by John Holt
He entered the hotel, and went up the stairs to his room on the third floor. He opened the door and went inside, slamming the door behind him. He switched on the light, the bare light bulb glared. He angrily pushed the papers off of the bed, and lay down, staring at the ceiling. The light hurt his eyes. He picked up an ashtray, and threw it at the light fitting. There was the sound of glass smashing, and the light was extinguished. He lay quiet and still, his mind consumed with one thing only. He had to know whether Hartman had been killed, or whether there was a chance that he was still alive. If he was dead that was fine. No problem.
But if he were still alive then where was he? He could be anywhere. “Where would I start looking?” he asked himself angrily. “More to the point, how do I know whether he is still alive or not?” He poured himself a glass of whiskey, emptying the bottle. He picked up the empty bottle and threw it against the far wall.
* * *
The next morning he was woken by a loud clap of thunder, and heavy raindrops falling through the open window. The weather was as depressing as the area. He had fallen asleep, eventually, although not before he had decided what to do next. He planned to go back to what remained of Konigstrasse, and make enquiries with some of the local inhabitants. He needed to know the details of the air raid. He needed information about the casualties. Most importantly, he needed to know whether Hartman was still alive, and if so, where he was.
He looked across at the window. It was still quite dark outside. It must still be early. He lay back down on the bed, and shortly after fell back to sleep. He woke several hours later. He checked his watch. It was just after nine. He walked over to the window, and looked out. The rain had now stopped, and the fog had lifted. There had been no further thunder. The sun was beginning to shine through the haze. It was looking as though it might be a reasonable day after all. He certainly hoped so, although he was not exactly thinking about the weather.
He left the hotel and walked back toward the Konigstrasse area. As he approached the street, he could see the full extent of the devastation that had occurred. There was virtually nothing left standing, except the piles of rubble, which used to be somebody’s home. Then he noticed a church spire located at the end of the street. It occurred to him that perhaps the local parish priest might have some information that might be useful. He did not know whether Hartman was a Catholic or a Protestant. Perhaps he was neither. What did it matter anyway? The priest might know what happened to the residents of Konigstrasse, generally.
As he drew nearer to the church he could see that it too had sustained some bomb damage. Part of the roof covering to the rear section was missing, and a protective tarpaulin had been fitted. A section of brickwork to the rear had collapsed, and was boarded up. He wondered if the church was still in use. Then, as he was about to walk away, he noticed that the main doors were lying open.
As he approached the open door it occurred to him that he was actually seeking help from the Church in his quest for revenge. At first he found this to be quite amusing. Then suddenly he felt strangely guilty. A feeling of remorse momentarily swept over him. Then it was gone as quickly as it had come, overtaken by memories of his friend, Terry, lying dead on that cold, damp, ground, by that dark lake. A shiver went through him, and he began to walk faster, as though there was a sudden urgency. As he reached the door to the building he was sweating profusely. He was feeling strangely nervous, and his heart was beating rapidly.
He stopped at the door, and leaned against the wall, waiting for his breathing, and heart beat to return to normal. As he stood there an elderly couple passed by, and entered the church. As they did so they stared at him for a moment and then hurried on. He slowly, almost reverentially, followed them into the church. In front of him was the aisle leading down to the altar. To either side were the pews. High up he noticed several shafts of light coming down from the roof area, indicating further bomb damage to the roof. He looked back down into the body of the church. Although no formal service was actually taking place, there were a few people seated, quietly praying.
Scott took a seat in the last pew. He looked toward the altar. Although the altar lights were on, there did not seem to be anyone there. Suddenly the altar lights dimmed, and out from the side walked the parish priest. He walked round to the front of the altar, and genuflected. He then turned and commenced walking down the aisle, toward the front of the church. As the priest approached, Scott stood up, and began walking toward the end of the pew. The priest passed by and had almost reached the main doors, when Scott caught up with him.
“Father,” he called. “I wonder if you can help me?”
The priest stopped and turned. “Yes my son,” he replied. “What can I do for you?”
Scott explained that he was searching for some people that used to live in Konigstrasse. “I used to know them before the war.” The Priest sensed that Scott was troubled, and not being entirely truthful. He decided, however, that he would go along with him, at least for the time being.
“Certainly, I’ll help if I can,” said the Priest. “What name was it?” Suddenly, Scott was afraid of mentioning the name. What if the Priest knew Hartman personally? What if they were long time friends? Maybe the Priest could warn Hartman that there was trouble coming his way. Maybe the Priest would try to stop Scott.
Maybe …. Maybe, I’m worrying for nothing. Scott reasoned that if he wished to proceed with his mission, and find Hartman, it would be necessary, at some stage, to actually mention the name. He also reasoned that according to the dossier, Hartman had not been a churchgoer. It was reasonable to assume, therefore, that the priest would not know him on a personal level.
“The family name was Hartman. My friend was Deitrich,” Scott tried to sound light, and relaxed. “They used to live at number 18 Konigstrasse. Mind you the last time I heard anything of them was in 1936.”
The Priest stood quite still, his head bent, forefinger and thumb at either side of his nose, and his eyes screwed tightly shut. He was deep in thought. Then his eyes opened, he removed his hand from his face, and he was shaking his head. He could not place a family of that name. Certainly, they had not been members of his congregation.
“It’s possible that they were Protestants, and went to the Church in Freidrickstrasse,” the Priest suggested. Then a thought suddenly occurred to him. “You say that they lived in Konigstrasse?”
“Yes, that’s correct,” Scott replied. “Number 18.”
“Konigstrasse was actually bombed, by the British, in January 1945,” the Priest continued. “On that night virtually every house was destroyed, or so badly damaged that it was later demolished. There were about seventy people living in the street at that time. That night twenty-three people died, and another thirty-six were injured.” The Priest stopped for a moment, briefly overcome with emotion. “It was a terrible, terrible night.”
Scott was beginning to get edgy. He didn’t need a history lesson, and he certainly did not need to be made guilty for the bombing. He just needed information that could lead to Hartman’s present whereabouts. The Priest had stopped for a moment, thinking of the victims, and the events of that night. After a while he continued. “If I remember correctly, the survivors were all taken to a community hall close to the railway station, in Minster Strasse.”
Scott suddenly regained interest.
“Also, as far as I recall, all details of the victims, and the survivors, were noted down by the local police. They might be able to tell you something.”
Scott did not like the idea of involving the police. They might remember him in the future. But he had no choice. “That’s very helpful,” he said. “Can you tell me where the police station is?”
“Oh, it’s very close. As you leave the Church turn left, and keep walking until you come to the Market Square. You will see the police station on the far corner,” the Priest directed. “I’m sorry I cannot be more helpful. I hope you find your friend.”
So do I, thought Scott. “Thank you
so much, you have been most helpful,” he replied.
He turned around and walked to the main doors, and left the church. What now, he wondered. I can’t actually go to the police, can I? Can you imagine their reaction?
“Hello, I’m an American. I’m an ex-soldier. I was here from 1943 to 1945, and I’m looking for an SS Officer.”
That should go down well, nothing unusual in that, happens every day. They will probably bend over backwards to help, I don’t think. He could imagine the questions that would be raised.
“Why do you want this man?”
“Oh, I only want to find him, and kill him.”
“How do you know of this man?”
“Oh he just happened to have killed one of my friends in 1945.”
“Fine, no problem,” the police would certainly understand. Most likely they would rush to his assistance. Probably offer to hold the revolver for me.
Scott was beginning to get cynical, and frustrated. He was stumped, and did not know what to do now. And it was all going to be so easy.
“Quick and easy,” he had said. No, that’s not correct. I never thought it would be easy. I just didn’t think it would be so difficult.
He decided to get a meal at the restaurant around the corner from the hotel. He would then go back to his room, and re-think his next move.
Chapter Twenty-Three
42 Potsdammer Platz, Hamburg
It was late when he arrived back at the hotel, and he was quite tired. He lay down on the bed. Close by he heard the church clock striking midnight. He closed his eyes, waiting for sleep to overtake him. Sleep would not come. Too much on his mind, too many unresolved items, he guessed. What was he going to do?
He sat up, and looked at his watch. It was twenty minutes to two in the morning. He got up, and went over to the table. He poured himself a whiskey. Maybe he should try another approach. He started pacing the floor, trying to put some kind of plan together. Perhaps he should concentrate on Hartman’s earlier contacts, and the places where he used to go. What about the haulage company that he had worked for in Munich. Maybe that might lead to something. Then he suddenly shook his head. “No, that isn’t going to work.” He realised that all of these people, and places, were in the past, back before Hartman had become a Nazi. Hitler’s ideas must have made a drastic change in his life. His old ideas, and values, would have been dispensed with. His old ways would have had no place in his new life.
No, I don’t think I’ll get anywhere in that direction, Scott decided. “What then?” He asked himself that question over and over. He could not ask the police anything regarding Major Hartman. That was definite. He could not mention anything about Hartman. That could be disastrous.
“Wait a second,” he suddenly exclaimed. “I can’t enquire about Hartman, but there would be nothing to stop me from enquiring about someone else would there?”
An idea was beginning to form in his mind. It needed refining, and the details needed finalising, but it looked promising. He returned to his bed, a happier man. He lay down, closed his eyes, and immediately fell into a deep sleep.
At a little after ten-thirty the next morning, Scott left the hotel and walked the short distance to The Berliner Restaurant at the corner. Restaurant was probably too grand a term for it. It was only a very small coffee shop.
Although small, The Berliner served a good selection of meals, including breakfast, lunch, and dinner. The interior was clean and tidy, and the tables and chairs were comfortable. Scott had used it ever since he had arrived in Hamburg, and the waiters were beginning to know him. As he entered, Klaus, the head waiter waved to him across the room.
“Good Morning, sir,” the waiter called out. “Be right with you.”
A few minutes later Klaus arrived at Scott’s table, with his usual order coffee, two eggs, and rolls. He placed them on the table in front of Scott. “How are you today, sir?”
“Fine,” said Scott. “I couldn’t be better. It’s good to see you Klaus.”
“You are a little later than usual this morning, sir. I was beginning to think we would not see you today.”
“Overslept,” Scott replied quite simply.
The waiter finished arranging the table. “Enjoy your meal, sir,” he said, and then left.
* * *
Scott had finalized his plans, and knew exactly what he was going to do. He was feeling pleased with himself. He would certainly enjoy his breakfast this day.
The food was good, and the coffee was sweet and hot, the way he liked it. He looked around him. He beckoned to Klaus, and indicated that he would like another pot of coffee.
A short while later his coffee arrived. “Was your meal satisfactory, sir?” asked Klaus.
It was always the same polite question, and always the same answer. “It certainly was, Klaus, thank you very much.”
Scott poured himself a cup of coffee. He sat staring at the cup, and began refining his idea from the previous night. He would make enquiries with the local police. He would enquire about somebody he had known before the war, although it would be someone totally fictitious.
Perhaps a girl friend he had known or a family friend of his mother, or maybe a friend from his college days. That was it, a German friend who had returned to Germany just before the outbreak of the war. His imaginary friend’s name would be. What name could he use? Then it came to him. Yes, that’s it, Klaus Berliner.
Of course, any name would have done. He knew that whatever name he picked, it wouldn’t appear on any list of victims, or survivors of the bombing of Konigstrasse. What it would do, however, was to give him an opportunity to look at those lists, an opportunity to continue his search for Deitrich Hartman.
* * *
Leaving the coffee shop, Scott turned to the left. He walked back passed the hotel, continuing along until he came to Konigstrasse. He turned, crossed over and came to the Church. A short distance further he reached the Market Place. There, at the corner, was the Police Station. It was an old Victorian property, three storeys high, with a semi-basement area. He stopped at the arched entrance doors, and walked up the short flight of steps and entered into the building.
As he entered there was a reception area to the left. A Duty Officer was seated at a large desk, busily sifting through some papers. He looked up as Scott approached.
“Right sir, what can I do for you?” said the officer.
“My name is Noble. Graham Noble,” he lied. “I am an American, and I am trying to trace a friend I knew in college, some years ago, in New York.”
“American?” said the Officer. “I have met several Americans who are stationed here. I like Americans. They are very generous, and give many presents of chocolate, and coffee.” Scott mentally kicked himself. Why hadn’t he thought of that? The Officer sensed that there wasn’t going to be any chocolate, or coffee, and reluctantly continued. “So, what about your friend?” he asked.
“My friend’s name is Klaus Berliner,” Scott replied. “In 1938 he lived in Konigstrasse, which is close by. Sadly I see that it has been completely destroyed. The priest at the church down the road said that you might be able to help me.”
“Konigstrasse you say?” said the officer. “Yes, that was bad, very bad. It happened in January 1945, on the fourth I think it was. There was a massive air raid that night, and many parts of the city were damaged. Konigstrasse was badly hit, and almost half of the people living there were killed. The local Church was hit as well.”
The officer thought for a moment. “Corporal,” he called out. “Fetch me the file on Konigstrasse 1945.” He turned to face Scott. “The survivors were taken to a public hall close by, if I remember correctly. Somewhere near the station. We compiled a list of all of those who sadly died that night. We also prepared a list showing those that had survived.”
He stopped and looked up as the Corporal returned. “Ah, here is the file now,” he said. “Thank you Corporal. Now let’s see what we can find shall we.” He opened the file, and looke
d through the papers, until he found the items he was looking for.
“Konigstrasse. Yes it was the fourth. Fourth of the first, forty-five.” He continued to turn the pages. “here we are, victims,” he read. “Now what was that name again, oh yes, Berliner.”
He kept repeating the name as he scanned though the list. “There’s nothing listed here, so at least he wasn’t killed. Let’s look at the other list, the survivors.” Once again, he shook his head. “Nothing, I’m afraid.”
Scott was not a bit surprised. “Could I see?” he said.
“Certainly,” the officer replied, and passed the papers to Scott. This was exactly what Scott had planned for.
Scott first checked the list of the victims. “No there is nothing for Berliner,” he agreed. He also noted that there was no entry relating to Hartman, either. He then picked up the list detailing the survivors. He looked down the page to the entry relating to number 18. “18 Konigstrasse; Peter Weiss; 42 Potsdammer Platz,” he noted. “Nothing here either,” he said to the officer. “This is a full list of the survivors,” he said. “Including the injured, is that correct?”
“That’s right, sir. This list gives details of all survivors, at that date. It is of course possible that some may have died after that time, you understand. I suppose you could check with the local hospitals, just to be sure.” The officer took the file from Scott, and closed it. “Of course they may have died of natural causes sometime afterwards.”
Maybe, Scott thought. He decided to keep that idea in mind, and see. “That’s a good suggestion, about the hospitals I mean. Thank you. By the way, what do the three columns on the survivors list refer to?”
“Oh, that’s quite straightforward, sir,” the officer replied. “The first column is the original address of the property in Konigstrasse. The second is, obviously, the name of the head person in that particular household. The third column is the address where they were re-housed at that time.”