‘Are you here about the trial?’ It was a voice used to giving orders.
‘That's not a matter for CID,’ Stave replied.
‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Harlan flopped on to a chair that creaked slightly under his weight. ‘I would like to be able to work again. My wife has a new role.’ He nodded towards Kristina Söderbaum.
‘I’m playing in an American thriller,’ she explained. ‘Gaslight. In the Auslese, a new company. It's refreshing to be doing theatre again.’
‘I’m bursting with energy, too,’ said Harlan. ‘New movies would be good for this country, in this situation. But they won’t let me alone.’
‘There are a few people who remember some of your earlier films,’ the CID man commented.
Harlan waved his right hand as if swatting a fly. ‘I was forced, not given a choice. Did you even meet Goebbels, gentlemen? The way he walked on to the set, read through the scripts? Insisted on a cut here and there? And all the time a threat in the background. If you’ve never experienced that, then...’
‘You’ll have the chance to explain all that in court.’
‘A joint action by Jews, none of whom I’ve ever seen before. You know not one Jew has ever complained to me in person.’
‘There aren’t that many left,’ MacDonald replied quietly.
The director looked at him for a moment, then nodded and said, ‘What is it you want from me?’
Stave pulled the photo of the bronze female head from his overcoat pocket and asked, ‘Do you recognise this?’
Harlan glanced at it and smiled. ‘Anni Mewes. She was a good actress. Before my time. Silent movies. But her voice was no good for the talkies; she sounded like a scullery maid.’
‘That didn’t stop her turning up in one of your films – in this form.’
‘As a bronze bust? Yes... I recall. I needed props. It was 1938 – modern art. I don’t know much about it. I had to have things brought from the propaganda ministry. Goebbels insisted. In person. So I went over and just pointed out a few sculptures: that one, that one, and that one. And then I recognised the likeness of Mewes. I’d seen it before but years earlier. So I took that too and put it on a set where it was clearly visible. A little act of homage to an artiste. Almost a token act of resistance.’
Stave just stared at his hands, and noticed that his fingers were clamped together so tightly his knuckles were glowing white. Try to calm down. ‘And then?’
‘When?’
‘After you’d finished the film. What happened to the artworks then?’
‘Back to the warehouse.’
The chief inspector faked a disingenuous expression. ‘It's amazing that a director like you who's had to deal with so many things in so many films should remember this prop in particular, when it just sat somewhere in the background for a few scenes.’
Harlan hesitated, shot a quick glance at his wife. ‘The Mewes bust didn’t go back to the warehouse. I remember that. There was someone who wanted to buy it.’
The CID man leaned forward, scarcely daring to breathe: ‘Who?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t remember.’
‘I do.’ Kristina Söderbaum smiled. ‘It was forbidden to mention it back then. But nowadays I think we can speak openly about it. On the last day of shooting a gentleman came to the studio and asked us, very discreetly, about the pieces of art. It was very unusual. I don’t know how he knew they were there. He wanted to buy some of them. He had money. But most of them had already been taken away. The bust, however, was needed for the next scene and so it was still there. We offered it to the gentleman and he gave us a good price. Nobody at the propaganda ministry seemed to notice that one less artwork was returned to the warehouse. Goebbels and his people couldn’t care less.’ She blushed.
‘Who was the man who wanted to buy the piece?’
‘A Herr Rosenthal. A Jew.’ She all but whispered the last word.
‘I told you I had nothing to reproach myself about,’ Harlan exclaimed, almost with a note of triumph in his voice. ‘I recall the story now.’
‘Rosenthal? Did he say who he was? A collector? A gallery owner?’
‘This was in the thirties,’ the director said impatiently. ‘Nothing like that was supposed to be possible any more.’
‘So what was he?’
‘We didn’t ask him.’
‘You weren’t surprised that somebody just turned up and secretly asked to buy some degenerate art from you? A Jew, at that?’
‘The final days of filming are always particularly hectic. We had other things on our minds. That very day I had another meeting with the Reichsminister for Propaganda. The thing was an annoyance. I just said, “Good, get on with it, and then get out of here.” And that's what he did.’
‘Was there a sales contract? A receipt?’
‘Where were you in those days? Abroad? Nobody in 1938 was selling banned art to a Jew and asking for a receipt.’
Stave went silent and remembered what Professor Kitt had said: the employees Schramm had sent out to buy things, some of them Jews. Hadn’t he even mentioned a Rosenthal? ‘Does the name Schramm mean anything to you?’
‘Never heard it.’ Kristina Söderbaum shook her head too.
He was a neighbour, the chief inspector thought, barely a hundred metres away. Surely they would know him at least in that context. On the other hand Harlan and his wife had only been living by the Alster since the end of the war, and they probably didn’t leave the house all that frequently.
‘Toni Weber?’ he asked.
‘Somebody in the movie world? I think I’ve heard the name. Not that it's exactly unusual, is it?’
Stave ignored Harlan and looked at Kristina Söderbaum: naïve, vulnerable, just like in her movie roles. If I push her too hard, she’ll end up in the Alster, he thought to himself. ‘Can you tell me any more about this Herr Rosenthal?’
‘He was about forty to fifty years old. Thin. Somewhat nervous.’ She thought for a moment, then suddenly exclaimed, ‘Alliteration! I remember now, when he introduced himself, his first name. He was called Rolf Rosenthal. And he had a limp. He had a club foot, just like Goebbels, although he handled it a bit more elegantly. Not that that matters so much to you, I imagine.’ She blushed again.
‘Yes it does,’ Stave muttered, a wave of gratefulness to Kristina Söderbaum washing over him. ‘It's matters a great deal to me.’
‘Are you happy now?’ MacDonald asked as they climbed back into the Jeep.
‘I’ve solved one problem but given myself others in its place,’ Stave replied cautiously.
‘Sounds like a typical military manoeuvre.’
The CID man told the lieutenant about Schramm's employees being educated in art history at the university. ‘It all fits: I can piece together a story for the bronze bust and the unidentified body. Toni Weber did the sculpture of an actress in the twenties. The Nazis labelled it “degenerate art”, and it eventually disappeared into the propaganda ministry warehouse. It emerged again to be a prop for a film directed by Veit Harlan in 1938. Before it could be handed back, Rolf Rosenthal turns up in the studio and buys the piece. It's illegal but lucrative for Harlan. Goebbels had given him a blank chit and he’d made a few hundred, maybe even a few thousand Reichsmarks, cash, tax-free. Who is Rolf Rosenthal? In our interview with Schramm — the banker who paid for art lessons for his staff, including Jews, even after 1933 — he mentioned in passing a Jew called Rosenthal who’d been one of his acolytes. Of course it used to be a common name, but it's still quite a coincidence, don’t you think? The body found next to the artworks still bore remnants of a star of Israel, and papers with the forename Rolf, and had a handicapped foot. Given that the Anni Mewes sculpture is in a photo taken in Schramm's villa just a few weeks after the film shoot had ended, there is only one conclusion.’
‘Rolf Rosenthal was one of Schramm's agents, who bought banned pieces for him so that Schramm himself— having already had problems with the Gestapo – could remain di
screetly in the background,’ MacDonald finished off the argument for him.
The CID man gave a tired smile. ‘But why would Schramm deny it all? He claims not to recognise the bronze bust. And not a word about the deceased. What he had been doing in 1938 was against the law, but nowadays it would be seen as praiseworthy. Loyalty to a Jewish employee. Saving banned artworks. I don’t see why he doesn’t admit it. And that's without mentioning that it's a piece of art he probably paid a lot of money for.’
‘Schramm doesn’t need to worry about money.’
‘Do you know a banker who’d voluntarily turn down a single penny? There has to be an important reason behind it – maybe Rolf Rosenthal didn’t die in a bombing raid. There's that strange injury to his skull, as if he had been hit from above. Scratch marks in unusual places on the soles of his shoes. It's all a puzzle to me.’
‘But you look rather pleased with yourself.’
‘Things have been worse,’ the chief inspector admitted.
A little later Stave was cycling around the Gorch-Fock Wall and the bomb craters on the Esplanade. It was only a few hundred metres but his trousers were sticking to his legs and water was running down into his shoes. You’re going to have to get yourself something for protection against the rain, and he wondered what he could barter on the exchange market for a waterproof cape. Or whether there would even be an exchange market any more after X-day. A truck passed him by, an asthmatic pre-war model, hardly going any faster than he was. Blue clouds were pumping out of the exhaust and hanging over the street like a thick fog in the rain-sodden air. It stank of oil and petrol. He was on Karl-Muck-Platz – he could keep straight on and ride into the CID headquarters foyer. He would enjoy the looks from his colleagues. But he turned right towards the public prosecutor's office.
‘I believe you’re visiting celebrities these days,’ Ehrlich said when he saw him. His eyes behind the thick lenses of his glasses twinkled mischievously, but Stave noticed that they were red in the corners from exhaustion.
‘Think of it as an archaeological expedition to the ruins of a former UFA star.’
‘Did you dig up any treasure?’
‘I identified a club-footed mummy.’ The chief inspector told him about the interview and the conclusions he had drawn from it.
‘What a pity you no longer work for Homicide,’ Ehrlich commented. ‘However, we have another meeting coming up. Probably in July. The court will summon you as a witness.’
‘The ship's mate from the Tirpitz, the one who shot me,’ Stave mumbled.
‘Who also has the fate of his own family on his conscience. We have his confession. But you know how things are: we will still need to hear all the main evidence. And some of it might be a bit awkward for CID.’
Stave closed his eyes. ‘The beating he was given. I heard about that. I saw nothing, I had other things on my mind at the time.’ He gave a gentle tap on his chest.
‘The defence may call Herr Dönnecke into the witness stand.’
‘He won’t do his client any good. The mate is for the chop anyhow.’
‘Sometimes the right ones get what they deserve.’
Stave ought to be going but somehow he couldn’t bring himself to get up from the uncomfortable chair. Nor did Ehrlich look as if he had anything better to do.
‘Are you also in charge of the investigation into Harlan?’ the CID man asked.
‘For inciting racial hatred? No, one of my colleagues is doing that. He’ll do it well but I still feel sorry for him.’
‘Because he has no chance of success?’
‘That's the way it looks. Nasty films aren’t a crime in themselves; at least not so far. And in any case Harlan claims he was under pressure from Goebbels.’
‘All the old Nazis say that.’
‘And they nearly all get away with it. Anyone who didn’t actually have a finger on the trigger or the gas tap, in other words anyone who doesn’t directly have blood on their hands, doesn’t need to worry too much. Everyone had a pre-1945 superior who gave him this or that order which he was obliged to follow.’ The public prosecutor took a sip of tea. ‘So far more than 300,000 citizens of Hamburg have appeared before the tribunal — and nearly all of them have been given a “Persil paper”. And in the event that somebody really doesn’t get cleared there's always another way around: a coincidental car accident, for example.’
Stave nodded. Karl Kaufmann, the former Gauleiter and effective ruler of Hamburg during the ‘brown years’, was injured in a quite spectacular car accident, which was sufficient to halt his trial. And then there was the former mayor Krogmann, whom he had seen recently in a restaurant. The former Gestapo agent Greiner, who walked around freely. And Anna's husband, the diplomat in the Jewish bureau, hiding in his monastery on his way to a new life in South America.
‘Not all the Nazis got off so lightly,’ Stave replied cautiously. ‘Anyone who worked in a government ministry is investigated.’
‘In the foreign ministry, perhaps?’ Ehrlich asked, with a thin smile on his lips. ‘I knew you’d sooner or later pick up that trail.’
‘Klaus von Gudow.’
‘A man from the past.’
‘How long have you known?’
‘After I got to know Frau von Veckinhausen, and was impressed by her knowledge of the art world, I made a few enquiries about her.’
‘Discreetly?’
‘Very discreetly, via English friends. No Germans.’
‘Does Anna know about your enquiries?’
‘No.’
‘Are you looking for her husband?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you using Anna as bait?’
‘Yes, but the prey isn’t biting.’
Stave stared at Ehrlich. ‘Your employment of Anna to track down your missing pieces of art was just cover, then?’
The public prosecutor shook his head energetically. ‘Let's call it collateral. She had some success.’ He nodded towards the sketch on the wall. ‘Frau von Veckinhausen came up with a couple of pieces.’
‘But in reality, the reason you employed her was so you could keep an eye on her.’
‘In case her husband made contact? Yes.’
The CID man thought of the wedding ring from the jeweller's shop and wondered if the man opposite him knew about it.
‘Klaus von Gudow is somewhere in Italy,’ Ehrlich went on. ‘Still. Have you ever heard of the “ratlines”? Escape routes via Austria to Italy? Set up by old Nazi Party comrades and some priests who’re open-minded on the issue. There are a few bishops who see the murder of six million Jews not so much as sin but the justified vengeance of God.’
‘Anna has nothing more to do with her husband.’
‘Unfortunately that's the conclusion I’ve also come to myself: no trips, no secret meetings. She's severed all links between herself and her husband. A new start in life. A new lover.’ He watched Stave carefully with those tired eyes behind thick spectacle lenses.
‘So, what happens now?’ Stave asked, scarcely daring to breathe.
‘I have turned the search for Klaus von Gudow over to the chief public prosecutor's office in Frankfurt-on-Main, the American Zone. Given that I assume the gentleman in question has no intention of remaining in Italy, but will pursue his travel arrangements to South America, I expect their colleagues will be better equipped to cooperate with the authorities out there. They may still catch him before he disappears to Argentina or Paraguay.’
‘Argentina. Does Anna know about all this?’
‘Not a word.’
Stave closed his eyes. He felt as if a rucksack full of boulders had been lifted from his shoulders.
‘Good luck,’ Ehrlich mumbled, getting to his feet. ‘I mean, with Frau von Veckinhausen.’
‘I’ll try not to make a mess of things,’ he replied, shaking the prosecutor's hand.
Stave decided not to go back to headquarters: there would be nobody there, certainly not in Department S. Tomorrow was X-day. The chief inspect
or asked himself if tomorrow suddenly everything would be different.
He pushed the pedals down against the damp northerly wind. When he got to Ahrensburger Strasse 93, he lifted the bike on to his shoulders. Flasch, who was looking out on to the pavement from his ground floor apartment, appeared surprised, then made a gesture that might have signified amazement or sympathy. Stave nodded back to him and pushed open the heavy entrance door to the block. What did it matter. If he hoped to use the bike again tomorrow, then for better or worse he had to lug it up to his apartment; the door to his storage area in the cellar was made of little more than a few planks nailed together.
He was out of breath by the time he reached the landing outside his apartment. His left ankle hurt, and his shoulders ached from the steel bars of the bike frame sliding with every step he took. His chest wound throbbed. He was fumbling with his right hand in his trouser pocket for the key when all of a sudden the door opened.
Karl.
‘You look like you need wringing out!’ his son exclaimed.
‘It's only rain,’ Stave muttered, not wanting to admit to his son just how exhausted he was. He set the bike down and wheeled it into the hallway. ‘I’ll get changed quickly. You’re staying a bit?’ He hardly dared ask the question.
‘Let's see. Have you got anything in the larder? I bartered for some lettuce and carrots up at the allotment, and the first sour cherries.’
‘I’ve got potatoes, bread and lard and ersatz coffee,’ came a shout from the bathroom.
‘Do you think we’ll get a bit more to eat any day soon?’ Karl asked half an hour later as they sat at the kitchen table with two seductively steaming plates.
‘Things can only get better.’
‘I heard that after the bombing raids. And when I was fighting with my comrades on the streets of Berlin. And in the PoW camp in Vorkuta. “Things can only get better.” It was never true. Things just got worse and worse.’
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