She caught herself thinking back to her time in A Division, when she had often struck out with him, questioning witnesses, even the odd suspect. Wilhelm Böhm didn’t seem to care that she had been hired as a stenographer; he’d recognised her talent. Police work had been enjoyable before she became a candidate for inspector.
Now she was part of the system and what did they have her doing? Investigating childish pranks.
The prints Superintendent Wieking had requested from the lab all bore the same image. A bare brick wall, the like of which could be seen a hundred times over in Wedding, Friedrichshain, Neukölln or any other workers’ district. Daubed across it in white: Deutschland erwache, Juda verrecke! Germany awake, Jew die! The penmanship was expert, as if the culprit had all the time in the world. Someone else had run a red line through the slogan and scrawled hastily underneath: Deutschland, mach die Augen auf, Hitler hat ein Ar(i)schgesicht!
Open your eyes, Germany, but then the “i” in Arisch was crossed out, rendering Hitler’s “Aryan face” Hitler’s “arse-face”. Reading the sentence, Charly couldn’t help but smile. Her colleague Karin van Almsick, meanwhile, studied the photos with deadly seriousness, magnifying glass in hand.
‘I don’t know why we’re only hunting those responsible for the second sentence,’ Charly said. ‘The point is, it’s forbidden to scrawl political slogans, no matter how nice they are to look at.’
‘It also depends on the message!’ There was astonishment in Karin’s voice at having to explain something so obvious. ‘Where would we be if any old lout could get away with besmirching someone else’s property?’
Any old lout. So, that’s why the photos had landed on Charly’s desk. Because the political police suspected the slogan was the work of a wild posse, and dealing with gangs of youths fell firmly within the remit of Women’s CID. The Politicals had enough on their plate with adults whose views were out of sync with the times.
‘I’ll bet you anything it was the Rote Ratten. They were scrawling that sort of thing everywhere last summer.’ Karin brought such zeal to the task that Charly started to feel ill. With her magnifying glass and checked skirt, her desk neighbour looked like a female Sherlock Holmes.
The Rote Ratten, or Red Rats, were teenagers from around Kösliner Strasse, who mostly engaged in harmless skirmishes with other youths, but occasionally angered the SA by daubing slogans across their Sturmlokal or tipping sand into the tanks of their cars. The Rats might not be easily integrated into any party machine, whether that of the Communists – who still held sway in Kösliner Strasse – or the Social Democrats, but they were, most definitely, Red.
Which was precisely why they were a thorn in Friederike Wieking’s flesh. Charly’s section chief made no secret of her delight that the new Reich chancellor was Adolf Hitler, nor that she hoped his cabinet would survive longer than the two months that had become customary in recent times.
Charly was among those who hoped the madness would soon pass, but the approval with which Hitler’s cabinet had been greeted among the WKP, the Women’s CID, sent a shiver down her spine. Not that the WKP was representative of Germany, and certainly not of Berlin. Charly couldn’t believe that the ‘national uprising’, as the Nazis had dubbed Hitler’s appointment, would be sanctioned in any way by a majority of Germans.
‘The Red Rats. Could be.’ She shrugged. ‘What happens if we actually catch them, and succeed in building a case?’
‘They’ll get their just deserts.’
‘Or be beaten black and blue by SA auxiliary officers.’
‘What if they are? A few slaps never hurt anyone. If their parents aren’t going to then . . .’
Charly stood up. ‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘I need a cigarette break.’
Karin nodded. ‘If you go past the kitchen, can you put some water on? I was about to make us a fresh pot of tea.’
‘Of course.’ Charly attempted a smile.
She was glad not to encounter any colleagues in the kitchen as she filled the battered kettle and set it on the electric stove. Understanding the crimes the WKP handled – youth crime, girl gangs, underage prostitutes – she had quickly made her peace with it, even if she missed working in Homicide and envied Gereon his role with Gennat. But this, now? This was no longer about sitting on her backside in an overheated office, this was about turning innocuous pranks into serious political crimes; about hunting down gangs of youths who rejected the new Reich chancellor and, unlike so many others, were prepared to voice their scorn.
The canteen was equally quiet. She got a coffee and a slice of nutcake from the buffet. Though no great fan of cake, Charly sometimes treated herself to a slice in memory of the old days. Meetings with the portly head of homicide, Ernst Gennat, had almost always meant cake. For Gennat, too, Charly had been more than a stenographer; he had recognised her abilities.
Carrying her tray through the rows of tables, it was as if the memory of A Division somehow conjured the man sitting alone with a cup of coffee. Wilhelm Böhm, keeping his distance behind a pillar. ‘Evening, Sir. Mind if I join you?’
Böhm gave a start, but his expression soon brightened. ‘Charly! Of course, take a seat!’
She set down her tray. ‘Long time no see.’
‘You can say that again.’
The nutcake was far too dry, no comparison with the cake in Gennat’s office. She had to take a sip of coffee before she could continue.
Böhm bridged the silence. ‘How are you? Lots to do in G?’
‘Depends on how you look at it.’ She lit a Juno. ‘Mostly routine. No comparison with Homicide. Right now we’re turning harmless graffiti into serious crime.’
‘Times are changing. Only today I was advised not to expend too much energy investigating the violent death of a homeless man. Apparently the police have more important things to do.’
‘Gennat said that?’
Böhm shook his head. ‘Some jumped-up auxiliary officer. An SA man who was called by an angry citizen, this morning at Nollendorfplatz. Didn’t make any difference that there were only three of us in attendance, or that we were dealing with an unnatural death.’
‘Most civilians don’t understand what we do.’
‘Yes, but, thanks to our friend Herr Göring, this brown ignoramus gets to call himself a police officer. We can do without his sort at a homicide investigation. Auxiliary police!’
‘I’m sure that’s true of plenty of seasoned officers as well.’
‘It’s good to hear your voice, Charly. It reminds me of happier times.’
‘I’d be only too glad to be seconded to Homicide again.’
‘You know your superior doesn’t approve. Superintendent Wieking can be – how shall I put this? – rather forthright.’
‘You’re telling me!’ She stubbed out her cigarette, drank the last of her coffee and made to get up.
‘Actually, Charly, do you have a minute? I . . . I’d like to hear your opinion on something. It’s about . . .’ Böhm stirred his coffee cup even though it was empty. ‘It has to do with pigeon droppings and . . . God! I sound like such an idiot!’ The teaspoon landed on the saucer with a clink. ‘It’s best if I start from the beginning. Sit down, I’ll get us some more coffee.’
Charly thought of her office, her colleague, of the potted plants by the window sill, and the by now lukewarm tea Karin had brewed for her. She nodded, and took out her cigarette case for a second time.
5
Tea cups clinked on Frieda’s tray as she entered the drawing room, and Rath shifted uneasily in his chair. He’d have felt more comfortable at one of his mother’s coffee mornings than in the company of these two men. They looked on in silence as Frieda filled their cups, taking up the thread only when she had closed the door behind her.
‘Thanks for inviting me, Engelbert.’ The man by the window, sitting in the room’s most comfortable chair, stirred his coffee and leaned back.
‘Of course, Konrad. I know how important it is to relax between m
eetings. Carnival, an election campaign, and the city still needs to be run.’
‘Not for much longer.’ Konrad Adenauer gazed onto Siebengebirgsallee, where a black-painted official car was waiting. The chauffeur stood smoking by the garden fence. ‘I’m afraid I might soon have a little more time on my hands.’
‘How can you say that, Konrad? The Reichstag vote will give the Nazis something to think about, and a week later it will be the local elections. This madness will soon pass, mark my words. They lost millions of supporters in November; they’re on the way out.’
‘If only that were true.’ Their visitor sipped his tea. ‘No, no, Engelbert. My time as mayor is over. Our time is over. The Nazis won’t allow power to be wrested from them. Not now.’
The mayor pronounced the word “Nazi” with a short a, making it sound more like “Nazzi”.
Rath was afraid the conversation would turn to politics; it almost always did with his father, and with this particular visitor it went without saying. Engelbert Rath was proud to be on first-name terms with the mayor of Cologne, a friendship that had proved instrumental to his career as police director down the years.
Rath fished his cigarette case out of his pocket, knowing his father had refrained from his customary afternoon cigar out of consideration for the non-smoking Adenauer. Even so, he lit a cigarette and gazed out of the window. It was cold, and the chauffeur was back inside the sedan.
Engelbert Rath threw his son an angry glance, before answering. ‘Everything is still up for grabs. We’re in the middle of an election campaign, which is precisely the reason you refused to meet Hitler a week ago, a move I wholeheartedly agree with. The man was in Cologne as an electoral candidate, not in his capacity as Reich chancellor. Which is also why you had the swastika flags removed from the Deutzer Bridge.’
‘Correct. Because I want to see out my final days in office with dignity and resolve.’
Adenauer set down his cup and fished a piece of paper out of his pocket, unfolded it and showed it to father and son. A pamphlet. ADENAUER MUST GO, Rath read.
‘It’s the only message that brown rabble are pedalling. I’d like to continue as mayor after 12th March, but I’m not counting on it. Gussie and the children are prepared for defeat.’ Adenauer stirred his tea, his thoughts elsewhere. ‘Hitler should have been countered with force a year ago. It’s too late now.’
‘I refuse to indulge your pessimism, Konrad! Hitler’s cabinet exists only by the grace of Hindenburg. If the brownshirts overstep the mark, the Reich president will clamp down on them. As for the voters . . .’
‘Politically speaking, Hindenburg’s a fool,’ Adenauer interrupted. ‘Just like that schemer, Papen. Hitler’s working at our behest, he’s supposed to have said in his gentleman’s club. To think, a man like that once belonged to our party, the Westphalian fussbudget!’
‘Our constituents will never give the brownshirts their votes. Catholic voters will stay loyal to the Centre Party!’
‘Maybe, but you’re forgetting the women. This Hitler’s got them all running around after him.’ Adenauer looked out of the window, as if Germany’s entire female population was assembled outside the Rath villa. ‘We never should have given them the vote.’
‘I don’t know about that . . . my Erika certainly won’t be voting for the Browns. Nor will your Gussie.’
‘The elections won’t change anything. The streets belong to the Nazis, and have done for some time. If need be they’ll get what they want by force.’
‘Politics, eh?’ Engelbert Rath seemed unable to conceive of a future in which he could no longer call upon his links to the Centre Party or Social Democrats, and certainly not enough to get worked up about it. ‘There are more important things in life,’ he said, but Gereon knew he didn’t mean it. For Engelbert Rath there was nothing more important than politics, at least where it served his professional advancement. ‘How are Gussie and the children?’
‘Thank you, they’re in good health. Though the SA are getting more and more brazen since they’ve been allowed to pose as auxiliary police officers. You ask them why they are loitering by the house and they say they’re guarding the street. Can’t you do something?’
‘My hands are tied.’ The great Engelbert Rath appeared suddenly weak, his all-powerful façade crumbling. ‘The SA has a mind of its own. Its commanding officers aren’t easily incorporated into conventional police hierarchy.’
‘That’s what I’m talking about. Our time is up.’ Adenauer set down his tea cup.
Rath gazed out of the window. The chauffeur was outside again, lighting another cigarette. No doubt smoking wasn’t permitted inside the Cologne mayor’s official car.
‘How about you, young man?’ Adenauer asked, and it took Gereon a moment to realise the question was directed at him. The mayor fixed him with his narrow, Indian eyes. Without thinking, he sat up. ‘Can’t resist the pull of the Rhine?’
‘Just a holiday.’ Rath cleared his throat. ‘Chalked up too much overtime.’
‘How do you like Berlin? Settling in OK?’
Rath shrugged.
‘Gereon is soon to be married,’ his father prompted. ‘To a Berliner, born-and-bred.’
‘Well then, congratulations.’
‘Thank you, Mayor.’
‘Where is the marriage taking place? Here in Cologne?’
‘We . . . uh . . . we have . . . first we have to . . .’
‘Gereon’s bride is Protestant,’ Engelbert Rath said, and it sounded like an apology.
‘What can I say? Berlin.’ Adenauer shook his head, apparently surprised that a place like the German capital even existed. ‘You’re here for Carnival too of course?’
‘Yes, of course. I mean: as well.’ Rath felt as though he were being interrogated. ‘I’m here mainly to visit my parents.’
‘And your lady bride? Is she with you? You must introduce us some time.’
‘I . . . No. Fräulein Ritter is working. She’s a CID cadet and . . .’
‘A police officer?’
Rath nodded. ‘Yes. A very good one too.’
‘We’ve already had the pleasure of Fräulein Ritter’s acquaintance,’ Engelbert Rath said. ‘A charming young lady.’ He paused briefly. ‘I’ve mentioned to Gereon that there’ll be a Rosenmontag parade again this year. Thanks to your support, Konrad.’
‘It’s the Cologne business world you have to thank.’
‘Your modesty does you credit. Now, I wanted to ask: tomorrow on the town hall balcony . . . I should have said something sooner, but my son’s appearance has put me off guard . . . Would it be too much to ask if . . .’
‘Of course not. There’s always space for a Rath on the balcony.’ Adenauer’s gaze wandered from Engelbert to Gereon Rath. ‘It would be a great honour if you could join us tomorrow, young man.’
‘Oh, thank you.’ Rath was so dumbfounded he couldn’t think of anything else to say.
‘Think nothing of it.’ Adenauer looked at him with his narrow eyes. ‘Perhaps you’ll consider returning to Cologne one day. We could use men like you in these troubled times.’
‘I’ll think about it, Mayor,’ Rath said, knowing that he wouldn’t. He’d never persuade Charly to move to Cologne, not with Erika and Engelbert Rath so close by. Besides, Berlin was his city now, that strange metropolis that offered so little by way of homeliness, but somehow got under your skin.
Adenauer looked at his silver fob watch. ‘My driver will be getting impatient.’ He stood up and shook both Raths by the hand. ‘A pleasure, Engelbert. Believe me, I appreciate your friendship now more than ever.’
Engelbert Rath escorted the mayor out while Gereon stood at the window, lighting another cigarette. Adenauer’s car started up as Rath senior returned.
‘Box seats on the town hall balcony. To what do I owe the honour?’ Gereon said.
‘You just heard: you’re a Rath.’
‘What makes you think I want a box seat? Perhaps I prefer the worm’s eye view
of the common man.’
‘This isn’t about what you want. At times like these it’s our duty as democrats to maintain a presence.’
‘Who says I’m a democrat?’
‘Gereon!’
‘Besides, how are the crowds looking up at us supposed to know? All they’ll see are bobbing heads. You know it’d be the same people on the balcony if we didn’t have a democracy, don’t you?’
‘Konrad Adenauer wouldn’t be there. You’ve heard what the Nazis are saying about him.’
‘It’s all talk. They won’t feel so big after the election. You and your party colleagues will be back on top.’
‘I hope you’re right, but Konrad sees things differently.’
‘Adenauer’s just tired of office. He’s always had a pessimistic streak.’
6
The place reeked of disinfectant, cold floor wax and cigarette smoke. Charly lit a cigarette to distract herself. Outside, in the park, leafless treetops were swinging in the wind. The grounds of the Wittenauer Sanatorium were expansive, but in winter the impression was of desolation. A few years ago it had been The Municipal Insane Asylum, Berlin-Dalldorf, a name that was far more familiar to Charly. Did you bust out of Dalldorf? children on the street would shout, or: mind you don’t get sent to Dalldorf!
Now here she was.
‘A Division want you to go to Reinickendorf and interrogate a girl,’ Friederike Wieking had said, ‘an insane Jewish arsonist.’
Charly hadn’t told her superintendent that she’d already discussed the case with Wilhelm Böhm and even briefly looked at the file. Wieking didn’t enjoy parting with her officers, but was loath to turn down a request from Homicide Chief Ernst Gennat. The reputation of the newly formed Women’s CID was greatly enhanced by having its officers seconded to other departments.
The March Fallen Page 3