by Anton Gill
The man from the café sent him a note, and a bill, for the new tickets. They were confirmed. There were instructions about where to collect them. If he had believed in God, as Oster did, Hoffmann might have felt that a divine hand was occupying itself with their tiny destiny.
He'd done his job for Oster. Everything was in place a few days before Hitler's forty-fifth birthday, and the man himself was awaited on the podium, where there was a table spread with a starched white cloth on which only a solitary microphone and a glass of water stood. Below, stretching the length of the beer hall, long trestle tables, with beer mugs and bowls of pretzels arranged along them, and on the benches, the arses of the faithful, three hundred of them, the elite, not, of course, a March Violet among them - those Johnny-Come-Latelys had already been purged from the SS. SS and SA bravos lined the walls, more outside, eyeing each other as suspiciously as anyone in the crowd. But there were two gunmen high in the dark gallery, knowing they would probably die if they got a shot in, but ready to bring the bastard down at the signal.
The moment came. There was a stirring near the podium, and, as a result, of expectancy in the hall itself. A man in a brown uniform stepped up to the microphone, the convenor of the meeting, ready to make the introduction, no doubt.
Instead he said, 'Gentlemen, I must crave your indulgence. Our Leader is unexpectedly indisposed, and unable therefore to be with us today. But I am happy to say that he has sent a high representative, someone close, someone who really needs no introduction from me ... '
The gunmen holstered their weapons and slipped quietly out of the gallery. Hoffmann, near the podium, seated among the guests of honour, cursed silently.
There would be other opportunities.
But he would not change the date of the passage to America again.
96
They spent time packing. It had to be a careful job. Enough to start a new life, all fitted into two suitcases.
He had spoken to Emma's aunt. Only at the last minute would Emma be told. It would be tough, but they could not risk her speaking to anyone before they left.
It had been impossible, working with him as closely as he did, to keep his relationship with Kara a secret from Paul Kessler. There was no reason, apart from his own extreme caution, for him to have done so. He chose not to be too open about it on account of the risk of its ever getting back to Wolf Hagen, or any other potential enemy, as the Party divided against itself. Hoffmann toyed with the idea of telling Kessler the rest, but decided against it. Even if it would be useful to leave someone behind to cover for him, Kessler was too young, and he didn't want to endanger him by giving him knowledge he didn't need to have. As it was, he had to summon up all the skill in dissimulation he had ever learned to get himself through the week. Luckily there was an investigation - a university professor had fallen to his death from the roof of his apartment block - which covered his movements, though in practice he left most of the work to others in his department. It looked like a suicide anyway.
Tilli helped. Tilli was a rock. But there were times in the middle of the night when he found himself - against all reason - mistrusting even her. He spent little time with Kara at the flat. He collected the tickets. He arranged a car, through the same people at the same time, nearly clearing out his current funds, which would take them to Hamburg. What remained of his money he encashed and packed, though leaving some in his bank account to alleviate any possible suspicion.
He missed Kara most at night. He longed to make love to her, and even more, just to lie close to her, to have her in his arms, to feel the kind of safety he never felt anywhere else. But soon it would be all right.
She disappeared forty-eight hours before they were due to leave. She had gone out to buy a new coat for the journey. Had someone been watching the house after all? This could not be a coincidence.
For a day he scoured the city desperately for her, confiding in Kessler at last, not wanting to believe the worst.
Even ten years later, when he thought of it his heart raced unbearably.
Then her body was found.
97
It wasn't an untypical crime scene. She'd been discovered by a factory worker taking flowers to his wife's grave, on the bank of the Plötzensee, on the edge of one of the big cemeteries that bordered its northern shores. Kessler hadn't wanted him to see the body before the post-mortem, before they could clean her up, but he'd insisted, scared more by the young man's distress than by the unknown. In his career, he'd seen bodies in states of wreck beyond the imaginations of most. But the people he'd loved and lost had departed peacefully. Kara had not been so privileged.
He asked to see the photographs first. Kessler reluctantly handed copies over. He wanted to prepare himself, and perhaps to escape into professionalism. He saw images that were familiar. A young woman's body in a pose too contorted for life, the limbs frozen into positions of unimaginable pain. The face wasn't visible. She still wore her brassiere and shoes. Smudges around her on the dark grey earth she lay on, indistinct in the photographs, must have been her other clothes. There was a large carrier bag from Bister's, the name of the shop extraordinarily clear. The coat she'd already bought. Her body was too white, a cold white made worse by the photographs, and on it he could see dark marks that he did not want to see.
He had thought himself strong. He had thought himself prepared for the sight of the body itself. He was wrong.
What was worst? The simple fact of her vulnerable nakedness on the marble slab? Or that her face was so drawn, her nose so sharp, an old woman's nose? Or was it the bruises? How badly they must have beaten her. And the messy rupturing around her vagina - what had they used on her there?
This was the person he had loved above anyone. She had been alive and in his arms. Those broken hands had caressed him. Those blue lips had been warm on his. Now there was just a broken body, nothing to do with Kara; except that it was Kara. This shattered cold wreck had been vibrant days ago. Where was she now? Where was the spirit?
There were things to be taken care of fast. Somehow, he knew he would cope. Emma had not yet been told anything. She would have to be told about Kara, but she was safe. His concern was for Stefan. He would have to talk to Tilli. He had no idea what else to do. And he would have to talk to Kessler.
He told himself that he shouldn't hate Tilli, shouldn't even be angry. It was natural that Kara would have wanted a last walk in Berlin, and it was perfectly possible that she would have wanted to take it on her own. Why should Tilli have tried to stop her? There had been no reason to expect any evil. But had they been shadowed? Had they been betrayed?
First things first. The shock brought a curious calm. He would function for as long as he had things to do. Only when he was at rest would the vacuum break and the grief tear in. He would have to be prepared for that, too. He had seen enough other people go through this; but always as an observer of violent loss, not as a participant, even in the war. He had kept himself aloof. The thought of his first wife came to him, but Ursula was no more now than an idea, even a dream. Ursula. Ten years with her, and now it seemed as if it had never been. Had he dreamt their time together?
He had to start with Tilli.
'I am so sorry,' she had said. 'We thought it was safe.'
'People play long games. I should have thought of that.'
'What about Stefan?'
'I need your help.'
'Anything. Max, believe me, I am so sorry.'
'It wasn't your fault. You know what she was like. If she wanted to go out, how could you have stopped her?'
'It was to buy a coat for the journey. And to say goodbye.'
'I know.'
'We must think about Stefan. Where are we going to hide him?' Tilli paused. 'Chez moi. A la campagne?'
'At your estate?'
She put her arms around his neck. 'I think that would be the safest place.'
Stefan. All that was left of Kara. He had to trust Tilli.
'When will you leave?'
he said.
'As soon as possible. I hadn't planned to stay in Berlin anyway. It's not much fun here anymore.' She smiled ruefully, and kissed him. 'And you?'
'I'm staying.'
98
What else was there for him now, but to continue the game? Stefan would be safe with Tilli, though he wondered if it would ever be safe for him to know the truth about himself. Not until all this was over, certainly; and the worst, Hoffmann knew, was yet to come.
He said goodbye to his son. He had no idea when he would see him again. He was uncertain about what he himself would do. But Stefan would be safe. Emma was still with her aunt, and had never known about the plan. She had to know that Kara was dead, but they dressed it up for her as a car accident. It scarcely deadened the blow, for the girl and the woman had been very close. Grief is the price you pay for love, her father tried to tell her, repeating the adage he himself had once been told. In her short life she had now paid that price twice. It was good that she had taken so warmly to Hoffmann's new assistant, and he to her. What's more, the scruffy young man - too young really to be taking on the responsibilities Hoffmann was giving him, for he was only about ten years older than Emma - was turning out to be as intelligent as he was - apparently - loyal.
Grief is the price... Mad with his own pain, he tried to anaesthetise it with work. Within the police, only Kessler knew his personal involvement. Hoffmann needed another professional to help him, and in the short time the men had been working together he knew from experience that a rare thing, a professional friendship, had formed between them. In any case, he would have to trust the young man now, since he wouldn't be allowed to spend all his time on what, from an outsider's point of view, was a routine rape-killing.
His instincts told him to mistrust everyone, but you can't live life like that; completely alone you are more vulnerable. The trick was to let Kessler know only as much as he needed to know. But he found himself telling the young man more than that, about how much he had loved Kara, about what their plans had been.
Hoffmann also needed a focus for his hatred and anger. Kessler, always calm and never asking any more questions than were necessary for his investigation, acted unwittingly as a brake on emotions Hoffmann could not afford to have. They did not know who was responsible for Kara's death. But they made no progress. After a week, it began to look as if an invisible wall had been erected against them. That in itself was significant. Hoffmann began to think that Kessler's investigation was being led in a certain direction. He decided to let it take its course. This kind of manipulation sometimes revealed the hand of the puppet-master.
He dreaded the nights, his dreams. He stopped drinking almost completely because he knew that if he started to use booze as a comfort he would drown in it, and be left a greater prey to his emotions than ever. His flat seemed unbearably cold and empty. He worked routinely, doggedly.
But he was not alone. He intended to enlist Adamov's help. Adamov's increasingly successful blue film company had begun to earn its founder some strong links with the city's underworld. Hoffmann didn't like him; but he had been Kara's friend. In the event, it was Adamov who got in touch with him, with the same idea in mind.
Hoffmann also rang Oster. The general invited him to dine at his home. 'It's quite safe. This can be an official meeting. No reason why we shouldn't meet openly from time to time, given our mutual professional interests.'
He arrived to find that there were no other guests. Oster greeted him with a formal embrace.
'This has not turned out well,' said the General.
'No.'
'I grieve for you both.'
Hoffmann said nothing.
'I have been doing some investigating on my own account,' Oster continued. 'We, too, have come up with nothing.'
'I know you would have contacted me otherwise.'
'Do you think it could have been a terrible chance occurrence?'
The pain twisted in his heart like a living thing. 'I can't accept that.'
'It's good that you have got Stefan out of the way.'
'What makes you say that?'
'Nothing. I mean, simply, somewhere safe, away from Berlin. I assume that's what you've done.'
Hoffmann looked at him.
'I hadn't contacted you because I knew what you must be going through, and as you guessed, because I had nothing to tell you. But now...' Oster spread his hands awkwardly. 'Now...'
'What is it?'
Oster turned to him. 'Something's afoot. Something big. Have you heard anything?'
'If you want my help, forget it. I have only one job to do now.'
'If you help us, we can help you.'
'I doubt it. This is a criminal investigation. It has nothing to do with espionage or betrayal.'
'It has everything to do with betrayal.'
Hoffmann could hardly bear the pain. It was the kind of pain you cannot get used to, the kind that renews itself every moment of its existence, the kind that only death can silence, only vengeance appease. At its worst, he found himself hating Kara for what they had done to her, for her vulnerability, for making him impotent in the face of her torturers and killers.
'Give me a brandy.'
Oster poured drinks, and sat in the chair next to Hoffmann's. 'Hitler is scared of a coup within the Party. He's going to wipe out the competition before that can happen.'
'So, there'll be a fewer of them. But he'll still be there.'
'We've got to monitor this. We need everyone we can get, everyone in a high position, to watch what is going on. There's going to be a bloodbath.'
'You mean there isn't one already?'
'A purge.'
'Which we can use to our advantage? No,' Hoffmann shook his head. 'The game's over. We must get out or sit it out. He can't last. Germans won't stand for this.'
'They're not only standing for it, they're applauding it.' Oster paused. 'Help us. What have you to lose?'
Hoffmann sneered. 'My life. On a rack. I've done enough. I'm going to find whoever killed Kara, I'm going to kill them, and them I'm getting out. I want to be sure that my children will be safe.'
'Don't you think they're safe enough where they are? And no-one suspects you of anything. You're Max Hoffmann. You've got a low Party number and a high SS rank. Use them, for God's sake!'
Hoffmann hadn't touched his brandy. He looked at the glass on the table in front of him. 'No,' he said.
Oster stood up. 'Then you'd better make your arrangements fast. You might as well take no chances. Who knows if someone isn't preparing to denounce you? A lot of very important people are going to be dead by the beginning of July. If you were among them, you'd scarcely be noticed, and you know Hitler always thinks it's better to be safe than sorry.'
'Are you threatening me?'
'Help us. We need men like you. And don't you think Kara would want you to?'
'She was coming away with me.'
'Circumstances have changed. Do it for her. For her memory. Someone's got to stand up to these shits. Did you see that thing in Der Stürmer? About Jews ritually sacrificing Aryan kids? Did you know they're planning to kick all Jews out of the army?' Oster laughed shortly. 'They'll certainly lose any damned war they go in for if they do that.'
'It's a futile battle,' said Hoffmann, but he knew it might be all he had left. 'They get stronger every day. Their information system is already so good that people are frightened of speaking within earshot of anyone they don't know, and even then - '
'You exaggerate. In any case, it's a system that relies on denunciation and betrayal, not on deduction and information. It's a stupid system. It can be worked round.'
'It's effective.'
'Unlike you, not to face a challenge. And you know Stefan and Emma are safe. If there's the slightest sign of danger to them, do you think we haven't the means to get them out? The frontiers aren't closed, you know.' Oster smiled bleakly. 'You haven't touched your drink.'
'I don't need it now.'
99
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br /> A month passed. Kessler and Hoffmann were no nearer finding out who Kara's murderers were. Underworld contacts knew nothing, but they were getting jittery themselves, some teaming up with the SS, and others beginning to move away, to Frankfurt, or Munich, to take their chances in rivalry with the resident gangs of those cities, or further afield: New York, London, Zürich. If anyone knew anything, no-one was talking.
Hoffmann had been sceptical about Oster's prediction but he had finally been swung by argument, not threat. And he would find out the truth about Kara's death. No-one could stop him from using his reason, even if they could block his enquiries. And he could be an implacably patient man.
Then it happened, exactly as Oster had described. There hadn't been a ripple to warn anyone of it. The SS and the Gestapo were honing their skills fast. Afterwards, people said it had been a necessary evil. The Brownshirts were beating people up in the streets, smashing shop windows, swaggering around, terrifying everybody. President Hindenburg had warned the Chancellor that he should do something about it.
It happened so fast, too. The whole thing was over in three days, over the last weekend of June. At the end of it, everyone who posed a threat to Hitler among his own ranks was dead, and the Brownshirts were a spent force. On Monday, 2 July, Paul Hindenburg, who'd entered the final month of his life, sent a telegram to the Chancellor, thanking him for saving the German people from a catastrophe.