“He is an evil man,” Gottlieb whispered. “Regina would see Madame Schoennacht only when her husband wasn’t around. I begged Regina to stop working for this woman. Her husband is a big supporter of the Nazis. He hates Jews the way the Austrian does. But Madame was paying her considerable wages. Finally I put my foot down, and Regina agreed. She told me this visit would certainly be the last time because . . .”
“Go on,” Berg urged. “Why was it the last time?”
“Regina told me . . .” He was panting heavily. “Once she saw him just as she was leaving Madame Schoennacht’s apartment. He was staring at her in a very odd way . . . with hate, yes, but hate she could deal with. We deal with hate on a daily basis. No, this was something else.” His skin grew very red as rage passed through his veins. “He was looking at her in a way that a man shouldn’t look at a married woman. . . . My wife was very beautiful, Inspektor.”
“I understand what you’re saying,” Berg told him.
“She didn’t want to go back, but Madame owed her money. I told her to forget about the debt, but Regina would have none of that. Then I told her I would collect the money, but she insisted that she collect it. She was afraid that if Herr Schoennacht saw me trying to collect the money . . . that he would harm me.” Again, his eyes moistened. He looked away, abashed by tears. “And now she’s dead!”
The man broke into strangled sobs, his shoulders heaving as tiny gasps escaped from his throat. There was nothing Berg could do to comfort this man for his terrible loss. He looked at the ceiling as he spoke.
“Your wife was a beautiful woman and a remarkable seamstress. The gown your wife made for Madame Schoennacht was stunning, Herr Gottlieb. I should say that your wife looked stunning in it. Such a beautiful blue ball gown.”
Puzzled, Gottlieb faced Berg. “What do you mean?”
“The murderer must have snatched your wife on her way to the Schoennachts’ house. Because when we found your wife, Herr Gottlieb, she was wearing Madame Schoennacht’s blue gown.”
Gottlieb shook his head vehemently. “Why would my wife . . . a simple woman . . . be wearing a ball gown?”
“I was told that she was delivering it to Madame Schoennacht.”
“Impossible. Regina made that gown for Madame Schoennacht at least a month ago. She no longer had it in her possession. It was the money from the sewing of that very dress that she was trying to collect.”
Suddenly, the absurdity hit Berg. Why was she wearing a gown? It was his turn to be silent. He tried to speak, but there was a catch in his throat. Finally he found his voice. “Madame Schoennacht claimed that Frau Gottlieb had arrived wearing the gown to model it for her.”
Gottlieb was taken aback. “That is simply not true. As I told you, she delivered it a month ago. And she would certainly never wear it anywhere. What if she got it dirty or what if she tore it? No, Inspektor, Regina went over there simply to collect her wages.” His eyes darkened to a smoky gray; his brow furrowed with rage. “The murderous bastard! Both of them! It was easier for them to kill her—and dress her body in the cursed gown—than it was for them to pay her!”
That seemed to be a plausible explanation. Berg said, “Can you think of any reason at all why your wife would be wearing Madame Schoennacht’s blue ball gown?”
“None.” He shook his head, then turned his attention to Berg. “Why are you asking me? Why don’t you ask them?”
“I intend to do just that, Herr Gottlieb. But if they did murder her—and I’m not saying they did—they are not going to admit that the gown was in their possession a month ago. Might your wife have had any receipt of purchase or any kind of note written by Madame Schoennacht that was dated prior to your wife’s death?”
“I don’t know. I have to look. It will take me a while because . . .” He looked around. “Things are in quite a state of upheaval. Bitte, Inspektor. Let me take care of my daughters, and then I will look through my wife’s business papers, I promise you.”
“This is a serious crime, Herr. The sooner we have evidence to reinforce what you claim—a bill of sale, for instance—the sooner we can solve her murder.”
“My wife is dead, Herr Inspektor, but my daughters are still alive. It will take me time to find the bill of sale. I’m begging you . . . allow me to take care of my children, then I promise I will be at your service completely.”
Berg said, “Schoennacht is leaving the city tonight. It would be preferable to have this bill of sale before he goes. You can understand my concerns.”
“Sir, if it were anybody other than my daughters, I’d help you right away. Please, Inspektor, I beg you. Give me a day to get them out of the city before the rally.”
Once again, Gottlieb offered him money. This time, Berg took it.
THIRTY-THREE
After a long day, Berg decided to walk home, hoping that a leisurely constitutional might clear his head. His chosen route was through the Viktualienmarkt, and even though most of the stalls had shut down for the evening, there still were signs of life. Water had been poured over the cement, icing up in some of the colder spots, but the superficial cleansing failed to eliminate the smells. The winds picked up a pungent combination of butchered meat, leftover fish, and overripe vegetables. At this time of year when cooler temperatures prevailed, the place was pleasant even with the strong odors. In the summertime, however, the heat and humidity brought on not only rapid decay of perishables but also insects—flies and gnats—making it mandatory to do one’s marketing early in the day.
Berg found a bakery on the verge of closing and took advantage of the unsold stock, buying a half-dozen kaiser rolls at a reduced price. He ate one as he hobbled across the old city of Munich, careful of his step on the cobblestone walkways, serenaded by the deep oompah, oompah of the tuba inside the Hofbräuhaus.
It took him over forty minutes to get home, and by the time he had climbed to his fourth-floor flat, dinner was nearly over. Britta said that they had waited as long as they could.
“Don’t worry about it.” Berg set the rolls in a basket and brought them to the table. “Just a little butter and jam and tea will do. I’m not hungry tonight.”
Britta sized up her husband, deciding his fatigue came from work rather than infidelity. Still, she glanced at her children and ordered, “Go to your room.” Berg looked at his wife quizzically. She kneaded her hands. “I must talk to your father for a moment.”
“But I’m not done eating,” Monika complained.
“It won’t take long. Go!”
When they hesitated, Berg added, “Listen to your mother.”
Reluctantly, the children left the table, dragging their feet across the floor, clearly displeased by the exclusion. Britta waited until she heard the bedroom door slam shut. “Is it your desire to make me a widow and your children orphans?”
“I’m fine.”
“You look terrible,” she whispered fiercely. “If you don’t take some time off to recuperate, I’m taking the children to my parents’. I can’t control what you do, but I don’t have to watch you destroy yourself. You move through the house like a ghost. It frightens the children.”
She was right. Lord, how his body ached, but what choice did he have? He kept his voice low. “I’ve already taken time off, Britta. More time than I’m entitled to.”
“I don’t care, Axel. We will do without a week’s salary. You need to heal.”
“These aren’t normal circumstances. There is a big rally tomorrow in Königsplatz. The Nazis are joining forces with the BWP. A killer is running loose in Munich. Volker demands results.”
“So let him get them himself. The bastard! He wasn’t beaten to a bloody pulp.” She threw a dishrag on the table, stomped into the kitchen, and began running steamy water into the sink.
Berg sighed aloud, knowing how angry she must be to swear. He rose from the chair and walked over to his wife. Her hair had been tied back, and her face was pink from the wet heat. She wore a long white apron over a simple blue
working dress. Her figure was still youthful, with a firm rear end and curvaceous hips. He looped his arms around her waist and kissed the back of her neck as she scrubbed a pot.
“Get away!”
“Stop being mean.”
She dropped the pot in a pool of hot, soapy water and turned around. “I’m sick of this place, Axel. I’m sick of this town, and most of all, I’m sick of your job!”
“You’ve been very patient, Britta. We’ll catch this man soon. Then it will be better.”
“It will never be better as long as you insist on staying in the Mordkommission! What was wrong with the regular hours of a policeman?”
“It’s mind-numbing, Britta. Spending your days directing traffic and your nights arresting drunks. Now, at least, I use my brain . . . such as it is.”
Despite her anger, Britta smiled. “Your brain works perfectly . . . too well, in fact. There is a problem with being too curious . . . poking your nose into other people’s business. It creates resentment.”
“No one wants to hurt me. I’m too insignificant.”
“I don’t believe that for a moment.” Britta sighed. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but Papa is getting older, Axel. He could use someone smart.”
Alfons Neugebauer, Berg’s father-in-law, owned a sizable printing shop just north of Berlin. Thirty years of hard labor had brought him good money along with permanently blackened hands and lungs filled with poison. “We’ve been through this before, my darling.” He shook his head. “It isn’t possible.”
“Why are you so stubborn?”
“I can’t work with your father.”
“Can’t or won’t?” Her mouth was tight with defiance, her eyes calling for an answer.
He pulled away. “Britta, even if I could work with Papa, I cannot work with your brothers.” He didn’t add: . . . because they are lazy and resentful and my industriousness makes them look bad in their father’s eyes. But she understood the implicit message anyway. She softened her tone. “Papa adores you, Axel. You are more his son than my brothers are. He could help you set something up in Munich.”
“And spend the rest of my days printing flyers announcing upcoming rallies? I would die of boredom.”
“And your solution is to work yourself to death?”
Having no satisfactory answer, he said, “I swear to you . . . after this is over I will look for other work.”
“That’s what you said last time.”
“I did look for work, Britta. The economy is bad. Jobs are scarce! Not to mention that I am thirty-seven and not trained for anything else. What do you want me to do?”
“I’ve already told you what I want. It’s obvious that what I want doesn’t matter. It’s obvious that you’re more interested in excitement than in your own health and the welfare of your family—”
“That is not fair.”
“It may not be fair, but it’s true.” Britta shoved a sponge into his hand. “You can clean up. I’m tired!”
Once again, she stomped off. He jumped when he heard the bedroom door slam. He waited without moving for what seemed like an eternity, hearing nothing but the movement of the grandfather clock . . . a steady tick, tick, tick, tick. Their tiny closet of a kitchen was hot and sticky from the steamy water, and perspiration rolled down Berg’s face. With nothing else to say or do, he began to clear the dishes. A minute later Joachim appeared. Wordlessly, he began to help.
“Save your sister’s plate,” Berg said. “She wasn’t done with her dinner.”
“Is everything all right, Papa?”
“Are you still drawing pictures of bleeding Jews? I’m sure there will be plenty after tomorrow night’s rally.” Joachim winced at his father’s harsh tone. Berg blew out air. He took a deep breath, then kissed the top of his son’s head. “I’m a little irritable tonight.”
“Why do you and Mama fight so much?”
Because that’s what married people do! “We’re both tired, Joachim. We work hard. It makes us grumpy.”
“Why do you have to work so hard? Is it because of the woman-killer?”
Berg was unsure how to respond. “You have read about it in the papers?”
“You don’t need to read the papers. Everyone is talking about it. It scares Mama.”
Berg gathered up an armful of dishes as he tried to muster up a confident tone. “The police will catch him, son.” He lowered the plates into the sink. “He won’t get away.”
“Herr Hitler says it’s the Jews who are murdering the women.”
“Herr Hitler has a stick up his ass.”
Joachim smiled. “That is true, but there still might be merit to what he says.”
“You mustn’t believe anything the Nazis say. They are grandstanders and liars. And what they don’t lie about, they distort. Hitler is a very disturbed man.”
“Maybe it was because he was shot in the war.”
“And I suppose he blames that on the Jews as well?”
Joachim hesitated. “He says that there were traitors among the troops.”
Berg stared at his son. “Since when do you know so much about Hitler?”
The boy looked away. “We have guest lecturers at school.”
“Ah yes,” Berg said. “The ones who ask you which newspapers your parents read.”
“We have lecturers from the Social Democrats as well.”
“And what do you tell the Nazis when they ask you which papers your parents read?”
“I tell them we read everything . . . that my father has an open mind.”
Berg nodded. “That is a fine answer, I think. And how do the Nazis respond?”
“That sometimes a mind can be so open that the brains fall out.”
Despite himself, Berg laughed. “Yes, they would say that.”
Joachim remained serious. “It disturbs me . . . that the Nazis mock anyone who disagrees with them. Sometimes I speak up.” He paused. “But sometimes I don’t.”
Such a huge burden for such a young boy. What times we live in! Berg smiled kindly. “Part of being clever, Joachim, is knowing when to hold one’s tongue.”
“But being clever isn’t the same as doing the right thing.”
“We all make compromises, son.”
“You don’t.”
“Of course I make compromises. It’s easier for me to lecture you about morality than to follow my own advice.”
“I don’t believe that for a moment.”
He spoke with such admiration that Berg felt his eyes go moist. “Thank you, Joachim. I will remember your faith in me the next time my integrity is on the line.” He picked up the sponge and lowered his voice as he lied: “And don’t worry at all about this madman. We are very close to arresting him. But you mustn’t tell anyone because it’s a secret.”
“Papa, he must know you are after him.” Berg shrugged. The boy said, “How do you know that he won’t hurt you before you arrest him?”
“Because . . .” Berg was momentarily stunned by the question. “Because that’s not the way it works.”
“Why not?”
“Because . . .” He attacked a dirty plate, hoping to rinse away the anger. “Just because.”
“That isn’t a very good answer.”
“You’ll just have to trust me, Joachim.” He handed his son a dish towel. “I’ll wash. You dry.”
• • •
SOMEHOW HE MANAGED to make love. It amazed him. Not his physical prowess, that despite his pain and his injuries he could achieve an erection and orgasm—but that Britta always came to him willingly despite her anger.
They never had the problems men typically complain about. Britta was agreeable in bed, warm and enthusiastic—a far better lover than Margot. He strayed not because he lacked desire for his wife. He strayed because of the bitterness of her harsh speech. He strayed because of her disapproving eyes. He strayed because his wife’s flexibility was morally superior to his rigid stubbornness. He strayed because sex with Margot held no demands.
Not that it mattered much why he strayed, just that he did and that infidelity made him feel small. Then he rationalized: All men did it. Maybe he strayed because it was in man’s nature to cheat, lie, and deceive—then to beg for forgiveness in the cold reality of the morning light.
Still, she came to him with a hungry mouth and a supple body.
Even if Britta made love to him out of spite, she seemed to enjoy it. And she always was in a better mood when the sun came up, when dusty beams filtered through their drapes. After the kids went off to school, they usually had a quiet breakfast together—rolls, butter, jam, and fresh coffee. They read the papers and ate. No small talk, but that was fine. Silence was preferable to rancorous words.
• • •
FOR THE MUNICH POLICE, much of the morning was taken up by meetings, headed by RR Frank of Abteilung VI. The main topic was Versammlungswesen—crowd control—for the upcoming rally, specifically, how the department should manage the marchers, deploy personnel, and conduct traffic coming in and out of Königsplatz.
Berg sat at attention, along with the other esteemed members of the police departments, in a dim room lit only by weak electrical lighting and gray skies. There was RR Peter Biedermann from Abteilung III, which dealt with general security. His area of expertise was the Schubwesen—the black market—the biggest problem recently being illegal guns. There was Manfred Koppl from Abteilung IV, the Special Security Police, and Wilhelm Raetz from Abteilung VI, the Special Political Police. There were several men whom Berg didn’t recognize, but that didn’t matter. There was no social interaction; the meeting was all business—cold and tense.
Volker had mapped out the roadblocks, police checkpoints, and emergency routes. Providing that people behaved in an orderly fashion, the rally would come and go and the biggest problem would be the litter from all the leaflets. In the unlikely event of a Nazi-led insurgence, the police would be prepared.
The formal meeting was followed by discussion—an endless barrage of questions and stock answers. Berg felt his thoughts drift off.
Straight into Darkness Page 26