by Anna Patrick
‘It belonged to my husband’s family. When his parents died, we had the building adapted into separate apartments.’
‘Why?’
‘We had no children, so the house was too big. We wanted to supplement our income by letting out rooms and enjoy an early retirement.’
‘Before you go, I would like you to write the names of all the tenants in your building and a brief description of them: age, occupation and anything else of interest.’
‘Surely all this information is at your fingertips. You had no problem finding me.’
‘Indulge me,’ said Bauer, pushing a pen and paper across the desk.
She sighed heavily.
He glanced at the translated sheet; as he expected it contained minimal information.
‘There is one thing that surprises me, Mrs Wisniewska,’ he said, as he showed them to the door.
She waited, head to one side, eyes sceptical, chin jutting out.
‘You have never once asked why we arrested your tenant.’
This time she didn’t wait for her translator and said: ‘Warum?’
‘She was carrying a gun for the resistance.’
He closed the door. It amused him to imagine their reactions and their private conversations as they returned home. One of his skills as a detective was judging when to release information; he had known people reveal far more than they ever intended because a fact, mentioned almost in passing, had completely unnerved them.
Not that he expected this nugget to lead to anything. The Poles were much too proud and defiant, different from the Berliners he was used to, but at least maintaining his own approach to investigations gave him job satisfaction in a career he was no longer proud of.
Interrogations by his new colleagues in the Gestapo had dismayed him. Lacking any imagination or finesse, they endlessly repeated the same question while insisting that lying was futile as they had all the answers. Sometimes, he was loath to admit, the method worked and people, already weakened by pitiful conditions and solitary confinement, cracked under the constant pressure.
But he had no desire to appear omnipotent preferring to keep initial interrogations fluid. Set the hare running and watch where the dogs lead you, he explained to junior detectives while he was still a member of the Kripo. Now, despite the promise of a Thousand Year Reich, nobody had the time or patience to enjoy the craft of detecting. A pity when he remembered the many interesting investigations carried out in a previous life.
When his boss invited him to join the Gestapo, Bauer stalled. He guessed the career move would mean a better life for his family and he also suspected they might interpret refusal as criticism or showing insufficient enthusiasm for Hitler’s policies. So he claimed to be interested and said he would talk it over with his wife that night.
Instead he took the tram to Tiergarten and walked the rest of the way to Birkenstrasse to meet up with retired Chief of Police, Ernst von Linden, his onetime mentor.
A maid answered the front door and showed him into a large drawing room with French windows onto a well-kept garden: neatly clipped shrubs and trees surrounded a central lawn while herbaceous borders filled with a variety of flowering plants made an impressive display.
Linden walked into the room unnoticed. He was a tall man who retained the Italianate good looks of his youth. Now in his seventies, his black hair was still dark and his steel-blue eyes bright with intelligence.
‘Good evening, Bauer. You are admiring my garden.’
‘Good evening, Sir, and yes it is a most delightful sight, even for someone who can’t distinguish one flower from the next.’
Linden beamed and shook his protégé’s hand warmly.
‘Come and sit down. Will you join me in a glass of something?’
‘I shall be glad to.’
‘Good, a man shouldn’t drink alone and I don’t get as many visitors as I used to and when I do, they are not always as welcome as you are.’
‘Thank you, Sir.’
With drinks in hand and mutual toasts made, they sat in comfortable armchairs on either side of the ornate fireplace.
‘You are married now, I hear.’
‘Yes, Sir, a wonderful woman called Henni, and we are now the proud parents of a beautiful daughter, Monika.’
‘I am pleased for you, Bauer. A man should be married. I miss my dear wife every day. You must bring Henni to meet me. I’d like to see what kind of woman unshackled you from your desk.’
Bauer grinned and promised to do so. Linden refilled their glasses and became serious.
‘When you rang me earlier today you said there was something you wanted to discuss?’
‘Yes, Sir. They have invited me to join the Gestapo.’
‘And?’
‘I’m wondering whether I should.’
‘Explain your thoughts.’
‘I’m not sure they are coherent. There are criminals and there are policemen dedicated to tracking them down. I’m very comfortable with that…’
‘And superb at it.’
‘I appreciate the compliment, Sir.’ He paused.
‘I’m not sure I like a Secret State Police and with recent events I’m not sure we need one.’
‘Ah, you mean the “Night of the Long Knives.” Yes, I’ve heard that argument used since then, but I’m not convinced by it. Any state, particularly one as new as ours, will always have enemies and we have to be prepared to fight those enemies by any means.
‘And if you remember your history lectures at police college, you’ll know Prussia had a political police force from the mid-nineteenth century onwards and most of its members came from the criminal police force. So there’s nothing new about your potential recruitment.’
Linden chuckled.
‘It seems ironic now, but Department 1A kept a close eye on members of the Party during their rise to power as much as they did on the communists.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Yes, it’s true. It’s safe to say the watchers, and the watched, exist in every society on earth and in every period in history.’
Bauer was silent.
‘Ah, of course, I remember now, you’re not a political animal, are you Bauer? More’s the pity. You could have progressed further in your career with a better understanding of office loyalties and manoeuvrings. Politics lies at the heart of everything we do whether in the office or in the wider world outside.’
‘I’m beginning to appreciate that, Sir, and I have joined the Party.’
‘Good. I wasn’t convinced about Hitler at first, I don’t mind admitting that, but he’s proved himself a more than worthy leader. Take the purge of the storm troopers. Rohm was a personal friend of Hitler’s yet he didn’t hesitate to execute him for treason, for the good of the country, for the good of the German people.’
‘But without a trial.’
‘Desperate times demand desperate measures, Bauer. Do you realise Rohm had more storm troopers than our entire army? Imagine the mayhem he could have caused with a coup. You’re not against the death penalty for treason, are you?’
‘No.’
‘Nor should you be. People who want democracy, God help them, can go and live elsewhere. Communists can go to hell or as we politely refer to it, Russia. Those who remain need to understand where their loyalties lie.’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’
‘You served in the Great War didn’t you?’
Bauer nodded his assent.
‘Life is simple as a soldier. You get your orders, you march and you fight. There’s nothing to think about. Depending on your character, you are courageous or you are not. Police work, particularly political police work, isn’t like that. You don’t always see your enemy; they don’t always wear a uniform or point a gun; but the damage they do can be just as lethal.’
‘That is true
.’
‘But you’re still not sure.’
‘Perhaps I wish they didn’t take so much pleasure in their brutal reputation.’
‘Oh, come on, Bauer, are you getting soft in your old age? Do you mean to say you’ve never kneed a rapist in the balls? Or winded a murderer with an elbow to the solar plexus? I would say brutality is inevitable when you are dealing with an enemy, especially one as devious as you find in the political sphere. Would you rather be shooting them dead on a battlefield or roughing them up in a cell to get vital information that can secure your country’s safety? It’s a question of horses for courses, my boy, horses for courses.
‘Come on, drink up and I’ll show round the vegetable garden. Perhaps you’d like to take some produce home for Henni? There’s nothing to beat fresh vegetables picked and cooked the same day.’
Half an hour later Bauer, carrying a bag of potatoes, carrots and beetroots, bid his host a warm goodbye.
‘Remember Bauer, Kripo or Gestapo, you can do good wherever you are,’ said Linden as he shook hands then raised his arm in salutation. He meant the advancement of National Socialism in all its manifestations, but Bauer interpreted the words as a moral imperative and it gladdened his heart and made him head for home lighter in mood and firmer in step. The next day he joined the Gestapo.
8
Three days of solitary confinement and Marta didn’t know what to do with herself. Her jaws ached; her head boiled; it was like climbing in the highest mountains. She rehearsed her story until she was word perfect. Predicting their questions, she probed her responses for flaws. She paced up and down; stretched and jogged on the spot; searched everywhere to find something to write or scratch her own message. Then she did it all again. Nothing brought her any peace.
She had always loved life and everything it offered; every minute, every second counted as she explored the world in all its kaleidoscopic wonder. Art, friendship, dancing, poetry, her studies and her beloved fiction: these were like champagne and caviar. They fed her soul and made her soar.
To be dull, to be bourgeois, offended her sensibilities when she wanted to paint on the canvas of the world. She never wanted to go to sleep arguing that it was an appalling waste of time. During late-night conversations with friends, it was they who insisted on their slumbers, leaving her to wander off reluctantly to bed; at other times, when she was on her own, her body rebelled and forced her mind to shut down and she would wake up bewildered, her book fallen to the ground.
This endless waiting, hour after hour, and now, it seemed, day after day, she found intolerable. To see time, the essence of life, wasted like this was a form of torture. The very walls pressed in on her, taunting her as cruelly as a ticking clock.
She understood that this, too, was a way of breaking her down, of making her pliable to interrogation. A routine would help and she forced herself to organise a series of mental and physical activities to fill the day.
She tried to exclude Ludek from her thoughts; she didn’t want his name lingering in her head, blurted out with disastrous consequences. Yet she continued to sense him; when she hugged herself and shut her eyes, his imagined embrace brought her comfort.
With a plan to cope with her imprisonment, she became calmer and more optimistic. She had been lucky so far. Then a new sense of resolve took hold of her: lucky be damned, she needed to show the same bravado as before. She hammered a shoe against the door and yelled for a guard. Minutes later, she heard footsteps in the corridor and the door was unlocked.
‘What’s all this racket about?’ The guard was young and stupid looking.
‘Get me the duty officer and be quick about it. What an appalling dereliction of duty.’ A useful phrase she’d read in a German newspaper.
The guard stood nonplussed with his mouth open. He wasn’t used to having prisoners speak to him like that and it threw him off balance.
‘The duty officer,’ repeated Marta. ‘This will get back to SS Reichfuehrer Himmler if you don’t get a move on.’
He had been contemplating thrusting his rifle butt into Marta’s face but blanched at the name. Maybe this was no ordinary prisoner, no empty threat. Better to leave any decision to his superior officer than end up on a charge. He’d noticed everyone getting more jumpy since the Allied invasion of France.
‘All right, get back inside your cell.’
Marta snorted in a mixture of delight, amazement and contempt. Fancy shaking these cowards by invoking the name of Himmler as if she stood any chance of communicating with him. Well, more fool them.
Minutes passed as she worked out what to say to the duty officer. He was brighter, probably; then again he was just as likely to fear upsetting Himmler. Let the game begin.
She strode along the corridor and arrived at the office with head held high. With a curt nod, she launched her attack:
‘As you know, I am helping the Gestapo with an important enquiry and they had to imprison me for my own protection, but I am perfectly sure that Inspector Bauer had no wish to detain me in a cold, dark cell with nothing but bed bugs for company.’
Cold, grey eyes gave nothing away.
‘I suggest you phone Inspector Bauer immediately and ascertain his wishes. There is no doubt in my mind that this is a dereliction of duty on the part of the prison authorities and, as such, a reportable offence to SS Reichfuehrer Himmler. I have been patient for long enough; I will not be any longer.’
There was silence as the duty officer reflected on her words.
‘When did they bring you in?’
‘Sunday night.’
‘I see.’
He pulled out the black ledger containing her details. He wasn’t prepared to ring this Inspector Bauer and face a dressing down in front of her. No prisoner of the Gestapo would dare to act like this unless there was more to the arrest than had been noted in the book. Of course, the Gestapo claimed ‘protective custody’ for all their prisoners but to make a point of mentioning it sounded ominous. Well, whatever, she wasn’t his problem; the book said nothing about solitary confinement.
‘Take the prisoner to the women’s block. Follow the usual procedures for a transfer.’
Marta kept her face impassive. She thanked the duty officer with what she hoped was a convincing degree of satisfaction at a grave injustice corrected and followed the guard out. Inside she whirled round in a dance of delight, especially when they stopped at the showers. She put the tiniest sliver of soap to good use and relished being clean. They disinfected her clothes and returned them steaming.
The guard marched her to the women’s block, a long building separated from the rest of the prison by linden trees. It was like an elixir to her soul to see the bright green leaves and feel the sun warming her face.
They took her to a large, bright room with two barred windows reaching up to the ceiling. Curious, friendly faces came up to her; the prisoners shook her hand and introduced themselves.
‘Resistance?’
‘No.’
‘Why were you arrested then?’
No harm in telling them what she had told Inspector Bauer.
‘The parcel I was delivering for someone turned out to be a gun.’
‘You were delivering a gun, and you didn’t know about it? Are you stupid? Do you think this is some sort of game?’
‘No, not at all.’
She looked to the other women for support but could tell by their faces they considered her action unwise.
‘Look, I was mad to do it, I admit it, but he was so plausible and he promised to get me some butter as a thank you.’
‘Butter? Well that makes it all right then. Bloody hell. What kind of idiot are you?’
The woman stomped off muttering under her breath.
‘Take no notice of Helena. A ferocious tongue belies a good heart.’
A feeble voice called out.
&
nbsp; ‘Will you come over and meet Zofia? Our oldest inhabitant, she is our inspiration.’
The white-haired woman lay on a mattress in a pitiful condition; she had been mutilated and a kidney infection made movement painful.
Marta knelt down and introduced herself. Despite the pain etched on Zofia’s face, her eyes were as deep and blue as the ocean and she gave Marta a searching look.
‘Tell me about yourself.’
‘There isn’t a lot to tell. As you probably heard, I transported a gun without knowing it, so now the Gestapo assume I’m working for the resistance. I’ve been in solitary for the past three days and now, thank God, I’m here with other people.’
‘Yes, it’s hard to be on your own in prison.’
‘What happened to you?’ Marta’s tone was timid.
‘My interrogators enjoyed being unkind, shall we say? But then I am in the resistance so I knew the dangers facing me.’
‘Where do you find the courage?’
A long pause followed.
‘I don’t regard it as courage: for me it is a simple question of life and how I am prepared to live it. Do I accept the jackboot? No. Do I accept the label of being a sub-human? No. Do I accept that I can die at the whim of others? No. I accept none of these and therefore to join the resistance, to do all I am asked to do to liberate my life and the life of others, is something I have to do in the same way I have to eat food to stay alive. There is no choice in my head. I am like a hungry man who reaches out for bread and I am sure that same hunger lies in the breast of every Pole.’
Marta crumpled. Yes, she experienced hunger for freedom, and yet, and yet…
‘I’m sorry, Marta, I am exhausted. We will talk again.’
She would have loved to continue talking but realised she needed time to marshal her thoughts and understand her own position. The approach of a woman called Danuta curtailed her hope to consider their conversation in peace.
‘May I join you?’
‘Yes, of course.’
Marta could hardly complain about having company when she had longed for it so passionately, yet she could see that being stuck in one room with the same people, day in, day out, could become as tiresome as being on your own. Danuta had spent her childhood in Warsaw so the two exchanged memories of the capital and chatted until the evening.