‘That’s exactly what it says.’
‘But’ – Arno began calculating the hours and days since he’d last seen her. What time did he wake up in the hotel room? How long did he spend looking for her in that dusty old town? Was she being taken away at that very moment? He couldn’t make sense of it.
‘Keep reading,’ Herr Goldstein said.
Arno did as he was told. The letter explained that the kidnappers intended to phone the Goldsteins at three o’clock in the afternoon. He read on. ‘When you answer the phone, simply tell us if you will pay the ransom or not. If you call the police or if you do not pay, we will kill your daughter.’
‘It can’t be right,’ Arno said, unable to hide his desperation.
‘We haven’t seen Monika since she left last Friday, and now we get this.’
‘Did you get the phone call?’
‘Yes, at exactly at three o’clock. That was yesterday. We answered. Nobody spoke.’
‘What did you say?’
‘We said we’d pay, of course. What else could we say?’
Arno was at a loss. It seemed impossible. Ludicrous and impossible. Was it really true or was this part of the ploy to force him into working for the police?
He needed more time to think, so he decided the only thing that could resolve the present situation with Herr Goldstein was a lie.
‘I believe Monika has been with her boyfriend all weekend,’ he said boldly.
Herr Goldstein looked up, his face locked with a fresh irritation. ‘Excuse me?’
‘That’s why she kept it a secret. I believe they went on holiday together.’
‘Monika doesn’t have a boyfriend.’
‘I’m sorry to tell you this, but she does. She’s been with him all weekend, and probably every day since.’ As the words left his mouth, he felt a cruel sting of self-betrayal. To deny his own existence like that seemed remarkably odd. But then he remembered his assignment and realised that it was sometimes prudent to play a role.
Herr Goldstein shook his head, not knowing whether to be relieved or enraged. ‘I don’t believe it.’
‘You’re worried over nothing,’ Arno said, his tone brightening. ‘She’ll be home before you know it.’
‘What about this letter?’
‘It’s a joke. Somebody is taunting you. It’s horrible, but harmless.’
Herr Goldstein was unable to take it in. ‘But we’ve forbidden Monika from having any boyfriends. Not without our knowledge. What is his name? Where does he live?’
Arno had the terrible urge to glance up at his own building. They were at the exact spot where Herr Goldstein would march to if he knew who the boyfriend really was. But he resisted. Instead, he shook his head and said, ‘He’s not from around here. He’s from Hamburg, so I’ve heard.’
‘Hamburg?’ Herr Goldstein seemed to consider the logistics of travelling north. ‘Is that where they are now?’
‘I don’t know. Probably.’
‘This is intolerable.’ Goldstein looked up and down the street as if searching for a sign that would tell him what to say or think next. He turned back to Arno. ‘If you hear from her, you must let me know. Immediately. If Monika is not home by the end of today, I’ll hold you personally responsible. Do you understand that?’
‘Yes. I understand.’
Herr Goldstein glanced down at his own shoes, then back at Arno’s face. He said nothing as he marched off in the direction from which he came – nearly coming face-to-face with a passing tram as he lumbered across the street.
27
Arno lay in bed that night and tried to piece together the possible series of events, from the hotel room where he’d been lying with Monika through to Herr Goldstein brandishing the kidnapper’s letter. It all had the absurd ring of farce about it, as if some satirical game was being played without his knowledge. And yet the facts remained as they were: Monika was still missing and no-one had seen or heard from her in days. Now, at least, they had an explanation.
With a dreadful sense of foreboding, he began to remember stories he used to hear from compatriots in the party about the prospect of raising funds by blackmail and kidnap. They’d seemed far-fetched to him at the time, as if only lunatics or fools would ever consider them. But still the rumours circulated. They tended to be passed between the excitable younger members – boys like himself – who got a kick out of the idea that not only could it be an easy method of extorting cash, but that a family – especially a Jewish one – might suffer along the way.
He began to picture Monika as the victim of one of these plots. The image that crystallised in his mind saw her in the soft light of his fondest memories. It was the face of the girl he loved. He thought of her being stolen away from the city, perhaps bundled into a vehicle, perhaps tied up and blindfolded, escorted like an animal to some dirty, anonymous hideaway. The idea made him want to disappear into himself. Then his mind slipped onto the question of her kidnappers and immediately his imagination swarmed with darker images, of a stranger’s hands gripping her, of force and maltreatment, and of her face crippled in fright. It was all too terrible to imagine.
He woke the following morning and remembered the last instruction that Göring had given him: be at the gallery on Mulackstrasse at midday. He went out onto the street where the morning was strumming with sunlight and the rattle of passing cars. He took a tram and crossed the city. He didn’t want to get off. He wanted to ride around the city for hours and hours, feeling invisible and lost. Yet, with so little to go on, it felt like his only option was to forge ahead with his present duty. He had a headache and he felt wretched. But it was time to focus on the day ahead – whatever it might bring.
As he went to the gallery, he decided to take a detour to visit the Goldstein’s house. He’d not forgotten what Monika’s father had said about holding him personally responsible if Monika hadn’t returned home. He thought he’d go to them first to show initiative. Besides which, he wanted to know everything he could about Monika’s whereabouts. He’d been too shocked to question Herr Goldstein last night; today he had a better idea of what he wanted to know.
It was exactly nine o’clock in the morning as the tram pulled up at a junction in Wilmersdorf. He checked left and right that he wasn’t being followed. Satisfied he was alone, he went on towards the Goldstein household.
The local shoe-shiner was nowhere to be seen. Arno went up the stone steps and noticed a pair of flowerpots on either side of the door. The flowers were in bloom, two bright-red splashes of colour alongside the large black door. He pulled the bell-ringer and waited. Several minutes passed. He noted the overall quietness of the house; it seemed unnaturally still. At the very least, he expected a maid to come, even if Monika’s parents were out. Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw a curtain blind twitch and a face furtively appear. As quickly it went. Several more minutes passed with Arno stranded on the doorstep. A cat came up and rubbed its flank against his leg, gave a timid meow and then hopped beneath a nearby shrub. At last, the great door opened and the face of Herr Goldstein appeared.
‘I’ve come to see if there’s any news,’ Arno said briskly. ‘Has Monika returned?’
Herr Goldstein cleared his throat to answer. Beyond him, Frau Goldstein stood in the hall, wringing her wrists with her hands.
‘We’ve had a second letter,’ Herr Goldstein said. His voice had a brittle, scratchy quality, like burnt charcoal.
‘A second letter? From the kidnappers?’
‘It seems like this is not a joke.’
‘What does it say?’
‘You better come inside.’
Arno wiped his feet as he entered. The hallway seemed even gloomier than before.
‘We’ve not heard from our daughter,’ Frau Goldstein said as Arno came inside. Her features were drawn and shallow looking.
‘I’ve not heard anything either,’ Arno replied. Their eyes met on an understanding of hopelessness, and part of Arno was relieved to know he wasn’t go
ing to be held accountable.
Herr Goldstein went into the drawing-room and gestured for Arno to follow. Monika’s mother stood lingering in the doorway, preferring not to enter the room. Herr Goldstein moved to the study table and turned to address the visitor.
‘Quite obviously, your story of Monika having a boyfriend was fabricated,’ he said.
Arno skulked with his head lowered, giving a half-nod of agreement.
Herr Goldstein picked up a piece of paper from the table and handed it to Arno. ‘That doesn’t matter anymore. We have to consider the facts in front of us.’
Arno took the letter. At once he felt its terrible power, like a tide of dirty water gathering around his legs. It was the worst of objects. It had come from the kidnappers again, this time detailing the conditions of the exchange of money. His eyes sped over the text at first, then adjusted to read the words more closely:
Monika is safe. To keep her that way, it is time to pay. We want the money in used 100-mark notes. It will be delivered inside a suitcase. The suitcase is to be taken to a location we will inform you of by telephone. Monika’s father will drive alone in a brown car travelling at 20km/h. He will drop the suitcase from the car. He will drive on for half-a-mile. He will turn around and return. Monika will be waiting if the money is correct.
Frau Goldstein stepped forward. Her fingers were trembling. ‘We don’t know what to do.’
Arno looked over at her. He was desperate to say something positive. ‘I’ll do whatever I can,’ he replied. Once again, he was tempted to reveal everything about their holiday together and the manner in which Monika had disappeared that morning. Thinking better of it, he asked instead, ‘Have you been to the police?’
Herr Goldstein glanced at his wife. ‘I’ve spoken to some colleagues, people who know about these things. They’ve advised we hesitate before contacting the police. As the first letter stated, Monika will be in far greater danger if we involve them.’
‘So you’re going to pay the money?’
‘We desperately want this to end. We want our daughter home as soon as possible,’ Herr Goldstein said. ‘But the sum of money is out of our reach.’
Arno replied, more bluntly than he intended, ‘You can’t afford it?’
‘They must think we have more than we do,’ Frau Goldstein said, still standing in the doorway.
Monika’s father shook his head and gazed at the floor. A moment later he looked up and spoke frankly. ‘We have next to nothing. That’s all I can tell you. Virtually every mark we possess is in this house. Otherwise, since the market crash, our investments have lost their value. Some have turned negative. We have nothing beyond these four walls.’
‘But I thought you were all –’ Arno stopped himself. ‘I mean, I thought, this house – it’s so grand – I thought you would have more than enough.’
Then and there, he realised he’d expected Monika’s parents to possess the solution. If a ransom payment was the issue, then their wealth would surely solve it. In a curious way, he’d even seen them as culprits, living in their expensive district, inviting envy and dissatisfaction from people looking in. He knew now he’d got it wrong. They were no more in control of the situation than he was.
‘We must find out Monika’s last movements,’ Herr Goldstein began again. ‘Who she saw last, who she’s contacted, who her friends are. Clearly there is more about our daughter we don’t know.’
‘Do you have any idea where they are keeping her?’ Arno said.
‘She is most likely somewhere in the city,’ Herr Goldstein replied. ‘The criminals are undoubtedly local. That’s what we’ve been advised. Perhaps someone with a prejudice against us. We would not be the first Jewish family to be the subject of something despicable like this. But we will find a way forward. We must find a way forward.’
Herr Goldstein was beginning to find his lucidity again, and with it, Monika’s mother finally entered the room and stood beside her husband.
Arno passed his gaze between the couple. How tired they looked, sagging in their clothes as if they’d both shrunk by a couple of inches. For now they seemed terribly silent, as if they were desperate for him to say something meaningful. Perhaps they saw in him a messenger, some kind of chance interruption to their otherwise interminable terror. Once again, he decided to make something up to break the silence.
‘It may surprise you to know that I have contacts in the Prussian police force. These aren’t the Kriminalpolizei, you understand. I can talk to them discreetly. I may be able to find out something useful. I can’t promise anything, but I can try.’
As he spoke, he realised he was not quite telling a lie. He was engaged in something. He just didn’t know what.
Herr Goldstein’s first response was, ‘No, certainly not, you mustn’t speak to the police. It will put our daughter in danger. I forbid it.’
‘Fine. I won’t. But there are still people I know. I can asked indirectly.’
‘Who do you know?’
‘It’s impossible for me to say. You have to believe me.’
‘You’re a student. Little more than a child. Who on earth could you know?’
‘I’m better connected than you realise.’
‘Are you sure?’ Monika’s mother said.
‘Whoever has taken Monika, someone will know about it. Criminals like this, they want to extend their territories.’ He began to mimic the words of the police agent when they were sat around the big table. ‘They want to win the support of the lesser men. This is when the cracks begin to show. This is where we can gain a foothold.’
Monika’s parents listened closely. Arno felt his status in the room rising. With every half-truth he spoke, he seemed to bring light into the gloomy quarters. He felt now like he was indeed a messenger, and through his wild promises, was laying out a pathway. He was giving them hope, and that was surely a good thing. Once again, he felt grateful for being the courageous and reckless individual he knew himself to be.
28
At exactly midday, an aubergine-coloured car pulled up in front of Lassner’s gallery. Arno got in and slid himself along the leather backseat. The driver gave a nod in the rear-view mirror before driving on. Arno expected to see Göring inside the car next to him or perhaps following on in another vehicle. But Göring was nowhere in sight.
The car took Arno to the edge of the city, over several bridges, beyond Tempelhof Airport and the gasworks that marked the industrial edges of Berlin. He felt satisfied, agreeably disorientated by the journey into unknown territory. Whatever duty had been thrust upon him, and whatever vague notion he had of it, he was doing his best to fulfill it. The car was taking him deeper into the party ranks. And his curious alibi – an art dealer no less! – was his ticket inside.
The car stopped outside a flat-roofed building along a nondescript suburban road. The driver said nothing as he gave a flick of his hand to indicate they had arrived. Arno got out and looked around him, up and down the street. There was a tram line at one end and a row of empty-looking houses at the other. After the plush quarters of the art gallery, this rundown street seemed little more than a backwater. He went towards the building that reared up in front of him like an old bookcase. A half-asleep Storm-trooper was standing guard at the door. He had his hand on a brass handle which was the shape of a lion’s head. As Arno approached, the door was opened; a second Brownshirt came to greet him and led him inside. The young soldier had the keen look of a new recruit. He was barely older than a schoolboy.
They went through a hallway with ceramic tiles and up a narrow staircase. ‘What is this place?’ Arno asked, feeling immediately superior to the adolescent.
‘It’s one of our warehouses.’
‘Warehouse? For what?’
‘We keep all sorts here. Mainly cigarettes. Did you know the party has its own brand?’
The boy took out a packet of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and showed it to Arno. The box was yellow with blue writing. Trommler Gold stood out in b
old lettering.
‘I’ve seen these around,’ Arno said. ‘Never smoked one though.’
‘They get distributed around the city from here. Here, have a packet. I’ve got plenty.’ The Brownshirt dug around in his over-sized trousers that flared up from his black boots. He handed Arno a packet of Trommler Gold and told him he could keep it.
‘Anything else here? Weapons? Plans for a revolution?’ Arno smirked, trying to turn his badly-plotted question into a joke.
‘Nothing else that I’m aware of,’ the boy said, smiling.
They walked along a corridor that had a rug running the entire length. All of the doors along the corridor were closed and many had keys in the locks. Arno was tempted to ask the young soldier about Vendetta directly. Had he heard of it? Was the building they were inside connected? Before he got round to asking, the boy spoke. ‘I’m taking you to see Gruppenführer von Hessen. He’s along here.’
‘Hessen?’ Arno knew the name. Had Lassner mentioned him?
‘He has an office here. Isn’t that the reason you’re here?’
‘I don’t know why I’m here,’ Arno said, feeling comfortable with the teenager. ‘It’s all a mystery to me.’
At this, the soldier stopped and glared. ‘Then how do I know if you’re supposed to be here at all?’ His face was suddenly tight with alarm, like he’d just been slapped.
‘I’m here to see Gruppenführer von Hessen, of course,’ Arno corrected. ‘I simply meant, I don’t know what to expect. I’m an art dealer, not a politician.’
The soldier relaxed. ‘Expect the unexpected, that’s all I’ll say.’
They entered through a pointed archway into a sort of antechamber with a large desk at the end. A picture of Hitler hung above it. Sat at the desk was the same man Arno recognised from the Café Bauer and Lassner’s gallery. He had short blond hair and a lean, healthy-looking face. A small scar at the top of his forehead caught the light and looked like a dent in his skull. He stood up to greet his visitor, walking around his desk in a slow, purposeful rhythm. Arno felt a thrill to finally meet the man.
Vanished in Berlin: Kidnap suspense mystery set in 1930s Berlin (Berlin Tales Book 2) Page 14