by Anton Gill
He'd get him yet. Perhaps that was the only thing to do, Schiffer thought. Keep an eye on the simple goals. get on with it, wherever it led, and worry about the consequences later. In a hard world you had to be hard. He'd put his doubts behind him and keep gambling on the numbers he'd backed: as if he had a choice.
109
Early in the afternoon, bone weary, Schiffer set off towards Nuremberg. He flexed his cramped hands on the wheel of his car and glared at the postcard-pretty countryside through his fly-spattered windscreen. Soon after he had left, the Coburg police got a phone call: the old Blucher had been found in a wood, well covered with cut fir branches, a couple of kilometres from the little town of Iphofen. It hadn't been damaged in any way. This was good news, as Zimmermann carried a lot of weight in the district.
Kessler and Kleinschmidt drew a blank in Bamberg, though they split up to save time. When they reconvened Kleinschmidt smelled strongly of Rauchbier and Kessler guessed that any snooping his sergeant had done was well within range of Zum Schlenkerla. The Nuremberg road was closed owing to an accident - the local cops said a lorry had hit an ox-cart, killing one of the beasts, and overturning, blocking the way both north and south - so they were forced to spend the night. Kleinschmidt knew the town, and got them rooms at an inn near the centre, Die Blaue Glocke, run by some people he knew, Max and Barbara Peßler. They listened to Max playing the zither late into the night. Kleinschimdt probably drank too much Michelsberger.
The following morning the road was clear again and they set off early, to Kleinschmidt's disgust. Real city boys are seldom early risers, he complained to Kessler. They were only two reasons for waking early, maintained Kleinschmidt: to make love or to make money. Kleinschmidt didn't look as if he'd ever been successful at either.
They reached Nuremberg late in the morning, passing the wrecked truck, which had been dragged to the side of the road. When they arrived to make their routine check-in at the Police Praesidium, they were surprised to find that they were expected. The police here, in the Party's heartland, where the great rallies had been held, were keen to be associated with the hunt. Coburg had rung ahead.
'When did they find it?' Kessler asked.
'Where the fuck's Iphofen?' Kleinschmidt grumbled.
Kessler thought how unlucky it was that the bike had been discovered so soon. Not due to police efficiency, it turned out, just bad luck. A couple of kids, fourteen-year-olds, a boy and a girl, looking for somewhere to have a quiet snog, had discovered it. They thought the pile of fir branches was an inviting-looking hillock to lie on. The boy had playfully thrown the girl down onto it and she'd cracked two ribs on the sidecar.
Not far away the police had found a colossal old kitchen knife - the thief must have used it to cut down the branches to cover the bike, but in doing so, he'd broken the blade.
As they drove west towards Iphofen, Kessler tried to arrange his thoughts. If he could not get himself taken off the case, or bring it to a conclusion, then he wanted the chase to lead them to Munich. He also knew that not far from Iphofen lay the estate of Tilli Cassirer. That was common knowledge, and it worried him, though fewer people now knew how close she and Hoffmann had been in the past, and he knew that Hoffmann had been careful to play down that friendship, after Tilli had left Berlin and the theatre more-or-less permanently a decade or so ago. But if Hoffmann was making for Tilli's mansion, instead of heading for the frontier, that could only mean one thing.
Kessler had burned his own bridges when he had let Hoffmann go in Coburg. Yet the dark thought crawled into his mind once again that he might still arrest his former chief - even if that meant the betrayal of both Tilli and Stefan - and use the cachet which he would thereby gain to rescue Emma, who need never know - perhaps - the means by which she had been saved. But how could he guarantee that? And how sure was he that he could live with himself in such a case?
Well, he would see what Iphofen held for them. Kleinschmidt was having trouble finding it in the maze of un-signposted, similar-looking country roads. He cursed the landscape and the unhurried attitude of every yokel from whom he asked directions. He even cursed the Party, a dangerous thing to do in anyone's hearing unless they were family, or friends of years' standing, and even then you had to think twice. 'The whole fucking thing's going down the tubes,' he moaned. 'I mean, what do you do with a place where the only efficient thing they can do is keep those trainloads of Jews running to bloody Auschwitz?'
It sat uncomfortably with his earlier patriotic confidence that the Germans would soon push the enemy back into the Atlantic, thought Kessler, and he wondered how Kleinschmidt had come to hear of Auschwitz. But what he said was true enough. They themselves barely had enough resources for important investigations, troop trains for carrying the wounded back from the crumbling East Front were constantly being delayed or cancelled, and yet the railway lines leading to the camps hummed with inexorable traffic.
He thought about the camps, trying to imagine them. He knew that Hoffmann had had something to do with them, and he wondered how the man could live with that. Hard labour camps were what they were supposed to be, though no-one seemed to know much about what kind of hard labour.
'About fucking time,' said Kleinschmidt, driving over a pretty medieval bridge which spanned a clear little river that sparkled in the sunlight, and then past an abandoned or deserted road-block. Beyond it, a neat, red-roofed town huddled in the lee of a low hill. 'Now, where do we start?'
It wasn't the easiest of questions to answer. There was a small police station, but apart from details of the finding of the bike, which added nothing to their knowledge, the lazy official knew no more, and cared less. The mayor's office yielded nothing. It was still relatively early, but a door-to-door of the place would take forever, small as the town was.
'We'll try the shops,' Kessler decided. 'Shopkeepers are the most likely people to have noticed a stranger.'
'If he came here at all, if it was him.'
'Better suggestion?'
'Lunch.'
'Later.'
Kessler squared his shoulders, feeling them ache after the long hours in the car, and prayed they'd find nothing. If Hoffmann had been here, he wouldn't have left a trace, not so close to his goal.
110
There weren't many shops, and they drew a blank at most. The butcher thought he might have seen someone pass his shop at the end of the afternoon, but he described a thin, small man in labourer's clothes. The tailor-and-haberdasher seemed frightened of something, but they decided it was just the police presence that scared him. Kleinschmidt leant on him a bit too heavily, but Kessler reined him in - they weren't going to complicate matters by arresting a homosexual who'd been lucky enough to escape the net so far.
The sixth place they tried, nearly the last, was the second baker's, on a corner near the Rödelseer Tor. An attractive woman in early middle age stood behind the counter, serving an elderly couple dressed, for some reason, in their Sunday best. The man had a dark brown pinstripe suit, a silver edelweiss in his buttonhole, with a white shirt, collar and cuffs frayed, buttoned up to the neck, but tie-less. He had a white goatee, and wore a brown trilby. His wife, back bent by some rheumatic condition, was in a black dress sprigged with tiny white flowers, and a white hat with a grey ribbon. They had a courtly air about them, and as they left, the man raised his hat to them. Kessler noticed when she looked at them that the wife's eyes had a vacant, anxious, overcast look. They were pale with age. Her lips moved without ceasing. She was repeating Hail Marys, endlessly. The man noticed Kessler's expression, and returned it with one that was defensive and apologetic.
Even Kleinschmidt realised the futility of questioning them, and for once was silent, his eyes straying to the loaves and cakes sparsely ranged in baskets and on shelves. He breathed in appreciatively.
The woman behind the counter was looking at them with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion.
'Police, Criminal Brigade,' said Kessler. 'Don't be alarmed. Just a
few questions. We're asking everybody.'
'I see,' the woman smoothed her hands on her apron.
'How much for an Apfelstrudel?' asked Kleinschmidt.
'Help yourself.'
'Very generous. Thank you.' He took two, cradling them in his handkerchief and balancing one as he ate the other.
'That couple - who were they?' asked Kessler.
'He used to be the butler at the big house. Looks after his wife now.'
'Have they been somewhere special?'
'They always dress like that. He likes to keep up appearances. I think it helps him.'
'Looks like she's lost her fucking mind,' said Kleinschmidt.
'You were chatting to them,' said Kessler to the woman, and glaring at his sergeant.
'They come in every day.'
'Talking about anything in particular?'
She looked evasive but although the expression was gone in a moment, Kessler had caught it. 'No, the usual things, the weather, the cost of living ... ' she trailed off. 'Would you like anything to eat?'
'I'm fine, thank you. So, nothing out of the ordinary?'
'No.'
'I expect you're wondering why we're here.'
Kleinschmidt had started his second Apfelstrudel, but was watching the woman now, and she was aware of that. She waited.
'Did you know they'd found a motorbike just outside town?'
'No.'
'Really? I thought it might have cropped up in conversation. You know how news travels, and everybody comes to the baker's.'
'I don't do as well as Herr Poehlmann.'
'You should do,' put in Kleinschmidt. 'These Strudels are delicious.'
'Thank you.'
'I wish I could take you away and keep you. I might even put on a bit of weight.' Kleinschmidt managed to attach a hint of threat to the compliment, and she looked frightened. Kessler could see what Kleinschmidt was doing, but at the same time was repelled by it. There wasn't any need to lean on the woman so hard. These days, both the cops knew, the slightest suggestion of being taken away by the police, whatever the context, was enough to scare the shit out of most people.
'So, nothing about the bike?'
'No.'
'Are you hesitating?'
'Someone may have mentioned it. I didn't pay much attention. My husband's away at the Front, he'll be home soon, meanwhile I have my hands full with this place.' She rubbed her hands on her apron again, looked beyond them through the shop windows into the deserted street, as if some help might come from there.
'Served any strangers lately?' asked Kleinschmidt idly.
'What?'
'You know, people from out of town.'
'No.' But again, the hesitation.
'Come on, darling,' said Kleinschmidt, his mouth full of the last morsel of apfelstrudel. 'You were seen.'
Sometimes, rarely, it was that easy. But only with people who weren't used to the police, and were terrified of them. Kessler watched her face as it struggled with the decision between betrayal and survival. He didn't want her to have to go through any more of Kleinschmidt's bullying, and he didn't want to have to arrest her. He motioned to Kleinschmidt to shut up.
'Tell us what you know,' he said. 'Then we'll go, and you won't see us again.'
So she told them. When she'd finished, before she'd finished, Kleinschmidt started prodding around the shop. He knew the usual places to look. Wedged between the till and the counter's edge, he found a scrap of paper, on it, an address.
'What's this?'
She shook her head. Kleinschmidt handed the piece of paper to Kessler.
Kessler was delighted. A Munich address. Perfect. Now he was quite certain of what Hoffmann had done. He recognised the handwriting. Perhaps he was meant to.
'Are you sure you know nothing about this?' Kessler asked the woman.
'Certain.'
'How often do you clean this place?'
'The shop? Every day.'
'And this man you've suddenly decided to tell us about left the day before yesterday?'
'Yes.'
'You've got a fucking short memory,' said Kleinschmidt nastily.
The woman looked petrified.
'If we find out that you're lying, we'll be back,' said Kessler.
'Why didn't you arrest her?' said Kleinschmidt as soon as they were outside.
'We got what we wanted. We're not going to waste any more time.'
'We could at least have held her until we've verified the address.'
'If it's false, how would she know?'
'If it's him, why would he be stupid enough to give her an address at all?'
'He didn't give it to her. He just got rid of it.'
'Then why didn't he burn it, instead of stuffing it somewhere it'd be found?'
'He was in a hurry. It wouldn't have meant a thing to anyone but us. A scrap of paper with an address. If it's anything at all to do with him in the first place. At any rate, it's all we've got to go on, it's late, and I don't want to end up having to spend the night here.'
'I'll drink to that.' Kleinschmidt seemed half convinced.
Kessler looked at his watch. 'Can we make it back to Nuremberg tonight?'
'If it kills me,' said Kleinschmidt.
Kessler looked back as they got into the car. Through the window of the shop he could see the woman, leaning over her counter, her head up, staring into space. God alone knew what she was thinking. He wondered how long Hoffmann had spent with her. He wondered what they would have talked about.
'Get us there by seven,' he said to Kleinschmidt, trying to keep the jubilation out of his voice, 'and I'll buy you as much Leberkäse as you can eat and as much Lammsbräu as you can drink.' He didn't want his sergeant to have any second thoughts.
Kleinschmidt roared, and slammed his foot onto the accelerator.
111
Emma Hoffmann looked around her at her fellow-travellers. Men, women and a handful of children, climbed aboard two canvas-topped trucks parked in the mist just outside the high walls of Dachau Concentration Camp. All wore civilian clothes, not the striped pyjamas and cap worn by most of the inmates, but inmates they clearly were, to judge from their weary faces and posture.
Their clothes too, had an air of having been worn too long, of dampness, and of a greyness that matched the lorries they were climbing onto. Each carried a small bag containing personal belongings, Emma, frightened and thin, in a threadbare black coat, still had her violin in its battered case as well.
Some of the faces were drawn, some showed fear, some apprehension; others were still proud, many were blank. They were herded by SS in steel helmets and greatcoats, rifles slung over their shoulders, and the three officers in charge had their service pistols in their hands.
But there were no dogs , no cudgels or whips, and there was none of the shouting, the orders screamed, the brutal pushing and shoving, the rifle butts rammed into the small of the back, the kidneys, the neck. One elderly man stumbled and two soldiers hastened to help him to his feet, quickly bundling him up to join the others seated on the benches that ran along either side of each lorry. There was an escort of four motorbikes.
The operation started at dawn, at about four. An officer and a driver climbed into each cab, and the lorries started up, the noise of their engines sounding muted, covert. Two guards climbed into the back of each truck and sat opposite each other in the last places before the tailgates, which were hauled up and bolted. The canvas flaps at the back were drawn together and buttoned shut.
The trucks rumbled forward, jolting the passengers as they rolled over the rough ground and onto the road. The passengers heard a much louder clatter as the motorbikes started up. They sat silently, allowing their eyes to become accustomed to the gloom, eyes glinting. The soldiers lit up, leant forward, arms on their knees, awkward in their greatcoats, rifles balanced between their arms. They did not talk to each other.
The trucks drove along in silence for perhaps half an hour. Once, the passengers he
ard the powerful roar of a train passing nearby.
Some of the passengers knew each other. They had exercised together in the sequestered compound they had shared, apart from the main camp. Others had shared a barrack, carved, unlike the main barracks, into private rooms by means of planking walls. No-one knew if conversation was allowed, and for some time no-one spoke.
Emma was aware of a man sitting near her, a cadaverously thin man in a black overcoat and hat, who had a look of great concentration on his face, which intensified each time their lorry changed direction. Some of those close to him were watching him. At last, keeping an eye on the guards, he said, almost to himself:
'East. And now, north.'
Out of Dachau then. And away from Munich. But where to? None of them was sure. To their deaths, some thought, since they all had one thing in common: they, or people close to them, by blood, or friendship, or even just by association, had offended the Party. Most of them were old enough to have grown up in a democracy. To live in a State in which a careless remark could lead to denunciation and death was something which even now, and the thin man had been an inmate eleven years, since the camp's foundation, they found difficult to grasp.
Emma wondered how he knew where they were going, as the twists and turns of the lorry's route would only have confused her, even if she'd known the direction in which they'd departed.
'There are some things you don't forget,' said the thin man to no-one in particular. 'Before I had to give up my job I was the city cartographer. I drew the town plans for 1923, 1927 and 1931.'
'Quiet!' said one of the guards. But he didn't yell the word, or even snap. He sounded almost bored, an automatic reaction. 'We've a long way to go,' he added, almost apologetically. He exchanged a glance with his companion. They checked their cigarette packets, decided they had enough to indulge in another fag now, lit up.