The Man from Berlin

by Luke McCallin

  Reinhardt sipped from his coffee and watched the muezzin at the mosque on the corner of the square unlock the door to the minaret. ‘Men?’

  ‘Germans,’ he replied, sipping his coffee. ‘Soldiers. I am going to get up and leave in a moment. If you wish to come with me, please wait approximately thirty seconds before following me, and keep your distance.’

  Folding his paper back under his arm, he rose and strolled across the square, towards one of the little lanes that branched off Baščaršija and into the warren of houses and workshops that clustered tightly around the old mosque and around the back of the Rathaus. The muezzin stepped out at the top of the minaret, his fingers gripping the balustrade. As Reinhardt watched him, he took a deep breath. Reinhardt took one too. He finished his coffee and began to walk across the square, the hoarse cry of the muezzin floating over and behind him.

  26

  The alley was very narrow, cobbled, lined with shops with white walls and wooden fronts that hinged down to make benches or shelves upon which the merchants sat or displayed their wares. Several of them had unfolded little mats in their shops and were on their knees, praying. Others called out to him, gesturing him to come in, brandishing little cushions with embroidered swastikas, or cannon shells worked into minarets, but he walked past them, his eyes on the man in front of him, and on the men he went past. It was clear that some of the merchants knew him as their eyes fixed on him a moment, then slid away.

  The man turned down another, narrower alley, darker than the first, with no shops on it. Reinhardt hesitated, looking behind him. He could see no one following him. The man was only a silhouette ahead of him. He followed him, his steps echoing on the cobbles. The place smelled of stagnant water and waste. It was quiet all of a sudden. The alley turned, turned again, and then there was brightness at the end of it, and an abrupt wash of colour and noise as a tram went past on the main street. Reinhardt saw the man come to the end of the alley and turn left. Hurrying, he came to where the alley opened onto the street and saw no one.

  Reinhardt was standing on King Aleksander Street, not far from where the street turned sharply around the Rathaus, which lifted its ochre walls with their amber bands just a few hundred metres to his right. Across the street was another lane, leading up into Bentbaša, and the man could only have gone in there. Stepping across the tram tracks, trying not to hurry, he walked into the alley. It was very crooked and dark, the cobbles uncertain under his feet. The houses were in the Ottoman style, wooden partitions like boxes with windows protruding from the first floor, hanging over the alley. The doors were low, built into thick walls of stone, or plaster, with heavy knockers or bells hanging from them. He looked back, but King Aleksander Street was lost in the twists and turns of the alley. He felt suddenly more alone than he had felt in a long while. He put his hand on the butt of his pistol and walked carefully on.

  A cat jumped into the alley and froze as it saw him. It flattened itself against the wall, then streaked away, back the way he had come. He watched it go, then saw an open door just ahead. He looked up and down the alley, but again saw no one. Taking a deep breath, he walked slowly in, taking his time, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light. It was a bare room, only a wooden bench running around it. Another door directly in front opened onto a corridor that led farther into the house.

  There was strong daylight at the end. Someone stepped into the doorway ahead. With the light behind him, it was hard to see who it was, and in any case his attention was drawn to the man he had followed this far. He stood to the left, in the shadow of the open door, and he held a pistol in his hand. Another man stood in the other corner, dark skinned and with hair as black as coal, an MP 40 pointed at ­Reinhardt.

  ‘Captain,’ said the man from the café. ‘Your pistol, please.’

  ‘You said I would not be harmed.’

  ‘You will not be. If you do not give me your pistol, you walk back out of here. Your choice.’ His face was as flat as his voice.

  Whoever it was ahead of him turned slightly. An inviting gesture. ‘Please. Come in, Captain.’

  Reinhardt felt some of the tension go out of his shoulders at the voice. He pushed the door to the street shut. Raising his right hand, he drew his pistol slowly with his left, holding it between thumb and forefinger, and handed it over to the man. Then he walked through into a sitting room, furnished in the Ottoman style, with low divans and tables, dark carpets on the floor, and dark wood on the walls and around the windows. The beamed ceiling was quite low, but the room was full of light that shone in from the house’s courtyard, breaking around the man who stood there.

  ‘Dr Begović,’ Reinhardt said. The two of them shook hands. ‘A pleasure to see you.’

  ‘Likewise, Captain,’ replied the doctor. His eyes were wide and bright behind his thick glasses. ‘Will you take a seat? Perhaps some coffee?’ A brass pot and some little cups stood on a carved wooden table. Three cups, Reinhardt saw, as he sat on one of the divans with his back to the window, facing the door. Begović sat next to him. There was a silence, but not an unpleasant one.

  ‘I would like to say I’m surprised, Doctor,’ said Reinhardt, at last. ‘But somehow, I’m not.’

  ‘No?’ asked Begović as he poured. ‘A shame. I do so like surprises.’ There was a hint of a smile in his voice as he handed him a cup. He took one for himself and leaned back in the divan. He watched Reinhardt as he took a sip, then another. ‘I find myself in something of a bind, Captain. I have something that I think may be of use and interest to you, but I am not, as you may be starting to understand, commonly in the business of making the lives of you and your colleagues easy.’ Reinhardt watched him, letting him talk. ‘Those with whom I work are also of the same opinion. They don’t like my talking with you.’ He looked at the man who had led Reinhardt here as he walked slowly across the room and through a door that he shut behind him. The other man stood quietly by the door, his machine pistol slanted across his chest.

  ‘So why are you?’ asked Reinhardt, fastening onto the opening the doctor left.

  ‘Why indeed?’ murmured Begović as he sipped from his cup. He wrinkled his nose, pushed his glasses a bit farther up, and looked out at the garden. ‘Why do we always do things that don’t seem to make perfect sense, Captain? There’s never any rhyme or reason to it. Maybe it feels right at the time? We hear a small voice – our conscience, perhaps – telling us it’s the right thing to do? Let’s just say you were kind and considerate, Captain, not least of all to me. You were kind when that is the last thing someone like you needs to be. You were considerate when you didn’t have to be. You tried to do your best in this investigation. It was no fault of yours things turned out the way they did. And word reaches us. Of Captain Reinhardt, of the Abwehr. A tricky interrogator. A tough man, but a fair one. I think – and I am not a poor judge of character, Captain – that you are a good man. A good man, in the wrong place. Am I right, do you think?’

  Begović looked away, letting his eyes rest elsewhere. Perhaps he had seen the sudden rush of blood to Reinhardt’s face, the wet sting in his eyes. Reinhardt felt ridiculous, reacting the way he did, but it had been a long time since anyone, least of all a Partisan, had called him a good man. ‘Why am I here, Doctor?’

  ‘I think you need help, Captain,’ Begović replied. ‘And I am ready to give it to you.’

  ‘Doctor, not that I’m ungrateful, but someone like you doesn’t help someone like me without hoping to gain from it.’

  Begović gave a small smile. ‘Of course, you are not wrong, ­Captain. You will hear what my motivations are. In the meantime, though…’ He rose to his feet. ‘Simo!’ he called. A door opened, and the man whom Reinhardt had followed from Baščaršija stepped into the room. He looked at Begović, then at Reinhardt before stepping aside to allow another man in. The man was heavy, balding. He took a hesitant step, then another, walking slowly up to Reinhardt, moving with a pronounce
d limp. He looked uncertainly between him and Begović, fixed Reinhardt with his eyes, and spoke in hesitant, accented German.

  ‘I am Branko Tomić.’

  Reinhardt felt his breath go tight inside him. Begović invited them all to sit. ‘Branko’s German is not very good, so I will translate for you,’ he said. He said a few words to Tomić, who only nodded, looking back at Reinhardt. He had smooth, shiny skin, which showed a sheen of sweat. He carried a bag, which he placed at his feet as he sat.

  Reinhardt looked at this man, whom he knew only from what Jelić had said. One of Vukić’s oldest collaborators, supposedly in Zagreb. The two of them were looking at him, and he did not quite know what to say. He picked up his coffee and sipped. ‘Were you at the house of Marija Vukić on Saturday night?’ He watched Tomić carefully as Begović repeated his words. The man knew some German, as he gave a small nod before Reinhardt had finished speaking.

  ‘Da,’ said Tomić. ‘Ja sam bio tamo.’ His voice was light for a man of his size.

  ‘Yes,’ translated Begović. ‘I was there.’

  ‘Can you tell me what happened?’

  Tomić nodded, looking down, twisting his hands one against the other. He had big hands, meaty, heavy. He looked up finally, his eyes flicking between the two of them. ‘She asked me to come,’ he said, finally. ‘To set up a camera for her. I –’ He stopped as Reinhardt held up his hand.

  ‘I know about the camera. I found it.’ Tomić looked surprised, taken aback, as if a script he had been planning had been rewritten without his knowing. He looked at Begović, who looked back expressionlessly. ‘Just tell me what happened that night, please.’

  Tomić nodded. ‘If you found the camera, then you know that Marija… she liked to watch herself with her men.’ He looked distant as he talked, as though he spoke of something of which he disapproved, or that embarrassed him. He glanced at Begović, who had his head down as he translated, his eyes on the floor. ‘That Saturday, I set things up for her. She was very excited. I had seen her that way many times. It worried me. She told me she would make someone pay for the way they had treated her.’

  ‘You knew who this was?’ asked Reinhardt.

  ‘Yes. A German officer. General Verhein.’

  Reinhardt felt a wave of relief pass through him. ‘How did she know him?’

  ‘They were lovers in Russia, but he ended it.’

  ‘Do you know why she would do what she planned that night?’

  Tomić gave a small shrug and paused before answering. ‘I am not sure. Marija… she was complicated. I knew her ever since she was a girl. Even then, she could be difficult. We… you know of her work as a journalist?’ Reinhardt nodded, and Tomić continued. ‘We travelled with Verhein’s men for a while. The two of them began an affair. One day, though, Marija went away with some men from your Einsatzgrüppen. She went to cover one of their actions. Me, and Jelić, we didn’t want to go, and we stayed behind. When she came back we knew there had been a problem. Something was very wrong between her and Verhein. They didn’t talk, and we went away the next morning. She wouldn’t say what happened.’

  He paused and said something to Begović, who poured him a cup of coffee. Tomić took it with fingers that trembled and lifted it to his lips. ‘She said nothing more about it until about two months ago. She found out Verhein was here, and she told me she was planning something, and she wanted me to help to preserve it…’ He looked down again, his face twisting as if around a memory he found particularly difficult. ‘I did not like it. I often argued with her, but I could refuse her nothing. Ever since she was a girl. But this time, I knew it was different.

  ‘There was that officer, the lieutenant. He was involved, and I did not know what or why. So, that Saturday, I set up the camera for her, and then I waited. I had a room in the shed in the garden.’ He took a quick sip of coffee before continuing. ‘But then I heard shouting. I went into the garden. The noise went away. I went back to my room. I waited. But then…’

  ‘How long did you wait?’

  ‘Some time. More than an hour.’ Reinhardt nodded for him to continue. ‘And so then I heard a shot. I heard her scream. I… was so scared, I did not dare to go up. I hid. Someone ran past me and jumped over the fence and into the fields. Another person chased him, then came back. I heard a car drive away. I waited, and then I went up. I found her dead. I took the film, and I ran.’ He spoke all this in a rush, Begović frowning as he tried to keep up with the flow of words.

  Tomić paused, and Reinhardt held up his hand. ‘Slow down, Mr Tomić, please.’

  He nodded, then resumed, more slowly. ‘I hid in Ilidža the rest of that night, then I made my way into Sarajevo, to the studio. I waited for nightfall, then used the studio to develop the film. Then…’ He seemed to deflate, suddenly, as if he had reached the end of something.

  ‘Then he came looking for us,’ finished Begović.

  ‘When you took the film, did you leave the padlocked door open?’ Reinhardt asked.

  Tomić frowned as he tried to remember. ‘I don’t know. I think so. I was rushing to get out.’

  So that explained how the killer knew of the film, and why he had turned the darkroom upside down looking for it. It also, Reinhardt realised, meant the killer would have had to have gone back to the scene as otherwise he – they, he now realised – could not possibly have known about it.

  ‘Tell me about Verhein. Did he come alone?’

  ‘I didn’t see. But he usually had a driver. An Asian,’ said Tomić, his two fingers pointing to his eyes. ‘Like a Mongol. Nasty. Devoted, like a dog, to Verhein.’

  ‘Anything else? Anything about what was planned for that night?’

  ‘You are judging her, aren’t you?’ Tomić looked between Reinhardt and Begović. ‘You are.’ He looked down, looked far away. ‘Maybe… maybe I should tell you something about Marija, before you judge her.’

  ‘Mr Tomić,’ Reinhardt interjected. ‘It is all right. You don’t need to say anything.’

  ‘I do. Because you are judging. I can see it. And if you judge her, then you judge me. I knew her since she was a baby. I was a friend of Vjeko. Her father. We were in the first war together. The Austro-­Hungarian Army. I was… badly wounded. After the war, Vjeko took care of me. I started working for him. Then Marija was born. Such a lovely girl. But difficult!’ For a moment, a smile crept across Tomić’s face, a memory. Then it was gone.

  ‘When Marija’s parents divorced, Marija spent more time with her father than mother. Me and Vjeko raised her. He was a loving father, but he was tough. When she was sad, it was to me she came. Then Vjeko began getting more and more involved in politics. With the Ustaše. The Ustaše were not for me. Vjeko was my friend, but I could not follow him in that. But she loved her father. Very much. Marija was… pulled into that circle. She became a believer. The Ustaše used her, as well. She was young. Beautiful. She had talent. But… she changed. She still seemed to be the same sweet girl, but I knew better. Inside, she was changing. She was becoming twisted. They were… not good men, some of them. I tried to stop it, but I couldn’t.’

  He paused, his eyes still far away. ‘She began to take lovers. Older men. Men of experience, she called them. Once, she even tried to seduce me.’ He swallowed, looked down. ‘I could not. Not the daughter of my friend. And, in any case, I was not able. My… my wound,’ he said, his hands waved at his groin as he looked up at Reinhardt. Begović caught his gaze as well, his face straight but his eyes sympathetic behind his glasses, and they seemed to be asking him how much more did he need to hear? ‘And anyway, despite everything, she was still a little girl. Despite the… the men. The drugs. The drinking. The politics. The… other things. When things got too much… when she was hurt, she would come to me. I tried to help her. Calm her. Sometimes… sometimes I could. Sometimes, I could not…’ He trailed off, stopped. ‘When I could not, then it was better not
to be around her. But when the passions were spent, she would always need someone to turn to. To comfort her. And that person was me. And she was a little girl again.’

  ‘Mr Tomić. Do you have something you would like to give me?’

  He nodded, reached into the bag at his feet, and pulled out a film case. He looked at it a moment, then handed it to Reinhardt. ‘You will see…’ he began, then stopped. He looked at Begović, who waited for him to go on. ‘Never mind,’ he said. ‘Use it. Make sure… just make sure he pays for what he did to her.’

  Reinhardt turned the film case over in his hands. ‘You have not watched it?’ Tomić shook his head. ‘Thank you,’ he said. He did not know what else to say.

  Begović spoke to Tomić, and then they stood up and Tomić left the way he had come, walking slowly, limping heavily. ‘What will happen to him?’ asked Reinhardt.

  ‘We will keep him safe,’ replied Begović. ‘He is useful and sympathetic to us. Unlike Marija Vukić.’

  ‘She was no friend of yours?’

  ‘She was no friend of ours,’ Begović repeated. ‘She was a monster, and I must confess I have a hard time seeing the little girl Tomić so clearly doted upon. What she wrote about us was one thing. What she did to some of us, what she incited her people to do through her films and her writings… you know, Topalović was onto her. A couple of times he went to her house, trying to see how she might be got at. Funny, isn’t it, they got him for her murder and he was nowhere near her that time.’

  The two of them were silent a moment. ‘You said you would tell me something of why you are helping me,’ said Reinhardt. Simo came back into the room and stood quietly by the door.

  ‘The Ottomans had a saying. Kuru ağaca kan bulanmaz. Don’t sprinkle blood on a dying tree. It means, don’t do things which will serve you nothing. Like helping your enemies. But I will not lie to you, Captain. I think I will help you. And I think my helping you will assist me as much as you. If I am not wrong – and I do not think I am – you are a good man, and a good man deserves help. I wish to help you to find this murderer. It is the right thing you are doing, and helping a good man do the right thing cannot be bad. But also, I am a Communist. I am a Partisan, and a patriot. As such, I will confound and confuse the enemies of my country to the extent I can. This man you are after is a senior officer in your army. A general, no less. In helping you to investigate, possibly even arrest, this man, I cause disruption in your ranks. Perhaps just enough to throw off your attack against my comrades. Perhaps just enough to allow a few to escape who might otherwise have not.’ Begović poured himself some coffee and looked Reinhardt in the eye. ‘So, Captain. You still wish to walk away with what Tomić left? You will do this deal with the devil?’