Night Crossing

by Robert Ryan

  There was also no RSVP number, but by the time he had called the concierge and booked himself a table at Uckhurt’s on Ku’damm for dinner that night and slid into a hot, soapy bath, Ross had already decided to accept. He had a hunch that there was a connection to the brutal death of a salesman in a Neuköln alley.

  Two

  THE ADDRESS ON the card was on the southern side of Tiergarten, the so-called Alte Westen, a short walk through the chaos of Potsdamer Platz and west to the Matthäikirche, the Nazi church of choice. The house that Ross was seeking was not one of those villas done ‘in the English manner’ as Berliners said, with huge gardens and porticoes, the kind of places that housed either high-ranking officials or embassies, but in a more modest street—at least, by Alte Westen standards—of tall, flat-fronted edifices with refreshingly clean lines.

  Ross found himself hesitating at the bottom of the steps to the house’s rather sombre entrance, wondering whether he had made the right decision to come. His anxiety made him look across the street, to where a portly man in an ill-fitting uniform was watching. The man turned away and hastily scribbled something on the notepad he yanked from behind his Sam Browne-style belt.

  ‘Don’t worry about him,’ said a voice. ‘Just the local Blockwärter.’ He turned to find a lady almost as substantial as the house in front of him. ‘Sundays he gets to wear his uniform. Rest of the time, he’s the local handyman. Which is a useful profession for a Party stooge. Here for tea?’

  ‘Yes.’ He showed his invitation.

  She held out her hand and he took it and introduced himself. ‘Gertrud Ritter,’ she said. ‘Vossische Zeitung.’ Ross smiled, thinking that she looked like no journalist he had ever seen, with her copious jewellery, flouncy dress and flamboyant hat. Nor did she seem much like a Party member, although most scribblers were these days. There was something too tart about her tongue: Party members didn’t make disparaging remarks about Blockwärter. ‘Come along, then. Not been here before? A word of warning …’ She paused, her hand on the bell pull, and grinned. ‘It’s rather informal.’

  The hall was more impressive than the exterior suggested. The floor was highly polished teak, the walls covered with murky portraits of various grandees and landscapes, the furniture heavy and ornate, and everywhere the giant potted plants so beloved of middle-class Germany. From behind white doors decorated with gilded inlays came the sound of animated voices. The young maid took their coats. Ross’s new companion indicated the room beyond the closed doors and whispered in his ear, ‘Would you like some help with who’s who in there?’

  ‘I’d be very grateful, gnädige Frau.’

  They were ushered into the salon, a sensitive fusing of what had once been two separate rooms to form a space large enough to throw a decent ball. A row of floor-to-ceiling windows covered in surprisingly delicate gauze curtains let in shafts of the soft afternoon light, although flanking them were tightly curled swathes of dark velvet that could be swished across for a complete blackout. At one end of the room was a highly polished piece of ebony that even Ross’s untrained eye could tell was a serious piano.

  There were perhaps thirty people in the room, each holding a plate of pastries or cake in one hand, and coffee or wine in the other.

  ‘Dutch ambassador over there,’ Gertrud whispered in his ear. ‘Klaus Blemberg, Deputy Chairman of Deutsche Bank, nice man, Jurgen Telling, of the Staatsoper … well, formerly of the Staatsoper, that monster Tietjen got rid of him.’ She took a breath, as if suppressing her anger. ‘Goering’s doing, of course …’ The list went on, mainly, it seemed to Ross, people associated with the arts, and especially music, although most of Gertrud’s asides and explanations went over his head. ‘And this gentleman,’ she said loudly as a figure detached itself from the feeding frenzy around the table, ‘is our host.’

  He was a tall, thin man, slightly stooped, his entire sharp-boned face seeming to peer over the half-moon glasses hovering at the end of his nose. He gave Gertrud a kiss on her heavily powdered cheeks before turning to address Ross, extending a hand as he did so. No stiff-armed Hitlergruss here, even though its omission was risky at any gathering, even in one’s own home.

  ‘Hello, Inspector Ross. Cameron. My God, how you’ve grown. But then, it would be strange if you hadn’t, wouldn’t it?’

  Ross scanned the face for clues. The use of his Christian name took him aback completely. Informal indeed.

  ‘Oh, I’m not surprised you don’t remember. Windhoek? And the veldt? Your father was liaising with the German Farmers Union. You must have been … fourteen or fifteen?’

  The image of a younger, happier man flashed for a second in Ross’s mind and was gone. But a name stayed. ‘Fritz?’

  ‘Fritz Walter! Yes. Well done, Inspector. And how is your father?’

  ‘Well, thank you.’ Ross recalled Walter and his wife, also a travelling musician, brought over to entertain the disenfranchised German population of South-West Africa, a troupe only too glad at the time to get away from the chaos in the shattered and demoralised Fatherland. His wife had played … cello, an instrument that had seemed far too large for such a gamine creature. Ilse, that had been her name. Even to a gawky fourteen-year-old she had seemed such an exotic flower out there, pale and delicate among the big, rough-skinned pioneers and their beefy Frauen.

  He looked around and saw her flit through the middle of the small knot of people at the table: a quick glimpse of dark hair cut unfashionably short, cropped almost, exaggerating a pair of large brown eyes that flashed his way. He thought he caught the beginning of her smile before the curtain of people closed around her. She hadn’t changed a bit.

  As Walter made his introductions, Ross kept trying to get another sighting of her, but she seemed to have left the room. ‘Herr Walter—’

  ‘Fritz. Please.’

  ‘How did you know I was in town? To invite me here?’

  ‘What? You think staying at the Adlon is hiding? Most of Berlin knows that a British policeman is here—you forget that underneath all the bluster and posturing this is still a provincial town. Are you all right?’

  He realised that he was still scanning the room for her. ‘Yes. Sorry.’

  ‘Ah, Ulrike. Coffee, Inspector?’

  She was in front of him now, holding a silver tray with an ornate coffee pot and tiny quatrefoil porcelain cups, those large unblinking eyes staring into his.

  ‘Ulrike?’ he stumbled, thinking his memory had let him down.

  ‘Yes, you remember her, don’t you? I think she must have been two. Possibly eighteen months—’

  She was their daughter, the cheeky little girl that Ilse would place in his charge while the musicians tuned up. He remembered them standing, hand in tiny hand, her blowing raspberries every time her mother put her bow to the strings, causing both of them to collapse in giggles.

  ‘My God—I thought … How do you do?’ he corrected himself.

  ‘Hello, Inspector. My father told me all about you. I enjoy meeting anyone who knew my mother …’

  She let it tail off and Ross looked up at Walter. ‘Ilse?’

  His host shook his head. ‘Second child. It was what they euphemistically call a difficult birth. Neither of them survived, Inspector.’

  Ulrike swept in with a well-timed diversion as her father’s eyes filled. ‘How do you take your coffee, Inspector?’

  ‘White, no sugar.’

  He helped himself from the tray and thanked her.

  ‘You are welcome, Inspector. Careful.’

  He looked down. His hand was shaking.

  ‘Uli, you’ve got him all flustered,’ said a new voice. ‘She does that to me sometimes. Even at my age. She looks right into you. It’s unnerving.’

  The speaker was, Ross estimated, in his early fifties, a handsome man, although his blond hair was yellowing and the grin sent a web of laughter lines streaking down his face. He was dressed in a sharp double-breasted pinstriped suit, with a Party badge prominent in the lapel. A gol
d Party badge, no less. Another handshake, but preceded by the quick flick of the less extreme form of Hitlergruss, merely showing the right palm. Ross realised with regret that Fritz and Ulrike had faded away and he would have to make small talk.

  ‘Otto Vedder.’

  Ross cocked an ear to catch the accent. Austrian. ‘Cameron Ross.’

  ‘Inspector Cameron Ross,’ Vedder corrected.

  ‘You don’t have a title?’ asked Ross, knowing full well he would have. The man’s bearing screamed military background.

  ‘Well, strictly speaking I am a Staff Colonel.’

  ‘With …?’

  ‘Shall we walk in the garden? Bring your coffee, Inspector.’

  Ross gulped what was left in the cup and handed it to one of the staff, feeling the world shift in strange ways once more. He wondered what his father would have done in this situation, and knew that he would have grasped and mastered it, but no solution came to him.

  They took a turn around the walled garden. Vedder made polite conversation, telling him of his stint in the K&K, the old Austro-Hungarian army, and his time at Austria’s Kriegschule, the school of war.

  ‘And now?’

  ‘I work at Tirpitzufer. Not far from here. You know it, Inspector?’ A questioning eyebrow flicked up.

  Ross nodded, blood draining from his face. He could only be referring to one section of the street. Numbers seventy-two to seventy-six Tirpitzufer formed the headquarters of the Abwehr, German military intelligence. Ross smelled a rat about this whole soirée, and the motives for inviting him. The affable Otto Vedder was a high-ranking Nazi spy. The sort of spy who might well have had Draper killed.

  After fifteen minutes of quizzing him about the murdered man, the Kripo investigation and the suspect now in custody, Vedder ushered Ross inside. As he did so Ross felt Vedder press something, which he quickly pocketed, into his hand.

  ‘Nice talking to you, Inspector. Good luck with the case.’

  He walked off into the crowd, which had grown while they had been away. From the far end of the room came the rich resonance of the grand piano. It reminded Ross of his time on a student exchange in Hannover, when his family had held a weekly Musik Abend, an evening of recitals.

  There was a rude blowing sound in his ear. He spun around. Ulrike smiled up at him. She no longer held the coffee tray. She blew another soft raspberry.

  ‘You remember doing that?’ he asked in amazement.

  ‘Oh, I used to do it till I was five or six. Every time mother played at home. I am sure the joke had worn thin with her by then, but she never let on.’

  ‘I seem to recall that I thought it was rather hilarious.’

  She cocked an ear to the music. ‘Chopin,’ she said. ‘The room has lovely acoustics, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, now you mention it—’

  ‘Did you like Uncle Otto?’

  Ross laughed. ‘Hard to say, given that we have only just met.’

  ‘Come, come, Inspector. A man in your line of work must make snap judgements. Tell me about Uncle Otto.’

  ‘I thought he was very charming.’

  Ulrike dropped her voice to a deep whisper. ‘Liar.’ Before he could react she said: ‘Ah, listen …’

  The piano playing grew louder, faster, more ferocious, highly percussive. Ross put a hand to his chin. He could feel those wide eyes raking him.

  ‘Karl Hartmann. The Jazztoccata. Do you like it?’

  ‘Well, it’s a little modern for my taste,’ he said. ‘I feel safer with Chopin.’

  ‘Modern? Oh, that’s a dangerous word. Hartmann has had to move abroad, you know. Too much jazz, too many Jewish melodies for the RMK.’ Ross indicated that the initials meant nothing to him. The Reichs Musik Kammer? They decide who can play and who can’t. What can be performed, and what can’t.’ She lowered her voice and pointed at the ceiling. ‘Father shouldn’t even be playing it here. But those idiots are tone-deaf.’

  Ross looked up, puzzled, imagining men on the floor above, ears to the carpet. ‘I think I am too,’ he said, as the piece clattered to a conclusion.

  ‘Nonsense. It just takes some getting used to. Like Stravinsky.’

  Ross grunted. He hadn’t quite assimilated that, either. ‘So what do you play? Piano like your father? Or cello like Ilse?’

  ‘Neither. Violin. Or did, until the accident.’

  Before he could ask for an explanation the maid was bobbing in front of Ulrike. Her face was drawn tight, the manner jittery.

  ‘Excuse me, miss, but you have a visitor.’

  ‘Who is it, Anna?’

  ‘Herr Erich.’

  Ross thought he detected a fizz of irritation. ‘Tell him to come in.’

  Frida hesitated. ‘He’s in uniform.’

  ‘Ah.’ Ulrike turned to Ross. ‘Erich is my fiancé.’ Ross tried to keep his face impassive, to hide what was an unreasonable pang of disappointment, but the little smile she flashed suggested he hadn’t succeeded. ‘My father has a rule about Sundays and uniforms … would you walk with us?’

  ‘I can’t just leave.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said mischievously, grabbing his arm and leading him towards the door. ‘You’re finished here, Inspector. Come, tell me what you remember about my mother. Erich would want to hear that, too.’

  The severe-looking Erich Hinkel with his jutting cheek-bones and savagely cropped fair hair was resplendent in a startlingly white uniform with matching beret, a swastika armband and a polished belt with a prominent Blut und Ehre dagger. The big lad looked a little old for the Marine-Hitlerjugend uniform, although his face still bore the fading evidence of a young man’s spots and pimples.

  Ulrike had introduced them at the door and Erich had given a stiff-armed salute before shaking hands. He called Ross ‘Sir’, which made him feel ancient.

  ‘Shall we walk? To the Tiergarten?’ Ulrike had asked.

  The streets en route to the park were full of a baffling variety of uniforms. Men and women alike were dressed in all shades, from the lightest khaki to crow black, as citizens made their way back from the military parade on Unter den Linden, which had been part of the Reichsführer’s birthday celebrations. Ross wished that his police colleagues who, even now, thought the communists were more of a threat than the fascists, could see the end result of the road that they had allowed Mosley to start down with his thuggish rallies at Olympia.

  Ross tried to speak of Ilse, but in truth there wasn’t much to say, little that he could summon up from the memories of eighteen years previously, except one journey by ox-wagon to play in front of ten bored and drunk farmers and another to a village where seemingly every soul within a hundred-mile radius appeared. Ross had not really known back then why they were chaperoning the musicians. Only when Ross was inducted into what his father considered to be the family business was he told that it was to ensure they really were musicians, not seditionists in disguise, trying to sow dissent among the newly disenfranchised Germans.

  Ross could sense during these reminiscences that Erich was bursting to say something to Ulrike in private, and Ross tried to find an excuse to get away.

  When they reached the park gates he said, ‘Look, I’m quite tired. I played golf yesterday with the Wannsee pro. If you two want to talk—’ he began.

  ‘Nonsense,’ Ulrike protested. ‘All you need is some air. There is a tent just a few hundred metres from here.’ The tents—Zelte—were the park’s refreshment stalls.

  ‘Uli,’ blurted Erich as they strolled down the path through the woods to the clearing. ‘Today they announced our postings. To honour Himmler’s birthday. I have been selected for the Reichsmarine. The submariner section.’ His chest swelled. ‘U-boats, Uli, U-boats!’

  ‘Mutineers! Mutineers!’

  The cry came from behind them, and Ross felt a body barrel into him, and caught the scowl on the young face as it flashed in front of his. Another runner, this one dressed in regular Hitlerjugend uniform, bowled past and turned. ‘Mutineers,’
he hissed at Erich. ‘If you’re up for it, sailor boy.’

  Erich looked torn for a moment between joining the athletic boys and young men who were bursting out of bushes and along the small, twisting pathways that criss-crossed Tiergarten and waiting for Ulrike’s reaction to his momentous news. Finally he shouted: ‘Stay here. At the shelter. I’ll be back soon.’ And he turned and sprinted as fast as he could towards the wall of trees at the far end of the lawn.

  ‘The Mutineers?’ asked Ross.

  ‘The damn’ idiots, if you ask me,’ she said, her voice quaking.

  A flight of ravens burst from the branches of the oaks ahead of them, cawing loudly. A shrill police whistle sounded from the direction of the Victory Column. Most of the strollers had paused, anticipating violence.

  ‘They pick fights with the Hitler Youth,’ Uli explained. She gasped as a cobblestone dropped onto the path ahead of her, bouncing once with a flat thud. Then a second was thrown, arcing high over the refreshment shelter. From their left came a wild-eyed figure, his tweed suit shredded on one arm, face bleeding, his arms pumping. Behind him, fifteen or more Hitler Youth, faces scrunched into hatred, a low growl emanating from them. Their prey swerved and headed directly for Ross and Ulrike, and the pack followed.

  A large rock hit the Mutineer in the back and he stumbled forward with a yelp of pain.

  ‘Don’t do anything,’ said Ulrike, gripping his arm. ‘Please. It’s best.’

  Ross nodded, knowing that she was right, but as the injured boy leapt into the undergrowth he felt a prickle of shame.

  The Mutineer was flung from the bushes. He was followed from the undergrowth by two of the Streifendienst, the Hitlerjugend Patrol Service, a kind of Gestapo manqué who swarmed around parks and gardens at weekends looking for anti-social behaviour. Both had truncheons raised as the unfortunate lad collapsed and rolled into a heap.

  ‘Stop!’ shouted Ross.

  The first blow must have broken the boy’s upraised arm, such was the sharpness of the crack. Now the pack had arrived, a swirling mass of young bodies, fired up with fanaticism, jostling for position to land a kick, a punch, a stab.