Germania: A Novel of Nazi Berlin

by Harald Gilbers

  Oppenheimer listened very carefully. There it was again. A noise from the floors above. Someone was up there. Hoping not to be discovered. Or did he want to be discovered? Was he trying to trap his pursuer? Get rid of him here, unobserved?

  Carefully, Oppenheimer crept up the stairs. He moved quietly, tried to avoid sudden movements, but the wooden steps creaked.

  It seemed to take forever to reach the first landing. Oppenheimer broke out in a sweat; his muscles were tense. He stopped and looked around, peering into the twilight.

  But there was nothing here. Just a few doors and the staircase to the next floor. He stood by the banister and listened for the noise from above. Where had it come from? Was it the next floor or the one above? Oppenheimer had his eyes half closed, concentrating on the silence, and tried to hear all the way up to the roof. A mistake, as the next noise didn’t come from above.

  One of the doors burst open with a loud rumble. Daylight poured into the staircase. Oppenheimer spun around—too late. A hand gripped his throat, the other pressed his upper body back over the banister. Helplessly, he grabbed his opponent’s wrists and tried to wriggle his way out of the grasp. When he looked into his attacker’s face, shock waves ran through Oppenheimer’s body.

  The face was not human. Two cold insect eyes hovered a few centimeters above him. A tube protruded from the head in place of a mouth. The creature appeared as grotesque as if it had risen from a bad dream. Its breath came in jerky bursts. Then Oppenheimer understood. The man was wearing a gas mask! As soon as he realized this, he changed his approach, let go of the opponent’s wrists, and grabbed the lower part of the mask with one hand while trying to get hold of the head strap with the other. Frantically, he tugged at the mask, trying to displace it and block his opponent’s view.

  All of a sudden, his attacker let go. But Oppenheimer had no time to react. With one swift move, the man had grabbed his legs and lifted them up. Oppenheimer was hanging in the air.

  Panicking, he reached backward as the man was trying to heave him over the banister. He felt something solid. Instinctively, he clung to it. When he was thrown over the bannister, his arms gripped the handrail.

  He hung helplessly in the air. The man with the gas mask tried to loosen Oppenheimer’s grip. Oppenheimer clung on desperately. He didn’t know how far down the fall would be, how long it would take until he hit the floor. He grabbed the attacker, clung to his jacket with his right hand, but it was hard to pull him closer through the railing. Perhaps he could get him to lose his balance. If the attacker didn’t let go, they’d fall into the depths together. Oppenheimer was determined to make his opponent pay a high price for his victory.

  Through all this struggling, Oppenheimer failed to hear the shrill voices calling from below. He felt his opponent let go of him, hasten back into the room, and close the door behind him.

  Footsteps could be heard on the stairs, but Oppenheimer did not pay them any attention. He pulled himself up over the banister and finally felt firm ground beneath his feet again. But there was no time for feeling relieved. He flung open the door through which his opponent had disappeared and almost didn’t see the precipice he headed toward.

  Oppenheimer found himself in a flat, or rather the paltry remains of such. Wind blew into his face. The open façade gave an indiscreet view of the striped wallpaper. Only a narrow ledge remained of the room, in whose corner a left-behind armchair was exposed to the elements. A bomb had destroyed the remainder of the flat.

  Oppenheimer carefully peered over the crumbling edge. The man was below him. Oppenheimer spotted the gas mask just a few meters away. The man was laboriously clambering his way down the side of the façade. Oppenheimer knew he would be faster if he used the stairs. He whirled around and was back on the landing when he ran into the group of youths. “That’s the Jew!” the boy he’d encountered earlier shouted and pointed at Oppenheimer. Hands grabbed him. He desperately tried to get free, but resistance against these boys was pointless. They were all dressed identically: narrow leather straps across their chests, a buckle rather than a properly tied knot to hold the neckerchief in place below their Adam’s apples, shoulder straps sewn onto their shirts—Oppenheimer was surrounded by a horde of Hitler Youths.

  “He hit me and then ran off!” the boy said. “We can’t take that from a Jew!”

  The other boys were also in a flurry of excitement.

  “Heini, what’s he doing here anyway?” one of them asked.

  The Hitler Youth whom Oppenheimer had slapped had a quick response. “He’s probably a spy. Passing coordinates to the British or something like that.”

  Further protest came from the other boys. Oppenheimer was wedged in among them. He could feel the situation getting out of control. In an attempt to calm things down, he said, “Speak to SS Hauptsturmführer Vogler; he can explain everything.”

  “I bet that’s just a trick,” a boy of perhaps thirteen said. “The SS would have locked him up a long time ago.”

  Oppenheimer was desperate. “You don’t understand, I work for the Hauptsturmführer. There is a murderer out there. He’s going to escape if you don’t let me go.”

  The Hitler Youth named Heini laughed derisively. “People like you don’t work for the SS,” he declared categorically. The freckled boy looked at him with hostility. He pulled something from his pocket and held it under Oppenheimer’s nose. It was a knife like the one every Hitler Youth member carried. “You’re not getting away. It doesn’t matter how much you beg.” First, he shoved Oppenheimer against the wall, then he asked his comrades, “What shall we do with him?”

  “We should shoot him in the back of the head,” one of the boys said.

  “Hang him!” another said.

  A slender boy disagreed. “Oh no, Jürgen. We can’t just kill him.”

  “Why not?”

  The slender boy didn’t seem to have an answer. He shrugged unhappily. “I don’t know,” he finally sighed.

  The point of Heini’s knife came dangerously close to Oppenheimer’s throat. The glint in the boy’s eyes betrayed the fact that he knew what power he possessed all of a sudden. Oppenheimer recognized the sadistic impulse in Heini’s gaze. The half-open mouth in front of him was distorted.

  “You heard. We have to punish you,” Heini hissed. Then he commanded, “Bring him downstairs. There’s a streetlight over there.”

  “You can’t do that!” Oppenheimer protested. To no avail. The boys had already taken him in their midst and were stumbling down the stairs. Oppenheimer didn’t know what was happening.

  They stopped on the pavement. Two boys twisted his arms behind his back and held him tight while Heini pranced around with the drawn knife. “Has anyone got a rope?”

  “Where are we meant to get that from?” one of the boys said.

  “Detlef’s father has a haberdashery!”

  Heini considered this alternative. Then he said, “No use. It will take too long. Let’s just stab him.”

  The slender boy cleared his throat once more. “We can’t just kill someone.”

  Annoyed, Heini closed his eyes. Then he pushed the knife into the slender boy’s hand. “Right, you do it, Götz. That’s an order.”

  Götz looked at Heini in dismay, then at the knife in his hand. He was breathing heavily, shook his head. “I can’t,” he said, his voice constricted.

  The boys were silent. Heini stepped close to Götz. “You’re not going to chicken out, are you?”

  “But I can’t just … a human being—” he began.

  Heini interrupted him. “It’s not a human being. It’s a Jew.”

  Götz slowly raised the knife. His hand was shaking. Doubt was written all over his face, but he didn’t dare object. Everyone was looking at him.

  “Get on with it, or are you a chicken?” Heini whispered.

  Götz stared numbly at Oppenheimer. Then he took a hesitant step forward, then another. He was just a few centimeters away from Oppenheimer. He bent his arm.

&n
bsp; Oppenheimer’s initial instinct was to call for help. But he was sure that no one would save him. He tensed his arm muscles, but the two boys behind him were holding on tight.

  Now Götz was so close that Oppenheimer could hear his breath. Tears had gathered in the boy’s eyes.

  “You’ve seen what our enemies have done here,” Heini whispered. “It’s his fault.”

  Suddenly, Götz pressed his lips together in determination. All empathy was gone from his face. He reached back. Oppenheimer realized that the boy was about to deal a death blow.

  “Stop!” a shout came from farther back. A deep voice, an adult.

  Götz stopped and turned around. Oppenheimer also looked up.

  “Well done, boys!” Vogler was approaching. “I’ve been looking for him. I’ll take him into custody.”

  The boys from the Hitler Youth saluted. Only Götz still stood in front of Oppenheimer with the knife. He lowered his arm. All tension had left his body. He didn’t appear relieved, but instead confused. With an embarrassed shrug, he gave Heini the knife back. Then he, too, saluted Vogler.

  “You’ve been a great help,” Vogler praised the boys. “I will put you forward for a reward.”

  The Hitler Youth boys beamed full of pride.

  * * *

  “Did you see his face?” Vogler wanted to know. They were sitting in a conference room in the Reich Chancellery.

  “Only very briefly,” Oppenheimer replied. “I wouldn’t be able to describe him in detail. I just saw his eyes, and then he was gone. When he tried to overpower me, he wore a gas mask.”

  Vogler hesitated. “A gas mask?”

  “Yes, but not one of the current models. He wore one from World War I. They are pretty much obsolete now. You can’t even get a filter for the old things.”

  “What is he doing with that? Why wear a gas mask that no longer works?”

  “No idea. Maybe he just wanted to disguise himself. Or maybe it has sentimental value. We’ve already ascertained that there is a connection to World War I. These damn boys! I almost had him!” Oppenheimer was still furious about the fact that the Hitler Youth members had been praised by Vogler. Although the chances of catching the suspect were practically nil now, Vogler had immediately started a manhunt.

  Oppenheimer couldn’t forget the image of Heini walking up and down in front of him with the knife. He considered in what sense there was a similarity between Vogler and the Hitler Youth. It was an interesting question, whether the adolescents nowadays imitated the adults or whether the adults behaved like children.

  Oppenheimer was exhausted and took the rest of the day off. Vogler didn’t object, as he still had to interview the Reich Chancellery employees and monitor the manhunt for the fugitive. He seemed to understand that Oppenheimer wouldn’t be much help today. And anyway, it was highly unlikely that someone from the Reich Chancellery had seen the perpetrator place the body parts.

  When Oppenheimer got up to go home, Vogler stopped him.

  “Wait,” Vogler said and tore Oppenheimer’s Star of David from his coat. “I think I’ll confiscate that.”

  Oppenheimer nodded. “Yes, I suppose I’ll be more useful alive,” he said bitterly.

  But when Oppenheimer set off toward Levetzowstraße, he changed his plan and decided to seek out Billhardt. He had to find out the name of the SA man, the suspect, regardless of how tired he was. He was determined to pester Billhardt until he disclosed the name. And anyway, now seemed like a good opportunity. Oppenheimer considered it unlikely that he would be tailed, given all the chaos around him.

  * * *

  “Tell them it’s a message from Schiller. The suspect’s name is Johannes Lutzow. The investigation was in September 1932. I need all the files connected to the case. Lüttke knows what to do.”

  Hilde wrote down everything Oppenheimer had said. “Johannes Lutzow, right,” she mumbled. “Did Billhardt give you the name straightaway?”

  Oppenheimer grimaced. “It was hard work getting it out of him. Could I maybe have a schnapps or something like that?”

  Hilde looked at him in surprise. “Well, I never thought I’d see the day.”

  “You have no idea what I’ve been through this week.”

  “What happened?”

  “Schnapps first,” Oppenheimer stated.

  Three glasses later, he’d described the latest murder and the finding of the four arms outside the Reich Chancellery.

  “I really don’t like the sound of that,” Hilde said, worried. “It’s escalating. The time in between the murders is diminishing. He seems to be feeling more pressure. At the same time, he is taking more risks. That was quite a feat today. He must consider himself vastly superior.”

  “That precisely is our advantage,” Oppenheimer replied. “He’ll expose himself. He made a big mistake by appearing at the crime site today.”

  “Of course that’s our advantage. But I wonder what price we have to pay until he’s captured. I don’t mean the stupid cow who was his last victim. I worry about the fact that he now knows who’s chasing him. It can become dangerous for you.”

  “Let him come. I’m just waiting to get my hands on him again. I found the Hitler Youth a lot scarier.” Oppenheimer paused to think. “Where does the hate come from? They were children, for goodness’ sake.”

  “The hate has always been there. It’s not unusual in young men; they like to rebel, participate in all sorts of crap. No idea where it comes from. It’s probably the way some of them establish their self-worth. Hitler exploited the hate for his purposes. That’s what’s so insidious about it.”

  “I ask myself what will happen to these children when the war is finally over.”

  “This generation is lost,” Hilde said and knocked back a shot of schnapps. “They have been conditioned from a young age. They were taught everything: racial science, anti-Semitism, all the rubbish.”

  “If they’ve been conditioned, then you should be able to reverse it all again.”

  “Possibly. But you’re not working in laboratory conditions out there. They’re unlikely to be able to shake it off. I fear that the damage that these criminals have caused to those children is beyond repair.”

  Oppenheimer thought back to the Hitler Youth boy Götz, to the doubt in his eyes. He wasn’t so sure that Hilde was right this time.

  * * *

  The following afternoon brought devastating news. “Oh, hell and damnation!” Oppenheimer shouted and threw the next-best folder across the room. “What is that supposed to mean—none of the suspects ever lived in Köpenick? They must have! I can’t be wrong! Otherwise, the latest murder just doesn’t make sense!”

  Vogler sat on the sofa and watched Oppenheimer’s outburst without commenting, but his gaze showed how disappointed he was. He indicated Oppenheimer’s slips of paper. “We’ve been through all the people whose names you put on the board. If your assumptions are correct, then none of them can be our perpetrator.”

  Oppenheimer took a deep breath and slowly ran his fingers through his hair. “Right. Let’s look at it from a different angle. Let’s concentrate on what we have. Yesterday, the murderer deposited four parts of a dead body in the city center during a bombardment in broad daylight. How did he get there? Why did no one notice him?”

  “The Reich Chancellery employees were still in the bunker,” Vogler started his summary. “The SS men were guarding the main portal from the inside during the attack. After the all clear, everyone returned to their posts. A secretary noticed the body parts when he looked out of the window. The four arms don’t take up much space; the perpetrator might have carried them in his air raid suitcase. No one would have noticed.”

  Oppenheimer took up this train of thought. “The only thing that would have been noticeable was the smell of decay. Judging by their state, they weren’t kept in a chilled environment. This means that the murderer couldn’t have traveled by train or bus. Someone would have noticed the smell.”

  “So he walked or had some
other means of transport.”

  “Means of transport,” Oppenheimer mumbled. His gaze directed down, arms crossed, he paced the carpet. “The perpetrator has a delivery van; we know that now. There are not many of those left in Berlin. Most of them are in use at the front. This has to be useful for us. Do we have a plaster impression of the tire yet?”

  “I had an additional copy made, just to be on the safe side. If you need one, we can fetch it from police headquarters. The same goes for the footprint.”

  Oppenheimer continued to ponder. The night watchman from the Olympic stadium had said that a tarpaulin had been stretched across the loading area. Oppenheimer had seen a similar delivery van during the investigation. Suddenly, the image appeared before his inner eye. Salon Kitty. Drinks. The delivery van. The driver unloading crates of spirits. Of course. There could be a connection. At least between the Adlon and Kitty’s place. Alcoholic beverages were delivered to both establishments. Höcker & Sons had several of these delivery trucks standing in their yard.

  “Tell Hoffmann. We need to go to police headquarters immediately. I need a copy of the tire print straightaway. It’s the only reliable lead we have right now. I’m going to take a close look at the vehicles at Höcker & Sons.” Oppenheimer glanced briefly at his pocket watch. It was five o’clock now. Höcker & Sons would be closing in an hour. But he didn’t have the slightest doubt that Hoffmann would get him there in time, driving at his usual breakneck speed. Just to be safe, he rang the office to tell them he was coming. Miss Behringer was on the other end of the line.

  “Inspector Oppenheimer here. I’ll be coming by shortly to clear up a few details. It won’t take long. I’ll be there by seven at the latest, probably before six. Would that be all right?” A noise came from the receiver that Oppenheimer interpreted as a quiet sigh. Miss Behringer didn’t seem pleased with the announcement. But she remained friendly. “I presume it’s urgent?”

  “I think we have a lead. The quicker I can determine whether it’s a solid one, the better.”

  A brief hesitation. “I’ll be in the office until seven, Inspector.”