A Thousand Devils (Max Heller, Dresden Detective Book 2)

by Frank Goldammer

  “What?” Friedel yelped. “No! I didn’t kill anyone. Never!”

  “You tried to get into the meeting. Why did you throw those hand grenades?”

  “I wasn’t . . . I wasn’t trying to kill anyone. Believe me!”

  “So what were you trying to do?” Heller asked.

  “I wanted to set an example, to call upon people to resist, because the Russians are making us their slaves. But I didn’t want to kill anyone. Ever. You have to believe me. I swear!” The boy tugged at his padded coat in despair.

  “Where did you get the hand grenades?”

  “I found them! In the woods. I really did. In a crate. I’ll tell you where.”

  “Have you ever seen this bag?” Heller pointed at the leather doctor’s bag sitting on another table.

  “No, I’ve never seen it. I swear!”

  “Josef Gutmann. You know him?”

  “Yeah. Mother says he betrayed us to the Russians. But I didn’t do anything. I was happy when that bar was burned. Finally, someone was doing something, I thought. I wanted to do something too. I wanted to do something for the Fatherland. Please believe me. I never wanted to harm anyone.”

  Heller believed him. But just tell that to the Russians, he thought. To them, anti-Bolshevik agitation was worse than attempted murder.

  February 11, 1947: Early Morning

  Heller got a bad feeling as he followed the Soviet soldier down the hallway to Colonel Ovtcharov’s office. The colonel had Niesbach summon Heller to his offices on Münchner Platz. It wasn’t a good sign. The soldier knocked on the door and opened when ordered. Then he looked at Heller and nodded at him to enter. It couldn’t have been less civil. Heller stepped into the room, and the door closed behind him. Ovtcharov pointed to the seat across from his desk. Heller removed his cap but stood where he was.

  “How long were you going to keep this resistance group in the woods from me?” Ovtcharov asked, clearly angry.

  “Resistance group?” Heller said, playing dumb. His stomach tightened.

  The colonel slapped the table. “Do not take me for an idiot! You were there twice already without informing me.”

  “Ah, you mean the children?” Heller acted surprised. “How did you . . . ?” He fell silent, after the Russian gave him an evil smile.

  “I assume Frau Schlüter told you,” Heller concluded. “She doesn’t know anything. She only overheard it from a colleague of mine. She told you in order to save her son. If that isn’t clear to you already.”

  “It doesn’t matter where she got her information,” Ovtcharov said.

  “So what did she get from you in return? The promise to leave her son alone?”

  A corner of Ovtcharov’s mouth raised. “I let her go.”

  “But you don’t even know how involved she is in all this.” Heller’s outrage swelled. Once again, he felt duped and at their mercy.

  “Well, sometimes a person does have to compromise a little,” Ovtcharov said and gave him a wry smile.

  “So what now? What are you going to do?”

  “Pastor Beger was kind enough to inform us of the group’s whereabouts.”

  Heller was stunned. “He didn’t do that voluntarily.”

  “In one way he did. It only depends on how you look at it, Oberkommissar.”

  “What did you do with him? Can I see him?”

  “I’ve instructed my people to do whatever is required to restore the safety of members of the Soviet Army. No, you cannot see him. First, I must verify your integrity. Maybe you have some reason why you so stubbornly refused to join the Socialist Unity Party?”

  Heller knew he had his back against the wall. Yet he couldn’t stand Ovtcharov’s smug condescension. “Of course I have a reason! I want to see the pastor, now! How did you even know about him?”

  Ovtcharov leaned back in his chair, looking casual. “Someone reported his name. I’ve ordered a military operation,” he said with a certain pride.

  “You can’t. No!” Heller stood over Ovtcharov’s desk now.

  The Russian saw this as a threat. He rose and reached for his holster.

  “Rescind the order,” Heller told him in a commanding voice. “They’re just children!”

  “We will see who and what they are. They are armed and have possibly murdered two officers! That’s more than enough for taking such measures. Sit down, Oberkommissar Heller.”

  “We both know,” Heller said, still looming over the desk, “that the murders of those two officers have something to do with what happened at the Schwarzer Peter, with the prostitution of minors.”

  “This is only speculation!” Ovtcharov bellowed.

  But Heller withstood Ovtcharov’s scathing glare. “Apparently, you don’t have a clue what goes on in that bar. Your army officers are committing sexual offenses with underage girls. With children! And all you want to do is cover it up. You’re just looking for a scapegoat,” he hissed in fury, “for someone you can deliver to your superiors.”

  This was clearly going too far for the Russian. Enraged now, Ovtcharov pulled his pistol from its holster and aimed it at Heller. “That’s quite enough! You know nothing!” he shouted. “You only see the good in people. You still believe it’s possible to make things better. Look out that window! The way they go running errands, always lamenting how bad they have it. You, Heller, you look out on that street and see a thousand people. A thousand people you believe are so harmless, innocent, unknowing. But I’m not as blind as you, no. I don’t see a thousand people. You know what I see? I see a thousand devils! And you, Heller, are one of them!”

  Heller recoiled but didn’t respond. It had grown loud out on the street. The howling of engines from heavy trucks penetrated the closed window.

  Ovtcharov slowly lowered his weapon and put it away. He sat back down and ran a hand over the desk as if that would calm the charged atmosphere.

  “Just sit down,” he ordered in a reasonable tone and waited for Heller to comply. “What sort of people do you think we are?” he said, regaining his more composed voice. “We Russians. You think we do not love our children? You think we consider it a good thing when members of our armed forces behave like that? Ever since I heard about this disgusting behavior, I’ve wanted to put an end to it. But I need to proceed just as cautiously as you. I don’t know who’s behind it. From my informants among our officers, I do know that Colonel Cherin was having a lengthy affair with a girl. Then he got into a dispute with Swoboda, and it was apparently about this girl. What happened next is still not clear. Some of the officers who were visiting the bar on a regular basis were ordered back to Russia long ago. That doesn’t necessarily mean anything, yet it might also mean that someone higher up knows about the matter. I naturally want to avoid a scandal. But you and I, Heller, we both have the same goal.”

  Heller was listening intently. “So why did you keep so much information from me? If we truly do have the same goal, as you say?”

  Ovtcharov leaned back. Heller immediately knew what that meant: the Russian colonel had been using him. Ovtcharov sent him in first, so Heller would be the one poking the wasp’s nest.

  “I found Friedel Schlüter last night and arrested him,” Heller said. “He’s sitting at police headquarters. He’s admitted responsibility for the attack on the Münchner Krug. Says he had nothing to do with anything else. He threw the hand grenades into the wrong window on purpose.”

  Ovtcharov had put his venomous smile back on. “I know.”

  Heller sighed. He was quickly realizing that it was pointless trying to figure out exactly who was working for whom, or who was spying on whom and passing on information. “What’s the Georgian’s role in all this?” he asked. “Kasrashvili. Is there more I should know about him?”

  “Kasrashvili is doing large-scale business in medicines. Such a thing would not be possible unless someone was lending him a protective hand. He was a regular at the bar, but my informant couldn’t find out if he just drank there and played piano or did o
ther things as well. He provided Gutmann with drugs. It’s not clear what sort of compensation he received. There was nothing of worth found in Kasrashvili’s quarters.”

  “You know Gutmann’s dead?” Heller said.

  Trucks had passed through the front gate. Down in the courtyard, orders were being shouted in Russian.

  Ovtcharov nodded and stood up. “Despite all this, there are other issues we need to tend to. Every form of rebellion and resistance must be prevented at once! Our mission in the forest took place in the early-morning hours—with success. The trucks are just coming back.”

  Heller stood too. “Let the pastor go! He only meant well.”

  “Some priest he is,” Ovtcharov said. “His church was full of foodstuffs.”

  “He was handing them out! Do you not understand that?” Heller’s anger boiled over again; the Russian’s cynicism sickened him. “People like him do exist among all your devils. Are you going to release him or not?”

  “Did you know that his predecessor, one Ludwig Kuhnell, was arrested by the Gestapo and executed soon after?”

  “The man’s name was Kühnel,” Heller blurted. “Did Pastor Beger have anything to do with his arrest? Did he betray his predecessor to the Gestapo?”

  Ovtcharov shrugged. “We have no knowledge of this.”

  “Then he’s completely irrelevant. Let him go.”

  “If you so desire,” the Russian replied sarcastically. “And might there be anything further I should know?”

  Heller thought about Fanny. “Not that I can think of,” he said, then nodded down at the courtyard. “May I go down there? I want to see what your men found in the woods.”

  Ovtcharov grabbed his coat. “We will go together.”

  Heller stood in the courtyard of the former courthouse, along with Colonel Ovtcharov. It had become light out. The cold didn’t relent, and the sky was gray. It could start snowing again at any moment. Two Soviet Army trucks were parked in the courtyard, their motors chugging. Soldiers opened the tailgates to the canvas-covered truck beds. From one they dragged off a stretcher with a body on it, body and face covered with a tarp. Heller pulled the tarp aside. The deceased was a boy of about sixteen. It wasn’t Jörg.

  “Down! Davai!” ordered a soldier at the rear of the second truck, waving the barrel of his machine gun. When Heller heard the crying, he couldn’t stand it anymore. He rushed over to the truck.

  The image would be forever burned in his memory. Like all the other images that haunted him, this one would take its place on that black wall inside his head, tearing him from his sleep, wrenching at his heart.

  About twenty children cowered on the bare wood planks of the truck bed. The youngest ones, having no idea what was happening, clutched at each other, sobbing, their tears leaving bright streaks on their dirty cheeks. Sheer horror was etched on the faces of the older children. They stared into space, trembling, and started when the soldier yelled again. But they didn’t understand what they were supposed to do. They shoved back into the deepest corner of the truck, helpless. Heller had already noticed that Jörg wasn’t among them.

  The impatient soldier jumped up onto the truck bed and grabbed at the first child he could reach. The child screamed in distress and clamped on to the wood sides. In their despair the others grabbed the child, even the littlest ones, only two or three years old, helping. Total bedlam ensued. Only now did Heller see that the oldest children, the eleven- and twelve-year-olds, had been handcuffed.

  “Leave them alone!” Heller shouted and pulled himself up onto the truck bed to break up the tussle between the soldier and the children. “Stoi!” he ordered.

  The soldier let go and, not sure how to proceed, looked to his superior. Heller squatted before the children, looking around at Ovtcharov. “Take a look here! Are these your devils? These your Werewolves?”

  The colonel gave a command to the soldier, who then jumped down from the truck in obvious relief.

  The smaller children had pressed themselves up to Heller, clawing at his overcoat. They stank horribly, and it was tough for Heller to ignore the odor.

  “No need to be afraid,” he tried to convince them in a calming voice while keeping an eye on Ovtcharov. The colonel was getting a full report from his men.

  Among the children Heller recognized the boy who’d threatened him with a weapon two days ago. He was about eight. “You—you’re Johann, aren’t you?” Heller whispered to him. “Where’s Jörg?”

  “Jörg, he says you the one shoulda got killed,” the boy whispered. “Says you’re a bad man, a traitor!”

  “I never betrayed any of you; you have to believe me. They were spying on me. That’s how they found you.”

  Heller was doing his best, but the boy wouldn’t give in.

  “You’re the reason Heinrich’s dead. Jörg’s gonna come and kill you dead for that.”

  “What are you talking about there?” Ovtcharov cut in.

  Heller turned away from the boy. “Listen, you have to inform Child Services. And take off those cuffs, will you? These are children. And send your soldiers away! You can see how scared it’s making them. Can’t you at least get a woman here to help?”

  Ovtcharov looked unimpressed by Heller’s appeals. “They must be interrogated first.”

  “No!” Heller was getting louder. “These children must see a doctor. They need something to eat and to warm up! Don’t you have any compassion?” He tried to climb off the truck, but the children clung even tighter to him, their eyes full of panic.

  “It’s going to be all right,” Heller promised them. “It’ll be all right.”

  “I will have the children sent to a doctor,” the Russian snarled, “once I know where their leader is. Results are what I need, not compassion.”

  Heller sighed and eyed him warily. “Very well. Let me see what I can do.”

  February 11, 1945: Midday

  When Heller came home, a smiling Karin rushed up to him with the baby in her arms. She really wanted to show it to him. “Just look how happy he is.”

  Heller smiled and stroked his wife’s arm.

  “Guess what? There’s a package for me to pick up—from Sweden!” Karin sounded excited now. “You know anyone in Sweden?”

  Heller shook his head. He was tired. He had let Oldenbusch go home after driving him as far as Bautzner Strasse. He’d walked the rest of the way. “Where’s Fanny?”

  “She wanted to go out for a bit. But she promised to come back soon.”

  “You shouldn’t let her leave the house, Karin.”

  “It’s not a prison,” she countered. “Sit down, Max. I’ll warm up some food for you. Klaus cooked it. The dish is called kasha. Klaus said he’d been given it nearly every day for the last two years. Yet he’s making it for us.” She smiled again and made Heller go into the kitchen and sit down.

  Heller could now feel just how exhausted he was. He really needed to get a full night’s sleep at some point, he thought, rubbing his eyes. Then he went over the morning’s upsetting chain of events in his head. He didn’t know anyone at the Child Services office but had wanted to avoid the children getting torn from each other and sent away to different homes. Lacking any better option, he contacted the Victims of Fascism and asked Constanze Weisshaupt to help. These children were victims of fascism too, after all. As half-Jewish and an orphan herself, Constanze had promised to help. She was always grateful for what he had done for her in ’45.

  “So where’s Klaus?” Heller asked.

  Karin hesitated. “In the yard. He’s sawing down the old cherry tree. I told him he could.”

  Heller looked up, unable to hide his disappointment. Frau Marquart wasn’t the only one who’d be sad. He had liked that tree a lot too, its gnarled trunk, those crooked branches. In the past two years of living here, he had always imagined himself sitting under its shadow one day, so happy and carefree, without hunger, without need.

  “Max, the baby needs more warmth. And we do too,” Karin said with a h
int of warning. “We can trade those branches for things to eat.”

  There was a clatter at the back door, and Klaus came inside. He set down two armfuls of sawed-off branches in the kitchen, then put some into the stove. The damp wood hissed and steamed.

  Then he sat down at the table with Heller. “Over at the water pump they were saying there was shooting in the woods early this morning.”

  “That was the Soviets,” Heller said. “They took the children from the woods.”

  Klaus stared at Heller in silence, and Heller stared back.

  “I’m telling you, she’s dangerous,” Klaus eventually said in a low voice. “They’re still searching for the leader of that gang, I hear.”

  “It’s not a gang,” Heller shot back.

  Karin had laid the infant in its basket. She cut in. “She’s not dangerous. You just have to win her trust. You can’t do that while suspecting her.”

  “Mother, all that miserable Nazism, it’s still inside their heads. It needs to be driven out of them. All of them. The children most of all.”

  Right then the front door opened, and Fanny came inside. She beamed at them.

  “Look what I went found.” She placed four eggs on the table with pride and produced a few lumps of coal from her coat pockets as well, though it was barely enough to fill a dustpan.

  “What I found,” Karin said gently to correct her grammar.

  “No, I found it,” Fanny insisted. “So where’s my little guy? He been sweet?”

  “He was very sweet.” Karin smiled and pointed at the basket. “Wash up, please, Fanny. Then you can breastfeed him.”

  “That’ll have to wait a moment,” Heller said and stood. “Fanny, could you come into the living room, please?”

  Heller led Fanny into the living room. “The Russians were in the woods today and found the children. Someone snitched on the pastor, and the Russians forced it out of him.”

  “Really? You’re not just trying to sucker me? They get Jörg?”

  “He wasn’t there. Tell me, who could’ve betrayed the pastor?”