Charly had used Gereon’s Buick for the trip to Berlin North, knowing the S-Bahn would take too long. ‘You have a car?’ Karin van Almsick had asked in astonishment. Superintendent Wieking had insisted that Charly take her colleague, probably more as chaperone than aid. Charly had driven while Karin cowered silently on the passenger seat, pale-faced, one hand on the door handle, the other on her hat. Sitting in the room assigned to them by the asylum’s management – a visitors’ room with a vase of flowers on the table – her complexion was waxy-green.
Charly opened the Singer patient file, consisting mostly of the psychological report Böhm had already shown her. Hannah Singer had been interrogated on a total of eleven occasions in the weeks following the attack but hadn’t uttered a word. At some point a colleague from the WKP had also tried, with no better results than her male counterparts, a fact which neither surprised nor disheartened Charly. She leafed through the report.
It can be assumed that the patient’s silence is rooted in her profound social distrust, a clear indicator for a diagnosis of paranoid schizophrenia. Additional symptoms can be found in the patient’s increasing self-neglect, which has led to her rejecting all forms of personal hygiene. Here, see also the patient’s unwillingness to take on food and her frequently occurring bouts of sleeplessness. The patient’s fundamentally depressive disposition suggests that the risk of suicide is high. We recommend that she continue to be kept under strict observation. It is possible that the patient’s previously identified substance abuse (morphine) has impacted upon, or perhaps even caused, her illness and accompanying delusional episodes. An immediate programme of withdrawal is therefore strongly advised.
What kind of girl were they dealing with?
Karin, whose face was slowly regaining its colour, had other things on her mind. ‘I still don’t know what we’re doing here,’ she said, sounding like a stroppy adolescent.
‘I thought Wieking had already explained. We’re questioning a juvenile arsonist. Gently. It’s possible there’s a link to an ongoing investigation.’
‘I got that – but what are we supposed to ask her? The girl’s a lunatic. How’s she supposed to help us?’
‘Why don’t you let me do it?’ Charly tried to sound maternal. ‘Do you know short-hand?’
‘Of course.’
‘Take some notes. I’ll do the talking.’
Karin didn’t appear to take umbrage at her demotion. On the contrary, she appeared relieved as she rummaged in her handbag, eventually producing a shorthand pad.
Charly returned to the patient file, finding an envelope at the back which contained a photograph: a soldier from the World War, in the uniform of a reserve corporal, gazing out with solemn pride, confident the war would be won. It was how they all looked before being called to fight. When they returned their eyes were haunted. It was true of Charly’s father and many more besides, assuming, of course, they’d made it home in the first place.
Heinz Singer, too, had looked different on his return. Charly had found his photo in the police file, among the victims from the Bülowplatz attack. The fire brigade had been on hand to douse the blaze, ensuring most of those who had suffocated in their sleep suffered no burns. Even so, the photo of the deceased Heinz Singer was shocking. The man was missing his legs, both high amputations.
Hannah’s father before and after being broken by war.
All of a sudden even Karin’s interest was piqued. The date and address of the studio were marked on the reverse of the photo. 26th August 1914. Photographie J. Neumann, Usedomer Strasse 5, Berlin N 31.
Charly took down the address and, as she was about to return the photo to the envelope, noticed a slip of paper with a paperclip still inside. Heinz Singer als Uffz. der Reserve, someone had scrawled, and underneath, the uniformed officer’s birth and death dates. 7.3.1890 – 1.1.1932.
‘Her father?’ Karin asked.
‘He was one of the victims.’
‘An army corporal? Among all those vagrants and tramps?’
‘He wasn’t a corporal after the war, but a cripple. A grenade caught him, he had to have both his legs amputated. He . . .’
The door opened with a slight creak. A nurse in starched whites stood in the doorframe, a female version of the boxer, Max Schmeling, holding the hand of a dark-haired girl in a light green nightshirt. The girl stared at the highly-polished asylum floor without lifting her gaze.
Charly returned the photograph and note to the envelope. The sister grasped the patient’s shoulders and shunted her into the room. ‘Hannah Singer,’ she said. ‘You wanted to speak with her.’ She thrust the girl onto the free chair and stood behind her.
Hannah Singer’s eyes remained stubbornly glued to the floor.
‘Many thanks, Sister . . .’ Charly said.
‘Charge Sister. Charge Sister Ingeborg.’ The sister glanced at her patient with disdain. ‘Don’t get your hopes up. Hannah has been with us thirteenth months and hasn’t spoken a word in that time.’
‘Is she mute?’ Karin asked, speaking of Hannah as if she were absent or hard of hearing. Clearly, she wasn’t: her hands, which lay flat on her lap, had twitched when Sister Ingeborg mentioned her name, her eyes likewise, pupils darting left then right, and back to the middle.
‘According to the doctor there’s nothing wrong with her. We assume she’s just chosen not to speak anymore. I wouldn’t either, if I’d done something like that. What is there left to say?’
‘Could I ask you to stop talking? So we can make a start.’ Charly addressed Charge Sister Ingeborg, but meant Karin too. Why couldn’t she just shut up for a change? Karin raised her eyebrows, reached for her pad and leaned back. She took the huff easily but was usually keen to make friends again. Charge Sister Ingeborg was more like a boxer limbering up before a fight. Perhaps she really was related to Max Schmeling.
Charly cleared her throat before beginning. ‘Can I call you Hannah?’ As Charly expected, Hannah Singer gave no response. She needed to be patient, see how the girl reacted. ‘A man died,’ she continued. ‘We think you knew him and that you can help us.’
She pushed the photograph of Heinrich Wosniak across the table. It had been taken at the morgue after the corpse had been washed. The lack of blood made it just about bearable to look at. The worst thing was the burns, but Charly couldn’t spare the girl those.
Hannah’s dark brown eyes remained fixed on the ground.
‘Don’t you want to look?’ No reaction. ‘Heinrich Wosniak.’
The eyes flitted briefly to the photo and back. Then to the photo again, disbelieving.
‘Do you recognise him? He survived the fire.’ Hannah’s gaze had returned to the floor. ‘And now he’s been killed, on the street.’ Silence. ‘They’re nearly all dead now. The men who stayed on Bülowplatz, in the Crow’s Nest.’ Crow’s Nest was the name given to the wooden shack by its residents, the Crows, a band of beggars and wastrels. ‘Now there are only two left. Gerhard Krumbiegel and you.’
A wrinkle appeared on the bridge of Hannah’s nose.
‘Do you know where we can find Krumbiegel?’
Hannah’s face gave little away, but the name Krumbiegel might have triggered something. The second survivor of the fire hadn’t had a fixed address in years. CID were only able to question him and Heinrich Wosniak when they were laid up in hospital in the immediate aftermath of the blaze. There was no getting hold of him now. They didn’t even know if he was still in Berlin, and they didn’t have a photo either.
‘Perhaps he can tell us something about Wosniak, if you don’t want to.’ Silence. ‘You were one of the Crows, weren’t you?’
Hannah’s eyes flashed with suppressed rage and protest, though against what, Charly couldn’t say.
‘You weren’t?’ Charly tried to catch the girl’s eye, succeeding for a brief moment. ‘But you lived with them. With your father.’ It was gone, Hannah’s gaze returned to the floor. ‘They didn’t treat you well, did they, the Crows? You had to beg for
them . . .’ Silence. ‘Together with your father . . .’
Charly paused here, too. She didn’t want to insist, or put the girl under too much pressure, but provoking a reaction or two gave her hope. Hannah certainly wasn’t deaf.
‘Why did you start the fire? Did you really mean to kill the men? Or did you just want to give them a fright? Before it all went so terribly wrong . . .’ Charly opened the envelope in the patient file. ‘Your father died in the blaze. You can’t have wanted that. Tell me why you did it.’ She took the photo of Heinz Singer and pushed it across the table to lie alongside that of Heinrich Wosniak. ‘Or perhaps it’s precisely what you wanted? To . . . deliver him from his pain – because you couldn’t bear to see him that way?’
For the second time, Hannah lifted her face, staring at the wall, the ceiling, the tabletop and the vase of flowers, but never at the three other women in the room. Again and again her gaze returned to the photo on the table and the image of the dapper soldier until, finally, it rested there.
Charly thought she saw her trembling slightly, almost imperceptibly, like trees quivering in a breeze, until two dark-green blotches appeared on the pale green of her nightshirt and grew steadily larger. Tears. Hannah Singer was crying silently, releasing everything that had built up in the last fourteen months, and her trembling became more pronounced. Concealed within that tiny body it seemed there lay an unsuspected strength which was now ready to explode.
All at once, so suddenly that no one in the room was prepared for it, Hannah’s hand shot forward, grabbed the photo of her father and pressed it to her chest.
‘Is that your picture?’ Charly asked.
‘It was recovered from her father’s possessions,’ the sister said.
‘So it does belong to her.’
‘You’ve read the file, haven’t you? This little wretch torched her own father alive. Do you think she deserves a photograph of him?’ She planted herself in front of Hannah. ‘Give it back,’ she said. ‘This instant! It’s not yours.’ The girl cowered on the chair. ‘Let go, give it back!’
Before Charly could say anything or intervene, Charge Sister Ingeborg grabbed Hannah’s right hand and tried to prise the photo out of it.
Hannah folded her body inwards and pressed the image tighter against her chest.
For God’s sake let the girl go, Charly was about to say, but suddenly there came a cry so shrill that she had to cover her ears. Hannah was screaming at the furious charge sister, screaming right into her ear, as she scratched the fingernails of her left hand across her face.
Charge Sister Ingeborg touched her bloodied features and, before any of them could move, Hannah was on her feet and running as if her life depended on it. Just before she reached the door, Charge Sister Ingeborg sounded her whistle, ran two or three steps and dived like a goalkeeper saving a penalty, bringing the fragile girl flailing to the floor.
Charly stood up, unsure what to do. She ought to have helped bring the fugitive under control, but her instincts told her to tear Charge Sister Ingeborg away, to help Hannah. Suddenly, the door flew open and two men in white uniforms swooped on the screaming girl. One pressed Hannah’s arms behind her back while the other threw his weight on her flailing legs. Charge Sister Ingeborg plucked the photo out of her hand.
The wartime image of Heinz Singer was badly creased but still intact. Charge Sister Ingeborg lifted it like a trophy before placing it back inside the envelope.
The two men secured poor Hannah Singer in a straitjacket, apparently enjoying themselves, and dragged her from the room. Hannah would most likely be placed in a padded cell, or whatever they did with obstreperous prisoners, Charly didn’t like to think about it.
She couldn’t be sure, but for some reason she couldn’t help thinking that Charge Sister Ingeborg had been waiting for a chance to show this disturbed girl who was in charge. As for the police, who had dared disturb the tried and tested routine of the Wittenauer Sanatorium . . . Perhaps ‘insane asylum’ was the more appropriate term.
‘I fear your interview is over,’ Sister Ingeborg said. ‘I did say you wouldn’t get anything out of her.’ Her gaze said more still: if you hadn’t come here none of this would have happened. Why did you have to get the poor child so worked up?
‘What . . . what will happen to her now?’ Charly asked.
‘First she needs to be sedated. After that the ward doctor will decide.’
No doubt she hoped the ward doctor would plump for the most painful treatment he could find.
7
From the back of the town hall balcony, Rath looked over the heads of Cologne’s ruling class, seeing little but the gable end of the building opposite. He felt he didn’t belong, but neither would he wish to, unlike his father who had already moved two rows forward.
Still, not even Engelbert Rath could get next to Konrad Adenauer, who stood at the railing looking down on the Alter Markt and the crowd assembled for the Rosenmontag parade. That place of honour was reserved for the so-called Dreigestirn, the mad triad of virgin, peasant and prince.
Prince Franz’s long peacock feathers bobbed in time with the music as he thanked Adenauer for allowing the parade to be staged in this economic climate. When the voice of Willi Ostermann rasped inevitably from the loudspeaker, the tightly packed crowd linked arms and swayed from side to side, leaving Rath no choice but to join in. He had nothing against Carnival, only those for whom the event was an extended exercise in mutual back scratching. To his left a garishly made-up woman with yellow straw plaits, a red-and-white patterned blouse and blue dress; to his right a man with oversleeves who looked as if he’d prefer to link arms with Rath’s buxom neighbour.
No, his place was with Paul and their old friends by the cathedral.
It was time for the parade; the prince’s chariot awaited. Men in black suits and fool’s caps escorted prince, virgin and peasant into a room behind the balcony. Rath mumbled an apology and joined them. After descending a set of stairs they found themselves on the Alter Markt, where the triad was given a warm welcome. There was still time to join Paul and the others, perhaps even to get rid of the stupid fool’s cap given to him by his father, and find a proper disguise.
‘What are you supposed to be? A short-sighted Jew?’ Engelbert had asked as they were getting ready in Klettenberg. After a brief set-to, Rath had returned the rubber nose to his coat pocket and reluctantly donned the fool’s cap.
Floats were lined up on the Alter Markt, but it was apparent that money was scarce. None was higher than three metres, none ostentatious, and the whole thing felt as if it had been cobbled together at the last minute – which it more or less had. Carnival of yore, the slogan ran, but there was nothing historical about it. More as if the people were recalling a time when the Cologne Carnival was run by them and not the city’s festival committee.
Rath pushed close to the balcony and looked up. Konrad Adenauer stood impassively by the railing, and for a brief moment their eyes met. Rath wasn’t sure if Adenauer recognised him, but felt caught out and looked away. He hoped his father hadn’t seen him make his escape.
The parade began to cries of ‘Alaaf’ and children squealed for presents and sweets from the floats until a different, harsher, set of cries cut through the joy. A dozen brownshirts, forcing their way through the crowd towards the town hall, looked serious, out to provoke. The cries of ‘Alaaf’ fell to a series of whispers.
‘Adenauer an die Mauer!’ Adenauer for the firing squad. At first Rath thought he had misheard, but the brownshirts shouted again. ‘Adenauer an die Mauer!’
Adenauer was inscrutable, as ever. He pretended not to hear them, as if their language were not the language of his generation; as if it were beneath his dignity to respond. Engelbert Rath was near him now, looking nervous. Two uniformed cops accepted the kisses of girls in fancy dress, but otherwise followed the mayor’s lead, seemingly oblivious to what was going on.
Revellers began to look intimidated and parents shielded their chil
dren. No one condoned this, but no one dared react.
Rath was no great believer in Adenauer, but would not stand by and watch. Before he could cut in, however, men in the red uniforms of the Cologne Carnival Association encircled the brownshirts. The Rote Funken. The Red Sparks. There was a brief and intense exchange and the SA men left to the jeers of the crowd.
‘Three cheers for the Carnival Association. Kölle . . .!’
‘Alaaf!’ the crowd responded.
Rath looked up at the balcony. It was the Carnival stick-in-the-mud Adenauer who had initiated the chant.
‘The police have it good here,’ Rath said to one of the cops. ‘You have the Rote Funken as auxiliary officers. In Berlin it’s left to the SA and Stahlhelm.’
‘What do you want, man?’
‘What do you want, Inspector,’ Rath said, flashing his identification. ‘CID, Berlin.’
‘Enjoy yourself, Sir.’
‘You too,’ Rath replied, without meaning it.
8
Wrapped in a blanket against the cold February night, Berthold Weinert sat in his attic room on Schumannstrasse, staring at a blank page in his typewriter. He spent all his free time on his manuscript, and right now he had plenty to spare. Many of his stories weren’t picked up, and when they were the news desks paid less than before. Forced to give up his furnished room in Charlottenburg, he had moved into this shabby garret around mid-summer, not anticipating how cold it would get in winter. Times were hard.
His novel, started about a year ago after completing his never-to-be-filmed screenplay and his middling though nevertheless published account of the Graf Zeppelin, was a way of pretending to himself and his landlady that he was gainfully employed. The stupid thing was, of course, that there was no money in novel-writing, and no publisher would give him an advance.
The March Fallen Page 4