“Twice,” Volker said. “Anna Gross was murdered by her husband.”
“Herr Kommissar,” Berg said, “with all due respect, it might be helpful in the privacy of this room to drop the charade. Anna Gross was strangled, sir. And in all three cases one shoe or a single stocking was taken. So unless Anton Gross came back from the grave to steal Regina Gottlieb’s shoe, we must assume that all the cases are related.”
“Two women, three women . . .” Kolb rolled his cane back and forth in the palms of his hands. “There could be ten others that we don’t know about. At the root of it all, this man clearly hates his mother.”
“All men hate their mothers, Herr Professor,” Volker said. “She is supposed to be the ultimate virgin, yet she screwed your father, making her the ultimate whore. But civilized men don’t go around murdering their mothers, even soldiers with blood on their hands—which happens to be most of us.”
“People have different ways of integrating the war experience,” Kolb said, “especially if they have a predilection for a certain kind of expression, if you will. Artists such as Otto Dix paint their war experiences, writers write about them, composers create discordant symphonies . . . and those sick individuals with damaged upbringings, those who are inclined toward the darker side, they express their experiences by doing what they have to do . . . which is to murder.”
Volker said, “I can’t believe that you are comparing murder with a painting or a composition.”
Berg remembered Gross and Druer, how odd it was that their hair had been combed outward as if framing their faces. Murder as art? He said nothing.
“I’m not comparing it, Kommissar, I’m just remarking that those with a particular slant express the horrors of a bitter life or of war in their own specific ways. If he had murderous impulses because of his mother to begin with, war may have brought them out.”
Berg said, “Just look how similar Otto Dix’s war paintings are to his Lustmord series of rape and sexual murder.”
“If I hated my mother that much, I would just kill her,” said Volker. “Freud and his theories are pure rubbish. What would you expect from a Jew and an Austrian?”
“It isn’t only the Jew who talks about the subconscious, Kommissar,” Kolb said. “Carl Jung isn’t Jewish. As a matter of fact, he has no love whatsoever for Jews. Yet his theories also are predicated on subconscious motivations of the destrudo.”
Berg said, “What exactly is this destrudo you refer to?”
Kolb smiled. “Freud postulated that every individual has a life force, conscious or otherwise, that motivates him or her to act in a prescribed way. This life force he called the libido. But then, after the tremendous havoc of the Great War, Freud was left with a paradox: how to incorporate into his theories the terrible death and destruction he had lived through. He was left to conclude that, in counterpoint to the life force or libido, everyone must also harbor a death force called the destrudo. And in some individuals, it doesn’t take a war to unleash this death force. Just look at the NSDAP. Everything about civilized life seems to unleash the destrudo in Hitler’s men.”
“How does this theory help us solve our crimes?” Berg asked.
“A very good question, Herr Inspektor. Let us analyze what we know. This fiend has murdered, but not in a random way. Two of the three women were rich. The latest, Frau Gottlieb, appeared to be rich because of her fine dress. Since the fiend hates his mother and is murdering rich women instead of his mother, one might postulate that his mother is rich.”
“So you’re saying he’s a man of means?” Volker said.
“Possibly. Or it could be just the opposite.” Kolb shook his cane in the air. “He could have come from an impoverished background. He could have hated all women of means, and that’s why he’s killing them.”
“In which case he wouldn’t be killing his mother,” Volker said. “She would be poor like him. If he hated her, he would be killing poor women. So you have contradicted yourself.”
“Not so, Herr Kommissar Volker, he still could be killing his mother and resentful of rich women at the same time. Whatever his background, rich or poor, this man clearly thinks himself a gentleman or, at least, is masquerading as one. The man who called upon Anna Gross, the flowery letter to Marlena Druer . . . everything points to a man of refined tastes.”
“We knew that from day one,” Volker said. “The man who accompanied Anna Gross into the theater was either a real gentleman or a Hochstapler. We know that we’re not dealing with some thug in the NSDAP.”
“The NSDAP has some wealthy supporters,” Berg said. “Some of their leaders are doctors, military men . . . some come from money.”
Volker said, “Are you implying that one of the NSDAP leaders is a murdering fiend?”
Berg said, “I’m just pointing out a fact.”
“Which brings us to another potential motive,” Kolb said. “Anna Gross had once flirted with Kommunismus. The letter to Marlena Druer from a man named Robert suggested that the two of them were on some kind of political mission. So let’s refine our parameters. We have to consider that this might be a man who justifies his violence in political terms even though the subconscious motivation is hatred of his mother.”
“He is sounding like the Austrian,” Berg said.
Volker leveled his eyes at his chief Inspektor. “A word to the wise, Axel. You should watch your words, especially around the station house where NSDAP has many followers.”
Berg was unperturbed. “I’m just saying that fanatics have often used politics to justify murder. Look at Fememord. A stupid farm girl who had the audacity to obey the law and report a hidden stash of illegal guns. For her efforts, she was murdered.”
“Axel, we’ll never truly know why Amalie Sandmeyer was murdered. Furthermore, we seem to have digressed from one ridiculous conversation to another.”
“Yet, Kommissar, you cannot deny that there are senseless murders committed by fanatics,” Kolb said. “Sometimes by fanatics who are even gentlemen.”
“Count Anton Arco-Valley,” Berg said.
“Exactly!” Kolb said in triumph.
“We have no indication that Arco-Valley hated his mother,” Volker said flatly. “Only that he hated Kurt Eisner.”
“Yes, that is true,” Kolb said. “But we do know that he was a rabid anti-Semite, which is why he killed a Jew. You murder what you hate unless what you hate you cannot murder because of societal taboos. Yes, yes, I would say that most definitely we are looking for a man with fanatical political convictions who hates his mother.”
“He is sounding more and more like Hitler,” Berg taunted Volker. “And before you quiet me, sir, I ask you to look at the facts. The Austrian is political. He is also a bastard, and that is definitely a good reason to resent your mother. Lastly, the Austrian fancies himself an artist.”
“That is absurd,” Volker said. “It is one thing to strike at your political enemies, but quite another to murder helpless women.”
“Regina Gottlieb was Jewish, Anna Gross was married to a Jew, and Hitler is a rabid anti-Semite.” Berg shrugged. “The leap is not a big one.”
Volker was seething. “We are not, in any way whatever, going to implicate Herr Hitler in these murders, do you understand that!”
“I’m not saying you should, Herr Kommissar,” Kolb answered flatly. “We are just having an intellectual discussion that hopefully will aid you in catching this monster. This monster will not stop killing—especially since Anton Gross was assumed to be the murderer of his wife. The killer thinks he got away with it! He’s probably laughing at the police right now; at their stupidity and incompetence in arresting the wrong man.”
“I hardly think that is the case.” Enraged, Volker clenched his teeth.
“On the other hand,” Kolb said, “it could be that he is angry that no one has given him credit for his murders. Maybe he’s like his predecessor in London, Jack the Ripper. I fear that our fiend is a compulsive murderer. Furthermore, he wants a
ttention for his evil deeds and will not stop until he has this attention.”
Berg said, “So until we catch him, there will be more murders.”
No one spoke for a moment, leaving the statement unanswered. But of course, everyone knew the answer. Why bother with the obvious?
TWENTY-EIGHT
Refusing transportation, Berg limped home through a dense fog that had settled on the streets, pinpricks of drizzle tickling his nose and eyelashes. The heavy mist made him feel invisible yet strong, as if he were moving through the ether of heaven. As he huddled in the warmth of his thick woolen overcoat, he thought about three young murdered women whose commonality centered on beautiful attire. Tomorrow he would interview Frau Julia Schoennacht, the woman who had identified Regina Gottlieb, although he harbored little hope of attaining relevant information. The wealthy regarded servants as nothing more than conveniences like electricity or a car . . . or the police. Hired help was there to be used when necessary, then safely stowed away and out of sight at all other times. Even if Frau Schoennacht talked, it was highly unlikely that she knew anything about Regina other than the fact that she could sew.
As he struggled up the four flights of steps to his flat, Berg broke into a sweat. His apartment was dimly lit, one lone bulb flickering over the dining table. The rest of his home was shrouded in darkness. Joachim bolted up when his father walked in.
“Papa!” He ran to Berg, pulling up loose pajama bottoms that fell from thin boyish hips. He helped his father off with his coat. “Can I make you some tea?”
“Tea sounds good.” Berg wiped his face with a handkerchief. “Everyone else is sleeping?”
Joachim nodded, then went to the stove and placed the kettle on the burner, stoking the dormant fire underneath.
Casually, Berg checked the hod: down to the halfway mark. The coal situation was still shaky. Perhaps he could do without hot tea. Sensing his father’s concern, Joachim said, “The water’s warm, Papa. It won’t take long.”
“That’s good.” Berg went over to the table and sat down, rubbing his eyes, then looking down. His son had been drawing with leftover coal bits, broad strokes in black on discarded newspaper. The execution was impeccable; the subject matter was disturbing.
A group of hoodlum boys wearing Nazi armbands beating up an old man who was obviously meant to be Jewish—the hooked nose, the bulging eyes, the prominent forehead, and the satanic grin. The drawing was all the more disturbing because although the Jew was a cartoon, the boys were sketched with realism. So was the blood dripping from the Jew’s mouth.
Joachim brought over two cups of tea but only one lump of sugar. Britta must be rationing provisions. Berg gave his son the sugar.
“No, Papa, it’s for you.”
“I insist,” Berg said. “I’m not in the mood for a sweet drink anyway.”
The boy studied his father but took the lump, dissolving it in the dusky water and stirring it with a small silver spoon.
“What made you draw this?” Berg picked up the sketch.
“Do you like it?” Joachim asked anxiously.
“Should I like it?”
The boy didn’t answer.
“Your skill is undeniable. But why this?”
“I don’t know, Papa. I guess I draw what I see. What stays in my head.”
“You saw some kids beating up an old man?” Joachim didn’t answer. “They should be reported to the police. These boys are hoodlums.”
Joachim looked at his father. A new expression in his eyes: a hint of defiance. “If they were arrested, there would be others to take their places.”
“And that justifies such cruelty?”
“I don’t justify it, Papa. I was not one of those who did the beating. I merely record what I see.”
Berg sipped his tea, curbing the anger welling up in his breast. “And when did this take place?”
“Every day scenes like this take place,” Joachim answered. “And it takes place everywhere. They should just leave.”
“Who? The Jews?”
“Yes, the Jews. It would make life simple for them and for us.”
“You think that would be the answer to Germany’s woes?”
The boy looked his father in the eyes. Again with defiance, a little stronger this time: “If I was not wanted in a place, I would not stay. It would not be good for me.”
“And where should they go?” Berg asked.
“Back to where they came from,” Joachim said.
“And where is that?”
“I don’t know . . . Palestine, I suppose. Let them be a problem for the Turks or the British.”
“But many were born here. Many have parents and grandparents who were born here.”
“It still doesn’t mean they are German. And many of them were not born here. They take away jobs from our people, Papa. They take up places in the universities. They own the banks and cheat people. They open shops and charge outrageous sums of money for simple provisions.”
“I see. . . .” Berg nodded. “Does this extend to your science teacher, Professor Gelb, and your art teacher, Frau Sonnenschein? Should they leave as well?”
Joachim knit his brow, troubled by this information. He liked his teachers, so he didn’t answer. Instead, he said, “I know you do not approve of Herr Hitler. You think he is a thug, and maybe he is. Still, if we don’t stand up for ourselves, who will stand up for us?”
“And who is trying to keep us down, Joachim?”
The boy was silent.
“As painful as it is to admit,” Berg said, “the fault cannot lie exclusively with the Jews. Nor does it lie with the foreigners, the Gypsies, the Kommunisten, or even with the inept rulers in Berlin. At some point, we—and by we, I mean the German people—must take responsibility for our own messes. We were driven to war by our ambitions, Joachim. We are fierce warriors, and we have always been compelled to conquer. This is not a bad quality . . . that we go to war for the pride of our Fatherland. But we must accept when our ambition oversteps our abilities. I was there, son. I wore a uniform and marched shoulder to shoulder with my countrymen on foreign soil, where over a million of our men are buried in mass graves because the enemy refused to let us bring the bodies home for proper burial. We went to war . . . and we lost. And that, my dear son, is not the fault of the Jews.”
Joachim looked away.
“It is a national tragedy that we have been shamed, yes. That we have a puppet government that bleeds us dry, and that we have to pay enormous sums of money to countries we detest. But isn’t it equally a national tragedy that we have yet to realize that we brought such shame upon ourselves?”
Again, the boy didn’t respond.
“And the biggest national tragedy is that we will probably go to war again.” Berg finished his tea, then held up the picture. “These boys are nothing but cowards, picking on old men. Stay away from them and stay away from Hitler.” He stood and kissed the top of his son’s head, a mop of flaxen locks. “Turn off the light and dampen the coals before you go to sleep.”
The boy nodded. “Papa, how can you shun the next leader of our country?”
Berg stared at his son. “You think he will be chancellor?”
“Yes, I do, Papa. I do think he will be chancellor.”
“Then that would be yet another national tragedy.”
• • •
IN A RARE DISPLAY of civic optimism, the sun decided to shine. It was a beautiful morning to go walking, and there wasn’t a better area to stroll than Bogenhausen with its parks, flower gardens, and cafés. It was primarily a residential area; the houses were newer, roomy, and detached, sitting on their own private lots. Since Paris was still the rage, many of the homes were built with modern Art Decorative motifs gracing the exteriors. Sometimes the architecture worked, and sometimes the houses wound up looking like stucco wedding cakes. Still, the air was pleasant and the streets hummed with activity, the cable cars snaking through the area, clanging their music against a blue sky tufte
d with clouds.
On Prinzregenten Strasse, Berg passed the newly constructed Brown House, Hitler’s edifice and the official offices of the NSDAP. Conceived by the famous architect Paul Ludwig Troost, the building sat on one of the most beautiful streets in the neighborhood. In all honesty, the structure did have some style, but the color was insipid—not dark enough to be espresso and too dark to be mocha. The result was a hue as dull and lifeless as a turd, an indication of what lay inside.
The Schoennachts lived in an apricot-colored two-story home trimmed with multipaned windows framed by green shutters. Peaked gables jutted out of the red tiled roof, and privacy was provided by a hedge of trimmed Italian cypress trees that encircled a good-sized lot. A stone walkway led to a carved walnut door more suitable for Gothic architecture than this simple country house, but old traditions died hard—true also of politicians who extolled a past glory that never was.
A maidservant answered Berg’s knock. She was young and pudgy with dark hair plaited into two braids. Her thick Austrian accent was almost indecipherable. After Berg explained who he was, he could barely understand her response. But her affect suggested that whatever he wanted, the answer was no.
Berg peeked around her shoulders, trying to see inside. From what he could ascertain, the interior was light, bright, and filled with modern furniture. “Actually, Fräulein, this isn’t a request. I must talk to the lady of the house.”
“That is not possible.”
“It is an urgent matter, Fräulein.” He gave the servant girl his calling card. “It concerns a murder.”
At the mention of murder, the young girl gasped and shut the door. Berg could hear running footsteps fading away. He sighed and knocked on the door once again. This time a tall, peevish-looking gentleman answered, twirling the calling card in his hand. He wore a smoking jacket, slacks, and leather slippers, and an ascot was tied around his neck.
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