After climbing countless stairs, Pastor Beger reached the bell tower, which was open to the outside. He charged around the bell and climbed onto the surrounding stone parapet. He looked down, gasping, teetering between mortal fear and fearlessness. Heller had just reached the bell tower and was out of breath. He stopped in his tracks. Wheezing, he slowly approached the parapet, keeping his eyes fixed on the pastor, making sure not to get too close. Five yards separated them. Heller took a quick look around. From up here he could see far above the roofs of the surrounding buildings and the voids ripped open by random bombings. He had a view of the entire Neustadt area and could see the fire-gutted spire of Trinity Church, the vast ruins on the other side of the Elbe.
Pastor Beger balanced on the parapet, pressing his back to one of the four sturdy columns at each corner, clawing at the sculptured stone relief. The snow-covered pavement was about 150 feet below them. No chance of surviving a fall.
“Beger, listen to me. There are good people too!” Heller said, still panting. “People who do help others.”
The pastor didn’t respond. Heller took another step closer.
“I, too, lost my faith. When I lay there in the trenches, in 1915, while all around me countless young men were dying, randomly, senselessly. But I haven’t given up.”
The pastor turned his head to the side, toward the abyss, so as not to look at Heller.
But Heller knew what would move the man more than anything else. “You couldn’t do anything about that girl dying. It’s not your fault, Christian.”
Pastor Beger shuddered, clearly affected. “But I set that fire, don’t you see? She suffocated because of me! Because of me. Did you see her face? Her horror?” Tears rolled down his cheeks.
“She suffocated because Gutmann was thinking only of himself. Because he lied to the police and the fire department. Herr Beger, look at me!”
The pastor shook his head. He stared in the direction of Gutmann’s bar, about three hundred yards away. He suddenly looked composed. Straightening up a little, he released his left hand from the stone and wiped his face. “I’m guilty one way or another. But I’m not going to let myself be taken prisoner, no—I don’t want to die in some hole. I don’t want to be hanged! I’d rather jump from here. What do I have to lose now? Absolutely nothing.”
“Don’t do it, Christian. I need you!”
“Me?” Pastor Beger turned his head and gave Heller a quizzical look.
“The MVD have taken Jörg prisoner. The same people who beat you. They think Jörg is the one responsible. They’re going to sentence him just like Friedel Schlüter. But he doesn’t deserve the punishment. The two of them could be executed. Christian, you’re the only one who can help those boys. Let’s get down from here. You make a statement and confess. After all you’ve done, you do want truth and justice to prevail, don’t you? Now’s your opportunity. Absolve the boys with your confession. Don’t just leave those two to die.”
The pastor’s face contorted into a despairing grimace. Heller could see him battling with himself and knew he wouldn’t be able to hold out much longer.
“Where would you take me?” Pastor Beger whispered.
“I’d put you before a German judge. But I should also tell you that the Soviets would do everything in their power to charge you in one of their courts. That could mean Siberia or even the end of a rope.”
The pastor gave him a sad smile. “You could be lying.”
“I’d never do that,” Heller replied, his eyes fixed on the pastor’s.
Pastor Beger gazed back out into the distance. In the east, the sun had fully risen over the horizon. When he turned to face Heller, more tears ran down his cheeks. “Will you take care of the children? Will you promise?”
Heller nodded.
“Will you tell them how brave I was?”
“I will.”
“Give them my best and tell them I will never forget them? And that they should never forget me?”
Heller nodded again and stretched out a hand.
“I’m coming,” Pastor Beger said and climbed down off the parapet with Heller’s help. “Let’s go.”
February 12, 1947: Late Afternoon
“I suppose you have the head with you this time, Oberkommissar?” said Lieutenant General Medvedev with a hint of a smile. He had Heller take a seat at his desk, then waved his secretary out of the room.
Heller wasn’t quite sure how to handle the commandant. He felt just as used and deceived by him as ever.
“You know, I’m actually quite pleased they didn’t put you in administration,” Medvedev said, taking the initiative. “It would’ve been quite a waste.”
“I assume Ovtcharov was keeping you informed about the investigation?” Heller said, ignoring the general’s satirical undertone.
“Yes, as far as Ovtcharov himself was informed. It has always been important to me that my and Ovtcharov’s organizations work hand in hand. Together one is stronger. Or, as you Germans say, four eyes see more than two. The colonel indicated to me that you were insinuating I had Kasrashvili kill all those men on my behalf.”
Heller shifted uneasily in his chair. Medvedev seemed to be taking this rather seriously. “I never said it like that.”
Medvedev snorted. “Well, however you express it, the gist remains the same. Explain to me what prompted you to suspect the pastor.”
“Berinov was clearly killed by a left-handed person. Pastor Beger appeared to be left-handed. I’m sure he was taught to write and do his work with his right hand, but if he wants to make certain of something, he uses his left hand. I noticed that when his key got stuck in the lock to the door of his quarters. In addition, that fake farewell letter from Gutmann didn’t seem to fit any of the suspects.”
“Gutmann didn’t hang himself?” the commandant asked.
Heller hesitated, then nodded. “I thought it wise not to make that public right away.”
Medvedev shook his head indignantly. “Do I look like the public?”
“In addition, Gutmann knew Pastor Beger because he donated food to him. So Gutmann had let him into his bar without becoming suspicious. That was how Pastor Beger was able to stick that anesthetic into his arm from behind. The deciding factor came in a conversation I had with Ovtcharov. He was explaining to me that the pastor’s predecessor had been arrested by the Gestapo, and he said his name: Ludwig Kühnel. LK for short, just like the initials stitched into that backpack holding Swoboda’s head. Pastor Beger had taken over Kühnel’s church and parish and all his things along with it. Either he had obtained the syringes from Gutmann or Fanny got them for him. She was wholly capable of gaining access to Gutmann’s rooms.”
Medvedev let Heller’s words sink in before nodding. “So shouldn’t we be searching for her? For her and the old woman?”
“We already have a manhunt on for Frau Dähne,” Heller responded, looking the commandant in the eye.
Medvedev frowned. “Well, I suppose I will be reading all this in your report someday.”
Heller nodded again. “I do have one request.”
The commandant let out a little grown. “Do not try my good nature too very much, Oberkommissar. If it’s about this boy, this Jorg? I’m taking care of it.”
“It’s Jörg, with an ö. What’s that mean? Has he been released?”
“He will be released, once it’s been proven without a doubt that he did not take part in any attack.”
“Herr Commandant, I had to promise the pastor that the boy would be taken care of. I promised that he would be released.”
“Then don’t make promises that you can’t keep,” Medvedev snapped. “He must be checked out first.”
Nevertheless, Heller sensed he could press things a little further.
“But he’s practically a child. He needs affection, a firm hand, and above all a little luck in life. Somewhere Fanny’s hiding with her infant, waiting for him. Shouldn’t we give them a chance at a future?”
“You’re o
ne formidable individual, Oberkommissar. The way you never let up.” Medvedev rubbed his chin. “I will call Ovtcharov. That’s a promise from me. All right?”
“And Friedel Schlüter—he should get a proper trial, and I think he should be shown some mercy.”
Medvedev stood. “He conducted anti-Soviet agitation, calling for armed resistance!”
“But he’s never known otherwise. He’s still a child.”
“I will see what I can do. But now I think it’s time for you to go!”
Heller stood yet didn’t budge from his spot. “There’s one other request I have, Herr Lieutenant General.”
“Yob tvoyu mat! Yebis vse konem!” thundered the commandant, and Heller figured that this time it was probably just as well he didn’t know much Russian.
February 12, 1947: Late Afternoon
“It’s from Erwin!” Karin shouted from the front door before Heller had even stepped into the yard.
“What is?”
“The package! A package from Sweden!” Karin ran out and hugged him, then eyed him dubiously. “Are you all right?”
“I am, yes. You never called. Fanny wasn’t here?”
Karin shook her head. “The telephone’s still busted. What about her?”
“She’s gone away with the baby. I’m guessing she’s waiting somewhere for the boy, Jörg. I pressed Medvedev to let him go. We arrested the pastor this morning. Beger. Fanny fled with Frau Dähne.”
Karin raised her hand to her mouth. “The pastor? The one who was helping the children? So Fanny knew—she knew from the beginning? She’s the one who stole that big knife from us, wasn’t she? I, uh, might not have told you . . .”
“Don’t worry about it, Karin. Pastor Beger took all the blame. We’ll talk about it later. I’d like you to go on a walk with me. I just hope Fanny’s managing all right with the baby.”
“She learned quickly. She’ll be able to care for him.”
Heller nodded, lost in thought. Something just wasn’t right. Fanny and Frau Dähne shouldn’t have been able to escape so easily. Both were accessories, if not more. He wondered if they were still in the area. Even though they had fled no more than a couple of minutes before Oldenbusch arrived, they seemed to have vanished. Heller put an arm around Karin’s shoulder. “First let me see what our boy sent. Did he write too?”
Karin perked up a little. “Yes, he’s doing well. You won’t believe it, Max—the only way he can send packages is through Sweden because domestic mail is being held up at the zonal border. He sent coffee and canned food, soap, baking powder, and zwieback.” Excited, she pulled Heller into the kitchen.
Klaus sat at the table in front of the opened package, staring at a can with a label in English. He put it aside when Heller came into the kitchen. “Erwin always was good at arranging things,” Klaus said and smiled, thinking about the brother he’d not seen for more than three years.
Heller looked in fascination at the items his youngest son had sent from the west, then reached for one of the white paper bags and looked inside.
“Klaus, can you look after Frau Marquart for a while?” he asked and carefully closed the bag again. “I need to go see about something with your mother.”
Heller gave the heavy front door a cautious knock, then took two steps back. It was already quite late in the afternoon and growing dark. Since her husband had knocked so timidly and nothing came of it, Karin stepped up to the door and knocked again, this time harder and louder.
They finally heard footsteps, and a stern-looking woman in a nun’s habit opened the door. “Visiting hours are over. You’ll have to come back tomorrow—”
“Good evening.” Before the door slammed in his face, Heller quickly added, “Oberkommissar Heller, I’m a detective.”
The nun’s expression turned friendlier. “Ah, you’re the one we owe all this to? Come on inside. And this is your wife?”
Heller nodded and entered the building with Karin. They stood there hesitantly and waited for the nun to close and lock the door again.
“I’m Sister Martha. That was quite the surprise this afternoon, I can tell you. We were horrified at first, seeing a Russian truck, but then . . . May the good Lord thank you!”
Heller waved a hand in embarrassment, unsure of what he was supposed to say. But Sister Martha didn’t tolerate modesty. She took Heller by the wrist. “We received coal, potatoes, and milk. Rice too, and raisins. I want to show you.”
Heller gently freed himself. “All I did was ask the commandant to give you a little support.”
Sister Martha gazed at him with wide eyes. “Perhaps, but the point is that you did so.”
“Could we see the children?” Karin asked.
“Of course! Come along. We have to go upstairs.” Sister Martha went first, in a hurry, her broad skirt gathered in one hand, the points of her cap bobbing with every step. She quickly made her way along the hallway upstairs. “Our home isn’t very big, but we have plenty of children here. We have to put up the new arrivals in the large dormitory. That way they can stay together at first,” she explained before opening a door. “Attention, children!” she shouted.
Heller let Karin enter first.
“Heavens!” Karin whispered and nearly froze. Heller wasn’t sure where to look first. The large room held at least twenty sleeping arrangements—small beds, cots, and, for the older children, simply straw mattresses on the floor. Twenty pairs of eyes stared up at them.
“Children, say ‘good evening,’” Sister Martha said.
“Good eve-n-ing!” the children said in chorus. They were all washed and had their hair cut. They looked a little wary, as if they weren’t comfortable in walled rooms, as if they still couldn’t believe that something good had happened to them.
“This is the good man who brought us such joy today.”
One of the youngest children ran up to Heller and wrapped her arms around his leg.
“Heavens,” Karin whispered again and bent down to the little blonde girl wearing nothing but rags. She stroked her hair and had to fight back tears.
“We don’t know what her name is or where she came from,” Sister Martha explained. “The Red Cross tracing service has thousands of such cases.”
“May I?” Heller asked and showed the nun the white paper bag he’d brought along.
The nun took a look inside and hesitated at first, then nodded. “Only one each,” she told him. Heller crouched down, reached inside the bag, and took out a cube of sugar. He handed it to the girl, who had probably never seen such a thing in all her life. She took it, though she wasn’t sure what she was supposed to do with it. Heller took another cube out and licked at it. The girl copied him, and her eyes widened.
“Tell Herr Oberkommissar thank you,” the nun whispered, but the girl didn’t hear a word as she was dreamily licking her sugar cube. Now the other children jostled for space around Heller, stretching out their hands.
“Just one each,” Sister Martha told them. “Tell Herr Oberkommissar thank you.”
Heller distributed the sugar cubes into all the little hands while Karin could barely take her eyes off the little girl, who savored the cube with the tip of her tongue, over and over.
Once all the children had received one, Heller gave the bag to the nun. Now one of the older boys was standing next to him, and it took a moment for Heller to recognize him.
“Johann, hello,” Heller said. The boy lowered his head with a hint of a bow, pursing his lips. He stretched out his hand. Sister Martha rustled inside the bag for another sugar cube, but Johann paid no attention to her. He was looking Heller in the eye. Heller finally understood and shook the boy’s hand.
“Thank you, Herr Oberkommissar.” The boy bowed again. Then he stuck his hands in his pockets and went back to his bed.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © 2017 Jens Oellermann
Frank Goldammer was born in Dresden and is an experienced professional painter as well as a novelist. The Air Raid Killer wa
s the first book in his Max Heller series, and A Thousand Devils is the second. Goldammer is a single father of twins and lives with his family in his hometown. Visit him at www.frank-goldammer.de.
ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR
Photo © René Chambers
Steve Anderson is a translator, an editor, and a novelist. His latest novel is Lost Kin (2016). Anderson was a Fulbright Fellow in Munich, Germany. He lives in Portland, Oregon.
www.stephenfanderson.com
A Thousand Devils (Max Heller, Dresden Detective Book 2) Page 28