“One thing is clear. Schoennacht’s a liar and a stupid one at that. He should have squared away his story with his valet before he left the country.” Berg tightened his scarf around his neck. He had gone out without a hat, and the chill had penetrated through his helmet of curls and cut into his scalp. “It shows that their communication is very poor. From what Dittmar told us, Schoennacht had plenty of time to kill Regina.”
“Or,” Müller said, “Schoennacht could have been with his Mystics of the North at Osteria Bavaria the entire evening.”
“The story is easy enough to verify.” Berg checked his watch, looking west at the sinking sun. “Right now, we don’t have time. Volker wants us back in an hour. Let’s try to talk with the staff at the restaurant tomorrow night.”
“Are you suggesting dinner?” Storf said. “Who will pay?”
Müller pulled out an empty pants pocket.
Berg shook his head. “How about an after-dinner drink, then?”
“If Hitler doesn’t monopolize the place, that sounds fine. Can you walk, Axel, or should we take a cab?”
“Walking is good for me, especially when it’s cold. Otherwise I freeze up.” After a minute, Berg said, “What do you think about Schoennacht’s clubs? The weird one . . . the Mystics of the North? Have either of you heard of it?”
Storf said, “Sounds like another secret Aryan society like the Thule.”
Berg said, “I don’t know why the Germans insist on romanticizing Norse culture. When is the last time Norway did something important?”
Müller said, “They have beautiful women.”
“Some of them are. Some are as big as lumberjacks.”
“What do you have against Norway?” Storf asked.
“Nothing. It’s just that Denmark is superior to the rest of Scandinavia. Why not idolize the Danes?”
“Present company included?”
“If you must.”
Müller said, “And didn’t you say, Berg, that the Swedes think the Danes speak as if they have razor blades in their throats?”
“That’s the German influence.”
Storf said, “Tell me, Axel. When was the last time Denmark did anything important?”
Berg stopped walking. “The Danes would do a lot better if other countries stopped invading them.”
“That’s because Denmark is weak and insubstantial.”
“No, that’s because Germany has a lust to dominate.”
Storf snorted. “If you hate Germany so much, why don’t you go back to Denmark?”
Before he retorted, Berg thought about the words hurled at him. He was surprised by his answer. “Actually, Ulrich, I would not want to live in Denmark. It’s too cold, it’s too dark in the wintertime, it’s very small and isolated, and the cuisine is not to my taste. I may have been born in Denmark, and I may have some Danish attitudes, but I am decidedly German. I live in Munich, and no doubt I will die in this city unless our future rulers decide to drag us into war again.”
“I’ll be too old by then.” Müller looked at Berg. “So will you.”
“Thank God for that.” Berg tightened his scarf. “I can think of no worse curse than to be buried in an anonymous grave on foreign soil.”
THIRTY-FIVE
It wasn’t so much the cold as the stiffness. Berg was warm enough under his long uniform coat, with his hands gloved and his feet encased in woolen socks and thick boots, but his limbs and digits felt as rigid as steel. The Föhn was blowing from the Alps, a malevolent cold wind that swelled the sinuses and dried the throat. Several times his police cap was nearly lifted from his head. Yet the chill and the damp did little to discourage the crowd.
The stage for the speakers had been set on the Propyläen—the gateway of western Munich—a massive structure of Doric architecture built under the reign of Ludwig I. Constructed of limestone block, with its symmetrical columns and pillars and friezes, the monument to a former king could have found a comfortable home in sunny Athens rather than drizzly Munich. In front of the monolith was an immense expanse of green lawn. At the moment it seemed that every square meter of Königsplatz—every blade of grass—was covered by a congealed mass of dark-garbed humanity. Berg saw people from all walks of life, but in the main, the crowd was brimming with the everyday Münchener taking time off to hear a lunatic rant. Far more ominous than the ordinary citizens were the growing clusters of Brownshirts, especially around the podium. So far things were orderly. Still, it was worrisome with so many people in so concentrated a space.
The cacophony of hundreds of conversations blended into one loud hum. In the background, Berg could make out the clanging of streetcars and an occasional blaring automobile horn. Adding color and spice to the human density were the uniformed opposition groups standing on the periphery. To Berg’s left were fifty or so black-shirted men sporting the Kommunist accoutrements of red bow ties and red caps, conferring with one another, whispering trade secrets. The Social Democrats in their green shirts and black pants had stationed themselves to his right. It would be chore enough trying to control Hitler’s hoodlums, but a confrontation between parties would surely throw everything into disorder.
As the hour grew nearer to the rally’s start time, there were visible signs of tension among the ranks, the policemen rocking from foot to foot, nightsticks in hand, eyes nervously scanning for trouble. The sight of so many officials represented an imposing display of authority. No one was spared from an appearance. Not only did Volker have his assignment, but so also did Direktor Max Brummer and Kommandant Stefan Roddewig, no doubt under direct orders from Scharnagl, Mantel, and Schlussel. The paramilitary bureaucrats were stationed near the podium, although none of them were dressed in police uniform.
Being limited physically, Berg had the good fortune and the convenience of his Kraftrad, providing him with a quick way to disperse crowds and break up melees. He leaned against it protectively.
Suddenly a low bellow emanated from the crowd, a moan that strengthened and gathered until it coalesced into a dull-pitched roar. Berg looked over his shoulder. The Nazis were coming, marching four across in perfect step from Luisen Strasse toward the square. They wore brown uniforms with jackets cinched at the waist, knee-high boots, and matching brown police caps. They held square black banners, with the NSDAP Hakenkreuz emblazoned in a white circle in the middle. Above the swastika was the word Deutschland, and below it the word Erwache—awake!
And awake the people did. The crowd began to cheer in full force. In response to the cheering, the opposition parties began to chant. Their volume was minimal in comparison, but Berg could hear the protests because he was stationed nearby.
Kein Hitler! Kein Krieg!
(No Hitler! No war!)
Dieser Führer wird führen . . . in den Krieg uns führen!
(This leader will lead . . . lead us to war!)
As the Brownshirts neared the square, the adoration grew deafening. The formation tramped their way up to the center aisle of the square, then stopped. Still marching in place, they split apart down the middle, two men stepping in time on each side, forming an entrance pathway for their leader.
Two bodyguards came first, looking staid and official.
They were followed by the crazy Austrian himself, dressed in his self-styled brown uniform and knee-high boots. His black hair was slicked down and his eyes stared straight ahead, mustache twitching over his upper lip. The Austrian was slightly above average height, but he deliberately chose to be flanked by bodyguards who were half a head shorter than he was. It served the purpose of not only making Hitler look tall, but also allowing his worshipful fans to see him.
The stomps and cheers were so clamorous that the vibrations could be felt under one’s feet. There wasn’t a beer hall in Munich big enough to contain a crowd this size.
Behind Hitler were the supporters and officers of the NSDAP—Röhm, Himmler, Hanfstaengl, Göring, and about half a dozen civilian faces. The only one Berg recognized by name was Kurt Haaf—
Anna Gross’s father. The others appeared to have been plucked from the growing pack of Hitler’s well-to-do bourgeois Münchener supporters, most of them looking familiar to Berg. He recognized an outspoken manufacturer who had been at other rallies. There was also that third-rate thespian who had often railed against Jews and homosexuals taking over the theater. The man was not only a poor actor, but also a dullard when not fed prewritten lines. A third gentleman reminded Berg of Rolf Schoennacht—around the same age and with the same haughty demeanor. Berg half expected to see Schoennacht, but according to his men, the art dealer was out of town. A final pair of bodyguards brought up the rear. Then the Nazi soldiers closed ranks and marched behind their leaders.
Time was of the essence. The afternoon sun was sinking, the gray light diminishing as the minutes passed. The Austrian was known for being long-winded. If the rally did not start soon, Herr Hitler would be shouting his rhetoric in darkness. The BWP, which was slated to follow Hitler, would be reduced to an afterthought.
The cheering grew to thunder as the speakers formed a line across the stage, legs apart, hands behind their back, chin up, and eyes on the people. Hitler was in the middle, staring at his audience with a stony expression, his body stiff as bronze as he basked in his moment of glory. But it was Volker who took the first step to address the audience. Megaphone in hand, the Kommissar got out a few words but could barely be heard over the crashing noise. Hitler held out his hand to silence the crowd. Instead, the gesture had the opposite effect, stoking the audience to a frenzy.
Nervously, Berg looked around. The number of Brownshirts had increased, and most of them seemed very young and more than a little tipsy. To calm himself, he took out his pocketknife from his boot. Removing his gloves and stowing them in his coat pocket, he began to clean his nails. It felt good to flex his fingers, but it felt even better to hold a knife.
Volker tried again. This time Berg could hear him but still couldn’t make out his words. As the crowd quieted, the protesters became more vocal.
Kein Hitler! Kein Krieg!
Kein Hitler! Kein Krieg!
The people in the back began to hurl insults at the protesters. The protesters, encouraged by the insults, chanted with greater volume. Volker heard them as well.
“The gentlemen in the back!” he screamed into the bullhorn. “If you insist on disrupting this peaceful rally, you will be arrested at once!”
The crowd’s cheers drowned out the chanting, but only momentarily. When the noise died down, the protests were once again loud enough to hear.
“I will give you to the count of ten to stop!” Volker insisted.
The protests grew louder; the jeering grew louder. The atmosphere was becoming increasingly more tense. This time, Himmler stepped forward. A rodent of a man with a thin face, he had a weak chin, downturned mouth, and a mustache over his upper lip that resembled the whiskers of a rat. Spectacles hid narrow, hooded eyes. He made a grab for the megaphone. From his distance, Berg couldn’t gauge Volker’s exact reaction, but there was a brief tussle over the horn. Then, to Berg’s great surprise and cheers from the crowd, Volker handed over the instrument to Himmler. It was obvious that the head of Hitler’s SS had more support among the Volk than Volker did.
Himmler said, “I pity the police back there!” A pause. “It must stink because of all the putrid gas coming from the degenerates.”
A huge roar of laughter.
“Someone should call the fire squad to extinguish the noxious fumes.”
More laughter and scattered applause.
Himmler shouted, “We will have order and respect for authority! A nation cannot be run without respect for order and authority!” He put down the bullhorn, looked around, his spectacles reflecting the enrapt horde, then picked up the megaphone and brought it to his lips. “But how can you have respect for authority that undermines the people it supposedly represents!”
An outcry of approval.
“I don’t mean the police, of course!” A sly and evil smile. “I am referring to the weak-willed traitors who sit in Berlin!”
More noise. Berg could barely hear Himmler once he resumed his speech.
“. . . hated Weimar, which is nothing more than a puppet of Western Europe and the United States of America!”
Thunderclaps of cheers.
“. . . government ruled not by the people it governs, but by wanton degenerates—the Kosmopoliten and inferior races who seek to rape and destroy the perfected Kultur of the true Aryan! How can any true German, any true Aryan, have respect for those turncoats!”
The clamor was deafening. The chants grew louder. Berg’s head began to hurt. His legs were stiff and it was painful to stand. More cheers . . . more jeers.
Kein Hitler! Kein Krieg!
Kein Hitler! Kein Krieg!
“We will not submit!” Himmler shouted to the audience’s delight. “We will never submit to the thieves and the perverts that befoul our Fatherland! We will root out and destroy the unclean and the mongrels that terrorize and infect our city and our country!”
A deep vibration shook the ground, the reverberating roar of endorsement. From his distance, Berg couldn’t decipher the minute subtleties of the Austrian’s facial expression, but it was evident that Hitler was unhappy at being upstaged by his lieutenant. The demagogue’s face was distorted by a stubborn tic.
The demonstrators intensified their rhetoric. The Social Democrats insisted that Hitler was what was wrong with Germany, that the interloping Austrian would lead Germany into a doomed war in which many more Germans would die pointlessly. The Kommunisten were more direct: They accused the Nazis of being not only fomenters of evil and hate but also assassins and destroyers of the civilized world.
Berg could find nothing to disagree with, but he kept his opinions to himself, his eyes scanning the crowd for trouble—a useless endeavor. Trouble was everywhere and everyone.
One of the Kommunist bohemians—a thin redheaded youth wearing spectacles and sporting a beard—grabbed his own bullhorn and screamed into it, calling Hitler a liar, a peddler of hate, and a bastard.
This was more than the Austrian could stand. Seizing the megaphone from Himmler, Hitler stepped in front of his lieutenant and took center stage, his face so twisted as to appear misshapen, a horrifying three-dimensional representation of an Otto Dix Lustmord painting.
Berg’s mind traveled back to Professor Kolb’s psychological interpretations of Lustmord. Could any man under extraordinary circumstances be transformed into a cold-blooded murderer, or was this bloodthirsty drive unique to the Teutonic culture with its preoccupation with Ideal Man and the life/death paradigm? Were these very issues—Germany’s exaggerated sense of maleness and duty and willingness to die for the Fatherland—what propelled the country time and time again into war? Were the Brownshirt punks so very different from soldiers who blew people up and bombed villages with mustard gas? For Berg as a soldier, there had been no thrill of conquest, even in victory. Not so with other soldiers, many of whom were clearly aroused by battle, so that rape was a common consequence of combat.
Berg studied Hitler. At this distance, his facial expression suggested murderous rage, but in a different situation Hitler could have been in the throes of sexual passion. Certainly his mien was suggestive of sexual destrudo. Perhaps in Hitler, as in other warped men, sex and murder were intertwined.
What if Hitler was the Munich killer? It wasn’t the first time Berg had entertained that notion, especially considering the women who had been slain—a Jew and Kommunisten. Maybe one day the Austrian would join the ranks of the most famous and infamous German killers: Fritz Haarmann, the Hannover Slicer; Wilhelm Grossmann, the Silesian Bluebeard; Karl Denke, the mass murderer of Münster; and most recently the “unknown” Vampire of Düsseldorf.
Berg smiled at his overactive imagination. What would Volker do if his Inspektor seriously made a case for Hitler as the Munich killer? That would no doubt leave Munich zitternd vor Spannung—trembling with excitem
ent.
Electricity was everywhere, not just confined to the streetcars, to the lampposts, and to the newly installed wires that swayed in the wind from apartment house to apartment house. It crackled through the air, flashing forth with the power of violence and conflict.
The demagogue bellowed into the bullhorn, spittle leaking from the corners of his mouth. “It is vermin like you who pollute our beloved Fatherland. It is vermin like you, you filthy Jewdog, that will be rooted out and destroyed!”
The response was overpowering. In a flash, Berg saw all that was modern and progressive crash down, smothered in an avalanche of cheers.
The redheaded Kommunist refused to back down, as possessed with his own political agenda as the Austrian was with his. “Hitler and his punks do not scare us!” he yelled into his megaphone. “We will not rest until Hitler and his hateful, war-loving followers are erased from the political arena of Munich!”
Hitler shot back, “And we will not rest until the degenerates, the bohemians, the Kosmopoliten, the filthy Jewdogs are erased from all of Germany and from the world!”
“Let us take care of him, unser Führer!” The taunt was coming from the swells of teenage Brownshirts.
Volker suddenly emerged from the crowded stage. He brought his own bullhorn to his lips and declared with authority, “There will be no violence at this rally!”
He was unceremoniously booed.
The Kommissar pressed on. “Unless there is immediate order, this rally will be dissolved and the police will disperse the crowds.”
The booing intensified.
Abruptly, a stone was thrown at the bureaucrats on stage. It missed Volker and Kommandant Roddewig but clipped Kriminal Direktor Max Brummer on the shoulder. Then another rock was hurled toward the stage. Before a scuffle could break out, a distraught Hausfrau captured the crowd’s attention. She was screaming and beating her breast as she tore down the center aisle, her hair flying wildly behind her. Her cheeks were streaked with tears and her face frozen in terror.
Straight into Darkness Page 28