Germania: A Novel of Nazi Berlin

by Harald Gilbers

  “Yes.”

  Although it was a long time ago, Oppenheimer could still remember clearly storming out of the trenches into no-man’s-land, where every single step could be a deadly mistake. He’d been a soldier then, much too young to be confronted with the carnage of what war meant. The mixture of uncertainty and fear he felt today was not dissimilar to the feeling he’d had under enemy fire back then.

  The corners of Vogler’s mouth twitched disdainfully. Oppenheimer had no trouble discerning what was going through his mind. He did not correspond to the image that Hitler had painted in countless speeches. Oppenheimer was living proof that the stab-in-the-back myth, according to which communist Jews intended to weaken and demoralize the brave German army, was a lie. Nothing had been further from Oppenheimer’s mind. In his youthful idealism, he had simply considered it his patriotic duty to fight for his fatherland and the emperor. He had even received the Iron Cross for bravery, albeit second class, but nonetheless. Given what had become of Germany since then, it might be childish, but Oppenheimer was still proud of this award. However, the cross was no longer in his possession, as it had been stolen by the Gestapo during their last ransacking of the Jewish House.

  “I see you have a daughter. Why is this mentioned here?”

  “It seems someone has done their research,” Oppenheimer replied curtly.

  Vogler rustled through the papers. “Hmm … admission to the Prussian police force, initially foot patrol, then detective sergeant, finally promotion to detective superintendent. And then … yes.”

  Expulsion from service, Oppenheimer mentally completed his own biography.

  “Who was this Großmann chap?” Vogler suddenly wanted to know.

  Oppenheimer flinched inwardly. “You’ve never heard of Karl Großmann?”

  “I had hoped you’d be able to enlighten me. What was he? An antisocial element?”

  “That’s probably what he’d be called nowadays. He slipped into obscurity over time. People only remember Friedrich Haarmann or Peter Kürten.”

  Vogler looked across at Oppenheimer with interest. “I have heard of the Haarmann case.”

  “Haarmann? Yes, well, Haarmann was a pederast. He lived in Hannover. He would bite into his boy toy’s throat or carotid artery during the sexual act. Then he would dismember the body.”

  “And Kürten? What about him?”

  “He was known as the Vampire of Düsseldorf. He was convicted in 1930. Another mass murderer. He stabbed his victims to death and drank the blood from their wounds to seek sexual gratification. But that was nothing in comparison to Großmann.”

  “And what did Großmann do?”

  “He would kill women during the sexual act. Prostitutes, often homeless women whom he’d promised a place to stay. Some of them even worked for him as housekeepers. If they weren’t willing, he would rape them. Sometimes he would mutilate their sexual organs and their anuses with kitchen equipment. He didn’t shy away from children either. He would dismember the bodies. They repeatedly found body parts near his flat. What’s more, he sold meat products. It is possible that he processed some of the bodies into sausages or tinned meat. There were rumors that he ate parts of his victims himself. It was … well, yes, there is probably no point talking about it.”

  “What did you want to say?”

  “We were only able to pin three murders on him and were still busy with the investigations. Of course, we wanted to know exactly how many victims there had been, but then the case was taken away from us. It seemed there was a hurry to get him in front of a judge. Großmann was only accused of three murders. He hanged himself during the trial. We shall never know how many people he killed. There was a whole string of unexplained sex murders that we were able to link to him. There must have been dozens. At least. I have never met anyone like him since.”

  Oppenheimer had portrayed Großmann’s deeds very drastically. He wanted to see if it was possible to draw Vogler out of his reserve. But the other man didn’t bat an eyelid during the recital of the gruesome acts.

  “If you look at the police photographs, you can clearly see that he was subhuman. An Untermensch. The structure of his skull, the nose, a typical example.”

  Vogler held the photograph out to Oppenheimer. It had been in the files all this time. After all these years, Oppenheimer was staring into the visage of the monster once again. When he saw the face above the collarless white shirt, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Großmann’s narrowed eyes, two dark slits, stared at Oppenheimer with hostility. For a few seconds, he couldn’t help but gaze at the photograph as if hypnotized.

  Großmann’s face triggered other connotations too. The mattress, stained with blood and feces, the indentation of the rope cut deeply into the victim’s skin, the poor woman’s bruises, the lacerated flesh between her legs, the kitchen utensils on the floor in a foul-smelling, dark liquid—all this combined to form an image that was deeply etched into Oppenheimer’s memory.

  Finally, he cleared his throat. Thought. Then he slowly began to shake his head. “I’m sorry to disagree, but in my experience, a person’s face does not tell you what is going on inside them. There may be certain theories on the matter, but I can only speak from practical experience.”

  When Vogler gave him a skeptical look, Oppenheimer realized that he’d probably gone too far. He had to be careful. He sometimes grew careless under the influence of Pervitin. He hastily added, “Maybe I am wrong. Times have changed. Why not also the criminals?”

  Vogler chuckled but said nothing.

  Suddenly, the steel door was yanked open by an SS man. “All clear!” he shouted into the cellar vault.

  “Already?” Vogler asked in surprise. Oppenheimer hadn’t expected the all clear yet either. Normally, you had to spend three to four hours in the bunker during a raid.

  The distant all clear could be heard through the open door. Vogler stood up and looked over toward Oppenheimer. “Nothing is going according to plan today,” he said. “Almost nothing. Mr. Oppenheimer, I will make you this offer only once. There is a murderer whom I want to arrest at all costs. You are being given the opportunity to help the investigations in an advisory function. It will not be to your disadvantage. You need to decide here and now. If you don’t take up this offer, there won’t be another opportunity.”

  Oppenheimer considered the wording it will not be to your disadvantage. But then a more obvious question arose. “What happens if I don’t accept the offer?”

  “Then you’ll have to reconcile that with your conscience. I don’t have much time; there’s a murderer running about out there. You can stop him. So what do you say?”

  This is all madness, Oppenheimer’s logic protested. At the same time, the notion of ridding himself of the stupid machine-polishing job he wasted his days on was decidedly attractive. Vogler’s gaze rested on Oppenheimer while he tried to weigh up the consequences. He had to make a decision, but did he even have a choice? Oppenheimer hesitated. He begrudged Vogler the triumph of a straightforward acceptance. Instead, he asked, “When do we start?”

  * * *

  The metal sign with the skull and crossbones vibrated in the wind. Beneath it in big letters, the inscription: UNEXPLODED BOMBS!! MORTAL DANGER! Oppenheimer chuckled at the ruse. Whoever had been charged with keeping unwelcome visitors from the place the body was found had had a true inspiration. Although countless signs warning of unexploded bombs characterized the daily lives of the citizens of Berlin, they had lost nothing of their terrifying effect. Those not wanting to take any unnecessary risks gave them a wide berth. Two SS men were standing at the cordoned-off area in full uniform when Oppenheimer approached with Vogler. One of the guards saluted the Hauptsturmführer before he lifted the chain to let them both through.

  “Has anything happened since I left?”

  Vogler’s brusque tone instinctively made the SS man freeze to attention. His heels clicked together noisily. “No, nothing to report, Herr Hauptsturmführer!” he replied.


  Oppenheimer himself had received many orders, both from his superiors in the police force and during his time with the military, but the SS tone had a different quality. It had little in common with the self-important blustering he had grown accustomed to in the barracks from his sergeant major. The SS people made a particular effort to appear snappy, and they had the nasty habit of chopping all their words into syllables so that each one could be spat out with great fanfare. When a superior addressed a subordinate, it reminded Oppenheimer a little of the disdainful tone with which Gestapo men spoke to Jews when they were bullying them. He asked himself how the two might be connected.

  “Come along,” Vogler said to Oppenheimer in his other, civilized voice.

  “Has an autopsy been carried out yet?” he asked.

  “There is a slight communication problem, as the phone lines are down. But we’ll soon have a radio set at our disposal. I hope to receive the autopsy report as soon as it’s available. As I said, there is no reason to come here. Everything has already been photographed.”

  “Hmm. I wanted to see the site again in daylight. A camera cannot pick up all the details. Are there no other witnesses?”

  “Only the air raid warden who found the body.”

  They stopped in front of the stone block, at exactly the same spot where the body had lain yesterday morning. Behind them, a narrow path separated them from the redbrick church that rose above a ledge of white stones. Oppenheimer looked up. The architect seemed to have been bent on interlocking as many building elements and battlements as possible. The result was unusual, but impressive.

  The upper floors of the houses opposite were barely visible through the four linden trees. They offered the perfect visual cover for the perpetrator.

  “I’m not surprised we don’t have any witnesses,” Oppenheimer said. “Were there any more traces of blood in the vicinity?”

  “We didn’t find any.”

  “Good. That means that the body was transported here somehow. I’m guessing that the vehicle was parked right here. Between the church and the memorial. It’s only a few meters to the place where the body was found. Although this is a public square, no one would really be able to see what was going on behind this block of stone. Possibly the residents on the first and ground floor, but it was nighttime, and the windows were blacked out as of nine thirty. The risk of being interrupted was minimal.”

  “So it’s not a coincidence that the body was found here?”

  “That would really surprise me. Everything indicates that the perpetrator knows this place well and chose it specifically. I just don’t understand what the whole thing is about.”

  Oppenheimer let his gaze wander thoughtfully. Then he pulled his cigarette holder from the inside pocket of his coat and put it in his mouth. With his gaze fixed on the ground, he walked around and chewed on the meerschaum mouthpiece. Vogler watched this spectacle for a while, then he asked, “Would you like a cigarette?”

  Oppenheimer looked at him in surprise. “Cigarette?” he repeated, but when he realized what he had been doing, he felt a bit stupid. “Oh, thanks. No problem. The thing with the cigarette holder—it’s an old habit of mine. Please excuse me, but it helps me to think.”

  Vogler raised his eyebrows. Whatever he might think about someone who needed a cigarette holder to think, he didn’t comment. Instead, he asked, “So the perpetrator had some sort of vehicle?”

  “At least he managed to transport the body without attracting attention. It wasn’t necessarily a motorized vehicle. A wheelbarrow would have been enough. However, that would mean he lives in the immediate vicinity. Did any of the neighbors notice a vehicle during the night?”

  “You must understand that this investigation is top secret. We cannot interview the neighbors without raising suspicion. This is why we have informed the block wardens in the surrounding properties. They will make inquiries with the residents and pass the information on to us.”

  “That of course presupposes that the neighbors tell the block wardens everything.” Oppenheimer couldn’t suppress a suggestive smile, but Vogler didn’t seem to get the innuendo. The block wardens were doubtlessly all loyal to the party line and would keep mum, and they were predestined for this sort of discreet sleuthing, as it was their job to spy on the residents. This was also exactly the reason why, as a rule, they weren’t particularly well liked.

  Oppenheimer looked back toward the church. “The vicar?” he asked.

  Vogler had anticipated Oppenheimer’s thinking. “Has already been interrogated. He was giving a service on Saturday evening. He didn’t notice anything afterward.”

  “And what about the sexton?”

  “He locked all the doors at ten in the evening and didn’t see anyone.”

  “Good. Next question: Why this place? The body was brought here. If I think about how we found her, then it’s pretty obvious that she was placed here on purpose. Her legs were spread and pointed directly toward this structure. What is it, actually?”

  Oppenheimer went around the stone block until he found an inscription.

  “Ah, here it is.” He read out loud. “They died for the Fatherland in the 1914–1918 World War.”

  Oppenheimer paused for a moment. Lost in thought, he tapped against the heavy stone. “So we can summarize: The body was found in a church square. It was placed before a monument for the fallen of the First World War. The way it was placed makes it look like an enactment. The perpetrator wanted her to be found in this state.”

  “Maybe he just wanted a location where she would be found immediately?” Vogler interjected.

  “Possibly. We will have to take that into consideration. The fact that there was so little blood might be an indication that the victim’s genitals were only mutilated after her death. So we cannot exclude the possibility that we might simply be dealing with a necrophiliac. The rope marks on the victim’s hands and feet indicate otherwise, but there are plenty of corpses available these days. Maybe he found the young woman’s body somewhere and then mutilated it. The likelihood is extremely low, but we won’t know for sure until we have the coroner’s report. Until then, we have to consider the possibility that maybe the perpetrator didn’t kill her himself.”

  Questions upon questions. Oppenheimer was under no illusion. The clues were very poor. It was going to be an extremely difficult investigation.

  Vogler seemed aware of this too. After some thought, he asked, “How should we proceed with the case, in your opinion?”

  “The most important thing is to identify the body. That would advance matters a bit. Usually, there is some sort of connection to the perpetrator. So we must find out as much as possible about the life of the victim. We might find some sort of clue as to the motive in her biography.”

  “Which measures are the quickest to yield a result?”

  “If only it were that easy. I fear there are no hard-and-fast rules. We shall have to prepare for a lengthy investigation. Whether weeks or months—impossible to say. We don’t even know if our measures will be successful. It’s often just a silly coincidence that gets you on the right track. And that, you can’t plan. In principle, there is only one thing we can do: be alert and beware of drawing hasty conclusions.”

  5

  MONDAY, MAY 8, 1944–WEDNESDAY, MAY 10, 1944

  The rain falling on Oppenheimer from the gray clouds above had not managed to clear the air. Although there was no more smoke in the skies, a stubborn cloud of dust continued to hang over the ruins of the city.

  After his discussion with Vogler, Oppenheimer had gone to see Hilde and tell her that for the time being he didn’t need to disappear. When she then told him that bombs had fallen near the borough of Moabit, he had quickly set off for the Jewish House. While in the bunker with Vogler, he had ignored the thought that his tiny place might be damaged during the bombings. As usual, his first thought had been of Lisa, relieved to know that she had already gone back to work today and would have found a place in the bu
nker there.

  As Oppenheimer stumbled through his neighborhood, across chunks of stone and glass, he saw that the streets really had been badly hit this time. Each step triggered a scraping noise. He didn’t think the soles of his shoes would last much longer before they finally fell apart. Despite everything, however, there was still a certain order in the chaos of ruins, bodies and machines that presented themselves to Oppenheimer, because the worst was over. The bucket brigades for extinguishing the fires had already dispersed. Several people remained standing in corners of houses or entrances to cellars, blinded by the acrid dust and soot. A helper from the Red Cross with a flowing black cape and white hood, together with two young women from the League of German Girls, gathered the last of the blinded to bring them to the mobile military hospital, where their eyes could be washed.

  The dust in the air made Oppenheimer’s eyes water, too, although several hours had passed since the attack. Gas was pouring out of leaking pipes somewhere, polluting the air. This was a usual problem after a bombing. Oppenheimer hoped that no one would come up with the idea of smoking a cigarette.

  When the first bombings had occurred, the citizens of Berlin had clustered round the ruins to gawk in shock. At the time, they marveled at the bombing as something new, something unheard of, but eventually, the novelty had worn off. As night attacks had long become normality, the newspapers only reported of daytime attacks, mostly in a couple of lines, laconically stating that “the population had suffered losses.”

  The air raids had become part of daily life, and with it came routine. The salvaged goods that those who had been bombed out had managed to save—furniture and odd bits and pieces—stood by the road outside the destroyed buildings, guarded by their owners. Some of them sat on their air raid cases, exhausted, while others had settled themselves on chairs covered in plush upholstery or other furniture they had managed to rescue from their burning homes with the last of their strength.