Ruins of War

by John A. Connell

  “Bishop captures knight,” the major said.

  Another roar. Mason felt for a shot glass lined up next to him and downed the whiskey. Mason had already lost eight pieces and consumed an equal number of shots. The major played well, but perhaps not well enough. . . . “Queen captures bishop,” Mason said. “Checkmate.”

  With a final roar from the crowd, Mason removed his blindfold. Money exchanged hands. The pile of dollar bills grew next to Mason, but he hardly noticed. Among the GIs, and just behind the hapless major, stood the brunette reporter, Laura, her blue eyes fixed on him. A flush of warmth coursed through his chest even while he gave her a disapproving glare.

  The crowd broke into small groups, heading for the poker tables or the bar. Mason began to collect his dollars, while the winning GIs shook his hand or slapped him on the back. A shadow fell onto the stack of money then the scent of honey and lavender arrived a moment later.

  “That’s quite a trick,” Laura said.

  “It’s not magic,” Mason said without looking up. “Just skill and a lot of practice.”

  Laura took the chair next to him and sat.

  “I don’t have anything to say to you,” Mason said.

  “That’s right; you’re afraid of me.”

  “Like Will Rogers used to say: ‘Never miss a good chance to shut up.’”

  “You’re just full of folksy wisdom,” Laura said and drank one of the untouched shots of whiskey. “Didn’t you like my article?”

  “It nearly got me busted down to private.”

  “Did you read the whole thing?”

  “The headline was enough.”

  “Well, if you’d read it, you’d know I ultimately defended your actions. If you hadn’t done what you did, a lot more people would have gotten hurt. And just so you know, the picture and the headline were my editor’s idea.”

  “If you say so.”

  Laura leaned on her elbows. “I came over to apologize. The article shouldn’t have come out that way. I never figured Stars and Stripes would do that to a soldier who was just trying to do his duty, but my editor saw an opportunity to make a splash. He’s looking to get onto a private newspaper as soon as he can.”

  Mason stuffed his earnings into his pocket. “All right. Apology accepted.”

  Those eyes captured him again, and he and she looked at each other without a word for a moment.

  Finally Laura said, “A girl sits down at your table, and you don’t offer to buy her a drink?”

  Mason waved for the waiter, a German man, to come over. Laura’s eyes never left him as she ordered a gin fizz. When the waiter left, Mason asked, “What are you really here for?”

  “Can’t a girl come over to a handsome man and say hi?”

  “Normally I’d be all right with that, but somehow I get the feeling you’re the spider and I’m the fly.”

  Laura smiled, acknowledging his point. “I’ll level with you: I’m writing an extended piece about the American occupation, mostly the personal side. I’ll leave politics and policy to others. I’m more interested in the single soldier and citizen. The military cop and the black marketer. I’ve already made a contact in the black market, but you’re my first cop. When I saw you at the riot I got curious about you, so I did a little digging around. I know some of the staff at CID headquarters in Frankfurt pretty well. . . .” She shrugged. “General Jenkins, for instance . . .”

  “How well?” Mason was surprised at his sudden spark of jealousy.

  “That’s not the point. What I’m getting at is that your story interests me—”

  “No way. You’re not going to write about me.”

  “I’m not writing your biography. There will be a lot of different people all folded into a long narrative. Come on, just a few questions. I’ll keep it anonymous.”

  Mason didn’t know if the attraction was mutual or if she was playing him for a sucker. Maybe it was the whiskey, but he decided to hang around and find out. “I tell you what: You ask a few questions, then it’s my turn. Tit for tat.”

  Laura smiled. “No questions below the belt.”

  “Deal.”

  The waiter returned with the drink, and Laura started playing with her cocktail swizzle stick. Her eyes flitted between her drink and Mason as if she were deciding which questions to start off with first. “I heard you had a pretty tough time as a prisoner of war. You could have shipped home, but you decided to stay in the army and Germany. Why?”

  “I hear the real estate’s cheap.”

  “Seriously. After what you’ve been through, you have to admit: It’s an intriguing choice.”

  Mason studied her for a moment. “I’d bet the bank that you did more during the war than write human interest stories about WACs and nurses.”

  “Wait a minute. We had a deal. You haven’t answered my question.”

  “I’ll get to it. Bear with me for a minute.”

  “Yes, I covered more than WACs and nurses. But usually when I talk about it to a guy I’d like to get to know a little better, it intimidates him. His eyes start searching for the closest exit.”

  “I’m not most men.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that.” She took a sip of her drink, and Mason wondered if it was to fortify herself before bringing back the memories. “I covered the 93rd Bomb Group flying missions out of England. I rode in a bombing raid over Germany. Flak exploding all around; German fighter planes shooting holes in the fuselage. It was terrifying. I was with the 12th Army Group fighting around the Falaise Pocket. The Eighth Infantry Division in the Hürtgen Forest. I went into Dachau a week after it was liberated. I saw . . . terrible things. . . .”

  “And you’re still here, aren’t you?” Mason said. “Just like me.”

  “There are a thousand postwar stories to tell. I wouldn’t be much of a reporter if I didn’t want to tell at least some of them, and what better place to do them in than war-torn Germany?”

  “I rest my case. They try to beat you down, you get back up again. I’m a detective. I’ve always wanted to be a detective. That’s why I joined the Chicago PD. That’s why I took this job. What difference does it make whether I’m a cop here or there? What difference does it make if I’m CPD or CID? And why not in a place that needs it more?”

  Laura sipped her drink then shrugged again. Mason was learning her “tells”—her shrugs and sudden interest in the table were signs she was about to say something he wouldn’t necessarily want to hear.

  “I heard about Chicago,” Laura said.

  “That was below the belt.”

  “Don’t clam up now. We’re finally getting somewhere. I don’t know you, but I can read people pretty well. You look relaxed but you’re all tight inside, like you’re going to burst the seams of that perfectly ironed uniform. Soft eyes but a proud jaw. I’d bet the bank that you were given a raw deal.”

  “If you’ve heard about it, then there’s no reason to repeat it.”

  “I haven’t heard it all. . . .” She shrugged again. “I know you were sacked.”

  That hit a raw nerve, and Mason blurted out, “I was framed because I went to the chief with evidence of drug dealing by fellow police officers.”

  “And now no big-city police department would hire you, but why not be a small-town detective or county sheriff? You’d still be doing what you like.”

  “I wouldn’t be happy handing out parking citations or busting up domestic disputes. Plus, I don’t see myself in a little house with a picket fence on a suburban street, waving good-bye to the wife, and little Bobby and Suzy, as I get in my Packard with my badge and gun and pretend I’m doing some good. . . .” He stopped himself from going any further.

  She studied him for a moment. “Behind your noble cause lies something else.” She squinted her eyes as if peering into Mason’s mind. “I would guess you probably come from
a broken home, hence your disdain for picket fences and normal families. And the very institution you swore loyalty to turned out to be corrupt and betrayed you. Now you compensate for it by trying to fix everything broken in the world. A supercop who will single-handedly bring criminals to their knees and save the world from pain and suffering. A hero with a chip on his shoulder.”

  “Ouch,” Mason said and rubbed his jaw as if someone had just given him a right hook.

  Laura was about to speak, but Mason held up his hand. “Uh-uh-uh. Now it’s my turn.”

  “Shoot. If you dare.”

  “What I’m wondering is why you chose to put your life on the line just to write articles for newspapers.”

  “Oh, here we go. You think that kind of work should be exclusive to men?”

  “I believe a woman can do whatever she puts her mind to. It’s just I suspect that behind your noble cause lies something as well.” Mason imitated Laura’s mind-reading squint. “My guess, you come from a privileged family, wealthy and then some, with overachieving parents who constantly pushed you to become who they thought you should be. Maybe a doctor or a lawyer, or just married to a New England aristocrat. By your accent, I’d say Boston?”

  “Providence.”

  “And going on dangerous assignments has been your way of thumbing your nose at your parents, while at the same time you push yourself to the extreme to prove to them that you can achieve great things, even if it means getting killed or injured in the process.”

  “I’m proud of what I do. And I think telling the world about the sacrifices of our soldiers is a good thing.”

  “I think it’s great, too.”

  Laura’s scowl unfurled into a look of surprise. “Excuse me?”

  “Not many people would have the courage to put themselves in the line of fire when they didn’t have to, man or woman. And I bet you’ve had to put up with a million men who wanted to get into your panties rather than give you a story, or who refused to let you tag along because they saw you as weak and vulnerable. That takes guts and determination. But what you’re playing is a rich-girl’s game: satisfying that rebellious streak only the privileged get to indulge in. You mingle with the lowly doughboy and get him to talk using your college-educated wit and debutante charm. But when it comes to really spending some quality time with a soldier, you can’t climb down the social ladder lower than a general—”

  “Now wait a minute.”

  “Don’t get me wrong. I find you very attractive, but you’re too rich for my blood, and I’m too lowborn for you.”

  “You don’t know anything about what I like or don’t.” Laura gathered her things and stood.

  “You’re not going to ask me any more questions?”

  “Yes, when hell freezes over.” Laura turned and walked out the door.

  NINE

  Frau Eva Hieber shuffled through the slush on Karlsplatz. The damp cold had crept through her wool overcoat hours before. Last winter she had her ermine fur coat to keep her warm, the one that Friedrich, her husband, had bought for her in 1938. But she had exchanged that, along with her grandmother’s set of china dinnerware, the antique grandfather clock, and much of her jewelry, on the black market for food and clothing for her nine-year-old son and eleven-year-old daughter.

  She had no deep attachment to those things, not like her wedding ring or the very last gift Friedrich had given her for her birthday, the upright piano. Those things she refused to sell. She and Friedrich would play duets together on many nights before the war, before Friedrich was killed in Italy.

  Most of the food she’d bartered for a few weeks earlier was already gone. She tried hard to ration the amounts and had relinquished her share for the children. The worst of winter was yet to come, and she knew she would eventually have to give up the piano.

  Today was the second time she’d walked all over the city posting notices and scanning through the untold thousands of others. Trees, lampposts, and boards erected in the large intersections and community centers were covered with little squares of paper, some with photos: “The Frieder family of Goethestrasse is searching for Lily Frieder—16 years old.” “Manfried Jung, if you read this, please come to 22 Denisstrasse. Your wife, Margo.” “Ilse and Werner are looking for their mother, Frieda Hoffmann. We live on 16 Briennerstrasse. Please help us.”

  Eva shook her head at all the sad messages. She hoped her brother-in-law had left one for her. He’d been missing for five days. On a community board next to Karlstor she unpinned a message rendered unreadable from time and weather and stuck up her own in its place.

  She barely had the pin sunk into the board when she saw it. On a board on the opposite side of the street was a large black-and-white notice with a sketch of a man. Even from that distance, she could tell it was her brother-in-law. Even though the sketch showed a man who was completely bald, she could never mistake the face.

  Dread made her legs leaden as she approached the notice. It looked official, which always meant bad news. Halfway across the street she could read the block letters: IF YOU KNOW THIS MAN PLEASE CONTACT OBERINSPEKTOR BECKER AT POLIZEIPRÄSIDIUM, 2–4 ETTSTRASSE.

  She started to cry, the warm tears burning her icy cheeks. She couldn’t catch her breath. Her legs buckled and she fell to her knees.

  Oh, Richard. Please, not Richard.

  He had been the only stabilizing person in her war-torn existence, and the last remaining member of her husband’s family.

  People gathered around her, inquiring if she was all right. She didn’t hear them. She simply didn’t know how she could go on.

  • • •

  Mason sat at his desk, rubbing his forehead while listening to the other end of the phone line. Wolski entered with his coffee cup and leaned against the file cabinet.

  “What was that, sir?” Mason said. He looked up at Wolski and rolled his eyes. “Could you spell that for me? V-i-t-r-u-v-i-a-n. Da Vinci and Cosmology.” He finished noting the conversation. “Right. Thank you, sir.” He hung up the phone.

  “What was that all about?” Wolski asked.

  “I’ve been getting a bunch of calls about the sketch we sent out showing the killer’s arrangement of the victim’s limbs. That was a major over at OMGB, a professor of art history and philosophy. He said the arrangement is a copy of a Da Vinci drawing”—Mason checked his notes—“the Vitruvian Man. And some nonsense about cosmology and man’s body proportions in relation to the universe.”

  OMGB stood for Office of Military Government for Bavaria.

  “Now there’s a stretch. You hear back from the division chaplain’s office?”

  “He said the limbs and stakes symbolize . . .” Mason had to look at his notes again. “Chi-Rho, a Christian cross from Roman times made with the first two letters, X and P—our ch and r—,of the Greek word for Christ.”

  “That makes a little more sense.”

  “Wait, I’m not done yet. I also received calls saying it’s an ancient Egyptian symbol, a Celtic Taranis wheel, and a Buddhist dharma wheel.”

  The phone rang, and Mason said, “This’ll probably be the Chinese interpretation.” He answered the phone, listened a few moments, then hung up. “Better finish your coffee. We’re going out. Becker’s got something for us.” He stood and walked over to the coat rack and put on his overcoat. “What did you dig up?”

  “Have you been to the CID records room? It’s cold, damp, and dark. And whoever set up the system should go back to filing school.”

  “Why do you think I sent you?”

  “I’ve gone through most of the arrest records involving U.S. and Allied doctors and medical staff, but most of them only go back to June of this year. Everything else is at the main records archives in Frankfurt.”

  “Anything promising?”

  “Not much. There’s a major accused of bondage murders of prostitutes, but his file ha
s been sealed—at least to someone of my pay grade. The story is he managed to elude arrest and is rumored to be back in the States. A couple of other homicides, but nothing that comes close to our killer’s methods. I couldn’t get anywhere near Medical Corps personnel files.”

  “I’m working on that one.”

  Mason and Wolski walked out of his office and headed for the stairs.

  Colonel Walton leaned out of his office door and called after them, “I assume you’re following up on a lead about that train robbery.”

  Mason turned to face Colonel Walton as he walked. “Yes, sir.”

  Colonel Walton eyed him with skepticism, but Mason quickened his pace and shot down the stairs before Colonel Walton could ask any more questions.

  • • •

  Oberinspector Becker waited for Mason and Wolski by an open manhole in the middle of a wide plaza bisecting Ludwigstrasse. A phalanx of German policemen surrounded Becker and the manhole, while another squad of German police had spread out to the nearby buildings to canvass the occupants or to control the gathering crowd of onlookers.

  Wolski parked the jeep under the shadow of the ragged remains of the Siegestor, Munich’s version of the Arc de Triomphe. Mason had been around small groups of German police, but this was his first experience with so many gathered in one place. He couldn’t help a feeling of unease. The green police uniforms were mostly cannibalized Wehrmacht uniforms, and seeing these men barking orders or standing at attention in perfect lines in the plaza made the hairs of the back of his neck stand up.

  “Gives me the creeps walking around a place with so many Germans in uniform,” Wolski said.

  “You read my mind,” Mason said.

  The feeling dissipated, however, when several of the policemen nodded respectfully and Becker smiled as they shook hands.

  “What have you got?” Mason asked.

  “I’ll let you see for yourself.”

  “In the sewers?” Wolski said.

  Becker began to climb down the metal ladder. “We don’t have to go too far.”

  “Ah, the glamour of police work,” Mason said.