“Let me get dressed real quick.” Before he went back upstairs, Heller checked the telephone. The line was dead. Sometimes the power was out, and other times it was as if someone were simply toying with them. He shook his head.
The two cops picked him up in an Opel Blitz truck with a wood-gas generator—captured by the Russians at some point, its original color had been painted over with the standard brownish green of the Soviet Army. They’d painted “POLIZEI” in stencil on the doors and tailgate. The truck bed was covered with a tarp.
The vehicle barely managed the climb to outer Bautzner Strasse. Right before turning back onto the road, the engine died. The driver spent several minutes trying to get it started again. The three of them were crammed into the little cab, yet Heller was still freezing.
They took Bautzner Strasse almost the whole way back in, close to Albertplatz, now renamed Platz der Einheit—Unity Square. The driver turned into Alaunstrasse and was stopped by a police barricade, then let through. A gaping void remained where the Palast-Theater movie house had stood before the air raids. The ground was leveled off, and temporary wooden shacks had been built on the open space for housing refugees.
The truck halted at Katharinenstrasse, about a hundred yards before the intersection at Louisenstrasse. Heller stepped out and looked around. Despite the cold, nearly all the surrounding windows were open, the residents watching with curiosity. Soviet Army soldiers with machine guns stood around smoking, and the German police waited next to the wall of an apartment building. Heller announced himself.
“Oberkommissar Heller, from detectives. I’d like a status report.”
One of the cops stepped up and saluted him. “Corporal Berger. About an hour ago, someone attacked the Schwarzer Peter bar at the next intersection. One or more attackers fired rifles or machine guns, threw hand grenades and a Molotov cocktail. A patrol officer was the first on the scene but couldn’t make out any attackers. Then soldiers from the Soviet barracks arrived and occupied the building. They encountered no resistance—the assailants obviously got away. It’s looking like standard destruction. The bar was on fire, but it has been put out. The bar owner, a Josef Gutmann, was present and is slightly injured. The floors above aren’t occupied, and the stairwell’s walled up. Apparently, there were some eyewitnesses.”
Witnesses or not, Heller knew that no one would willingly give a statement as long as Soviet Army soldiers were around.
“This Gutmann, where is he?”
“In his bar, in the back room. He’s getting treated.”
“Can I go inside?”
Corporal Berger glanced over his shoulder. The soldiers had set up spotlights that lit up the building, but Heller couldn’t make out many details from a distance. “You can try. Our Soviet Army comrades sealed it off earlier. That bar was a popular meeting place for Soviet officers.”
“I’ll give it a try,” Heller said.
None of the soldiers bothered him until he got close to the building. The windows of the bar, whose entrance was on the corner, were all destroyed, the shutters either broken off or hanging by their hinges. From the two windows facing Louisenstrasse, black smoke stains stretched all the way up to the fourth floor of the exterior. Luckily, the Neustadt neighborhood had a fire station just a hundred yards from the bar or the whole building would’ve burned down. The firemen were rolling up their hoses. Their water had frozen on the side of the building, lending the gray plaster an odd shine under the spotlights. A diesel generator chugged away.
“Are you the detective?” someone said to Heller.
“Oberkommissar Heller, yes.”
“Fire Chief Steffens, head of this fire brigade. The fire was started on the ground floor with the help of an accelerant, probably a Molotov cocktail. We were able to keep the flames from spreading to the neighboring building even though the Russians wouldn’t let us fight it at first.”
“Why not?”
“Probably assumed the attackers were still inside. But they couldn’t enter, because of the thick smoke. Maybe they thought it was a robbery,” Chief Steffens said, then lowered his voice. “Or maybe it was one of them.”
Heller looked up, craning his head way back. At first glance the building seemed habitable, but the well-preserved facade was probably deceptive. They wouldn’t have walled off the stairwell for nothing, and the building likely didn’t have a proper roof anymore—fire had probably gutted it the night of the big air raid, leaving only the fragile supporting walls. Many city neighborhoods had the same hollowed-out architecture.
“There weren’t any other victims?”
“Only the ground floor’s in use. All the staircases are walled off. We had some ladders up there, looked in the windows—it’s all empty and open up to the roof. You can head inside if you like.”
Heller entered the bar through the open door on the corner. There was a spotlight on the floor. It reeked of smoke. The wall paneling and much of the furnishings were scorched—the tables, chairs, and floor built of planks and sawdust had made sure of it. Water from the hoses dripped from the ceiling, gathering in gray puddles on the floor, thick with ash, or trickling through the floorboards. A slight crackling came from the cooling wood—the water was already freezing over. Heller faced right and went toward the bar top, which had been spared. A door stood open, and Heller entered another room with water trickling from the ceiling. He spotted a urinal—little more than a tiled wall with a ten-foot gutter mounted low. Two toilet bowls stood on the opposite wall, separated by a wood divider with no doors. Sheets of newspaper, spiked on long nails and fully drenched, had served as toilet paper. There was actually a sink, and when Heller turned the faucet, he was astonished to find running water. The main bar area was large, long, and drab. Heller tried counting the seating, but the mess soon forced him to stop. Still, he climbed over the upended chairs and tables to note the condition of the place. He also discovered a piano, but it was unsalvageable.
The ceiling had been temporarily bolstered against collapse with wooden supports and crossbeams, a stopgap solution that had held up for a good two years. The bar itself was built with crudely formed boards. The simple menu and prices were written on the back wall in chalk, most of the letters now washed out. “NO CREDIT GIVEN” read a warning in thick capital letters, and the Cyrillic letters below surely said the same. There had to be other forms of currency not listed on the chalkboard that could be taken on the sly and paid the owner even better. Not Reichsmarks, of course. There was better currency. Cigarettes, for example, but also eggs or bacon. Heller counted five bullet holes in the wall.
The bar had suffered severe damage, yet Heller guessed it would only take a few days for the place to reopen. This was no time for aesthetics—all it had to do was fulfill a need.
“Hello?” Heller shouted.
“Who’s there?” someone shouted back. The voice seemed to come from a room behind the bar area.
“Police. Oberkommissar Heller.”
“Here in back.”
Heller pressed through a narrow passage and into a dark hallway. The only light came from the back room. There stood stacks of wooden crates, empty bottles, and cardboard boxes, some reaching the ceiling. A curtain hung down. Heller took a quick glance behind it but saw only wooden shelves holding laundry. Then he reached a small office lit by a kerosene lamp. On a makeshift desk—a board atop two sawhorses—lay piles of documents and slips of paper covered in a nearly illegible script. A small crucifix hung on the wall.
“Hello?” Heller tried again.
“Here.”
Heller entered the small room. Behind the open door, a man sat in an armchair. He looked quite large even when sitting. He wore threadbare corduroy pants, a thick turtleneck sweater, and slippers. He looked exhausted. His right arm was bandaged, and he had another bandage on his head.
“Are you the owner, Josef Gutmann?”
“That’s me. Excuse my rudeness, but I’m dizzy and can’t get up.”
“Is your
arm broken?”
“I’m not sure. It was bleeding a lot, and I was half-unconscious. Got hit on the head by something.”
“Why are you here all alone?”
Gutmann shrugged and instantly winced in pain. He drew a sharp breath. “A Russian medic bandaged me up. At first there were a good dozen people in here, but they all beat it.”
“You live here?” Heller asked, pointing at Gutmann’s slippers. He put the man in his midforties.
“I have to. Someone needs to keep an eye on the joint.” He glanced at a big club leaning against the wall.
“Things happen a lot? Break-ins?”
“Every week. You get actual gangs prowling around. Children, I’m telling you, gangs of children. They might look harmless, but they got a whole bag of tricks. They shadow a target, so they know when to make their move.”
Heller remained wary. “You have other weapons? Firearms?”
“That’s strictly forbidden,” Gutmann said, not answering the question.
“Were you sleeping when the attack came?”
“Yes, here.”
“In that chair?”
“I have a bed in the next room.”
“You have a wife, children?”
Gutmann shook his head.
“So you were sleeping here, and the shots woke you? Or was it the explosion?”
“There was a bang, and I wasn’t thinking explosion at first. Thought maybe something fell over. I go running into the joint, they fire at me, and the bullets pass over my head. I took cover, then there was this crash and a second grenade blew. That’s when something hit me on the head and I went out like a light.”
A sudden coughing fit overwhelmed Gutmann. Heller looked around to see if he could bring him a glass of water, but Gutmann waved him off, shaking his head.
“Probably took in too much smoke,” he croaked. “If I’d lain there a couple minutes more, I would’ve been done for.”
“So was it a robbery? Did they steal anything?”
“No. Everything’s still here.”
Heller raised his eyebrows. “You’re able to confirm that already?”
Gutmann hesitated. “No, but I assume so.”
“You have any valuables worth stealing? A storage room perhaps?”
“I have storage.” Gutmann suddenly got up. “I’ll show you.”
Heller let Gutmann pass by, then followed him. Gutmann shuffled down the narrow hallway and passed three doors until reaching a fourth protected by an added-on metal gate. Its massive padlock was intact. Gutmann shook it as extra proof.
“Is this the only access to your storage?” Heller asked. “There’s no window on the other side?”
“It’s got bars on it. No one’s getting in that way.”
Heller looked the man in the eye.
Gutmann was starting to get indignant. “I thought you were here to investigate an attack.”
“That’s what I’m doing.”
“Somebody looking to steal isn’t throwing grenades and firing machine guns,” Gutmann said and started coughing again. But eventually he pulled a key from his pants pocket and opened the gate. He used another key to open the storage room door. Once inside, he pulled a flashlight off a shelf and gave it to Heller, who shined it into the room.
Just like he’d figured. All the shelves were filled with precious items. Cans of food, packs of zwieback, bottles of schnapps and wine—sparkling wine and real champagne—plus jars of cucumbers, chocolate bars, sacks of sugar and flour. There were dried fruits, boxes of Maggi bouillon cubes, coffee, and noodles. Even hard sausages hanging from hooks. He also spotted a variety of cigarette packs and matchboxes.
Heller kept moving the flashlight beam around the room. The rear window was unscathed.
Gutmann said, “If you ever need anything . . .”
Heller shut off the flashlight and held it out to Gutmann but kept a grip on it for a second when Gutmann grabbed it. “Just what’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well, I just meant, in hard times, people need to help each other.” Gutmann said this with a crooked smile.
“I’d like to see the other rooms,” Heller said.
Gutmann nodded and locked the storage room. Heller opened the neighboring door and discovered another little hallway leading to a well-secured back door. Behind the other doors were Gutmann’s bedroom and a primitive kitchen that stank of stale grease. Two black pans sat on the stove, dishes stacked up beside it. There was a little table and two chairs. Heller sat and gestured for Gutmann to do the same.
“One second.” Gutmann disappeared. Heller heard soft clanking. Gutmann returned with two glasses filled with schnapps, set one in the middle of the table, and sat down. He raised the other glass.
“Steadies the nerves,” he said.
Heller ignored the invitation. He placed his notebook on the table and yanked out a short pencil.
“Ah, you’re on duty, right.” Gutmann tipped back the glass with panache. Then he took the second glass and tipped it back too. “It’s all legal in there. Get it from the Russians. The schnapps I make myself. For money. Got all the receipts.”
“You could do better with potatoes.”
Gutmann’s brow furrowed. “Potatoes?”
“The Soviets are requisitioning potatoes for vodka production, and in no small amount, I can assure you.” Heller couldn’t figure Gutmann out. Was he only acting like the attack didn’t bother him, or was he truly this hardened? Either way, he’d dared two bribery attempts inside a few minutes, if one counted the schnapps—Heller couldn’t take Gutmann’s offer back in the storage room any other way. That he stressed everything was being done the proper way only made him seem more suspicious.
“Do you have any idea why this attack might have occurred?”
Gutmann laughed. “Of course. They’re Nazis.”
“Nazis?” Heller placed his pencil beside the notebook.
“Because I have all these Soviets coming and going. For people around here, it’s just rubbing salt in the wound. They swear at me and scribble nasty things around my joint.”
“And you believe that’s enough for them to start throwing grenades?”
“It’s Werewolves, I’m telling you.”
“Werewolves?”
Gutmann leaned forward, and his schnapps-laden breath wafted into Heller’s face. “Organized resistance. They’re out there, all around! And I guarantee you they’re responsible for those two officers as well.”
“The two Soviet officers?” Heller wondered how much Gutmann knew.
“Look, I hear things, all right? I know Russian and was on the Russian Front, four years, rear echelon. I was able to make myself scarce right before it all went down the drain. They somewhat trust me. Heard one of them got knifed, and then another yesterday. They’re shitting bricks, I’m telling you. That’s why they’re not letting anything get out.” Gutmann crossed his arms, forgetting he was wounded.
“You smoke?” he asked.
Heller shook his head. “Aren’t you bothered by all this? You could easily be dead.”
Gutmann lit a cigarette, then shook out the match. He took a deep drag and expelled the smoke, shaking his head. “Could’ve been dead plenty of times. In Russia, then here in February of ’45. All I know is, my time wasn’t up.”
“And you don’t think the assailants will try again?”
Gutmann shook his head. “They’ll try somewhere else. Be stupid of them to turn up here again anytime soon.”
Heller picked up his pencil. “Let’s go over everything anyway. The building, it belongs to you?”
“It was allocated to me. Year and a half ago. Belonged to a Party member who took off.”
“What, so they just gave it to you?”
“What are you insinuating? I filled out the proper registration forms, got my business license, and applied for commercial premises, just like everyone else. They allocated me the joint.”
“No competitors trying to buy it out f
rom under you?”
Gutmann choked on his cigarette, coughed, and waved a hand in front of his face. “Look, I don’t know. Wasn’t like I was able to see the list.”
“And the liquor license?”
“Got it the same way. I used to work in pubs, had all those permits too. It probably helped a little that I was in the KPD, sure.”
“You were in the Communist Party? Before ’33?”
“No, no, I joined right after the war. And I was able to show that I’d helped certain people. I gave them shelter when the Gestapo was after them. I also helped a few Jews escape. So they were glad to have me. And now I’m a member of the Socialist Unity Party. Granted, I’ve never been political. But when you’re running with wolves, sometimes you got to howl along. Now, can I offer you some coffee?”
February 7, 1947: Midmorning
It took Heller almost three hours to get a reasonably sufficient record of the twenty witness statements down on paper—essentially the same story retold in nearly identical ways. During the night, around 3:00 a.m., people heard glass shatter and a grenade explode soon after. Subsequent bursts of machine-gun fire supposedly rattled on for several seconds. Then came a second explosion. People who dared look out their windows agreed that there was only one person involved. Probably a young man. He didn’t try to enter the building. The whole thing had barely lasted a minute, though the fire had burned much longer. Flames shot through the front windows until the firemen could get close enough.
Heller then joined Oldenbusch, who’d been on the scene for two hours. The fire department had moved on after ruling out any possibility of the fire reigniting. Kids out on the street fought over the leftover cigarette butts and got shooed away by a man who then gathered up the butts himself.
“Were you able to find out anything, Werner?” Heller asked in a low voice on account of the large crowd that had formed across the street. Uniformed officers of the People’s Police had their hands full sealing off the crime scene.
Oldenbusch tilted his head. “There’s something I don’t quite get. The gunman seemed really inexperienced in the way he went about it. I’ve found twenty-six bullet holes so far, which nearly match the twenty-eight shells. Two hand grenades were thrown, likely Russian make. I found the pins. Shells from the machine gun point to a nine-millimeter weapon of German origin, probably an MP 40. Magazine normally holds thirty-two rounds. Either there are four shells I haven’t found, he didn’t empty the magazine, or that was all he had. We found glass shards inside that likely belong to the Molotov cocktail. I’ll try fitting the pieces back together in hopes of drawing some conclusion from that.”
A Thousand Devils (Max Heller, Dresden Detective Book 2) Page 4