Germania: A Novel of Nazi Berlin

by Harald Gilbers

  Oppenheimer acknowledged that his suspicion might simply be caused by his dislike of Golden Pheasants like Reithermann. But certain details did make him wonder. Reithermann’s life seemed to consist of consuming things. If he interpreted Vogler’s comment correctly, Reithermann employed dubious means to obtain possession of artwork from the countries occupied by the National Socialists. His comments about Ms. Dufour and women in general had put Oppenheimer on alert. Was it possible that Reithermann considered women mere objects, of which he wanted to get as many specimens as possible into his bed? In other words, did he consume people? If he only saw them as objects, might he not see it as a trivial offense if he killed a woman? Or had things gone so far that he secretly hated women?

  After some reflection, Oppenheimer realized that this train of thought was far-fetched. Without a doubt, most men had a similar attitude toward the female sex. The fact that Reithermann didn’t have a romantic streak did not mean that he was the murderer. And he had been the one to get the murder investigation under way in the first place. If he was responsible for the murders, then this behavior would be hard to understand. Or was it just a perfidious game? Had he commissioned the SS to find a scapegoat for his own deeds, knowing that nobody would suspect him?

  Oppenheimer had grouped all the men over forty who had anything to do with the case around the names of the dead women. He was just about to add Reithermann’s name in this circle but then reconsidered and placed it a little closer to the middle.

  Oppenheimer was still lost in thought when there were steps pounding up the cellar stairs. From somewhere, Vogler called out excitedly, “Oppenheimer! We have to go!”

  He looked around, a question in his eyes. Vogler hectically limped over to the coatrack and threw his coat over his shoulders. “We have to go to Zimmerstraße. Now! It’s inconceivable, but the bastard has given us a message!”

  At first, Oppenheimer didn’t understand what he meant. But then he realized that Vogler was speaking of the murderer, and his heart started racing.

  Vogler’s voice cracked. “The bastard actually wrote a letter!”

  15

  WEDNESDAY, MAY 31, 1944–FRIDAY, JUNE 2, 1944

  Der Angriff, the daily newspaper with a name meaning attack, was no ordinary publication. Even when the press was forced into line by Propaganda Minister Goebbels, it was still possible to obtain pamphlets of diverse provenance. All the large party organizations had their own newspaper, from the SS to the German Labor Front.

  These papers certainly differed from the bourgeois-conservative press. The most important one was the Völkischer Beobachter. It wasn’t possible to walk past a kiosk and not notice this official NSDAP newspaper, whose name implied it was “observing on behalf of the German Volk.” The front pages were set in large print with shrill headlines in red and black. In addition, the advantage of the Völkischer Beobachter was that people didn’t need to do much actual reading, as a large part of the paper was made up of photos and illustrations.

  Another popular newspaper was Der Stürmer. It dealt with only one topic: the Jewish conspiracy. The main focus was to campaign against these so-called subhumans and parasites on the backs of the German people. Accordingly, anti-Semitic demands for the eradication of all Jews were the norm for this publication, which had far more regular readers than its circulation indicated; all big cities had “Stürmer Boxes,” special display cases on every other street corner, where good German nationals could get free copies. Particularly popular at the time was its “pillory” column, where people who associated with Jews or those who were rumored to defile the German race could be denounced by their full name. A large part was taken up by the description of such immoral acts. Der Stürmer relished in disclosing smutty details of decadent and perverted sexual practices to its readership so that the article hardly differed from the crudest pornography.

  Der Angriff barely distinguished itself from the other publications, neither in its political orientation nor in its tone. What made this paper special was the fact that Joseph Goebbels himself had founded it and still acted as editor. Officially, Der Angriff was the NSDAP’s Berlin paper and therefore stood in direct competition with the Völkischer Beobachter. Goebbels had used it in the run-up to the Nazi rise to power to increase his influence and to hound political opponents. Other party officials had had the same idea and founded their own personal paper to strengthen their influence in the wrangling for party sinecures. While Hitler soon put a stop to this proliferation, Der Angriff, Goebbels’s own rag, continued to appear and had over the past few years even managed to become one of the most important daily newspapers.

  Initially, the editorial office had conveniently been in the NSDAP Berlin main office in Hedemannstraße 10. But since then, the reporting had expanded significantly, so that the editors of Der Angriff needed more comfortable offices and had now moved into Zimmerstraße 88-91. Ironically, Der Angriff shared the four-story building with the editorial offices of the competition, the Völkischer Beobachter, whose name was also flaunted in huge letters, together with a stylized imperial eagle, on the façade with its red flags.

  Oppenheimer followed Vogler through the newspaper’s offices. They had initially gotten lost, but once it became clear they were looking for the editors of Der Angriff, a secretary told them where to go. They passed countless desks before they got to the editor in charge of letters from readers. He didn’t waste any time, directly handing Vogler the piece of paper. “This was in the mailbox this morning.”

  Oppenheimer stepped next to Vogler to read the letter and saw that it had been written on a typewriter. While Vogler gave his full attention to what was written, Oppenheimer turned to the editor. “Has anyone else seen the letter yet?”

  “No. I opened it myself and immediately informed the Gestapo. That’s standard procedure here. We are in constant contact with the security services and know how sensitive confidential information can be. If you need some privacy, there is an empty office over there with a telephone line.”

  As soon as they had closed the door behind themselves, Vogler handed the letter to Oppenheimer. The Hauptsturmführer had gone red in the face, his lips pressed tight. “The bastard is toying with us,” he growled.

  Oppenheimer sat down and read.

  Finished off ’nother whore. I sent letters to the police but they never read them. So Im writing to you insted. They should know why I do what I do now. Those sluts are a danger. More than the Jews and the Bolshevicks combined. Someone has to tell the peopl. The hussy I left lying in Schöneweide aint the last one neither. Why doesnt the party do anything against these parasites? Get ready I will tackl the next one soon.

  Haeil Hitler!

  Oppenheimer leaned back in his chair and squeezed his eyes shut. The last sentence did not bode well. This lunatic had announced another killing.

  Vogler, too, stared grimly into empty space. As Oppenheimer inserted a cigarette in the holder, he said, “Okay, well, it’s no use sitting here and moping. It’s not going to bring those three women back to life. But with this letter, our killer has given us a few leads. If we can decode them, we can prevent another murder.”

  Vogler perked up. He ensured that they could use the office for the next few hours, and the two of them got to work.

  “All right. Let’s take a look at the letter—what can we say about the person who wrote it?” Oppenheimer asked.

  “We know his motive now,” Vogler said. “He wants to kill whores.”

  “All the women he considers whores,” Oppenheimer specified. “That might be an important difference. Were the three victims whores?”

  “Not in the classical sense. Ms. Gerdeler probably was, because she slept with wealthy men she picked up in the Adlon.”

  “And she was getting paid for it. She certainly wasn’t an ordinary prostitute. The last victim, Inge Friedrichsen, had to die because she worked at Lebensborn. Our perpetrator probably didn’t know that she worked there as a secretary. What’s more, he see
ms to trust the rumors that the Lebensborn homes are brothels for SS members. This narrows down the list of suspects.”

  Vogler looked at him questioningly. “How so?”

  “The murderer has no idea what really goes on there. He has the same clichéd ideas as I had before my visit there. So we can assume that he is most likely not an employee at Lebensborn.”

  “Seems logical. But why did he kill Ms. Dufour? She was a foreign-language correspondent, not a prostitute.”

  “Reithermann didn’t care. He still had sex with her. And he probably only employed her for that purpose. Our murderer might think exactly the same.” Cautiously, Oppenheimer added, “Then there’s one more topic he mentions to justify his deeds. He calls these women parasites, says they’re more harmful than the Bolsheviks and Jews together. He seems to think that they are going to infect the SS with some sort of illness. He carries out the dirty work that he believes the party should be taking care of—namely, destroying the source of the disease. This indicates that he is a staunch National Socialist.”

  Vogler grimaced. “It might be a ruse. Maybe that’s exactly what he wants us to think.”

  Of course Vogler had to put forward this argument, but it wasn’t plucked from thin air. “Yes, maybe. We have to keep that in mind. The letter might be a red herring, but at the moment, it’s all we have.”

  “He also doesn’t seem to be used to a typewriter. He has made a ton of mistakes.”

  “Hmm. And he creates simple sentences. The punctuation is terrible. When he adds the salutatory address like Dear Sir, it sounds like it’s alien to him. On the other hand, he is capable of writing ‘enemy of the people’ without any mistakes. As I said, it could be a ruse, but I’m guessing that the person who wrote this letter does not have a desk job.”

  Vogler nodded. “Is there anything else you can deduce?”

  “No, that’s all for now. But you should contact the police immediately.”

  Vogler looked at him questioningly.

  “He mentions several letters he’s written to the police,” Oppenheimer explained. “We have to find them. Maybe they can enlighten us.”

  * * *

  When Oppenheimer returned to the Jewish House, he bumped into Dr. Klein, who didn’t seem all that well. His face looked gray. To cheer him up a little, Oppenheimer told him that he had spent the end of last week in Reithermann’s cellar and had discovered a hoard of tinned food there.

  “Many thanks for the information,” Klein said. “But I fear if I turn up there to collect the foodstuff, they will consider it looting.”

  This hadn’t occurred to Oppenheimer. He of all people should have thought of that, given that he was a former inspector. If they caught Klein looting, he would probably be sentenced to death. As he considered this, Oppenheimer realized how his circumstances had changed over the last few weeks. He now had a certain authority from the murder investigation. His advice was heeded; he gave orders that were carried out by the SD. He now lacked any awareness that Jews like him were still being discriminated against, persecuted, and taken away outside the protective space that Vogler provided for him. He lowered his head in embarrassment. “Yes, of course that could be the case,” he acknowledged. “You don’t mind if I make someone else aware of the situation?”

  “Not at all,” Klein mumbled. “Have a good day.” He went down the stairs, his head bowed. Oppenheimer hardly noticed, as he’d had a new idea. He would pass the information on to Eddie. He had people at his disposal who would take care of emptying the cellar. And that would clear his debts with him. And anyway, it was important to maintain a good connection to Eddie. You never knew when you might need him again.

  * * *

  Despite the new information, they barely made any progress at all with the investigation during the rest of the week. The days passed at an agonizingly slow pace. Vogler was out trying to put pressure on the police authorities, as so far no one seemed to have paid any attention to the murderer’s letters. Either they had never surfaced or they were buried under a pile of unopened mail.

  While Oppenheimer was going through the documents in the living room of the Zehlendorf house once more, summer broke out in Berlin. Temperatures rose daily until Wednesday. The sun was no longer obscured by clouds and heated up the city without obstruction. Oppenheimer was so busy with the investigation that at first he didn’t noticed the change in weather. When he drove to Zehlendorf in the mornings, it was only just getting light, and when he went home again, the sun was usually already going down.

  On Friday, Oppenheimer decided to make the most of the good weather and take a short walk around the Kameradschaftssiedlung, but the facts of the case were occupying his headspace, so he explored the area only half-heartedly, not really taking in his surroundings. Still, he soon realized how much good the outdoor exercise was doing him. The children playing in the forest, the women who were busy in the gardens or cooking—all this gave the impression of a happy, well-ordered life. But Oppenheimer knew that the houses in this area had been bought at a high price.

  He had to keep thinking of Reithermann. He just couldn’t get the question out of his mind whether there was a connection to the first victim, Christina Gerdeler. But the big problem was that there was no documentation from Ms. Gerdeler identifying her clients by their full names. Looking through her notes, Oppenheimer had at least found some nicknames and believed that he could prove that over the past two years, she had been kept by a total of eighteen men. Some of them appeared in her notes only once, while four men had met with her on a regular basis. Oppenheimer decided to find out who these gentlemen were, in particular whether Reithermann was among them. Ms. Gerdeler had occupied a small flat near the train station at Friedrichstraße. Her former flatmate, Lizzi Ebner, still lived there.

  Oppenheimer had not seen Vogler since Thursday. It was better that way. Let sleeping dogs lie. Maybe he was being overly cautious; after all, Vogler had promised to support him in every respect. But he did not know how the Hauptsturmführer would react when Oppenheimer started investigating Reithermann. Luckily, it wasn’t a problem getting hold of a photograph of the SS Gruppenführer. The only picture in the Dufour file that showed the victim while she was still alive had been taken during a party. Ms. Dufour was pictured smiling next to Reithermann, who was guzzling champagne.

  Oppenheimer had Hoffmann drop him outside the train station at Friedrichstraße. High up in lofty heights, the train tracks ran along viaducts toward the station, a tall vaulted building stretching across the platforms. However, Oppenheimer did not go up to the platforms but followed the stairs down to the subway. Over the years, the train station had been expanded into a labyrinthine system of underground tunnels. It was ideal for shaking off Hoffmann in case he was shadowing Oppenheimer. But after just a few minutes, he had assured himself that his driver didn’t see the need to follow him.

  While he walked down the yellow-tiled passageways, he realized how much the station had changed in the last few years. People from all over the world seemed to be meeting down here. Oppenheimer had heard that now there were large numbers of foreign laborers in Germany, who were marked with a blue square with an F sewn on it, several million who were occasionally called the Trojan horse of today’s war. Quite a few good Germans felt unsettled and rambled on about too much foreign influence on society. But too many men were at the front. Without this additional workforce, the Great German Reich would no longer function.

  The assembly of foreign nationalities in the station’s catacombs overwhelmed Oppenheimer. He hadn’t thought something like this possible in a state that was so nationalistic. It was a pleasant surprise, a refreshing contrast to the stupid Germanomania prevalent in the party. He soon slowed down to study the people around him. A lady cast him a salacious glance while she talked to her companion in French. He saw a group of Italians in the next corner, dressed in ragged coats, who seemed to be wheeling and dealing, aided by wild gesticulating. An Eastern worker turned away from Oppenheim
er, only to continue watching him warily over his shoulder. With a grin, Oppenheimer thought that they had probably chosen the best possible place for their meeting. After all, the basement of the train station was considered bombproof.

  When Oppenheimer found the flat that Ms. Gerdeler had occupied together with Lizzi Ebner, he was disappointed. A new flatmate opened the door and told him that Ms. Ebner was currently doing her duty in an arms factory. She wouldn’t be home until the early evening, as she was on shift duty. She had her day off next Tuesday; he should come back then.

  Deflated, Oppenheimer walked back to the train station. He was much bothered by the fact that he just would have to wait until the perpetrator struck once more. The thought that so far this had always happened at the weekend made him uneasy. After all, today was Friday, the day when Ms. Dufour and Inge Friedrichsen had disappeared. He could only hope that the next two days would pass without bad news.

  16

  SUNDAY, JUNE 4, 1944–WEDNESDAY, JUNE 7, 1944

  Billhardt seemed genuinely stunned. “Where on earth have you come from?” he asked and put aside the rake that he’d been using. Although there were clouds in the sky, the skin on his head gleamed underneath his sparse hair. Billhardt had always taken the view that he had a thinker’s high forehead, and it seemed as if this had grown a few centimeters since their last meeting. But his colleague had changed in other ways too. He was missing an arm. Oppenheimer tried not to show his dismay too openly.