Vanished in Berlin: Kidnap suspense mystery set in 1930s Berlin (Berlin Tales Book 2)

by Christopher P Jones

  The more he imagined it, the more certain he felt that Monika would be there. In fact, she must have been there all night.

  ‘What took you so long?’ she would say as he came in. She would adopt a sarcastic tone, one that meant she had won the battle. She would be standing there, wrapped in a dressing gown and drinking from one of his chipped china cups, deciding whether to open up the argument about the lost money again or to let it go as yesterday’s concern. Then he’d present her with his new trove of cash, after which she would surely forgive him, maybe even apologise for leaving him in that old wooden town to spend the last night of their pretend honeymoon alone. Finally, they’d both feel the relief of being back together and that would be the main story of the day ahead.

  When he reached his flat, he checked the electricity box. He was surprised to find the key was still inside. Well, it was just like Monika to let herself in and put the key back in its place. She was thoughtful like that.

  He made his way up to his room in the attic, up the staircases with their split wooden floorboards and wobbly bannisters, up to where he accessed his room through a hatch in the ceiling. It was all he could afford, but he liked it there, his den in the clouds, like a tree-house or the belfry in a church tower.

  He unlocked the padlock that kept the hatch closed. He pushed the flap upwards and over, and climbed the final few steps to the top. His room was little more than a narrow triangular space at the very apex of the roof. There was a bed and an old stove, a table with some plates and cups, and just about enough room to keep a bicycle and about three-dozen bottles of beer, most of them already drunk. There was one window. It looked down onto a patchwork of rooftops and an army of chimney stacks.

  Monika was nowhere to be found. He checked through the whole attic space – that took all of ten seconds – but there was no sign of her. He didn’t panic. He washed his face and changed his clothes and thought about drinking a bottle of beer. But it was too early and he was too tired. So he lay on his bed and waited. All the time, he expected Monika to ring the buzzer from the street, and then five minutes later, appear through the hatch, perhaps clutching a bag of food from the market to her chest, ready for breakfast and a happy day ahead.

  An hour went by and still she hadn’t turned up. There was that feeling again, that flame of worry which he realised had been burning inside him for more than twenty-four hours now.

  He felt sure there had to be a good explanation for it. Monika was strong-willed and could be rash at times, but underneath it all she was no risk-taker. Her parents had instilled that in her. She was far more prudent than he was and carried inside her an ingrained hesitation, one that probably meant she would never get into any serious trouble.

  ‘What shall I tell my parents?’ she’d said the day before they left for their holiday. The initial excitement had begun to stiffen into concerns and questions. She twisted her fingers through her hair, worrying about the spontaneity of it all.

  ‘Just lie,’ Arno said in response.

  ‘How? They’ll want to know where I’m going. I can’t tell them I’m staying to a hotel with you.’

  ‘Tell them it’s a camping trip.’

  ‘I never go camping.’

  ‘Tell them you’ve joined a youth group. I was part of one once. They go camping and hiking all the time.’

  ‘They won’t believe me. My parents are suspicious of those groups.’

  ‘Tell them they can trust you. Tell them you’ve made friends with some nice Jewish girls.’

  ‘No, that won’t work. They’ll want to know their names and where their parents live. You don’t know my parents as I do.’

  ‘Can’t you think of something?’

  She flattened her long hair against her shoulder, thinking things through. ‘I’ll say I’m going with friends from my drama group.’

  ‘I didn’t know you were in a drama group?’

  She smiled. ‘There are lots of things you don’t know about me, Arno Hiller.’

  He liked it when she called him by his full name. He couldn’t say why. It felt she was putting him on a pedestal. Arno Hiller – the man she loved.

  The memory of that conversation looped through his mind as he lay on his bed. He thought about Monika’s parents. They had believed her. The story about camping with her drama group had worked. If they knew she was missing, good God, they would be worried.

  Or what if she’d simply gone home? It was odd, but that was the first time he’d considered the possibility. Was she with her parents right now, safe in their reassuring company? Was she in her own living room, tearfully describing what had really happened? ‘He lost all our money,’ she’d be saying, clutched to her mother’s bosom, croaking with shame whilst her father stood nearby, offering a consoling voice, ‘You’ll never have to see that retched boy again.’

  His name would be dirt. His hopes with Monika would be in ruins. For that reason, he had to go there. He didn’t want to set eyes on her parents because he knew what they thought of him. But he had to see if Monika was there.

  And if she wasn’t? He’d worry about that when it came to it.

  5

  He took the tram and walked the rest of the way. Monika’s parents lived in Wilmersdorf district, on an upmarket street with a chemist on one side of the road and a perfumery on the other. Arno liked the streets there, all the tall houses window balconies and pointed gables. He imagined that perfect lives were lived inside those homes, where fashionable women and smartly-dressed men enjoyed unhurried days inside sprawling rooms, each one decorated with Persian rugs and French chandeliers and big fireplaces and fine bedclothes to sleep under.

  The Goldstein family lived in a three-story house that was built like an Italian villa. Arno stopped to look up the flight of stone steps that led to the front door. The door itself was wide and painted black and had a brass knocker in the shape of a boot. At the end of the street, a shoe-shiner had set up his stall and was stopping people as they emerged from a nearby park. He called to Arno, who momentarily thought about getting his shoes cleaned up. He looked down at his footwear, which were terribly creased with lines and ragged all about the rim. A bit of polish would do them wonders.

  Then he thought again. What was he thinking? He didn’t care about his shoes! It was Monika’s parents who made him feel self-conscious like that. They reminded him that he came from a small village and a middlebrow family, and that his education was not up to much and maybe his life wouldn’t amount to much either.

  To make a point of not caring, he untucked his shirt and ruffled his hair. When he rang the bell, Monika’s mother answered the door.

  ‘Is Monika here?’ he said.

  Her mother smiled and shook her head. She had a broad, attractive face, with bright skin that seemed almost reflective like porcelain. When she spoke, the red lipstick she was wearing expanded and contracted with her lips. ‘No, I’m sorry, she’s not. She’s away.’

  She was perfectly polite as she invited Arno into the house and led him through the hall. The walls were dark green and the furniture gave off a rich glow of having been polished a thousand times. He walked towards the rear of the house, feeling Monika’s mother’s hand against his shoulder, gently guiding him forward.

  Monika’s father was shorter than her mother. He was stood at an unlit fireplace with his hands behind his back, gently rocking on his heels in time with a clock that ticked loudly above the mantelpiece. Arno immediately noticed his grey twill trousers that were pressed and immaculately creased. You could slice an egg on that crease, he thought.

  Herr Goldstein welcomed him in and asked him if he was well, then proceeded to offer him a drink. The mother suggested he sit down and gestured to a large sofa that ran the length of one wall. Their courtesy was just as Arno expected – relaxed, gentle, not troubled by the interruption.

  Arno wasn’t exactly sure if they knew who he was. This was only the third time he’d met them. Both times before he’d been presented as Monika’s f
riend from college. He wondered if they had any idea who he really was?

  Monika’s mother left the room and came back a moment later with a plate of biscuits. Arno took one and ate it in two bites. Crumbs began peppering the carpet at his feet. Monika’s parents smiled at each other. He couldn’t help but admire them. They were calm and tender people.

  And because of that, he found them condescending.

  Their pleasantries made him feel comfortable against his will. And so he returned to his usual assumption, that they were manipulating him and that it was a type of shrewdness that was winning him over.

  His mind began to fog with agitation. He started to remember why he didn’t like being around people like this. He started to remember the conversations he used to have with his friends. ‘The Jews have managed to maintain their racial purity because they have an instinct for self-preservation. That’s their cunning. That’s why they are our biggest threat.’

  Arno bowed his head and brushed the biscuit crumbs from his knees.

  ‘If you’ve come to see Monika, she’s not here,’ her father announced after a minute or two of small-talk that Arno didn’t hear. ‘She’s away on a camping trip with friends.’

  Arno nodded. ‘I thought she might be here,’ he replied. ‘I was just passing by. On the off-chance.’

  ‘Don’t you and Monika take classes together?’ her mother asked.

  ‘Yes, some of them. I thought she might have a textbook I could borrow.’

  ‘Well, you are welcome to come round at any time,’ her father said, ‘but today was an unfortunate choice. Tell us, what are you reading?’

  Arno stumbled over his answer, thinking back to his best subject at school. There weren’t many to choose from. It was six years since he’d last sat in a classroom. ‘Mathematics,’ he said eventually.

  Monika’s father was now standing at a side-table preparing a drink for himself. ‘Mathematics,’ he repeated with approval, as he added soda-water to his drink in tiny, cautious jets.

  ‘I’m transferring to Chemistry next week,’ Arno replied in a rush, trying to muddy the water. It was all a lie. Any memories of what he’d learned at school had been overtaken by lessons from the real world.

  ‘Mathematics and Chemistry? My word,’ the father turned and said with overdone astonishment.

  Arno was bracing himself for a question on one of these subjects, a question he would have no hope of answering. What’s the logarithm of so-and-so? What’s the chemical composition of such-and-such.

  ‘Ever thought about the law?’ Monika’s father said instead.

  ‘Felix is a lawyer,’ the mother confirmed, smiling to her husband.

  Felix Goldstein nodded. ‘Best decision I ever made.’ He lifted his eyes to the room as if he was saying ‘My career paid for all of this,’ without actually saying it.

  Arno wished he’d accepted the offer of a drink, wished he had a large glass of brandy in his land that he could bring to his lips and feel the sweet fire of. He looked slowly around the room to mimic the father’s gaze. It was a luxurious looking room, but to Arno’s eyes it seemed dark and dusty and cold – like a grotto.

  It was obvious now that Monika was not at home and her parents had no more idea where she was than he did. He thought for a minute about telling them that she was missing. Or lost. Or maybe even dead. He just wanted to say something that would move the conversation on from him. He thought he could make them upset by telling them, and that by doing so, he could win a strange sort of victory.

  He meshed his fingers together and gazed at the fireplace. As he listened to Monika’s father burden him with advice about a career he would never pursue, a throb of scorn went through him. The law? What would the law mean when the new politics came into power? Everything was bound to change. Berlin would have no need for the law when the whole order was overturned. Then it would be the likes of Felix Goldstein who would need to think about their futures.

  ‘The law is the ideal meeting point of morality and logic,’ the father went on. Arno lifted his head to pretend he was still listening. The speech was making him feel even more tired than he already was. He wished he was back in the hotel room with Monika. He wished they were in that big bed together, wrapping their legs around one another’s, talking across the pillows, embroiled in their own private lie. He gave a sideways glance out of the window. It was time to leave this house. Monika had vanished and he was wasting time sitting here.

  ‘And let me make it clear, my library is open to you at any time,’ the father said in conclusion, pointing to the far wall that was covered from floor to ceiling in book-spines.

  ‘Thank you,’ Arno said. He roused himself. ‘I have to go now. Please, excuse me.’

  ‘Would you like us to give Monika a message? She will be home tomorrow,’ the mother said.

  ‘Tell her,’ – Arno thought for a second – ‘tell her I’m looking forward to seeing her again. Whenever she is ready.’

  ‘Very good,’ the father said, stepping forward, seeming to draw Arno to his feet with an invisible gesture. ‘Remember, any time, any time at all, you’re always welcome here.’

  ‘Would you like to take a biscuit with you?’ the mother said as Arno went to the door, holding the plate beneath his nose. He nodded and gathered up three biscuits, which he wrapped up inside his handkerchief. He left by the front door and walked passed the shoe-shiner without a glance, eating all three biscuits before he’d reached the end of the street.

  6

  After seeing Monika’s parents, Arno felt suddenly protective over the cash in his pocket, as if it was the last thing left on his side. He wondered whether he really needed to spend any of it on the tram fare to hurry back to his apartment. Monika was not going to be there. She wasn’t with her parents and she wasn’t at his apartment. He may as well just walk the hour-long walk and save a few marks in doing so.

  He dug his hands in his pockets and began to cross the city on foot. Dear God, where was she? He wanted to laugh. He had no idea what to do next.

  As he walked, he noticed the sound of birds calling from the branches of the horse-chestnut trees that lined the street. That was the sort of district he was in. Trees on the street, expensive motorcars lining the road. Where he came from, there were no trees and the birds didn’t sing.

  For some reason, the birdsong reminded him of a story Monika told him. When she was eight years old, she said to him once, she climbed up to the top of a lamppost, as high as the lamplight itself. She’d wrapped her ankles around the post and thrust her way upwards. But when it came to getting down again she had no idea how. She grew suddenly frightened of the drop. Then the weather turned and it began to rain. Nobody was around to bring her down. Her fingers ached with cold and turned a shade of red. She was embarrassed and startled and hoped no-one would notice, but she also wanted someone to notice. It wasn’t until her father came looking for her three hours later, who ended up climbing a ladder to coax her down, that she was rescued.

  Arno began to think that maybe she’d done the same thing again. That she’d gone somewhere as a way of disappearing for a few hours and then suddenly become frightened of what she’d done, and for some reason, couldn’t find her way back again. Maybe it was embarrassment. Maybe she was still waiting for someone to find her. Maybe she’d found a hiding place that to her seemed utterly obvious, and she couldn’t understand why nobody had yet thought to look for her there.

  Arno walked along the street, his hands in his pockets and his tongue finding the gum of chewed-up biscuit in his teeth. It nagged at him, this doubt about Monika, as if some sort of concealed truth lay just out of sight. Was he not clever enough to work out her game? Or was the thought something else: that he was clever enough, but that adulthood consisted of messy, disarranged, unsolvable problems like this?

  Ahead of him he watched a little boy, wearing shorts and red socks pulled up to his knees, go chasing after a pet dog. The boy was carrying a flat piece of wood in his hand and w
as gently slapping the hindquarters of his dog with it. The child laughed as the dog scampered a few yards ahead. Then he made chase and slapped it again, a little harder this time. The dog yelped, and ran on a bit more, but not too far, just far enough for the boy to catch up.

  Arno found himself following the boy and his dog. The afternoon was placid and bright. Up ahead, the street was busy with people enjoying the gentle air. He remembered the money in his pocket and for a minute began to imagine how best to spend it. He stopped at a shop window. Having money to spend was a novelty and it suddenly gave him the idea that he could go into one of these expensive shops and pretend to he know his way around. He thought he could buy a gift for Monika. He thought that if he bought her a gift, it might somehow help to solve the mystery, as if she might sense it was time to come home.

  But just as quickly, he changed his mind. He began to think that Monika’s disappearance was his own fault. Perhaps she didn’t want him to find her after all? Perhaps a gift for her would be a waste of his money. Perhaps this was her way of leaving him behind, to disappear without warning and never see him again.

  He walked on until he came to the end of the block. Here, the line of shops came to an end. Brick walls were covered in rows of posters for an election rally that had long since passed. It was the same poster repeated over and over a hundred times, each poster torn in a different way. The words read Work, Freedom and Bread! in striking red lettering.

  Just then, a car pulled up in front of him and slowed down to a stop. The rear door opened and from it appeared a woman. It was the same woman from the train. He didn’t recognise her at first, not until his eyes accustomed. But it was her. That face and that haircut. Yes, it was her, still as pretty as a picture.