Heller watched her until she disappeared among the guests.
“From your reserved behavior, I gather Ovtcharov paid you a visit today?” Heller began. He had no intention of apologizing for doing his job. And he had no intention of spoiling Karin’s evening. “Listen, I didn’t plan on causing you any inconvenience.”
Kasrashvili lowered the sheet music. “Calling it an inconvenience is sheer mockery. You should have just asked me if you wanted to know about Berinov and Cherin.”
“Their corpses were lying right there, yet you never once gave me the impression that you might’ve known them.” Heller looked around again, checking to make sure no one was listening. “So you would have recognized Swoboda if I’d shown you his head?”
“But you didn’t show it to me, and you didn’t ask if I knew them! Instead, you send the MVD my way. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to see to the choir.”
“So what was going on with Cherin and Berinov?” Heller asked in a muted voice.
“They were arguing with the German. That’s all I know. No more.”
“And you? How often were you in the bar? What were you doing there?”
“I sat there and drank, occasionally played piano, nothing more. I knew nothing about the girls upstairs.”
“But you do now?” Heller asked.
Kasrashvili seemed about to reply, then turned around and walked away.
Once Heller found Karin, they went looking for their seats, which were at a table up front to the right of the stage, with six other guests they didn’t know. Everyone introduced themselves, but Heller quickly forgot their names and positions. Niesbach and Police Chief Opitz sat at the large neighboring table with several important Soviet military figures. Medvedev was there too, but he showed little interest in revealing that he and Heller knew each other well.
Heller was glad of that, since he’d been worried about such an encounter, considering those who were watching. Ovtcharov had also arrived and only nodded at Heller.
All the guests were now present, and the hall doors closed. The first speakers stepped onstage. First was a writer from the Cultural Association. All the talk was of Soviet-German friendship, of thanks to the liberators, of the latest accomplishments and how important culture was even in times of great adversity. Then a Russian general took the stage and spoke in such poor German that it was agonizing to listen to him. Yet no one dared make fun of him or complain. Druzhba was the only Russian word Heller understood—friendship. The man repeated it over and over, as if saying so would make it happen. Then a German, an active member of the Victims of Fascism, was back onstage. He had been in a concentration camp, he said, and described all the acts of cruelty he’d experienced there. He seemed horrified by people who didn’t want to believe it and just took it for propaganda—all the more crucial to inform people and educate them and, above all, to further the denazification process. Children and young adults in particular needed to have Nazism driven out of their heads, he said.
This made Heller think of the public prosecutor, Speidel, who claimed never to have been a true Nazi. But what was a true Nazi? Was a person only a Nazi when they denounced Jews? When they voted for Hitler? When they went out demonstrating while carrying a swastika flag? When they had worn an SA or SS uniform or been a party member? Or was a person a Nazi simply by tolerating it all? Everyone now claimed not to have been a true Nazi, but all of them had gone along with the system. They were all the foundation upon which the German Reich was built. Heller didn’t exclude himself. He, too, had performed his duty.
He wondered what people actually thought of the Nuremberg trials, which had been broadcast over the radio in excruciating detail. No one appeared to be interested. People had so many other worries—struggling to survive, seeking shelter, clothes, food, coal. Everyone preferred to look forward, toward a better future, rather than back to a cruel past.
“Don’t fall asleep!” Karin whispered, nudging him. Heller started and nodded. He tried to suppress his thoughts. The next speaker was up, expounding on the accomplishments of the emerging socialism all while uncomfortably inserting the old Nazi vocabulary, referring to fresh blood, hard struggle, and a new national identity.
A certain discomfort was slowly spreading through the hall. The unaccustomed warmth bothered Heller. He tried opening his collar a little and would have liked to shed his jacket, but the event was too formal for that. He was sweating so badly that it was running down his forehead. It was only a slight consolation that he wasn’t alone. Karin was sneaking dabs at her neck and forehead as other guests made a point of wiping their faces with handkerchiefs.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the final speaker left the stage to relieved applause, the lights came back on, and the food was served. The starter was noodle soup, followed by a proper pork roast, with dumplings, sauce, and red cabbage. Afterward, they served a cold fruit soup, followed by coffee and cake.
It was like paradise, like a leap into a different, much better age. The dishes had such appetizing aromas, and for a good long time all that was heard was the clattering of silverware on tableware. Heller couldn’t take his eyes off Karin. It delighted him, the way she ate, how she took part in the discussions around the table, and how she bloomed. Heller chewed carefully, trying not to wolf his food down. But he couldn’t eat any of the cake—his stomach was too full. Even Karin had only eaten a bite of her poppy-seed cake, even though it was her favorite, and she hadn’t had any for years.
Cognac was served. The waiters darted back and forth, and toasts could be heard everywhere. “Druzhba! Na zdorovie!” shouted the Russians, who drank their brandy in one gulp and encouraged those at neighboring tables to do the same. Cigarettes were handed around. Everyone took them, even the nonsmokers. At some point the first guests stood to stretch their legs. The men at Heller’s table finally rose as well. Heller had been waiting for that. He really needed to stand and get some fresh air.
But a hand suddenly appeared on his shoulder. It was Kasrashvili. He sat down in the open seat next to Heller.
“They can sure talk,” the Georgian muttered and snapped his fingers at a waiter. “So, what do you think? To whom do you have to thank for this sumptuous meal? Ovtcharov? Or are you Medvedev’s chained dog? Whose hand are you eating out of? It’s not as if you could choose.”
Heller could see Karin tensing up. She wouldn’t like seeing her husband treated like this. He placed a hand on her knee to pacify her.
“You’ve been drinking, Comrade Captain,” he said.
Kasrashvili gestured at the waiter to pour him a cognac and squeezed on his arm so he could take the whole bottle. “Of course I have. Na zdorovie! Or, as we Georgians say, gaumarjos. May you be victorious!” He raised his glass.
Heller hesitated, having had too many glasses already.
“You know it’s an insult to a Russian when you don’t take them up on their invitation?”
“But you’re a Georgian, as you just made clear yourself.” Heller raised his glass and took a drink. The doctor drained his and poured two more. He raised his glass again and held it until Heller grabbed the other and drank with him.
“Russians, Georgians, Ukrainians—we’re all now one Soviet empire. Ready to rule the world!” Kasrashvili stood and nodded and clicked his heels in a manner that better suited the Wehrmacht than the Soviet Army. “I wish you a pleasant evening.” Then he reached for the bottle of cognac and walked off.
“I need to get some air,” Karin blurted out.
“I’m sorry about that, Karin.”
“You don’t have to be sorry, Max. Such a rude man! No comparison to his father. You remember? What a polite and courteous human being he was. What’s wrong with him? Are you investigating him?”
“I think I might be harassing him on Ovtcharov’s behalf,” he said in a low voice once they were on the way to the foyer.
“I’m going to pop into the restroom quickly,” Karin whispered.
Ovtcharov, who was a
lso standing in the foyer, his chest decorated with a row of sparkling medals, seemed to have been waiting for this very moment. “Comrade Oberkommissar!” he called out. Heller shook his hand and gave a slight bow. The colonel smiled, yet Heller could tell by his eyes that something was worrying him.
“I’m pleased to welcome you here, Heller. I hope the speeches weren’t too long for you?”
“What needs to be said must be said,” Heller replied. It certainly wasn’t the first time he’d said this.
“Have you been able to make any progress searching for the leader of that gang?”
“No, none. But we do have some evidence that strongly implicates Friedel Schlüter in the case involving Swoboda’s severed head.”
The Russian gave an emphatic shrug. “Heller, that doesn’t interest me. The other boy is the important one. Was he acting alone? If not, how many are there still? What weapons do they have? What are they planning? These are the questions that most need resolving. And don’t go trying to keep anything from me ever again!”
Heller said, “I’m doing everything within the powers I’ve—”
“Come on, are you really?” The colonel grabbed him by the arm. “Do you know about Captain Sergey Yakovlev?”
“Should I?”
“He’s gone. Vanished yesterday without a trace. He, too, was a regular at Gutmann’s place. Oberkommissar, I cannot afford to lose another officer. And if I find out that you are keeping things from me, then not even Medvedev can protect you.”
Ovtcharov’s face suddenly brightened. Karin was coming back.
“Frau Oberkommissar, I take it. It’s an honor to make your acquaintance. Colonel Ovtcharov. I take it your husband has already spoken of me, and I do hope in a good way.” He smiled broadly, took Karin’s hand, and gave it a slight kiss.
Karin gave the Russian a slight nod. She took Heller’s arm again. “Certainly, Herr Colonel. Thanks so much for the food packages.”
“Do not mention it. I hope you enjoy the evening. It’s been dragging on a little so far, but the best part should be starting soon. Let’s go back in.”
Heller was feeling uneasy. As Karin watched the stage in anticipation, having slid her chair next to his, he kept stealing glances around. Ovtcharov’s displeasure was getting to him. If the colonel found out about Fanny, and that he was helping her, he would be in serious trouble. Ovtcharov wasn’t known for showing consideration. A person would be held for a long time after getting caught in the fangs of the MVD, then shipped off to Bautzen. Heller knew of people who disappeared overnight and still hadn’t turned up two years later. Others only gained their freedom after much effort and misery and paid for it with their health and vitality. So he had to watch out for himself, and above all he couldn’t let Karin know about the risk he was taking.
The choir finally took the stage. More than twenty men stood up there, all broad-shouldered Soviet soldiers. Kasrashvili stepped onstage and stood at the piano. He seemed to teeter just noticeably and long enough to make whispers travel among the Germans. The Georgian held on to the piano with one hand, then gave a hint of a contemptuous bow. Heller sat up straight from the suspense and expected Kasrashvili to say something rash. A few awkward seconds passed before Kasrashvili bowed again, as if forgetting he’d just done so.
“Dear ladies and gentlemen,” he began, his speech rather slow. “Despite the announced schedule, we shall first delight you with a piece that seems wholly fitting for times such as these.”
Kasrashvili’s words caused something of a sensation among the Soviet military men. Heller dared a look over. Officers were exchanging dubious glances. Ovtcharov waved one of his men over, whispered into his ear, and dismissed him. Only Medvedev remained cool, his face blank.
Kasrashvili sat on the piano bench. “Since my earliest childhood, when my father taught me how to play the piano at home, accompanying him at his side, I’ve harbored a certain passion for one of the greatest German composers. Johannes Brahms. His German Requiem is what we shall play for you this evening. Considering my somewhat limited facility, I’m restricting the piece to the second chorus.”
Karin didn’t seem to have noticed the anxiety in the hall. She sat next to Heller, small and fragile like a young girl, her hands clasped in her lap. As the first tones of the piano rang out, Heller could see the hairs of her neck stand up. He couldn’t fathom why Kasrashvili had chosen a composition for a funeral mass, of all things. Right then the Georgian turned to Heller and looked him squarely in the eye.
“For all flesh is like grass,” the choir sang, and Karin shuddered.
And all the glory of man
like the flower of grass.
The grass is withered
and the flower has fallen.
Certain chords affected a person’s soul more than others. Heller wasn’t sure which ones were doing it. Yet he could sense that the hearts in the hall were beating differently, that people practically forgot to breathe from such intense emotion, that they were succumbing to the Russian choir’s fervent singing. He placed his arm around Karin and could feel her trembling. Karin had pressed a hand to her mouth and couldn’t take her eyes off the young man at the piano.
Kasrashvili kept seeking eye contact with Heller as his fingers moved effortlessly across the keys. Heller returned the stare. And with every note, an ever-deeper grief appeared to grip Karin.
“So be patient now, dear brothers,” sang the choir, “for the coming of the Lord.”
Heller wondered if Kasrashvili’s piano might have come from Frau Schlüter’s house. It was an Emil Ascherberg model, and how many of those could there be in the city? Who had the Georgian gotten the piano from? Medvedev perhaps?
Behold, the plowman waits
for the delicious fruit of the earth
and is patient about it,
until he receives the morning and evening rain.
So be patient.
The key had changed, and Kasrashvili’s playing grew louder and more impassioned. Karin couldn’t hold back anymore. She had kept everything in for so long. She hadn’t shed a single tear over the loss of her former life, her home, all her worldly goods, her memories. Not even for all the people she’d lost, having dealt with it all inside. She had only ever shared her worries over her sons.
Kasrashvili now worked the keys with a growing fury while staring relentlessly at Heller as if he were the cause of all evils. Heller looked to Medvedev and, sure enough, their eyes met as if the Soviet commander were expecting it. Was Kasrashvili Medvedev’s little dog? Did he get to do whatever he wanted? If so, why? Nothing came for free. “LK” were the initials in that backpack, Heller recalled, and wanted to reach for his notebook. Then he remembered that he’d left it at home.
For all flesh is like grass,
and all the glory of man . . .
Karin took his hand and clutched it tight. She was lightly sobbing and couldn’t calm herself now. Heller grew angrier at Kasrashvili, certain he’d chosen the piece on purpose. And he was angry at himself for having no good way of dealing with Karin’s outburst.
Like the flower of grass.
The grass is withered
and the flower has fallen.
Where was Ovtcharov sitting? Wasn’t it his job to prevent others from acting on their own like this? Heller looked around seeking help but only found more spellbound faces; even the Russians’ eyes were glassy. Medvedev kept his eyes fixed on his boots. When Heller looked to the front again, Kasrashvili was waiting for him with a twisted smile.
Those redeemed by the Lord shall return,
and come to Zion rejoicing;
and joy, everlasting joy,
shall be upon their heads;
they shall seize the joy and bliss,
and the sorrow and sighing shall flee.
As the last chords faded, all remained still in the hall. Then Medvedev began clapping and rose from his chair. As if freed from a spell, the other guests rose too and clapped in frenetic applause.
Karin wiped the tears from her eyes and beamed at Max. “Oh, Max, how lovely! That was truly lovely! He truly is a great talent.”
Her reaction took him by surprise. “But, Karin, I thought you couldn’t stand that kind of thing.”
“Doesn’t matter, Max. That was just what I needed. For the past two years, everything inside me has seemed dark and hollow, as if there was no reason to live anymore. And I just couldn’t get the awful memories of the night of the air raid out of my mind and my heart. It’s as if the music liberated me just now. You know? Didn’t you feel it too?”
“It made me furious.”
Karin stared in amazement. “Furious? But why?”
“He played that because of me. And he was staring at me the whole time. ‘For all flesh is as grass.’ Rubbing salt in the wounds.”
Karin placed a calming hand on his upper arm. “Max, please. A performance like that takes months of practice. And they’re performing for all of us. Don’t you understand? It’s a song of solace, not of mourning. Brahms believed in the kingdom of heaven. Solace is what that song is supposed to bring, and hope of redemption.”
Heller nodded. Karin was right, of course. Yet he didn’t trust Kasrashvili, not a bit.
The evening grew late. After several more announcements, plenty of alcohol, and the cake platters repeatedly replenished, the atmosphere turned looser and more informal.
Heller felt like he’d been dipped in thick honey. Every motion became a battle against stiff resistance. He could only get out words with effort, and they sounded distorted to him. He didn’t dare to stand because he thought he might topple over. He had tried to decline every Soviet officer who stepped up to the table wanting to drink with him, yet he stood no chance against Russian tenacity. As their level of alcohol increased, the Russians turned more and more sentimental, opening their uniforms, hanging their belts on the backs of chairs, and embracing anyone who crossed their paths.
“We’re going home,” Heller said at some point, his tongue heavy, and he stood. Karin, who’d grown quieter over the course of the evening, agreed.
A Thousand Devils (Max Heller, Dresden Detective Book 2) Page 24