He got up and went to the door. As he opened it, the prosecutor called him back.
‘Happy birthday, by the way. I noticed the date in your file.’
‘Thanks,’ Stave murmured, somewhat taken aback. Ehrlich was the first person to congratulate him. On his forty-third birthday.
MacDonald lived in a requisitioned villa in Innocentia Strasse in Harvestehude, ‘Zone A’, an almost undamaged part of the city. The British and American bombing raids had been intended primarily to kill workers, and most of the leafy, well-to-do areas had been unharmed. Probably also, Stave thought to himself, because they realised that after they had won the war they would need somewhere nice for their officers to live.
On his way to Harvestehude the chief inspector found himself walking through Planten un Blomen, once the city’s finest park. As late as 1944 they had been planting rose bushes which ever since had erupted into a blaze of red every summer. In the meantime they had ploughed up the strips of land between the pathways and the rose bushes to sow potatoes. Now the transformed former park was covered with a partial layer of snow, dirty brown here and there, dirty white elsewhere; abandoned.
There were signs on the side streets: ‘Out of Bounds for German Civilians!’, ‘For British Forces Only!’. Freezing British military police stared past him indifferently. The grand villas were perfectly cared for, except for the few make-do stovepipes that occasionally jutted out. The trees along the streets were undamaged. There were tin bins outside the gates. It was calm between the villas, the houses and trees offering shelter from the freezing gusts of wind. Occasionally a military patrol jeep would trundle by over the cobblestones. A few figures sloped from bin to bin, one-legged war veterans, a man with a rucksack holding the hand of a girl of about ten, old people, women with headscarves wrapped tight so that nobody could see their faces and see their shame. They opened the lids of the bins, and rummaged inside for bit of rotten potato, wilted lettuce leaves, apple cores. A young cigarette-butt collector was picking up trodden ends of English cigarettes from the pavement. Nobody spoke, nobody looked up. The military police left them alone.
Colonial masters, Stave thought to himself. The English live here the way they do in India or Africa, and we’re their new coolies. Except that neither the Africans nor the Indians set half the world on fire and had only themselves to blame for their humiliation.
Innocentia Strasse: bare branches of young oak trees, jeeps parked at the side of the road, behind them rows of white, four-storied villas, maybe 50 or 60 years old. There was jazz coming from the window of one of them, the BBC maybe, or perhaps a record playing on a requisitioned gramophone.
House number 28. The chief inspector showed his police ID to a soldier standing guard at the gate and asked for MacDonald.
‘Third floor, second left,’ the Brit answered, in English of course.
He’s about the same age as my son, Stave reckoned, and at that moment he would have preferred to simply turn round and run away from there, out from under the oak trees back down to the railway station. But instead he simply nodded and climbed the grand staircase, trying to conceal his limp from the sentry’s eyes.
Stave knocked on the door. No answer. He knocked again. Maybe the lieutenant had gone out? He was about to turn away when he heard a noise behind the door. So he waited. Eventually MacDonald opened the door, barefoot, wearing just a shirt and trousers. The villa was heated but it was hardly warm enough for that.
MacDonald was out of breath, but he pulled himself together, and forced a smile. ‘What can I do for you?’
Stave, noticing that the lieutenant was blocking the doorway, took a step backwards and gave a gentle cough. He explained as quickly as he could about his visit to Ehrlich and the Warburg Children’s Health Home and the British permit he needed to go there. But even as he was speaking he glimpsed a shadow, a movement behind MacDonald’s shoulders.
Erna Berg.
Stave continued talking as if he hadn’t noticed. MacDonald glanced nervously over his shoulder, then looked at the chief inspector as if wondering whether or not to admit he had been caught out. Then he gave a brief smile and made an oblique, vaguely apologetic gesture.
‘I’ll sort it out,’ he promised. ‘We can go there together in the morning. It’ll be quicker in my jeep. And I’m curious too to see if we can find out anything there. I’ll pick you up from the CID headquarters. If you want, we can take Maschke too.’
‘Thank you,’ Stave said. ‘Enjoy the rest of your Sunday.’
‘You too,’ MacDonald called after him, but Stave had already turned away. He was in a hurry to get out of the house.
Survivors and Missing
Monday, 3 February 1947
They drove in silence, MacDonald at the wheel, Stave in the front passenger seat, Maschke on the hard bench behind. The vice squad man had to hold on tight to the jeep’s metal frame to avoid being sent flying every time they went over a pothole. He looked as if he was being driven to the dentist. The lieutenant stared straight ahead as they thundered down the Elbe embankment. The chief inspector watched him from the corner of his eye.
Nobody had said anything about their encounter the previous day. Erna Berg came into the office, as merry as ever. Either she had no idea I spotted her yesterday, thought Stave, or is so thick-skinned that she couldn’t care less if I caught her out. The fact was that Stave’s secretary was married, although her husband was on the ‘unaccounted for’ list. Theoretically she was committing adultery. But what has that to do with me, Stave told himself, and tried to concentrate on the interrogation ahead.
Interrogation was probably the wrong word. They were going to a children’s home. He had a police photo of a murdered girl in his coat pocket. Should he even show it to the children? Children whose parents had been gassed, or their school friends shot dead, or their houses bombed? Should he just show it to the warden? But did he know all his charges well enough to recognise one of them from a police photo?
He looked around. To their left the thick ice on the Elbe sparkled in the morning light, as rough and flat as a slab of concrete. A few small ships, freighters and fishing boats were frozen in alongside the ruined piers. The superstructures of two sunk steamers reared out of the ice. Cranes leant low, half toppled over. Two men, bent double and wrapped in overcoats and blankets, crossed the ice from the Hamburg side walking into the brutal wind.
‘Why do I need a British permit to visit a children’s home?’ Stave asked, partly out of curiosity, partly just to break the awkward silence.
MacDonald was quick to answer, obviously pleased to have something to talk about. ‘The home’s official name is the Warburg Children’s Health Home, in English. It is located in a villa belonging to Eric Warburg, the man who founded it.’
Stave nodded. ‘The banker? The one who emigrated?’
‘To the USA. In 1938. After the war he came back, and it now belongs to him again. Its main purpose is to help Jewish children, mostly concentration camp survivors. Many lost more or less their entire families. They come from various countries. Here in Blankenese they are nursed, given decent food and schooling. The institution is under the particular care of the Occupation Authorities.’
‘Have you spoken to any of the people there?’
‘On the telephone, this morning. I let them know why we were coming, but not in too much detail. The female teacher I spoke to had in any case heard that a child had been murdered. Things like that get around town fast. She’d already seen the police posters of the two previous victims. They’re all over the place. But in Blankenese no child of that age has gone missing.’
‘Why are we even bothering to go out there, then?’ Maschke said.
‘If the murdered girl had ever been in a concentration camp then we might find somebody who knew her,’ Stave explained.
They turned into Kösterberg Strasse, a narrow, cobbled lane leading uphill, bordered on either side with hedges, behind which they could see villa roofs sparkling with fro
st. At the top of the hill was a huge, yellow-painted castle with tall windows in the midst of a meadow. It turned out to be just the city water works, a relic of long-gone days of extravagance and plenty, when they even built stately homes for pumping machinery.
The entrance to house number 60 was opposite. High hedges and wrought-iron gates that hung on yellow-painted pillars. A young man opened one of the heavy gates when he saw the jeep. The drive was raked gravel. Behind a huge bare oak tree stood a villa from the wealthy mid-nineteenth century, with windows round as bullseyes in the upper storeys.
Children peering out from behind the windows with inquisitive looks. A woman at the door, aged about 30, with short black hair, in a grey woollen overcoat, welcomed Stave and Maschke as if they were tabby cats.
‘I’d prefer it if you don’t pull out your ID cards,’ she said to Stave. ‘It can bring back unfortunate memories.’
Strange choice of words, Stave thought. Odd accent too. He considered and then dismissed shaking her hand, and gave her a slight bow instead. MacDonald gave her a casual wave.
‘My name is Thérèse Dubois. I was the one you spoke with this morning, Lieutenant. I’ve been given instructions to help as much as I can with your business.’
Camp inmate, Stave guessed. Probably French. Maybe Alsace. Lots of French – mainly Jews or resistance fighters – were taken to Bergen-Belsen. Or Ravensbrück. He recalled the trial going on in the Curio House. Ehrlich probably knows her. He didn’t bother to ask who had given her ‘instructions’.
‘I’m sorry to have to turn up here under such unpleasant circumstances,’ he said at last. ‘I will try to keep our visit as brief as possible.’
‘Please come in,’ Thérèse Dubois told them, leading them through to a glassed-in, heated veranda, with wicker chairs and rubber plants in big ceramic pots. Stave had to stop himself staring – it had been years since he’d seen houseplants.
He explained why he was there, mentioning the other two murders also. Then he cleared his throat and took out the photo.
The teacher looked at it. Her face turned paler, but she studied it attentively. Then she shook her head. ‘I’ve never come across this poor creature. I’m quite sure of it. She’s not one of ours.’
Stave was silent for a few moments, drumming nervously with his fingers on the arm of the wicker chair, then realised what he was doing and folded his hands. ‘Do you think any of your children might have known her? Perhaps gone to school with her?’
‘You want to show this photo to the children?’
‘If it helps me to find whoever murdered this one, then yes.’
Thérèse Dubois leaned back in her chair and thought. ‘We currently have 30 children in the home,’ she said quietly. ‘Some of them are just two years old. They never leave here. Those of school age are taught here, not in German schools.’ The tone of her voice suggested those schools were prison camps.
‘At present we do have two children who are allowed to go out, to do errands, go on trips or just to play, although of course it’s been too cold for that of late. I’ll call them.’
‘And may I show them the photo?’
‘They’ve both seen more dead children than you have, Chief Inspector.’
She left the room and came back shortly with a girl and a boy, both of whom Stave guessed to be about 15.
Thérèse Dubois introduced them as Leonore and Jules. The pair stood shyly in the middle of the room.
Stave smiled, MacDonald nodded encouragingly, Maschke coughed and got to his feet.
‘I’d like to smoke if you don’t mind,’ he said.
Stave nodded and Maschke disappeared out into the park. Before long the bare oak trees were being treated to the smoke from an English cigarette. Stave had no problems with that: the fewer adults these children had to face, the better. And Maschke’s cynical comments were the last thing he needed right now.
He calmly explained to the children why he was here. Thérèse Dubois translated for the boy, whispering in French. The girl seemed to understand him.
Then Stave showed them the photo.
Leonore and Jules stared at it. There was pity written all over the girl’s face, clinical interest on the boy’s. But even before they said anything, the chief inspector knew what their answer would be.
‘I’ve never seen this girl,’ Leonore said, quite certain. Her accent was thick, from way out in the east, Stave guessed. Galicia maybe.3
‘Non, je n’ai jamais vu cette fille,’ Jules mumbled. Nobody needed a translation.
Stave put the photo back into his coat pocket, disappointed on the one hand that once again he had had no luck, relieved on the other that he no longer had to hold the photo beneath the children’s noses.
‘Has either of you ever been down to that part of the port, the Bille canal, to gather coal?’ Stave asked them.
‘Our children have no need to go looking for coal,’ Thérèse Dubois said under her breath, clearly shocked. Stave ignored her.
Leonore smiled uncertainly and, Stave thought, a bit enviously. ‘Never been there, it’s too far.’
The teacher sighed and translated the question into French, drumming in irritation with her fingers. Jules smiled the smile of a boy who’d been out of the home a lot more than the grown-ups knew. But he shook his head too.
Stave got to his feet. ‘That’s all, then,’ he said.
‘Will you find whoever did this?’ Leonore asked.
The chief inspector was taken aback for a moment. Then he saw the urgent look in the girl’s big, earnest eyes.
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘I will.’
‘What happens then?’
‘Then the murderer will go to court and be sentenced. There’s no getting away with things like that these days,’ and he indicated his coat pocket with the photo in it.
The girl reached out her hand and said, ‘Good luck.’
Thérèse Dubois smiled for the first time since they had arrived and led them back to the entrance,
‘What will happen to the children?’ Stave asked, his hand already on the door handle. MacDonald was behind him, and Maschke was striding up and down outside like a caged tiger, watched curiously by a group of boys and girls who had come out of the guest house and were standing under an oak.
‘When they’re healthy enough we’re going to organise transport to Palestine, to their new homeland. It’s easier to fix from here in the British-occupied zone of Germany than anywhere else, because the controls are more lax. One of the ironies of history?’
MacDonald looked as if he’d just choked on a peppercorn.
Stave remembered hearing somewhere that the British had occupied Palestine ever since the end of the First World War. He’d also heard about the fighting between Arabs and Jews and that the British were not allowing any more Jews from Europe to travel to the Middle East. But the Jews, those who’d survived the mass murder, wanted out and would do anything to smuggle themselves on board ships to Palestine. No wonder that the lieutenant looks so uncomfortable, he thought to himself with just a hint of Schadenfreude.
‘Should you come across anything, please let me know.’ He pulled a page from his notebook and gave her his name and telephone number.
‘It must be hard to get things back to normal,’ she said, folding the piece of paper carefully.
The chief inspector wasn’t sure if he’d quite understood her meaning and gave her an inquisitive look.
‘After so many catastrophes,’ she explained. ‘There’s so much to clean up – and I don’t just mean the rubble in the cities. And there aren’t many men like Herr Ehrlich and you.’
‘You know the public prosecutor?’
‘I was a witness in the Curio House trial.’
‘Ehrlich is in charge of this case too.’
‘As if he didn’t have enough on his hands. A man with a mission!’
She accompanied her guests to the jeep. Maschke joined them, smelling of smoke. As he climbed into the jeep Stave not
iced that one of the girls standing under the tree was saying something to her companion, nodding at the vice squad man. Then she brought her hand up to her throat and made the quick slashing gesture of somebody cutting a throat.
She knows Maschke, Stave realised with a shock, and not as a friend.
Rather more awkwardly than necessary, he went to the jeep and took Thérèse Dubois discreetly to one side.
‘Who is that girl?’ he whispered, a fleeting gesture with his right hand indicating the little girl, not worrying whether or not the question would worry the teacher. He had only seconds before Maschke noticed.
She realised that it was important. Hardly moving her lips she whispered, ‘Anouk Magaldi, eight years old, arrived a few weeks ago.’
‘From a camp?’
‘No. She’d been living in France, near Limoges. Her parents, both Jews, were murdered there. We’re also bringing orphans like her to Hamburg because, as I said, it’s easier to organise transport to Palestine from here.’
‘Goodbye then,’ Stave said out loud. ‘Many thanks for all your help.’ And with that he climbed into the jeep.
On the way back Stave stared silently out of the window, uncertain as to whether he knew more than he had known this morning or not. The dead girl was clearly not from the home, and probably not a Jew from one of the camps. So did that mean she was from Hamburg, or a German refugee, or a DP? Which non-Jewish DPs were still living in Germany 19 months after the end of the war? Primarily Russians and Poles who were afraid of the communists and therefore didn’t want to go home. Should he send pictures of the bodies to the Polish and Russian police? How would you do that? And would the former enemies even be bothered about looking for people who preferred to hang about in the ruins of the Reich rather than return home?
I still don’t know anything, he thought. Nothing at all.
The Murderer in Ruins Page 15