“What do you mean?”
“I was at the Nazi rally tonight. I was angry with Volker because instead of repudiating Hitler, the bastard appeased him. And when I called him on it, he told me to go visit my little whore. Which accomplished two things: telling me that he has been with you and that he knows where I am.” He let out a bitter laugh. “Why do I feel he is setting me up? That as soon as I walk out those doors, I am going to be attacked again.”
Margot swallowed hard. Again, he deftly parted the slats. This time he saw three of them—Hitler’s boys in their silly uniforms, loitering in the darkened lane.
“There are hoodlums out there. Perhaps Volker is trying to kill me.”
“That’s absurd, Axel. You are his most important Inspektor. He tells me that all the time. He tells me to keep you happy.”
“Maybe it’s to keep me off-guard.”
“Off-guard about what?”
The answer was obvious. Berg let the slats go. “To keep me off-guard . . . because perhaps . . . he is the killer!”
“What are you talking about?”
“He speaks English; he could speak Russian as well. He certainly is urbane. He is tall. He killed those two women. And he knows I am getting close. So he sends his nephew to do his dirty work!” He leaned against the wall, his back stiffening in pain. “Mein Gott, how could I be so stupid!”
“Axel, if Volker had wanted you dead, you’d be dead!”
“I was beaten nearly to death, Margot. Volker is now choosing to finish the job.” He looked at her with desperate eyes. “Is there a way to leave this dump without passing through the front door?”
“There is a fire escape—”
“He probably has his boys out there as well.”
“Axel, you’re not making sense!”
His eyes bored into hers. “Margot, what if they come here . . . inside this room?”
“But the door is locked—”
“You don’t think three big boys could break it down with a simple push?”
Margot blurted out, “There’s a trapdoor under the bed. The girls use them in case of raids.”
“Show me!”
The shrill sound of a police whistle broke through their conversation. Berg could hear the rapid clops of shoes hitting the pavement. Margot got up and looked out the window. “The police are chasing the hooligans down the street. Come and see for yourself.”
Berg peered through the slats. In the muted glow of the streetlights he caught sight of two uniformed men running after Hitler’s youthful followers.
“Don’t I have enough to worry about without you frightening me?” Margot scolded him. “Volker is many things, but he is not illogical. Why would he kill his number-one man? The beating has affected your brain. You need a holiday.”
Volker had told him the same thing. Were the two of them in cahoots with each other? Idiotic to be that nervous, but something was rotten.
What had Volker said to him about Margot this evening? Something about her not being welcome in the city much longer. Was Volker trying to warn him that his association with the Jewess would put him in danger, or was the Kommissar trying to get rid of him so he could have her to himself?
And his comment about pilfering . . . Had Volker known that he had stolen money from Marlena Druer’s strongbox? Had the Kommissar known because he had killed her? Yet, Volker looked nothing like the man in the sketch. But what did that mean? Ulrich had said it right: The sketch could be any one of a thousand men.
Berg’s body was racked with pain. He needed time to sort it out. He hated to admit it, but Volker was right. Margot was right. Britta was right.
He needed a holiday.
TWENTY-FIVE
Britta had always loved the mountains, whether it was skiing on the slopes, biking through one of the picturesque hamlets, exploring old castles, or hiking on a sinuous upland trail in crisp alpine air. Her smile was immediate, as soon as she stepped off the train onto the platform in Garmisch, her eyes looking skyward at the magnificent granite ridges that kissed the crystalline heavens. Spring had laid a soft verdant canopy over the hills, the pines spiraling upward, trees abloom with fragrant perfume, crocuses and daffodils poking green noses out of the patches of residual snow.
Sipping hot spiced cider, Berg tried to quell his anxiety as he watched his family skiing on Zugspitze. He tried to leave his work behind as they hiked through glorious woods with his son holding his arm. They slowly traversed overgrown pathways and secret trails or walked through the old Roman city of Partenkirchen. They chose to stay at a small rooming house on the outskirts of town. In the morning, the kitchen served fresh rolls and butter, ham and cheese, and poppy-seed cakes, as well as hot coffee and tea. Dinner was shredded pork and dumplings or homemade sausages and sauerkraut. At night, the family slept in feather beds on feather pillows, and dreams were often as sweet as the air they breathed. Honey-coated reveries . . . except for the nightmare.
The lone nightmare.
Dark and brooding . . . Berg chased by shadows and specters, formless and infinite. There was only one direction: an endless road with no escape. No choice except to go forward, to run until the stinging of his lungs and the cramping in his belly gave way to buckled knees. Just as he was falling, he woke up out of breath, sweat covering his face despite the mountain chill that had permeated the windows. Britta asked what was wrong, but Berg couldn’t answer. He finally coaxed his wife back to sleep, but he lay awake, his vigilance marked by heightened distrust.
Yet, despite his anger at Volker, Margot, Hitler, and all of Munich, despite his suspicions and anxieties, Berg had come to realize that the holiday was indeed curative. It provided the necessary cement for his fractured marriage and a balm for his troubled children, who often viewed him with confusion and a small dose of fear. On the train ride home, Britta and Monika slept, lulled by the clacking of locomotive wheels against metal track. But Joachim stayed awake, occupied by his sketchbook, his hand moving quickly and precisely even when the train jostled them as it made turns through the mountains. Berg peered down at his son’s latest creation, done in swift, thick charcoal strokes that captured the blurred landscape from the railcar window.
Berg unwrapped a sandwich of cold pork and onions on pumpernickel bread covered with butter. He offered half to his son, but Joachim refused with a shake of his head.
“I’m not hungry.” The boy displayed blackened fingers. “I first need to wash my hands.”
“Nonsense.” Berg wrapped half of the sandwich in paper. “You need food for muscle growth. You must eat.”
Dutifully, Joachim took the sandwich. “I’ll eat when I’m done.”
“An interesting statement,” Berg said. “How do you know when you’re done?”
Joachim’s eyes slowly moved to his father’s face. “How do you know when you’re done?”
Berg stroked his chin. The lump had receded to a small, firm knot. “I believe I am done when I have nothing more to add. The work may not be exactly what I want. But adding new material will not help. So I surrender to my imperfections, curse my inability to translate to the brush what is in my head, and say, ‘I quit.’”
Joachim nodded.
“That is the frustrating part,” Berg added. “To see it so clearly in my brain but lack the skills to put it down on canvas.”
Again, Joachim nodded. He continued to sketch even as they spoke. Berg wondered what was on his son’s mind—a beautiful boy in his budding adolescence. He could truly be a lady-killer except that his personality was too kind to break hearts.
“You didn’t answer my question, son. How do you know when you’re done?”
Joachim’s brow furrowed as he took his thumb and rubbed it against the charcoal, smudging trees and mountains to create the illusion of motion. “I used to know when I was done with a drawing because I felt happy.”
“Like your flower painting hanging in the common room.”
“Exactly.” Joachim regarded his father. “B
ut lately, I feel less and less content with my work. I think it is because I’m getting older. Things that satisfy you as a child are no longer acceptable when you are competing in an adult world.”
Berg had no response. Sadness overwhelmed him. Why should his little boy feel so burdened? Maybe it was because Berg never set a very good example. “Eat your sandwich, Joachim.”
The boy shrugged as he placed the cover of the pad over his latest endeavor. He picked up the sandwich nestled in paper and took a bite.
Lunch took ten minutes. Father and son ate in silence.
• • •
THE SMELL of a shoulder roast sizzling in the Dutch oven, stewing in beer, apples, and cabbage: the smell of Sunday dinner. A trickle of hot air came in through the radiator, although the pipes clanged as if they were filled by volcanic eruption. Luckily, the heat from the stove provided additional warmth. Britta’s hair was sprinkled with white flour she used to make her special Sabbath concoction—pear cake with walnuts. A sense of normalcy had infused Berg’s life. He was married, he had children, he had a job, he was a good German citizen. Thoughts of Margot’s firm body, her throaty laughter, and her moist womanhood brought distant tingles that subsided as fast as they developed.
If Volker wanted her, he could have her.
Still, she was lovely.
Britta called them to the table. She had just plattered the roast when the noises started—the pling, pling, pling of rocks hitting the side of the building. Berg leaped up and went to the closet, pulling down his hunting rifle.
“That’s it!”
“Axel, don’t be stupid!” Britta shouted.
“No more!” Berg threw open the window. It was Lothar. The little thug was alone this time. Imagine that! He had the gall and the gumption to torment Berg without his usual band of punks. Berg drew back the spring loader and aimed between the punk’s eyes. “Move and you’re a dead boy!”
“Axel, are you out of your mind?” Britta shrieked.
“Papa, stop,” pleaded Joachim as he yanked at his father’s arm. “Please stop!”
Words screamed from down below carried through the open window. “Don’t shoot, don’t shoot, don’t shoot!”
The begging gave Berg pause. But he kept the crosshairs aimed at the kid’s face. He could afford to be bold: The rifle wasn’t loaded. “You have one minute to explain yourself!”
“I’m not Lothar, I’m not Lothar.” The boy was out of breath, panting and gasping. As if he had run crosstown before coming here to torment. “I am Lothar’s younger brother, Friedrich.”
“I don’t care who you are,” Berg shouted back. “If you move a muscle, I will shoot you.”
“Please don’t shoot me.” Tears in the boy’s voice. “I didn’t know how to get into the building. I tried the front door, but it is locked. There is no doorman. I needed to get your attention. I was sent here to fetch you for my uncle. If I go back and you don’t come with me, Uncle will beat me.”
“Uncle?” Berg swallowed. “You mean Volker?”
“Yes, yes, Uncle Martin. He needs to see you immediately!”
Berg steadied the gun on Friedrich’s face. “How do I know you are not tricking me? That as soon as I come down to the street, you and your brother and all your hooligan friends won’t beat me up?”
Friedrich hung his head. “Lothar is dead.”
Berg’s hand started shaking. “Dead?”
“This past week. He was trampled underneath a runaway horse. It was a terrible accident. I swear this is all the truth.” The boy was sobbing. “Please don’t shoot me!”
Slowly, Berg lowered the eyepiece of the rifle from his vision. “Go tell your uncle I will be there in thirty minutes. Physical limitations caused by my last thrashing make it hard for me to bike. I must walk and that takes time.” Berg drew the gun inside the window. “Go on, you little twit, off with you!”
The boy paused, then took off like a lightning bolt.
Britta said, “What about a streetcar?”
Berg sat down at the table and laid a napkin on his lap. “I want to eat first. Fortify my belly for what has to be bad news.”
Dinner was an awkward, silent affair. Afterward, Joachim helped his father walk down four flights of stairs. Berg waved and began to limp his way to the streetcar.
Trampled by a horse.
Volker had taken care of the problem.
It was a forte of his.
TWENTY-SIX
Because it was Sunday, the police station was quiet, and the office of the Mordkommission extraordinarily so. Very few Inspektoren worked weekends. The few crimes that were committed revolved around drunken fistfights at beer halls rather than premeditated felonies, minor things that could easily be handled by uniformed policemen. So Volker must have been particularly upset to disturb Berg during the traditional Sabbath dinner.
Not only had the Kommissar called him, but also he had summoned two Mordkommission Inspektoren. Rudolf Kalmer was standing against the wall and clicked his heels when Berg entered. Sixty and as thin as asparagus, Kalmer had been a soldier in the Kaiser’s army and was disciplined and duty-bound. He was also resentful that he had not been included in Berg’s personal triad. Heinrich Messersmit was also nearing sixty. A gray-haired man with sloping shoulders and seven children, he was putting in the hours until his youngest daughter married. He had a small lakeside cabin in the mountains near Austria and was there more than here.
The Kommissar was dapper but looked anything but calm, as evidenced by a clenched jaw. He pointed to the chair across from his desk. Berg sat and looked around the well-appointed office. What was particularly noteworthy was Volker’s desktop. It held an electric lamp, a calendar, an ornate inkwell and several pens, a letter opener, a letter hook, and a pen wiper. But it was clear of paperwork except for a lone file, which the Kommissar pushed across the leather surface until it was within Berg’s reach.
“Read.”
It was a Kriminalakte, a crime folder, dated eight days ago when Berg had been in the middle of his two-week holiday. Inspektoren Kalmer and Messersmit had been assigned to this case, that of a missing woman. She was a thirty-six-year-old Jewish immigrant named Regina Gottlieb. Terrible but not wholly unusual. Immigrants frequently fought among one another, with fists, with knives, sometimes even with contraband guns. Unemployment was high. Men without work had nothing better to do than beat their women. Sometimes they beat them to death, deeply burying the evidence of their misdeeds.
Berg scanned the pages. Her husband had reported her missing the night before the date on the file. He told the police that Regina had gone out to see her employer and hadn’t returned. Her husband claimed that this was very worrisome. “What exactly am I looking for? Is her husband a suspect in her disappearance?”
“We questioned him,” Kalmer said defensively. “Nothing points in that direction.”
“Are there any other missing Jewesses besides this woman?” Berg queried.
“Why do you ask?” Kalmer questioned.
“It’s a logical question, Rudolf. Of late, the Jews have been victimized.”
“No one else is missing,” Messersmit answered, “but several Jews have been murdered.”
“Nothing unusual,” Kalmer added. “A couple of old Jew shop owners. One was taken from his store and beaten to death. The other one was found in the street, also beaten to death. Also, a religious Jude was stabbed in the neck. He survived, but was unable to identify his assailants. They attacked him from behind.”
“Hitler’s boys are suspected,” Messersmit said.
“Suspected but not arrested,” Berg responded.
“Until we can match a specific type of blood for each specific individual, we are at a severe disadvantage in our attempts to find the correct culprit,” Volker said.
“They’re our cases, Axel,” Kalmer stated. “We’ll get to the bottom of it.”
“Progress is slow,” Messersmit said flatly. “The Nazis won’t talk to us, but neither will
the Jews. If they don’t help themselves, what can the police do?”
Berg didn’t answer, feeling a knot inside his stomach. Surely they could do better.
“Actually Heinrich is being modest.” Volker laid a hand on Messersmit’s shoulder. “The case was moving forward. There were a few boys who seemed logical as suspects. Then, my poor nephew met a terrible fate. I decided that it would not have been polite form to question Lothar’s friends at his funeral.”
Berg said, “But perhaps we can question them now?”
Kalmer glared at him. “Perhaps Heinrich and I can question them now.”
“Unfortunately, Axel, we have other things to think about.” Volker produced another folder. This one was a Mordakte—a homicide file dated four days ago. He handed it to Berg.
With trepidation, Berg leafed through the file. The deceased had been a young white woman dressed in evening wear. He looked up and locked eyes with Volker. “Another one?”
“Read on.”
Professor Kolb had listed the cause of death as massive hemorrhage. Then Berg’s eyes widened. “Her corpse was found in the Englischer Garten?”
The room’s silence answered his question. Again, Berg controlled his temper. “Why wasn’t I informed immediately?”
“Because the woman turned out to be Regina Gottlieb and she is our case!” Kalmer stated.
“Her death is obviously related to the others,” Berg stated.
“You mean related to Marlena Druer,” Volker said. “Anna Gross was murdered by her husband.”
Don’t insult my intelligence. Berg said, “I should have been told about this immediately!”
“The point is, Axel, you’re being told about it now.” Volker narrowed his eyes. “That is why you are here instead of at home enjoying your family dinner. I’d like you to look into this case and see if this murder is indeed related to the murder of Marlena Druer. It will take the burden off Kalmer and Messersmit so they can proceed with murdered Jews.”
Both men’s expressions were as puckered as prunes, but neither argued with Volker. The Kommissar was ripping the most intriguing case from their hands. Berg realized the sensitivity of the situation. It was time for humility.
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