meier were dismissed by the presiding judge with the notification that, given their testimony, they could both be expected to be charged with aggravated assault, obstruction of justice, and perjury. ‘Get yourself a lawyer,’ said the judge.
The judges called Maximilian to the stand. He told how they had been attacked that night, and how Sophie had shot Milch and saved his life.
‘Did you know Konrad Milch before he attacked you?’ asked the presiding judge.
‘I knew who he was, Herr Vorsitzender. He had attacked me once before.’
‘When did he attack you the first time?’
‘It was six years ago, November 9, 1923.’
‘You remember the exact day?’
‘It was the day after the Putsch. He was marching with Adolf Hitler.’
‘Do you know why he attacked you? Did he give any reason?’
‘No, Herr Vorsitzender, he didn’t give me any reason, but I think it was because I was drawing his picture.�
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The judges looked at one another in puzzlement. ‘Herr Wolf is an artist for the Munich Post, Herr Vorsitzender,’ said Robert Fitzmorris. ‘He does drawings of life in and around Munich, and in that capacity was following the protests that day.’
The prosecutor wanted to know why Maximilian went around drawing pictures of strangers and whether that wasn’t an aggressive act. Maximilian said it was not an aggressive act. The prosecutor asked whether Maximilian had ever killed a man. Maximilian said that he had in the war.
Sophie was called and sworn in and was led through her version of events by the presiding judge and Robert Fitzmorris. The prosecutor tried to discredit her story, but once again he didn’t have anything to work with. He had tracked down Irena Milch and brought her to Munich for the trial. She was a sympathetic woman with a broad open face and gray hair. She testified to Konrad’s having been abused by his father over and over again. Robert Fitzmorris asked Irena whether Konrad had ever attacked his father. Irena said that he had. She turned to the judge and, with tears welling in her eyes, said she was sorry for all the trouble her brother had caused.
None of the three judges approved of the Munich Post’s leftist politics, and learning that it was Maximilian who drew those distasteful pictures did not endear him to them. Nor did they like the idea of a woman walking around armed with a pistol, even one that was registered. And they were incredulous when she testified that she had thrown it in the Isar. Still, all the evidence seemed to demonstrate that she and Maximilian had been attacked and not the other way around. And given the flimsy case the prosecution had presented, they had no choice but to find Sophie not guilty of the charge.
‘Frau Auerbach,’ said the presiding judge, ‘you are free to go.’
THE LYING PRESS
When the American stock market collapsed – it was just weeks after Sophie Auerbach’s acquittal – vast swaths of wealth were wiped out in a matter of days. There were runs on American banks which then collapsed. The watching world was stunned by events into a sort of uncomprehending stupor, as though they were seeing a tsunami rising above the horizon that they knew, despite its static appearance, was certain to inundate and drown them all. It was the onset of the Great Depression. There was no high ground where anyone could be safe. Even economies that had seemed solid were crushed into splinters.
The German economy had not seemed solid. It had been propped up by American investments, which disappeared overnight. Not only that, but America started calling in loans. German industry – great and small – collapsed on a massive scale. In a very short time more than a third of the German workforce was out of work. Property was foreclosed upon, bankruptcies soared. And suicide became a common event.
Maximilian wandered the city drawing emaciated people in ragged clothes as they stood in line for food. He drew hands cradling shallow bowls of gruel, men scouring the gutter for cigarette butts, a man wearing a sandwich board that read will work for food, a young woman leading her small emaciated child by the hand as she solicited men. Another woman held a child to her breast, but the child looked dead. He drew people where they lived, in shantytowns thrown up beside railroad yards or in parks that had fallen into neglect. Maximilian drew as if his life depended on it, and in a sense it did. As it had been in the trenches, drawing was his salvation. As he drew a woman tying rags around her feet, he was doing the only thing he knew how to do. He was bearing witness to the suffering.
The government in Berlin was paralyzed. Fearing a return of inflation, which remained vivid in their memory, even more than their fear of massive unemployment, they did the worst thing they could have done: they reduced government spending and raised taxes, which only increased the suffering on the streets.
‘I’m sorry, my boy,’ said Aaron Appelbaum one afternoon. He and Maximilian sat in the gallery sipping tea. They had been looking through Maximilian’s recent drawings. It was a raw, windy day. The trees were mostly bare, dead leaves circled in the street below them in frantic eddies. A man sat on the curb, his head in his hands. The sun was shining, but it gave no warmth. Aaron shook his head. ‘These would make a wonderful show, Maximilian. But, I regret to say, I have to close the London gallery. New York too. At least for now. And in all honesty, I don’t know whether they’ll ever open again.’
Maximilian now derived an important part of his income from the Appelbaum Gallery. ‘And Munich and Berlin?’ he said.
‘I’ll keep Munich open. For now. Probably not Berlin. It’s really no use. Nobody’s buying art, my boy. Nor are they likely to any time soon. I’m really sorry. I truly love and admire your work. And when times change …’ He took Maximilian’s hand in both of his. ‘Can I help you out in any way? Is the newspaper still …?’
‘Yes,’ said Maximilian. ‘For the moment. They’ve kept us on. We’re all right for the time being.’
Maximilian and Sophie were among the lucky ones. They still had jobs. The Post didn’t lay anybody off. Everybody agreed to a thirty percent pay cut. ‘We’ll go for as long as we can,’ said the publisher at an emergency staff meeting. ‘We have to. Our work is too essential to stop. We’re in the midst of an international catastrophe, and a national one as well. I don’t think I have to tell you, this moment plays right into Adolf Hitler’s hands.’ He was right; this was the moment Hitler had been waiting for.
After being released from prison, Adolf Hitler had believed he could drive his supporters toward victory by his example, especially once President Held had restored the NSDAP to legitimacy. His reentry into the political arena was spectacular and defiant. He gave a speech at the Bürgerbräukeller, the same hall where he had engineered his Putsch two years earlier. The crowd was raucous, nearly hysterical. And Hitler did not disappoint. He cursed the government in Berlin and excoriated the Jews.
But, despite this debut, his Party was in serious trouble. Feuding factions were dividing and weakening the NSDAP. He admonished them for the sake of the Party and the Fatherland. But instead of resolving their squabbles, his seizing control of the Party had freed them to devote full energy to their power struggles.
Not only that, but as a result of that incendiary speech, his very first speech since coming out of prison, Hitler had been forbidden by the Bavarian government from speaking in public. Most of the rest of the German states had followed suit. He was allowed to speak in private gatherings, and he continued to do so, rallying the faithful in private halls and small gatherings, persuading roomfuls of wealthy donors to support his Party’s resistance against Bolsheviks and Jews bent on destroying Germany and Western civilization. But having his voice missing from public forums could only hasten the Party’s descent into oblivion.
The number of paying Party members continued to go down. In fact, by early 1927 the Party and Hitler were seen as a negligible factor in German society and politics. He was deemed so harmless that the Bavarian government restored his right to speak in public. Other state governments followed suit. What harm could he possibly do? He was saying the same old tired stuff in half-empty halls.
Only a few voices, the Munich Post among them, continued to sound the alarm. Sophie reported from a rally in Augsburg:
The Party faithful were there and they greeted their ‘Führer’ with happy cries of ‘Heil! Heil!’ Hitler did not fail to deliver the same lies and hateful rhetoric as he has for years now: the November criminals, the sick government in Berlin, and of course The Jew as evil incarnate. The Jew, he said, is to blame for everything that was wrong in Germany, when, in fact, it is Hitler who represents what is wrong with Germany, preying on ignorant and gullible minds, sowing discord, attacking the free press, and spreading venomous lies about our democracy.
We were approached by four thugs in brown shirts and told in no uncertain terms that if we did not leave immediately, they could not answer for our safety. At that moment Hitler pointed in our direction and said, ‘See them? There they are like cockroaches. The Munich Post, the so-called free press, a pack of liars.’ We l
eft amidst hoots from the crowd of ‘Lügenpresse! Lügenpresse!’
Everyone is saying he is finished. His day is past. But beware, readers: he is not finished and will not be finished so easily as that. He may be insane. But he is resourceful. And he is determined.
THE EVIDENCE ROOM
When Bergemann knocked on Willi’s door this time, it was not entirely unexpected. In light of all the street unrest and the drastic budget cuts in the police department, a suspended police detective was a luxury the department could not afford. The order came down to put Willi Geismeier back to work. Bergemann, seen as the closest thing to a friend Willi had in the department, was chosen to deliver the news. ‘You’re reinstated, Willi,’ he said as soon as Willi opened the door.
‘Why?’ said Willi. Not thanks, but ‘why’.
‘It’s a desk job, though,’ said Bergemann. He didn’t know how to break it gently. ‘In Central Records.’
‘Central Records? Doing what?’ said Willi.
‘They’ll tell you when you get there,’ said Bergemann. ‘You can always reapply for a detective spot. But … I wouldn’t hold my breath. Everybody’s being cut back. We’re down to four detectives, and with the same caseload. Bigger really, since crime is up.’
Willi had been reduced in rank to Wachtmeister – constable, the lowest rank. He was ordered to go to Central Records at Police Headquarters the next morning. Sergeant Ludwig Marschach was in charge, if you could call it that, since he and Willi would be the only men in the department. Marschach was a former detective sergeant with thirty-five years on the force. He had been a decent detective at one time but had succumbed to alcohol. He had been disciplined multiple times for being drunk on duty and had finally been exiled to the basement at Ettstraße 2, where he could drink to his heart’s content.
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