by Nele Neuhaus
Katharina laughed loudly. “No idea, but I can’t worry about that. For me it’s all about business. A biography of your mother is worth millions. At any rate, we want to publish the book in time for the book fair in October, but we’re still missing some background info. I assume you could help us out with that.”
Elard froze. His mouth suddenly went dry as dust, and his hands were sweating.
“I don’t know what you mean,” he replied in a hoarse voice. How could Katharina know about it? From Ritter? And if he had told her, who else had he told? Damn, if he’d known what all the repercussions would be, he would have kept out of the whole business.
“You know exactly what I mean.” Katharina’s voice turned a few degrees cooler. “Come on now, Elard. Nobody is going to find out that you helped us. At least think about it. You can call me anytime.”
“I’ve got to go.” He disconnected without saying good-bye. His heart was racing and he felt sick to his stomach. He made a great effort to gather his thoughts. Ritter must have told Katharina everything, although he had sworn up and down to keep his mouth shut. He heard footsteps in the hall outside the door, the brisk clacking of high heels that only Jutta wore. It was too late to escape the house unnoticed. Years too late.
* * *
Pia and Miriam met in a bistro on Schillerstrasse that had been touted as the latest hot spot on the Frankfurt foodie scene since it opened two months ago. She ordered the specialty of the house: a fat-free grilled burger made with meat from contented cows raised in the Rhön hills. Miriam could barely contain her curiosity, so Pia got right to the point.
“Listen, Miri. Everything we talk about now is strictly confidential. You really can’t mention it to anybody, or I’ll be in the biggest trouble of the century.”
“I won’t say a word, cross my heart. Promise.”
“Good.” Pia leaned forward and lowered her voice. “How well did you know Goldberg?”
“I met him a few times. As far back as I can remember, he always came to visit us whenever he was in Frankfurt,” Miriam went on after thinking it over. “Oma was very close with Sarah, his wife, and through her also with him. Have you got any idea who murdered him?”
“No,” Pia admitted. “But it’s not our case anymore. And to be honest, I don’t think that it had anything to do with Jewish burial rites when Goldberg’s son showed up with the American general consul and people from the NCP, the CIA, and the Interior Ministry in tow.”
“The CIA? NCP? You can’t be serious!” exclaimed Miriam.
“It’s true. They took the investigation out of our hands. And we also suspect that we know the real reason for that. Goldberg had a pretty murky past, and there’s no way his son or his friends would want that secret to come out.”
“So tell me,” Miriam said, pressing her. “What sort of secret? I heard that he had made some questionable deals in the past, but that’s true for lots of people. Did he shoot Kennedy or something?”
“No,” said Pia, shaking her head. “He was a member of the SS.”
Miriam stared at her and then broke into incredulous laughter.
“Don’t joke about stuff like that,” she said. “Now tell me the truth.”
“That is the truth. During the autopsy, they discovered a blood-group tattoo on his upper left arm that was worn only by members of the SS. There is absolutely no doubt.”
The laughter vanished from Miriam’s face.
“The tattoo is a fact,” Pia said soberly. “At some point, he apparently tried to have it removed. But in the deep layer of the skin, it was clearly visible, blood group AB. That was his blood type.”
“Okay, but that just can’t be. Honestly, Pia!” Miriam shook her head. “Oma has known him for sixty years; everyone here knows him. He donated a ton of money to Jewish institutions and did a lot for reconciliation between Germans and Jews. It can’t be possible that he was ever a Nazi.”
“And what if it’s true?” Pia argued. “What if he really wasn’t the person he was pretending to be?”
Miriam stared at her in silence and chewed on her lower lip.
“You can help me,” Pia went on. “At the institute where you work, you must have access to records and documents about the Jewish population in East Prussia. You could find out more about his past.”
She looked at her friend and could definitely see the wheels turning in her mind. The possibility that a man like David Goldberg could have had such an incredible secret and managed to preserve it for decades was so monstrous that Miriam first had to get used to the idea.
“This morning, the body of a man by the name of Herrmann Schneider was discovered,” Pia said softly. “He was murdered in his house, exactly like Goldberg, shot in the back of the head. He was past eighty and lived alone. His workroom in the basement looks like Hitler’s office in the Reich Chancellery, with a swastika flag and a personally signed picture of the Führer—very creepy, I have to tell you. And we found out that this Schneider was a friend of Vera Kaltensee, just like Goldberg.”
“Vera Kaltensee?” Miriam’s eyes went wide. “I know all about her! She has supported the Center Against Displacement for years. Everybody knows how much she hated Hitler and the Third Reich. She won’t stand for anyone accusing her of making friends with former Nazis.”
“We don’t want to do that, either,” Pia said, trying to calm her down. “No one is claiming that she knew anything about Goldberg’s or Schneider’s past. But the three did know one another very well for a long time.”
“Insanity,” muttered Miriam. “Total insanity!”
“Next to both bodies we found a number that the murderer wrote with the blood of the victims. One one six four five,” Pia continued. “We don’t know what it means, but it proves that Goldberg and Schneider were shot by one and the same person. Somehow I have a feeling that the motive for the murders can be found in the past of the two men. That’s why I wanted to ask you for help.”
Miriam didn’t shift her gaze from Pia’s face. Her eyes were gleaming with excitement, and her cheeks were flushed.
“It could be a date,” she said after a while. “The sixteenth of January, 1945.”
Pia felt the adrenaline shoot through her body, and she straightened up with a start. Of course! Why hadn’t they thought of that themselves? Member number, account or telephone number, all of it nonsense! But what could have happened on January 16, 1945? And where? And how was it connected to Schneider and Goldberg? But above all: Who might have known about it?
“How can we find out more about this?” asked Pia. “Goldberg came from East Prussia, just like Vera Kaltensee; Schneider was from the Ruhr. Maybe there are still archives that could give us a lead.”
Miriam nodded. “There must be. The most important archive for East Prussia is the Secret State Archives in Berlin, and many old German documents can be found in online databases. There’s also Registry Office Number One in Berlin, where all the registry documents that could be saved from East Prussia are stored, especially about the Jewish population, because in 1939, a rather detailed census was taken.”
“Okay, that might really be important,” Pia said, enthused over the idea. “How do you get in to see it?”
“It should be no problem for the police,” Miriam told her. Then it occurred to Pia that there was indeed a problem.
“But officially we’re not allowed to investigate Goldberg’s murder,” she said, sounding disappointed. “And I can’t really ask my boss at the moment to give me permission to go to Berlin.”
“I could do it,” Miriam suggested. “I don’t have much to do right now. The project I’ve been working on for the past few months is over.”
“Would you really? That would be great.”
Miriam grinned but then turned serious.
“I’ll do it to prove that Goldberg was never a Nazi,” she said, taking Pia’s hand.
“As far as I’m concerned, that’s fine.” Pia smiled. “The main thing is to find out what this
date could signify. I’ll run your theory past my boss.”
Wednesday, May 2
Detective Frank Behnke was in a bad mood. The euphoria of the day before, when he’d achieved an excellent eleventh-place finish in the “Round the Henninger Tower” bicycle race, had long since dissipated. The grayness of everyday life had reclaimed him, and it coincided with a new homicide investigation. He had been hoping this lull in activity would last a little longer so that he could knock off work on time. His colleagues had thrown themselves into the case with zeal, as if they were glad finally to put in some overtime hours and work straight through the weekends. Fachinger and Ostermann had no family, while the boss had a wife who took care of everything. Hasse’s wife was happy when her husband was out of the house, and Kirchhoff seemed to be past the first phase of ardent infatuation with her new guy and once again keen to make a name for herself. None of them had the slightest inkling of what sort of problems hounded him. Whenever he left the office on time in the evening, he had to put up with people looking askance at him.
Behnke got behind the wheel of the shabby patrol car and waited with the motor running until Kirchhoff finally showed up and climbed in. He could have taken care of the matter himself, but the boss had insisted that she come along. Robert Watkowiak’s fingerprints had been found on a glass in the basement of the murdered Herrmann Schneider, and his cell phone had been found lying next to Goldberg’s front door. It couldn’t be a coincidence, and that’s why Bodenstein wanted to talk to the guy. Ostermann had asked around and found out that for the past few months Watkowiak had been living with a woman in an apartment in Niederhöchstadt.
Behnke hid behind his sunglasses, not saying a word as they drove through Bad Soden and Schwalbach toward Rotdornweg in Niederhöchstadt. Pia also made no attempt to start a conversation. The ugly high rises seemed like foreign bodies in the midst of all the single-family dwellings and row houses with manicured lawns. At this time of day, most of the parking spots were vacant, with the residents of the houses at work. Or at the welfare office, Behnke thought bitterly. No doubt the majority of these people lived off the government, especially those who were immigrants. They made up an overwhelming share of the renters, as it was easy to see from the nameplates next to the doorbells.
“M. Krämer,” said Pia, pointing at one of the labels, “this is where he supposedly lives.”
* * *
Robert Watkowiak was dozing. Last night had gone pretty well. Moni hadn’t been mad at him, and around 1:30 they’d staggered back to her place. He’d spent all his cash, of course, and the guy hadn’t contacted him about the pistol, but he would run right out and cash the three checks from Uncle Herrmann.
“Hey, take a look at this.” Moni came into the bedroom and held out her cell phone. “Yesterday, I got a really crazy text. Any idea what it means?”
Robert blinked, still not fully awake, and tried to make out what it said on the display: SWEETHEART, WE’RE RICH! GOT RID OF THE OTHER OLD GUY, TOO. LET’S HEAD SOUTH!
He couldn’t make head nor tail of the message, either. He shrugged and closed his eyes again while Moni wondered out loud who could have sent her such a message and why. His temples were throbbing and he had a nasty taste in his mouth, and her shrill voice was getting on his last nerve.
“Then call the fuck back if you want to know who wrote it,” he muttered. “I need to snooze awhile.”
“No way.” She tugged on his blanket. “You’ve got to be out of here by ten.”
“Got another visitor coming, eh?” He really didn’t give a shit how she made her money, but it pissed him off that he had to sit around somewhere waiting until the “visitor” left. This morning, he didn’t feel like getting up at all.
“I need the bread,” she said. “And I’m not getting anything out of you.”
The doorbell rang and the dogs started barking. Moni mercilessly pulled up the shades.
“Now get your ass out of that bed,” she hissed, and left the room.
* * *
Behnke pressed the doorbell again and was surprised when a voice said hello from the scratchy speaker. Dogs were barking in the background.
“This is the police,” said Behnke. “We want to talk to Robert Watkowiak.”
“He’s not here,” said the woman’s voice.
“Please buzz us in anyway.”
It took a while before the door buzzed and they could enter the building. Each floor had a different smell, none of them particularly pleasant. Monika Krämer’s apartment was on the sixth floor, at the end of a dark hallway. The ceiling light was evidently out. Behnke rang the bell, and the flimsy, scratched door opened. A dark-haired woman gave them a suspicious look. She was holding two tiny dogs in one arm; her other hand held a cigarette. Behind her, the TV was blaring.
“Robert isn’t here,” she said after looking at Behnke’s ID. “I haven’t seen him in ages.”
Behnke pushed past her and took a look around. The two-room apartment was cheaply but tastefully furnished. A nice-looking white couch, and an Indian wooden chest that served as a coffee table. On the walls were pictures with Mediterranean motifs, the kind you could buy for a couple of euros at a discount store, and in one corner stood a big potted palm. A colorful rug was on the laminate-wood floor.
“Are you Mr. Watkowiak’s girlfriend?” Pia asked the woman, who was in her late twenties at most. She had used a dark eyebrow pencil to draw exaggerated arches over her excessively plucked eyebrows, which gave her face a skeptical look. Her arms and legs were hardly thicker than a twelve-year-old’s, but she had remarkably large breasts, which she displayed in a low-cut blouse, with no sign of false modesty.
“Girlfriend? No,” replied the woman. “He crashes here once in a while, that’s all.”
“And where is he now?”
She shrugged and lit another menthol cigarette. She put the trembling dogs down on the snow-white couch. Behnke went into the next room. A double bed, a wardrobe with mirrored doors, and a dresser with lots of drawers. Both sides of the bed had been slept in. Behnke put his hand on the sheet. It was still warm.
“What time did you get up?” he asked, turning to Monika Krämer, who was standing in the doorway with her arms crossed, not taking her eyes off him.
“What’s all this about?” She reacted with the aggressiveness of someone caught in the act.
“Just answer my question.” Behnke could feel himself about to lose his temper. The woman was pissing him off.
“An hour or so ago. How do I know?”
“And who slept on the other side of the bed? The sheets are still warm.”
Pia put on latex gloves and opened one door of the wardrobe.
“Hey!” Ms. Krämer yelled. “You can’t do that without a search warrant!”
“So, you have experience with this sort of thing.” Behnke looked her up and down. With her tight jeans skirt and the cheap patent-leather boots with the run-over heels, she would have fit in on any street corner around the train station.
“Keep your mitts off my dresser!” Monika Krämer hollered at Pia, blocking her way. At that moment, Behnke noticed a movement in the front room. For a fraction of a second, he glimpsed the profile of a man; then the front door slammed.
“Shit!” he said, wanting to run after the man, but Monika Krämer put a leg out and tripped him. He stumbled, slammed his head against the door frame, and crashed into a bunch of empty bottles standing by the door. One bottle broke, and a shard pierced his forearm. With a bound, he was back on his feet, but the slut attacked him like a fury. All the anger that had been building up inside him since early morning finally exploded. The force of the slap flung the skinny girl against the wall. He slapped her again, then grabbed her and twisted her arm behind her back. She resisted with astounding strength, kicked him in the shin and spat in his face. The whole time, she was cussing him out in obscene language he hadn’t heard since he used to be on the vice squad in the Frankfurt red-light district.
He
would have beaten the shit out of her if Pia hadn’t intervened and torn him away from her. The whole commotion was accompanied by hysterical barking from the two little mutts. Breathing hard, Behnke straightened up and looked at the gash on his right forearm, which was bleeding profusely.
“Who was the man that just ran out of here?” Pia asked the woman, who had sat down with her back to the wall. Blood was running out of her nose. “Was that Robert Watkowiak?”
“I’m not telling you fucking pigs a thing!” she snarled, fending off the panic-stricken little dogs, which were trying to climb into her lap. “I’m going to report you! I know a few lawyers!”
“Listen here, Ms. Krämer,” said Pia in a surprisingly calm voice. “We’re looking for Robert Watkowiak in connection with a homicide. You’re not doing him or yourself any favors if you keep on lying. Not to mention that you attacked my colleague, which will look very bad to a judge. Your lawyers would tell you the same thing.”
The woman thought it over for a moment. She seemed to comprehend the seriousness of her situation and finally admitted that it was Watkowiak who had run out of the apartment.
“He was on the balcony. He’s got nothing to do with any murder.”
“Aha. So why did he run away?”
“Because he doesn’t like cops.”
“Do you know where Mr. Watkowiak was on Monday evening?”
“No idea. He just showed up here late last night.”
“And last Friday night? Where was he then?”
“Dunno. I’m not his baby-sitter.”
“Good.” Pia nodded. “Thanks for your help. In your own interest, it would be best if you called us if he shows up here again.”
She handed Ms. Krämer her business card, which the woman tucked into her bra without looking at it.
* * *
Pia drove Behnke to the hospital and waited by the emergency room while they sewed up the deep gash in his arm and the cut on his forehead with a few stitches. She was leaning on the fender of the unmarked police car and smoking a cigarette when her colleague came out of the revolving door with a gloomy expression, a Band-Aid on his forehead and a dazzling white bandage around his right arm.