The Divided City

by Luke McCallin

  45

  WEDNESDAY

  Kausch and his men were in a tenement in Spandau, funnily enough just over the river from von Vollmer’s factory. Two of Leena’s boys emerged out of the dark to point at the building the men were occupying, then at a dim crosshatch of light, low at street level.

  “Down there, bull,” one of the boys whispered. “Little beer cellar.”

  “You should ask to see the back room,” the other one said, his voice quivering across adolescence. “Got some stuff in there from the old days. All red and black and brown, if you know what I mean.”

  Reinhardt shook cigarettes into their little hands. Grubby fingers wrapped around them.

  “We’ll be watching, bull,” the adolescent whispered, moonlight glinting across a shock of blond hair, and then they were gone.

  The cellar was crowded, bowed backs and shoulders arcing across the low-ceilinged space. Only a few faces turned his way, but most of those were from a group that held tight together across the other side of the cellar. They watched him across the bar, turning, tracking, tilting up as he came to stand by their table. Kausch looked at him silently, then gestured at one of his men. The man rose, slipping through the crowd and outside. Another rose and, beneath the guise of welcoming him to the party, frisked him for weapons. Noell was there, the light shining on the top of his head through his thinning hair.

  “I’m alone. And unarmed.”

  “You will forgive me if I don’t take your word for it,” Kausch replied. “How did you find us?”

  “I’ve found the man who murdered Noell’s brother.”

  “Where?” Noell demanded.

  Kausch cut him off. “I’d rather know how you found me, but well done.”

  “You said you wanted to know.”

  “I do. I didn’t think you’d walk right in and spit it out.”

  Reinhardt swallowed back his fear, pulling his tongue from the gap in his teeth. “I want you to leave me alone. I want you to leave my son alone. If I give you this man, will you do that?”

  “We might.” Kausch exchanged looks with his men. One or two of them nodded.

  “We need to go now, then. The man is still at large, but the police are closing in around him. By tomorrow, they’ll have him. If you want him, it’s now.”

  “We’re not moving that fast, Reinhardt,” Kausch said. “Sit. Tell us more. Who and where, for starters.”

  “What does it matter?” Noell asked. Kausch raised a placatory hand, but his eyes never left Reinhardt.

  “There’s really no time,” Reinhardt said, an anxious tremor to his voice. “It’s in Lichterfelde. The man’s staying in a ruined house there. His name’s Leyser,” he said, looking at Noell. “He was a Brandenburger. Your squadron destroyed his unit in the desert, in October 1942, and now he wants revenge.”

  “Noell?” Kausch asked, looking at the ex-pilot.

  “A Brandenburger?” one of Kausch’s men breathed.

  “I don’t . . . I don’t know . . . anything about it. I don’t know . . .” But his eyes betrayed him, a shifting focus, inward, backward, and then a sudden flare of remembrance. Reinhardt saw it, the past being dragged up into the present. “No,” Noell breathed. “No.”

  “What happened?” Kausch asked.

  “It was a friendly fire incident,” Reinhardt answered. “Noell’s squadron destroyed Leyser’s unit. He was the only survivor. Afterward, they tried to kill him in hospital.”

  “Shit, Noell,” one of Kausch’s men muttered, slapping him on the shoulder. “I’d never have thought you had that in you.”

  “No!” Noell said again, louder. His eyes were fixed on Reinhardt. “Are you telling me my brother was killed, taken for me, because of a bloody mistake we made years ago in the fucking desert?” The last word ended on a strangled croak as Kausch’s men yanked him back into his seat from where he had arisen, his voice climbing. Heads turned, then turned back to their beers, their conversations. Kausch leaned close to several of his men and they left. He indicated to Reinhardt to sit, and they waited, in silence, until Kausch nodded. Then they walked out onto the street.

  “Reinhardt, just so we are clear,” Kausch said, standing in the dark as his men gathered around him. “We will follow you and seek some measure of justice for our comrade. But not all of us are here. We have not survived this long by being careless. Some of us will survive if anything goes wrong. But you will not. Do we understand each other?”

  —

  The house on Sedanstrasse showed no lights. There were few anywhere in the neighborhood, and almost no noise. There was only a sickle of moon, but even that light was dim and dulled by a wash in the air, like a light covering of fog across the city.

  The group stood in the shadows of the park. Reinhardt felt them straining like leashed dogs against the commands Kausch had put on them. Finally seeming to make up his mind, Kausch clamped his fist like a manacle around Reinhardt’s arm, keeping him close, reminding him of his vulnerability.

  “Reinhardt. Anything happens, I’ll make sure you go first. Lead the way.”

  There was a way into the building that Brauer had shown him. Down the side there was a low door for a coal chute. Brauer had told him he had left it ajar, and Reinhardt breathed silent thanks it still was. He risked a quick few seconds of light from his flashlight to show Kausch and his men, then he slipped inside and slithered down the chute on his backside.

  The others came down one by one, and when all were gathered, he led the way across the basement, his flashlight fanning a clear path for them around the debris over to a door that was partly choked shut but left enough room to squeeze through.

  “Upstairs into a servant’s hall,” Reinhardt whispered. “Then the servants’ stairs up to the first floor. The stairs are stone, in good condition.”

  They moved quietly, but even moving quietly, such a group could not move soundlessly. Breathing echoed up the stairs, the slide and scuff of feet, the chink of stone as someone kicked a piece of masonry, but they made it to the first floor without any disturbance.

  “Through here, it gets more difficult. We need to cross into the main house now. It’s badly damaged, but there’s a gallery that’s largely intact. It’s of wood and will make noise, so we should cross carefully one by one. The room where Leyser is hiding is just on the other side.”

  Reinhardt opened the door, moonlight spilling in as he did. The house here had been blown open, and the sky was visible through a checkerboard of roof beams, some broken and some whole. Sound seemed to lift and echo through the greater spaces that made up the front of the house. A double staircase spiraled up from the invisible floor below, arching dimly through the moonlight. Kausch motioned to Reinhardt, and he stepped out across the gallery. Reinhardt moved slowly, keeping to the edge of the gallery where it met the wall, Kausch’s hand still banded around his arm. The wood creaked softly beneath their weight. About halfway across, a portion of the gallery had been destroyed, railing and floor chewed away, and they slid past the gap with their backs to the wall. Once across they moved farther into the darkness on the other side.

  “We have to move back,” Reinhardt murmured. “There’s not room for all of us. We can wait through here.” He motioned to a room that seemed to mirror the one they had just crossed out of. Kausch pushed him forward, following him in.

  There was a metallic click, and a voice came out of the dark.

  “Don’t move.”

  Kausch’s hand tightened on Reinhardt’s arm. Reinhardt swung the flashlight round and switched it on. Kausch’s face screwed up and away, and the light stayed on long enough for Reinhardt to see his head vanish as a hood came down over it. There was the muffled sound of a blow, something heavy and short. Kausch gave a strangled cry, and his grip on Reinhardt’s arm was gone, but someone else had him. The collar of his coat was jerked back and down, and a hand clamped it
self over his mouth. He panicked, a vision of the pilots and what must have been their terrified last moments as their chests heaved in search for air.

  “Quiet!” someone hissed in his ear. The hand released its grip on his mouth, each finger lessening its pressure. “Call them in,” his captor whispered, pushing him toward the door. “Light the gallery for them.”

  Reinhardt stood in the door and shone his flashlight back across, waving it over the floor where it had caved away.

  “Come!” he called softly. “One by one.”

  They came across, one by one, Reinhardt standing back to let each one pass into the room. For each one, there was a sudden blow, the worse for being unexpected, muffled grunts, the drag of cloth. Reinhardt’s fear rose and rose, gyring up within him, until there was only Noell left, and one more of Kausch’s men. As they came up, Reinhardt angled himself so that Kausch’s man passed into the room first. Noell heard the blow being struck, the slump of a body, and he tensed.

  “What . . . ?” was all he managed as Reinhardt hooked one of Noell’s feet out from under him, shoving him to the floor. The breath whooshed out of the pilot as he fell, and Reinhardt ground his hand into Noell’s neck.

  “Keep still,” he hissed.

  He waited, staring into the maw of the room. Light flared suddenly. Flashlights, sweeping round the room. The shapes of men lying across the floor, a man rolling slowly, a knee coming up. Someone groaned. A shape cut across the light, and a man came to stand in the doorway, staring down at Reinhardt. He looked up, and Reinhardt could not help the quick clench that grabbed his innards at the sight of the man. The height and breadth of him, clothes pulled taut across the tubular expanse of his limbs, a face dark as blackened wood stared down at him, and all Reinhardt could see of his eyes was a wet glitter, high up.

  “Don’t be scaring the natives, Hillock,” came a voice.

  The huge man blinked, and the face split in a grin. “No, sir, we wouldn’t be wantin’ that none.”

  The Negro—for Reinhardt saw the man was black—stepped aside, and Collingridge appeared from behind him. Collingridge grinned down at Reinhardt, then up at the Negro.

  “You’ve met Hillock, then. That’s not his real name, but he’s big enough for one, ain’t he? And the right kind of man for work in the dark! Well done, Hillock. Go and help the others, please.”

  The huge man turned back inside, back into the quiver of light and a rising murmur of voices, and Reinhardt saw Ganz was there too. Collingridge knelt down next to Reinhardt. Noell squirmed on the floor, and Reinhardt released his hold on him. The ex-pilot scrabbled to his knees, poised as if to run, but another American soldier, another Negro, stepped out of the room and blocked his way back across the gallery. Someone protested in the room, and a blow was struck. Voices rose. “Excuse me a moment, Reinhardt,” Collingridge said.

  “Bloody hell, Reinhardt,” Ganz breathed. He did not seem to know which way to look. “I don’t know what to make of half of this.”

  “Noell,” Reinhardt spoke softly into Noell’s ear, ignoring Ganz. “There’s a way to make this easier. You need to tell me where those files are. Those files, from the unit. The test unit. You told me of them. The files, Noell. Where are they?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The files, Noell. The files. You told me they were hidden at the end of the war. Where did you hide them?”

  The noise in the room was rising, German and American voices clashing and clamoring against each other.

  Noell’s face twisted up at him, the flashlights from the room pushing shadows back and forth across his face. “What . . . what are you doing?”

  “Trying to save us both. The files, Noell. Christ, it’s the best deal you’re going to get.”

  “They’re going to bury you, Noell, or hand you over to the Ivans,” said Ganz. Reinhardt blinked a glance at him. He did not know if Ganz was playing his own game or not, but it was a welcome line.

  “The Ivans? Why the . . .”

  “Reinhardt!” Collingridge called. The American guard Collingridge had left shifted closer.

  “Goddamn it, Noell. Just . . .” The frustration was tight, as if something was breaking through, inside. Like that feeling, the one he seemed to have more and more, of something coming up through the earth, something old and hoary, a darker nature, mud-smeared and with the mad rolling eye of an animal gone wild.

  “Hey, you. Y’all take it easy, now,” the American called out.

  “Reinhardt! Stop it!” Ganz gripped Reinhardt’s shoulders.

  Reinhardt had his hands clamped around Noell’s head. He had his thumbs in the man’s eyes, and he had not even known it. He pushed Noell down and away, repulsed by his own lack of control.

  “Reinhardt!” Collingridge called, again.

  “Oh, God, oh . . .” Noell moaned as he curled away from Reinhardt.

  “The files.”

  “Yes. God. The files. The fi— Theo said he hid them . . . he hid them in the cellars . . . in the cellars of a factory. At Güstrow. Güstrow. Where the airfield was. The unit’s airfield. It’s near Rostock. It’s there. It’s all there. That’s what he said. That’s all I know.”

  “Reinhardt! For fuck’s sake, will you get in here?”

  The room was a riot of shifting shadows, angles that lengthened and shortened as flashlights were waved around. The air was hot and humid with men’s breath. Collingridge was kneeling by Kausch, whose hood he had removed. The Sturmbannführer glared pure hatred at Reinhardt.

  “We caught a big one, Reinhardt,” Collingridge said. He waved a piece of paper in Kausch’s face, an arrest warrant with a grainy picture of him in SS uniform. “You sure you want to be making these threats, Sturmbannführer? The Poles would love to talk to you, and the Russkies even more. You might want to think about making me happy so I don’t hand you over to them.”

  “Be quiet, little man. I warned you, Reinhardt. I warned you.” Kausch’s voice dripped venom. “Not all of us came. In case something like this were to happen. The others have gone to your house, you traitorous piece of shit, because I knew you were not to be trusted. They’ve gone to your house, and by this time, they’ll have killed your harlot landlady, and they’ll have gutted your craven son, and they’ll have taken care of that malodorous pile of rags you call a best friend. I warned you. I warned you. Treachery never pays, Reinhardt.”

  Reinhardt and Collingridge exchanged glances. The American was tight around the eyes. “Can you get me there? Can you get me home?”

  Collingridge nodded. “I’ll drive you. Chief Inspector,” he said to Ganz, “my men will secure these prisoners. We proceed as agreed with Noell. My men will help you, but he is not my concern. He’s yours and Reinhardt’s, so make your preparations accordingly. Hillock! Choose out two more men. You’re with us.” Collingridge paused, then tossed a pistol at Reinhardt. “Let’s move.”

  —

  Collingridge drove them fast across Berlin, through the darkened streets, but Reinhardt’s thoughts outpaced the Jeep’s speed, outpaced the feeble glow of its headlights as they flickered the road into view ahead.

  Arriving at Mrs. Meissner’s house, Reinhardt made to run up the short pathway, but Hillock stopped him dead with one hand on his shoulder, the other holding a Thompson submachine gun by its grip. It looked like a toy in his hand as he pointed it at the house, at the door where it hung ajar. Collingridge nodded Hillock and the other men ahead. Reinhardt crowded close behind Hillock’s vast bulk, the American pistol an unfamiliar weight in his hand.

  At the door, Hillock pushed it open with the Thompson, peering inside. Reinhardt, looking past him into the darkened house, saw a body in the hallway. He could not tell who it was.

  “Friedrich?” he called. “Rudi?”

  Something moved in the kitchen and the light over the table came on. A man stepped into view. Reinh
ardt did not know who it was. The man stared down the hallway at them. He had a gun in his hand. A British Sten, Reinhardt saw.

  “Sir. I think they’re here,” the man called. In English.

  Another man stepped into view, carrying a Sten, then a third. He was blocky and compact, and walked with a tight economy of movement as he limped down the hall, stepping over the body.

  “Sorry about the mess,” Markworth said. Then he grinned.

  “Oh, God,” Reinhardt breathed, tension flowing out of him. “Oh, God.”

  “He’s got nothing to do with it. You can thank sergeants Dudgeon and Northam,” he said, glancing at the other two men. They were flat-faced, expressionless men, cheeks smeared black and their hair hidden under tight-fitting woolen caps. “Royal Marine Commandos. Handy chaps to have around. There’s a couple more Nazis in the garden. One of them might even still be alive.”

  “You did it,” Reinhardt breathed. He felt himself sinking and was not surprised to find himself slumped against the wall. “You did it.”

  “Of course I did it, Reinhardt. Of course I did. Why would I not?”

  “Friedrich and Meissner?”

  “Upstairs. Safe and sound. They’ve got Corporal Hilton for company.”

  “Thank God. I didn’t know . . . I didn’t know if you would really help me. I couldn’t trust . . . I couldn’t trust the police, you see. Thank you. Thank you for the life of my son.” There were steps in the hallway, and Friedrich came outside. Reinhardt held out his arm and wrapped it around his son’s shoulders. He felt his strength giving out, and he lowered himself shakily to the doorstep, Friedrich sitting next to him.

  Markworth clapped his hand on Reinhardt’s shoulder. “It was my pleasure, my friend. A reminder of the good old days, if you like.” Markworth glanced up at Collingridge as the American lit a cigarette. “You got the others?”