The Divided City

by Luke McCallin

  Semrau’s mouth moved, and then he nodded. “You’re like him,” he said. “I don’t say that in a bad way. You both see . . . things. No. I denounced a friend. I regretted it. Of course I did. Why did I do it? It was a desire for conformity. I wanted to be like all those others, all those self-confident others, instead of a mousy little archivist with no life. And it was love, Inspector. I loved his wife. I never understood, or recovered, from her choosing him over me. I kept it inside, always. I never said anything. I thought I had gotten over it. And then . . . and then the chance came. Just like that. The opportunity was there. Everyone was doing it, or something like it. You were even encouraged to do it. And that . . . that little kernel inside yourself, the part that never got over the rejection, the part that never got over being rejected for a Jew,” Semrau hissed, “it comes out, and the words . . . the words are out before you know it. And he was gone.”

  “And she was left alone,” Reinhardt said. “You looked after her. You are close now. But she does not know the truth.”

  Semrau smiled, shaking his head as he tipped another cigarette out. “Just like him, Inspector. You deduced it from my story. I do not know how he knew it, but knew it he did. He said he would tell her. Bring my world down, unless I made him vanish. Those were the words he used. He wanted to vanish. Leave his past behind. I guessed . . . I presumed he had things to hide, but he said no, he only wanted to erase what he had been. That Leyser no longer existed. I was to make him vanish.”

  “So you did it. You redacted him.”

  “So I did it, but I could not go all the way. The . . . historian in me would not let me. Apart from the mention you found when you came, in the squadron’s logbook where we didn’t look, I left just one reference, one obscure reference, for someone who really wanted him found. And the lieutenant did,” Semrau said, nodding at De Massigny. “And then I noticed, after he had gone, I noticed he never signed his name anywhere. He signed himself as ‘Boalt.’ Always Boalt.”

  “Perhaps, it is the name he has taken now,” De Massigny offered.

  “Perhaps,” Reinhardt agreed, his eyes on Semrau. “Beyond the threat against this woman, he never threatened you?”

  “Never. What he had over me was enough, Inspector. It would have brought my world down. It still might. But he said his quarrel was not with me.”

  “Who did he say it was with?”

  “With those of us who carried Germany down into ruin, Inspector.”

  39

  Leyser. Boalt. Disguises and infiltration. A man who penetrated the WASt. A man who passed as an ex-soldier at Zuleger’s. A man who came to Mrs. Meissner’s doorstep and inveigled his way into her house. A man who walked into the foyer of a fine hotel to murder Jürgen.

  A chameleon.

  And the British. Leyser’s captors. The British were in all that, somewhere, somehow, Reinhardt thought as he stared up at the imperial façade of the Kammergericht, past the olive matte curve of the helmets of the American soldiers on duty.

  Collingridge’s name got Reinhardt past the outer checkpoints, past a pair of Negro soldiers, and inside. He climbed with a laconic American MP up through the echoing cavern of the giant building, past soldiers and diplomats and lawyers from all four of the occupying powers, and a dozen more countries besides. This was the heart of the Allied Occupation. The Allied Control Council met here, the font of all laws, directives, and regulations in conquered Germany, although rumors and more had reached the population of deep divisions within it, of the wartime alliance beginning to fracture along very different visions of the peace that would be required.

  He waited in a corridor that squeaked and groaned along the length of its parquet floor at the men who strode it, looking out over the ragged expanse of Kleist Park. It took him a while to realize what it was that held his eyes, and he only understood it when a British MP with white belts and gaiters came to collect him. It was that the park, although poorly maintained, was still a park, and not a wasteland or not given over to growing vegetables.

  “Inspector? I’m rather surprised to see you here.”

  Whelan was dressed, seemingly de rigueur, in tweed suit and some kind of regimental or club tie. His office looked out over the narrow street to another building, so it was gloomy. His translator was with him, and the strange three-way conversation began, with both Whelan and Reinhardt clearly knowing enough of the other’s language to understand each other fairly well.

  “Thank you for arranging to meet me on such short notice, Mr. Whelan. It’s partly to apologize to you for the past. If my conduct was upsetting to you, I am sorry.” Whelan nodded graciously, and Reinhardt was glad to see the elderly Englishman seemed disinclined to make hay out of Reinhardt’s apology. “I am rather committed to my work, you see. I always have been. And so, I was hoping that in addition to making my excuses, perhaps I could ask you a few questions in the interests of furthering my inquiries.”

  “Of course, Inspector,” replied a mollified Whelan. “Please.”

  “What can you tell me about Carlsen?”

  Whelan frowned. “I thought you weren’t involved in that investigation.”

  “I’m not, but his death has links to the murders I am investigating.”

  “How so?”

  “I found that Carlsen was investigating the men who have been murdered. I found that he had accessed the WASt in the last several weeks . . .”

  “In the what?” interrupted Whelan.

  “The WASt. The Wehrmacht Information Office for War Losses and POWs. It is the central repository for information on armed forces personnel. I was saying that Carlsen was looking at and for the same information as me. How is it that this could be? Supposedly, Carlsen’s murder has nothing to do with Noell’s. This is what you have been insisting on from the beginning. Especially Mr. Markworth.”

  Whelan seemed honestly perplexed. “Listen, I don’t quite know what to say, Inspector Reinhardt. I’m sure you must have your reasons, but . . .” He trailed off.

  “So perhaps you could tell me more about Carlsen.”

  “Well, he was a decent enough chap. You know.”

  Reinhardt smiled, tilting his head slightly. “I’m sorry. I don’t.”

  “Well,” Whelan said again, shifting a little in his chair. “You know. Decent enough chap for a Jew. Nothing against Jews, you understand. Only they’re not like us.”

  “And he was a German, is that right?” Reinhardt asked. The translator looked desperately uncomfortable, staring at her knuckles where one hand lay folded over the other.

  “Yes. Playing with a double handicap,” quipped Whelan. The translator stumbled over that one. Not over the words, but over the analogy. Reinhardt, who had understood Whelan’s joke, let her find her way to explain it, giving away nothing of his command of English. Her halting explanation seemed to sober Whelan up a little, as if he realized his humor was misplaced. “Still. Yes. Decent chap. Very decent. Did the right thing and all that. His parents were murdered by the Nazis. He got out, joined up in England.”

  “I imagine he had to work doubly hard to be accepted. Being a German and a Jew.”

  “Quite. He came back over with the rest of us and worked as a military lawyer here in the ACC with me. His only weakness was the bottle. He couldn’t hold it. We tried to keep him out of trouble. Managed most of the time. Markworth was best at keeping him in line.”

  “Yes, where is Mr. Markworth?”

  “Out and about, I should imagine. He usually is.”

  “Is he also on the Allied Control Council?”

  “No, no,” Whelan said. “He’s with the British Control Commission. The occupation authority for the British zone. He does his own thing, usually. He should be along shortly. I told him you were coming. Err . . . something to drink, perhaps?” Whelan pointed at a table with a bottle of whiskey on it, around which a rank of tumblers paid court. He poure
d and handed Reinhardt a glass, leaving the translator empty-handed between them.

  “Thank you. You never told me exactly what it is you do for the Control Council.”

  “Oh, you know. Pushing papers and whatnot. I work for the section on war crimes. What is a war crime, what isn’t. What the occupying powers can do in their own jurisdictions in terms of pursuing people for war crimes.”

  “Delicate work.”

  “Indeed. Since the Nuremberg trials, cooperation between the powers on war-crimes prosecutions has, shall we say, broken down.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Well,” said Whelan, warming to his topic, “each of the powers now pursues its own interests. What it investigates. Whom it prosecutes. To whom it grants amnesties. Whom it keeps interned. Whom it reemploys. And so on and so forth.”

  “I imagine the Soviets are rather unforgiving.”

  “Oh, rather,” murmured Whelan. “It’s not that we aren’t. You should see how the Americans went after the SS for the massacres of their GIs in Malmedy. We put the Bergen-Belsen guards through the wringer. And the French are tough enough in their zone.”

  “Yes. I read about it all in the papers. But, how shall I say this . . . ? There is a sense that the appetite for justice is tailing off.”

  “Hmm? No, it’s just that we—that is, the Western Allies—take a rather, shall we say, more nuanced view. We’re batting for a long inning, shall we say.”

  “How so?” asked Reinhardt.

  “Well, there’s no use prolonging all this indefinitely. We’ll have to run a line under the past at some point. Otherwise it can go on forever, and Germany can’t be kept down and out eternally. At some point she’ll have to get back on her own two feet, and if we take too much fight out of her, she’ll take that much longer.” Reinhardt nodded, encouraging him to continue, although he was a little perplexed at the Englishman’s repeated use of sporting analogies. “Think of denazification. Its goal is to remove National Socialists from positions of leadership in society and replace them with democrats, but there are millions of such people. Actual or suspected, some free, some incarcerated. But, we must ask ourselves whether continuing to discriminate against millions of people is in the interest of stabilizing German society. Then, there’s reparations. The French are a bit vindictive, and the Soviets seem to have stripped their part of Germany down to the bare bones. Understandable, I suppose, given what your lot did to them.” Both Reinhardt and the translator could not help a shared and quick exchange of eyes, both of them now used to the collective role assigned to them as Germans. Both of them, perhaps, seeking some kind of bizarre reassurance that, yes, both were tarred with that same brush. Perhaps Whelan sensed the sudden discomfort, as he sipped from his whiskey, and changed tack. “But for us, the British and the Americans, we’re not out for our pound of flesh.” Reinhardt blinked at him. Not out for . . . ? Perhaps he even believed it.

  “What did Carlsen think of all that?” Whelan inclined his head questioningly. Reinhardt strung out his words, darts into the unknown, hoping to hit something. “I understand he was committed to justice.”

  “Ah. Yes. Well, it’s often difficult for a man lost in theory to accommodate himself to the realities of the world.”

  “That there is more gray in the world than black and white?”

  “You could say that.” He sipped from his whiskey. “What news, then, of these investigations of yours?”

  “Thank you. I can’t tell you much about Carlsen’s death. That investigation is being led by Chief Inspector Ganz. I am making some progress on my side. In fact, I was wondering if I might ask you a favor? Do you happen to know of two murders that occurred in Bad Oeynhausen in February last year?”

  “Good Lord, Inspector! You don’t ask much!” Whelan raised his glass and sipped. “A year ago I imagine I was somewhere in England. I only came out here in summer last year. Why would you ask?”

  “Carlsen had been looking at the same materials as me. Including, as I mentioned, into the backgrounds of at least one of those men murdered in Bad Oeynhausen. And . . . I hesitate to say this, Mr. Whelan, but I am finding the British are appearing in my investigation.” Whelan frowned, leaning forward in his chair. “Allow me to explain myself, sir. At the scene of the first murder, of Noell, I find Carlsen. A British agent. The second murder, of an ex-pilot called Zuleger, led me to Mr. von Vollmer, who claims a relationship with you.” Whelan nodded sternly. “I find now, though, that von Vollmer and some of his colleagues have formed an association of veterans. As you know, this is illegal under current law. No formation of former soldiers of any kind. But, once again—how to put this—I find British influence.”

  There was a knock at the door, and Markworth stepped inside with his heavy limp. His face was blank as he came in, but it lightened when he saw Reinhardt. He nodded affably at Whelan as he shrugged out of his coat and took off his hat, scrubbing his hand through his close-cut cap of hair.

  “Excuse the delay, Whelan, I was held up.”

  “Not at all, old chap.” Whelan glowered at Reinhardt. “The Inspector here was spinning the most fantastical yarn. About Carlsen, about British agents, about British involvement in all these murders, and about illegal veterans’ associations, and whatever the devil have you.”

  “Sounds fascinating,” said Markworth, with a tilt of his head at Reinhardt. “Do go on, Inspector. I’ll catch up.”

  “Yes. Go on. Explain yourself, Inspector,” growled Whelan.

  “Mr. von Vollmer and his associates admitted to me that they only formed their grouping because they were encouraged to do so. My assumption is . . .” Reinhardt paused, hesitating, knowing he was overreaching himself, but he plunged on. “My assumption is they were supported by someone, or some grouping, within the British occupation authorities.”

  “‘Encouraged’? ‘Assumed’? By God, man, you don’t assume much, do you?” Whelan had gone florid with his anger. “Did you . . . inveigle . . . your way in here to just spread your half-cocked theories?”

  “Carlsen had dealings with the same group of men whose deaths I am investigating.” Reinhardt heard his voice rising, pitching higher, and hated it. “Carlsen knew von Vollmer. He was seen at the gathering of this association. Von Vollmer’s discourse, Mr. Whelan, much resembled yours. No repeat of Versailles, Germany back on her feet, those within Allied circles who thought wisely and for the future. Lastly,” he raised a placatory hand at Whelan, “the son of one of the victims of those two deaths in Bad Oeynhausen wrote a letter claiming his father, an ex-pilot with some kind of knowledge of experimental aviation techniques, was working for the British when he was murdered. And the man murdered with him was named Dr. Lütjens. Does the name ring any bells?”

  “None at all. Look here, just what are you implying, Inspector? I’ve a damn good mind to . . .”

  “I would say the inspector’s only following the evidence as he sees it, Whelan,” Markworth interrupted quietly. He made a placatory gesture toward him, his eyes on Reinhardt. “Let’s hear him out.”

  “Lütjens was a medical researcher, also specialized in something to do with flight technology. I found this out today in the WASt. His file is missing information. Someone had redacted the entries in it. I had had another name, Cohausz, and his file is redacted too. Three names, probably in the same unit, all information missing. Transferred to the Berlin Document Center. It means that whatever they were doing, it was linked to the Nazis, and it’s got something to do with war crimes. That is a link to what you do, Mr. Whelan, and what Carlsen did too. War crimes. Investigations.” Reinhardt paused, his mouth moving, and his tongue stole treacherously into the gap in his teeth. “I wonder is this what I’ve heard called ‘the race for what glitters in the rubble.’”

  “Explain yourself,” Markworth said, his voice low.

  “You. The Americans. The Allies. The Soviets. You all want what the Nazi
s had by way of technology. Science. Chemistry. Metallurgy. You want it, and you’re getting it. It’s a race. And I think . . . Skokov is after something as well. He was looking at the same things Carlsen was, but before Carlsen did.”

  “Are you saying the Soviets killed him?” frowned Whelan.

  “I don’t know who killed him. But I’m pretty sure he was not killed as a result of some barroom brawl or misunderstanding over a prostitute. It’s the same killer. Whoever it is, he’s murdering a particular set of pilots, and others.”

  “Why?” Markworth asked.

  “They were pilots with special skills. And they were researchers. Scientists. Men like Haber, and Lütjens, and probably Cohausz. Pilots and scientists. They worked together during the war in a secret unit, working on experiments into effects on humans of extreme flight conditions. There are some who want that information. Skokov wants it. There’s a group of holdover Nazis that might not want the Allies getting hold of these people and what they know. But someone’s killing for it. Or to stop someone else getting it. Or for a reason I haven’t understood yet.”

  “Well, whoever it is seems to have been most efficient,” sneered Whelan. “There’s just about no one left, is there?”

  “How would you know that?” Reinhardt said nothing in the silence that followed. “Who told you that? Was it von Vollmer? Was it Bochmann? Did he tell you there’s just one of them still alive?”

  “What are you talking about?” Markworth asked.

  “There’s still one more pilot alive. His name’s Gareis. He’s living in the Soviet zone. I’ll be going out to see him soon,” Reinhardt said. The words just seemed to rush up out of him. A truth that made itself, even as the words that defined it faded out of hearing.

  “You realize, of course, if you go gallivanting off into the Soviet zone, you’ll be handing this Gareis chap over to them if you find him. This just makes things look worse for you. Makes you look more and more like a Soviet tool.”