In the beam of the flashlight, Oppenheimer recognized the contours of blockish letters. In the darkness, the room seemed like a pharaoh’s tomb that had been hidden beneath thick blocks of stone waiting for archaeologists to find it. Oppenheimer felt like Howard Carter and wouldn’t have been surprised if they’d come across a mummy in one of the corners.
It had happened on November 10, 1914. In Langemarck, a little town in Flanders, war volunteers, sixth formers, and students had charged against the enemy, the national anthem on their lips, and were brutally massacred. Oppenheimer had never heard of any of his former comrades bursting into song under the enemy’s artillery attack, but that’s how the night watchman told the tale, his eyes shining and a rapturous smile on his lips. According to his description, two thousand German soldiers had fallen there.
In Oppenheimer’s mind, it had been nothing more than one of those questionable battles fought during the First World War.
“I need some fresh air,” Oppenheimer said and left the hall. “I presume you found the body?” he asked the night watchman.
“I saw a delivery van parked at the west gate,” he replied. “I had just gotten to the broken gate when the engine started and off he went.”
Oppenheimer stopped and grabbed the night watchman’s arm. He must have surprised the perpetrator. “Can you show me exactly where that was?”
* * *
They stepped outside. The Maifeld could not be seen from behind the towering grandstand. The night watchman pointed to a free spot. “If you look over there, those are the parking spaces, right by the entrance to the outdoor stage. But the delivery van was right here around the corner.”
“Can you show me the exact spot where the vehicle was parked?”
The night watchman started moving. Oppenheimer could feel the blood pulsating in his head with anticipation. He wanted to quickly get to the spot where the vehicle had stood, but the night watchman was shuffling down the steps at an irritatingly slow pace. Oppenheimer decided not to let the time go wasted and continued his questioning.
“Given that it was a delivery van, were you able to recognize an inscription anywhere, or remember the number plate?”
“I just saw a great big shadow. Nothing more. I don’t know if there was anything written on the tarpaulin.”
Oppenheimer pricked up his ears. “What tarpaulin?”
“Well, I could see the lorry drive away. It went over a large pothole, and the whole thing juddered.”
“You mean the tarpaulin was stretched across the truck bed?”
“Yes, up high, just high enough for a man to stand under.”
The night watchman went over to the structure in front of the wall, a stone pedestal approximately two meters high. A vehicle parked here during the day could only be seen from the higher tiers of the grandstand. At night, this spot would be almost invisible.
As they approached the area, Oppenheimer saw something glimmering on the ground. He flinched. “Stop!” he called out and held back his companions. Excitedly, he grabbed the flashlight from Vogler’s hand and inspected the ground.
In front of them was a puddle. It had rained a lot over the last few days, and the ground was still drenched. Yesterday’s sunshine had not been enough to dry the earth completely here in the shadow of the stone pedestal. Oppenheimer bent down and examined the ground. He could see a clear and precise pattern. The truck had gone through a puddle and left a tire print in the damp earth.
“I need someone from forensics here straightaway,” Oppenheimer ordered. “We need to make a plaster cast of the tire print immediately.”
“Right,” Vogler said and turned to leave. When he realized that Oppenheimer wasn’t moving, he stopped. “Are you not coming?”
Oppenheimer snorted obstinately. “Hell no. Wild horses won’t drag me away until the forensics is done. I’m not taking the risk of some drunken idiot ruining the prints. Get someone, as quickly as possible.”
Vogler and the night watchman disappeared. The flashlight beam grew smaller and got lost in the shadows of the west wall. Oppenheimer strained his eyes and searched the ground for additional evidence. He finally found a footprint just a few centimeters away.
For the first time in this investigation, Oppenheimer began to feel a little hopeful.
* * *
“Psst.” It sounded from the right, then a husky whisper, “Oppenheimer, come over here.”
It was ten in the evening. Oppenheimer had been wondering where exactly he was supposed to be meeting Lüttke and Bauer. He was just about to cross the Hansa Bridge when he heard the whisper.
Lüttke stood on the steps leading down to the banks of the Spree and waved to him. Oppenheimer went over to him as discreetly as possible. Bauer stood farther down, gesturing excitedly.
“Come on, hurry up. Take your coat off,” he said and handed Oppenheimer his own coat. After they had swapped clothes and hats, Bauer went back up the stairs. “You’ve got two hours.”
Lüttke and Oppenheimer watched Bauer walk across the bridge. In the growing darkness, it was difficult to make him out properly, when suddenly another figure appeared. The man briefly glanced down the steps, but Lüttke and Oppenheimer had already withdrawn to the shadows of the bridge. Then the man crossed the Spree. He followed Bauer from a distance of about a hundred meters. This had to be the man tailing Oppenheimer today.
“Close shave,” Lüttke said and exhaled, relieved. “If we’d taken any longer, it would have been tight. My colleague will lead him on a wild-goose chase so that we can talk in peace and quiet. Come along. I have a car nearby.”
As Oppenheimer was about to get into the car, he saw that there was a man sitting inside. Dark hair was plastered to his round skull in precisely styled waves.
“Don’t worry,” Lüttke said. “That’s one of our stenographers. Just in case we come to an agreement.” Then he started the engine and drove off.
On Lüttke’s orders, they pulled down the blinds on the side windows. The stenographer seemed to have been waiting in the car for quite a while, as the interior stank of his oily hair pomade. Unfortunately, it wasn’t possible to let in any air with the blinds drawn down. Oppenheimer resigned himself to his fate.
Lüttke confirmed Hilde’s message that the intelligence services were prepared to agree to his demands and get him and Lisa out of the country. Once that had been clarified, Oppenheimer gave Lüttke the most important facts he had come across during the murder investigation. He even mentioned the vague references he had received from his colleague Billhardt. The stenographer took notes eagerly.
“That sounds very interesting,” Lüttke commented. “It’s understandable that your colleague wasn’t able to help with the SS suspect. The police system has changed a great deal since you were with the force. Normal officers no longer have any real power. The Gestapo and the SD have their fingers in every pie. They decide which cases they handle, and the rest is then distributed among the others. If you manage to elicit the name of the SS man, we could activate our people to find his file.”
“I’ll have another go,” Oppenheimer said. “But I can’t promise that Billhardt will give it up. How can I get the information to you?”
“We’ve already set up a drop point for this purpose. But first you need to familiarize yourself with the code words you’ll be using when you contact us. From now on, your cover name is Schiller.”
This all seemed like a game to Oppenheimer. But regardless of how stupid it seemed, people like Lüttke and Bauer were deadly serious about this game. This really was like Emil and the Detectives, Oppenheimer thought and sighed.
* * *
Vogler shook his head. “If what my people have found out is really true, then Traudel Herrmann was a real scapegrace.”
Although it was only ten in the morning, Vogler had to switch on the desk lamp in his cellar office to have sufficient light. There had been another alarm half an hour ago, which was why Oppenheimer had also made his way down there.
As soon
as the body had been found, Vogler had background checks carried out at the special courts in Berlin. These courts handled the so-called incidentals. Any offense that wasn’t considered to be politically motivated was dealt with here. The special courts were keen to resolve things quickly; minor offenses could often even be taken care of immediately.
Those unlucky enough to have to appear before such a court had a hard time of it. According to the so-called Volksschädlingsverordnung, an ordinance governing people that were considered “parasites” to the German society, prison or even the death penalty could be imposed for almost anything. It sufficed if the deed exploited the war-induced state of emergency or damaged the “healthy German sentiment,” which the legislator had failed to define clearly.
As a result, the special courts had carte blanche to do as they pleased. There were almost daily reports of new death sentences. Once a sentence had been passed, it was not possible to appeal. The only option was a petition to have the sentence annulled, but the chances of success were extremely low. If Mrs. Herrmann really was guilty of racial defilement, then it was more than likely that she would have appeared before this special court. But the sheer number of Mrs. Herrmann’s offenses surprised even Vogler.
“Between 1938 and 1942, she appeared before a special court no fewer than six times,” he reported. “Each time because of racial defilement. She seemed to have a predilection for having sex with wealthy Jews. It was always the same: someone reported her, she was accused and sentenced. Her lovers were sent to concentration camps; the last two were sentenced to death. But Mrs. Herrmann—or Traudel Tuggenbrecht, as she used to be known—always received a conspicuously low sentence. Normally, she would have also been sent to a concentration camp for each of her offenses, but she was only given a few weeks’ imprisonment. And there are no indications that she ever served her sentences. She never actually saw a prison from inside. And as far as the wealthy geezers’ money is concerned…”
“Let me guess: the Jewish lovers’ possessions miraculously ended up in the hands of Gruppenleiter Herrmann, correct?”
“Correct. At least as far as we can ascertain. Then last year, he married her. It seems the foray was over.”
Oppenheimer’s compassion for Traudel Herrmann had plummeted abruptly.
“This would indicate that Herrmann bribed people. They bagged the assets and did so in a seemingly legal way. A profitable business model.” After he had briefly scanned the files, Oppenheimer added, “Looking at the offenders’ addresses, it seems like Mrs. Herrmann slept her way through the beds of half of Köpenick. Now at least we know why the murderer chose her. The most important question is who knew about the fact that she seduced Jews in particular.”
“I’m sure she didn’t boast about it,” Vogler replied. “To pick up on this, the perpetrator must have seen her on numerous occasions, maybe an old acquaintance. She lived in Köpenick the entire time, so it might have just been a former neighbor. Other than that—” Vogler cleared his throat. “Other than that, there is the judge who sentenced her. It was always the same one.”
Surprised, Oppenheimer took another look at the papers. Vogler was correct; the sentences were all handed down by one and the same judge. The longer he dealt with the matter, the more the whole thing felt like a prearranged affair.
“If my suspicions are correct, then the judge also profited. This doesn’t fit with our murderer. The perpetrator strongly condemned Mrs. Herrmann’s behavior. If he were a judge, he could just as well have sentenced her to death, and no one would have been able to hold it against him, not even the Gruppenleiter. We might consider another court employee, but due to the large number of proceedings, it’s not very likely that any of the bailiffs came across Mrs. Herrmann more than once or even remembered her. I don’t think there is a connection to the court.”
Thoughtfully, Oppenheimer chewed on the mouthpiece of his cigarette tip. Then he slammed his hand flat on the table. “No, the murderer must have lived in Köpenick between 1938 and 1942, at least for a while. I am sure of it.”
Oppenheimer felt agitated, so much so that it forced him up from his chair. He started pacing the small cellar. “Very well, we are getting more and more information about the murderer, but it’s time this should be enough for us to catch him. There’s no way around it; you have to send your men to the registration offices.”
Vogler looked at him attentively, clearly trying to follow the former inspector’s thoughts. “So we should find out which of the suspects lived in Köpenick at the time in question,” he mumbled.
“Exactly. It’s a bit of a slog, as we don’t have a specific suspect right now. Every man we came across throughout the investigation needs to be closely looked at. We must find out which one of them had the opportunity to observe Mrs. Herrmann’s activities. I’ll put a list together in a moment and mark those who most likely match our preliminary description of the perpetrator. Their whereabouts must be established first.”
“I’ll get right onto it,” Vogler said and sat down at the radio. Then he paused. “We need to interview Gruppenleiter Herrmann again to find out who his wife had contact with recently.”
Oppenheimer nodded. “I fear it won’t be much help, but we should at least try.”
“I’ll do it myself,” Vogler said. “I suggest you check the files to see if there were connections to Köpenick in the other murder cases too.” Then he instructed the radio controller to set up a line. Like Oppenheimer, he seemed happy to finally have something to do again.
* * *
Oppenheimer left the cellar of the Zehlendorf house while the alarm was still on and in the living room wrote down the names from the pieces of paper on his chart. Then he studied the files, searching doggedly for another connection to Köpenick, until the radio controller came up from the cellar to black out the windows. It was only now that Oppenheimer realized it was already getting dark outside and that it was too late to pay Billhardt a visit.
Later, as Hoffmann chauffeured him home, he realized that he would have to come up with a new way of shaking off his pursuer when he visited his old colleague. He didn’t fancy Vogler finding out that he had an informer on the crime squad.
When Oppenheimer opened the door to the kitchen, Lisa was preparing dinner. But she wasn’t alone. Old Mrs. Schlesinger was sitting at the kitchen table chattering. Lisa had her back to her so as not to encourage her, but this clearly wasn’t proving successful. When Mrs. Schlesinger saw that Oppenheimer had come home, her eyes widened in delight. She had a new victim.
“Ah, Mr. Oppenheimer,” she called. “How fortunate that you’ve arrived. I already informed your wife that the toilet on your floor is broken. My husband is taking care of it, but I don’t know how long it’s going to take. You know how difficult it is to find a handyman who is willing to work in a Jewish house. So my husband said, ‘I’m not even going to try this time,’ and took the matter into his own hands.”
Oppenheimer thought that Mrs. Schlesinger and her husband would have been the ideal informants for the SD. They always had to stick their noses into other people’s business. While her husband went about it in a rather gruff way, she was exactly the opposite. She was always almost manically happy. It didn’t matter what was going on, she always had a smile etched on her face.
“Well, that seems to be the most sensible thing to do,” Oppenheimer answered. Then he took off his hat and coat and hung them on the hook. When Mrs. Schlesinger looked him over, her cheerful gaze suddenly grew reproachful.
“But, Mr. Oppenheimer!”
Surprised, he turned to her. “What is it?”
“But—your star! Pray tell me, where have you left your star?”
Initially, Oppenheimer didn’t know what she meant. When he followed her gaze, he realized that the Star of David was missing from his coat. Recently he hadn’t bothered sewing it back on each day.
“Oh, it was a silly misunderstanding,” he lied. “I—the coat has just been cleaned. I completely for
got to sew the star back on.”
Mrs. Schlesinger looked at the dirty coat and turned up her mouth pointedly. “Well, then you’re very lucky that no one caught you. I don’t know what the point of the whole thing is, but it’s better if we stick to the rules. Otherwise, we’ll just get in trouble. Wear the star with pride, Mr. Oppenheimer. With pride.”
* * *
This time, there hadn’t been any pre-alarm. At nine o’clock, the sirens suddenly started howling. Oppenheimer was in the sidecar of Hoffmann’s motorbike, being driven along Kronprinzallee at breakneck speed.
The signal, which could be heard despite the loud clatter of the engine, was unmistakable. “Full alarm,” Oppenheimer whispered. This could only mean that bombers had appeared out of nowhere and were heading straight for Berlin.
He looked at his driver. Hoffmann, too, had understood. They had about a kilometer to go until they would reach the Kameradschaftssiedlung. Hoffmann pressed his lips together and went full throttle.
Oppenheimer had thought Hoffmann had already been driving at full speed the entire time, but he’d been mistaken. The renewed acceleration pressed him back in his seat. Hoffmann swerved elegantly around the piles of rubble that dotted the road here and there. The potholes, on the other hand, were far less easy to spot from a distance, especially from the passenger’s perspective. Mostly, Oppenheimer only realized they were approaching a crater when Hoffmann suddenly wrenched the handlebars to one side, veering this way and that without slowing down. Oppenheimer wondered whether it wouldn’t be safer to sit at the side of the road, wait for the bombs, and put his trust in God instead of being at the mercy of Hoffmann’s driving skills, which was equivalent to being on a launching platform.
The capital of the Reich had been lucky over the last few days. After Hitler’s buzz bomb had hit London, the people of Berlin had anticipated a strong British counterstrike. But although there had been constant alarms, the big attack had failed to materialize. By now, Oppenheimer found the alarms more annoying than threatening. And anyway, most of the time he was so absorbed in studying the results of his investigation that he barely noticed the sirens.
Germania: A Novel of Nazi Berlin Page 27