The Butchers of Berlin

by Chris Petit

  Schlegel decided he’d had enough of this death in waiting. It was like being in an Egyptian tomb. He made his way back to the entrance. No one was supposed to leave but he showed his badge and was allowed to go.

  He had the streets to himself. He walked fast. At least I have my hat back, he thought. He wondered where Morgen was. Perhaps a bomb would fall on the man. He wished him no harm but life would be less anxious without him. Perhaps the bomb would land on him and make everyone’s life easier. He saw his mother at his funeral, weeping crocodile tears behind a becoming black veil, throwing the first scoop of earth onto his coffin; a silver scoop at her insistence because the dear boy deserved nothing less. That he was somehow alive and sentient in the coffin was another matter.

  The moon came out to welcome the bombers. The first searchlights switched on, casting an eerie light. Friedrichstrasse, utterly deserted, resembled an empty stage set. He cut through to Oranienburger Strasse. Distant gunfire sounded from the north in dry, hacking coughs. The sky began to glow. He was back in his apartment as the first bombs fell on the outskirts. After turning off the gas, he sat in the kitchen. He supposed he ought to go down to the cellar but instead went up to the roof. Darkness was transformed as hundreds of searchlights swept the sky, the night ahead a mass of flashes from bursting shells. He learned to distinguish between the angry sound of flak guns and the heavier anti-aircraft batteries. The drone of the planes grew. Concentration of fire provided a magnificent, terrible sight. Searchlights chased in desperate search of planes, their beams catching puffs of smoke from exploding shrapnel.

  The sky became full of red flares, like falling chandeliers as they burst and continued to burn on the ground. Then it was the turn of the green flares. Schlegel tried to make sense of what he was seeing. The first planes must be the pathfinders. He braced himself for the main force. He heard their heavy engines, a mighty roar coming in low. It was orchestrated chaos, the percussion of the heavy bombs, the staccato of the defence guns. Sticks of incendiaries drew incandescent streaks across the sky. Bright lines of tracer fire shimmered. What a spectacle! Four years of blackout and it was like someone had switched on the entire city’s conserved energy supply. Schlegel was too mesmerised to be scared, even grew exhilarated at the thought of his exploding, disintegrating body. Everyone should be out watching. A herd of spooked cattle stampeded down the street beneath, their bellows distinguishable over the noise. They would be from the nearby dairy and the white drayhorse that followed, sparks flying from its hooves, would be the local brewery’s. One, two, three bombs fell near enough to make his building shake. It must be the heaviest raid yet. Now they seemed to be coming in barely higher than the housetops. He lost count of how many. There would be rubble and ashes tomorrow and burst pipes and mains. Half the department would phone in to say it couldn’t get in because of transport disruptions. Parts of the city close by were starting to burn, perhaps streets he had walked down that day. An explosion bigger than the rest sounded as something fell with an enormous blast. The aftershock came seconds later. The roar was so deafening he clapped his hands to his ears. He looked up and still the planes came. Hundreds if not thousands. He saw one trapped in the cone of a searchlight. It started to twist and turn as it tried to lose the light, which hung on for the tracer to zone in. The big machine became like a ponderous four-engined beast of death, thrown around with such abandon that Schlegel thought it surely must shed its rivets and fall apart. The pilot succeeded in losing the searchlight, which chased the darkness after it, catching the aircraft’s silhouette briefly then losing it for good. Schlegel had hardly been aware of the ear-splitting drama while watching the chase. His building shook again as other bombs fell, enough to make the windows rattle. He saw the first starburst of flame as the aircraft started to burn. The searchlight pursued and picked it up again, subjecting it to its pitiless gaze. The hit plane fell, majestic and lumbering, flames streaking from its fuselage and wing. He heard the engine stutter, even amid the cacophony. Guns zeroed in and blazed away long after it was obvious the bomber would not be limping home. Schlegel watched the aircraft’s burning descent in awe. Every blast and tremor and window rattle told him that he, and not they, was the one who was alive.

  17

  Yellow smoke hung over the city, giving everything an opaque glow. Schlegel’s impression was of a shocked hush, combined with a ringing in his ears. The morning’s transformation was akin to that of an occult visitation: a cow shaking in a crater; those bombed out wandering by dazed, carrying bundles; the strange, corny image of a crone singing a nursery rhyme in a cracked voice; someone saying half the transport system was bust; roads flooded where water mains had broken; fire engines and ambulances racing, sirens blaring. The army surplus shop in Kleine Hamburger Strasse was having its windows boarded up while the owner complained half his stock had been pilfered. Metal lay everywhere, debris from shells fallen back to earth. The body of a car sat upright alongside its chassis, as though it had been lifted rather than blown off. Shopkeepers swept broken glass. Queues formed as usual, for the long and relentless business of waiting. Despite the devastation, cheerful outrage was the tone most heard. Gangs of kids ran around collecting souvenirs. Schlegel saw one whooping boy carrying a large spent shell case. He presumed school was off. It was a fine day for a change, with the palest blue sky discernible behind the smoke haze, as though the bombs had chased away the worst of the weather.

  The city’s governor and Minister of Propaganda, Dr Joseph Goebbels, was out of town on his way back from Bavaria, delayed in Halle in his private railway carriage. With all the latest telecommunications kit he could speak directly to his liaison team, which informed him the suburbs to the south and west were still burning, as was the centre. The dome of St Hedwig’s cathedral had collapsed into the nave. Unter den Linden had received a number of hits, as had Friedrichstrasse. In Wilhelmstrasse his own ministry had been spared but Goering’s Luftwaffe building had suffered bad damage, which Goebbels thought only fair, given how the fat marshal had boasted the city’s air defences were impregnable.

  All talk in the street was of a new super-bomb capable of demolishing whole blocks. They had arrived at the state of total war, and he welcomed the fire of their apocalypse as the ultimate test before victory. He ordered a full report. He would make an immediate inspection upon his return. He would go to the people and confirm his presence among them, secure in the knowledge that he was the only leader to show his face these days while the others skulked in their tents.

  In the centre at least the transport seemed to be working. One building was already being boarded up, to preserve the line of the street’s facade and cover the damage.

  The pounding seemed also to have provoked the first signs of spring. A few snowdrops had appeared next to some trees on a muddy stretch of grass.

  At one big intersection a building had engorged itself onto the road, the facade sheared off, leaving the interiors exposed. On some floors all the furniture had been blown out and on others it stood intact, turning the exposed rooms into a bizarre display of people’s lives. Schlegel had a flash of the murder room transposed there. How much brutality and how many beatings and fights had that building seen before meeting its own violent end?

  The whole city stank of shit, Goebbels was told upon his train being met at the Anhalter Bahnhof. A further delay had done nothing for his mood. On being told the full extent of the damage he raked his hands down his face and exclaimed histrionically, ‘Dear God.’

  He sat behind a glass screen in his carriage, on the other side of which telephones rang and young aides busied themselves. He travelled with only pretty secretaries. His wife was in a clinic in Dresden suffering from nervous exhaustion.

  When told that both the Scala and Winter Garden variety theatres had been hit, Goebbels was reduced to gnashing his teeth.

  ‘What! No more Baby the elephant and her high-wire act?’

  Via intercom, he ordered telegrams of condolence be sent to the two
Swiss brothers that ran the shows. He dictated that they had done more for the image of the circus than anyone since Hagenbeck introduced new methods of wild-animal training; then in an aside to a secretary, ‘Just to show I know what I am talking about.’

  Who could forget the horse that went to bed using a huge pillow to rest its head? There were ponies and camels besides, trumpeting sea lions with their clowns, cattle, bears and chimpanzees, and only the gentlest and most exemplary methods employed, for the brothers could not abide cruelty to animals. Cabaret and theatre stars were enlisted as well, for which reason Goebbels kept a close eye on upcoming female talent in need of a leg up.

  He remained a great public advocate of wholesome variety entertainment. Perfect for families, and the best antidote for troops on leave from the front. He had taken his own children and watched in delight as they stared up, eyes blazing with excitement, necks craned and little mouths agape as the trapeze artistes flew high above the crowd. Goebbels watched with a more discerning eye; he’d had the female flyer, for the simple reason of fancying hard muscle as a change from the usual soft contours.

  As he was passing close enough to the central revenue office in Jüdenstrasse, only a short walk from his office, Schlegel stopped off and spoke to a corpulent young man with whom he had worked on several cases and whose jovial air hid a sharp mind. Otto Keleman’s other distinguishing feature was glasses so smeared Schlegel wondered how he managed to see through them. Keleman’s myopia and flat feet were enough to keep him from being conscripted, though he hinted that the tax office looked after its own, providing false medical certificates. Accounting was deadly dull but not as bad as being shot at.

  Despite his background and modest appearance, Keleman was an unlikely party boy, with an inside track on every reception and embassy bash going. He had even managed to wangle invitations to some of Schlegel’s mother’s parties, which were notoriously hard to get into.

  Keleman worked in an enormous room where hundreds of officials sat at rows of desks.

  ‘I slack, you slack, we slack,’ he said on seeing Schlegel. ‘I’ve no windows in my apartment. Spectacular, no? How’s yours?’

  ‘Intact.’

  ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘I want to see a man’s tax file.’

  ‘That’s what we’re here for!’

  Keleman wrote down Morgen’s name, saying a man’s tax returns, true or false, told you everything you needed to know about him.

  ‘Any reason?’ he added.

  ‘He sits opposite me. He’s SS.’

  Keleman looked surprised. ‘Working with you?’

  ‘He turned up yesterday.’

  ‘They stick like anything to themselves usually. Barely ever mix.’

  ‘That’s what I thought.’

  ‘Either you are very privileged or you’re in trouble.’

  ‘Can you get his military record too?’

  ‘Shouldn’t really; not impossible.’ Keleman paused. ‘He will have been sent to spy. Everyone’s at it now more than ever. It’s this season’s fashion.’

  ‘We’re very dull. We keep our heads down.’

  ‘Both the SS and Ministry of Propaganda – that’s quite a big and – have been all over us in the past months, involving us in endless tax investigations into the Gestapo. They were getting too pally with the Jews, cutting deals and so forth. Big scandal. Dismissals for embezzlement and corruption. Don’t you know about this?’

  Schlegel shook his head.

  ‘Gossip, man!’ said Keleman, eyes bright. ‘Jungle drums. Doesn’t any of that reach you?’

  ‘Not in my backwater.’

  ‘Same here, until six months ago. We could have been a posting in Outer Mongolia. No one would have been seen dead co-operating. Tax investigations were virtually unheard of. What was the name of those stables in Greek myth?’

  ‘Augean.’

  ‘Shit sure is getting shovelled now. Revisionism is in the air. Maybe your turn next to get turned upside down.’

  ‘That’s what Stoffel says. Who’s doing it?’

  ‘It has Goebbels written all over it. Short, sharp and austere, and very gnomic. On the other hand, the SS has its oar in too, and SS and Propaganda aren’t usual bedfellows. It’s not only the Gestapo being turned upside down.’ Keleman pointed to a pile of files on his desk. ‘There’s a civilian offensive. August Nöthling?’

  ‘As in the food store?’

  The man’s delivery vans were still a common feature of everyday life. Schlegel knew from his mother that those with money paid to circumvent the increasingly bothersome matter of rationing cards.

  ‘Shopping Bags is up to his neck.’

  ‘Shopping Bags?’

  ‘That’s what we call him. Everyone’s known for years Nöthling is the back-door man to the golden pheasants. Two months ago nobody gave a toss and now his case is top of the list, and I can tell you nothing has been that high priority in this office since 1941 when we were sorting tax breaks for the new territories in double time.’

  Keleman flicked through a file.

  ‘The man is certainly well endowed when it comes to clients. Interior Minister Frick. An army C-in-C and a naval one. The Minister for Science Education and National Culture. The list goes on. Remember Walter Darré?’

  ‘Food and Agriculture?’

  ‘Former Food and Agriculture. Currently on sick leave.’ Keleman made a drinking motion. ‘The thing about Darré is that when he ran the Food Estate it was not subject to public audit of accounts. These boys have very deep pockets. Listen to this. Eleven kilos of chocolate, one hundred and twenty of poultry and fifty kilos of game, and that’s just Frick’s delivery list.’

  Keleman sat back. His pullover had moth holes.

  ‘Have you heard about Horcher’s?’

  Everyone knew Horcher’s and almost no one could afford it. Schlegel remembered formal meals on special occasions, usually birthdays, normally with just his stepfather, who held an account. His mother found the restaurant’s baronial panelling and heavy oil paintings too reminiscent of provincial English hotels and preferred Kempinski’s.

  It was so protected it could virtually afford to advertise its scorn of the very idea of ration cards, and its staff were exempt from conscription.

  Keleman said, ‘There’s a ding-dong battle between the Poisoned Dwarf Goebbels, who eats only spinach like Popeye, and insists on closing everything so he can mobilise the civilian reserve, and Fatty Goering whose favourite dining table it is. Dr G has already asked us to take a look at Horcher’s books, which I can tell you now won’t bear inspection. It always makes for amusement when the gods fight among themselves. Do you fancy a drink tomorrow? I’ve scrounged a ticket to a press screening to Dr G’s latest epic, and in colour to boot. Starts at eight, so shall we say six? As for Horcher’s, red caviar and sturgeon is what I’d have, if anyone were offering.’ He gave a burst of laughter and said, ‘I’m still buzzing from the bombs. Give my best to your mother.’

  Schlegel had to smile. They had shaken hands maybe twice. ‘Naturally. She always asks after you.’

  18

  Lore’s only extravagance was buying 35mm film for her camera. It was in short supply and expensive. She used it to take clandestine photographs of abandoned Jewish sites.

  Her one piece of identification was an out-of-date press pass whose photograph showed her looking boyish. She told Sybil she had bought it on the black market, replaced the photograph and a friend had touched up the stamp. By friend, Sybil presumed Lore meant former lover. Lore rarely talked about her past but Sybil gathered that she had moved among a free-wheeling set of women who all slept with each other out of a disrespect for what they called the baby-making machine, their dismissive term for male genitalia.

  Lore knew the pass wouldn’t stand up to inspection, nor would a false letter she had on Agfa notepaper certifying she was an important worker employed as a camera assembler. It could be easily checked she wasn’t. Yet Lore remained
optimistic about her chances where Sybil thought only a proper false identity and an actual job would offer security, which Lore dismissed, saying she didn’t want to be a secretary.

  On the morning after the raid, Lore asked Sybil to do her a favour, as Alwynd was already putting her to work. She had her photographs developed at a particular shop in Pankow whose owner, Schmidt, she had known for years and trusted. Sybil would need to take a 51 tram. Lore had three rolls she wanted developed.

  The tramline’s direct service was interrupted because of track damage. They could only go so far, then everyone had to get out and walk a short distance to pick up another.

  Schmidt, thin and balding, was a morose type who didn’t become any friendlier when Sybil mentioned Lore, except to say she was always cadging cigarettes.

  Sybil said he must be mistaken because Lore didn’t smoke.

  Schmidt said, ‘I know.’

  Sybil supposed she had passed some test, until the man asked to see her papers as it was security regulations now. Sybil said she had left them at home. The only thing she had on her was a library card from the tobacconist in Turmstrasse that lent books on the side for a small subscription.

  Schmidt made no further mention of the papers. Sybil thought he seemed preoccupied.

  As she turned to go, he said, ‘I might be able to help.’

  Schmidt moved from behind the counter, switched the door sign to closed, slid the bolt and pulled down the blind. He motioned to follow him through to a shabby room comfortably furnished with old pieces. He said he had an unusual proposal. For a terrible moment Sybil thought he was about to make a pass.