‘I need to talk to you, and the only person at home is your bride-to-be.’
‘Then you should have called headquarters. This isn’t a good time.’
‘I need to speak to you today. If you don’t want your secretary to find out, then suggest an alternative location.’
Rath looked around. Erika Voss was using the time to paint her lips. ‘She lives on Wörther Strasse. Is there somewhere we can meet close by?’
‘Let’s do it like this,’ Marlow said. ‘I’ll wait around the corner, by the water tower. We’ll talk there in the car. It’ll be better for both of us.’
The window was closed before Rath could say anything. He went over to the Buick and tipped up the dickey. The sedan pulled out of its space and rolled slowly past. Rath released Kirie’s collar and she jumped on the seat. He hadn’t seen Johann Marlow in almost a year, but Rath had the uneasy feeling of being shackled to the man, knowing his career would be over if their association were ever made known, and not just his career. Charly would never forgive him if she found out. Not so much his working alongside a known criminal as lying about it for so long. Four years ago she had made him promise that he’d never see Johann Marlow again.
He climbed into the Buick and Erika Voss twisted her lipstick shut. ‘What did you want with the man in the sedan?’
‘Illegally parked.’ Rath started the engine. ‘I politely suggested that this was a no-stopping zone, whether you were a swank with a chauffeur or not.’
26
The Jonass department store lacked the pomp of Kadewe or Wertheim, and the tasteful respectability of Tietz or Karstadt, but was no less impressive. Sober and functional, the newly-built eight-storey department store dominated the Prenzlauer Berg skyline, gazing over the districts of Spandau and Friedrichshain from which it drew its custom.
Hannah had tried at both branches of Tietz, on Alexanderplatz and on Leipziger Strasse; had been in Wertheim and Kadewe, but everywhere she went they threw her out. She still looked like a beggar girl, despite the old coat she had pinched from Aschinger. Her oversized rubber boots, stuffed with newspaper, undermined any attempt to appear even halfway solvent.
It wasn’t easy finding somewhere to sleep when you didn’t have a penny. The places she had been forced to bed down since Dalldorf! Last night had been a sandpit on the banks of the Spree, where she had shivered until morning. Upon waking she’d dragged herself from bar to bar, taking advantage of the warmth until her inevitable expulsion. Being thrown out was the one thing she could count on. The waiters couldn’t have her begging or selling her body against the promise of a warm meal.
More than once she had considered returning to Reinickendorf, where there was at least food and warmth, but then she remembered it wasn’t just Charge Sister Ingeborg or Warder Scholtens who’d be waiting, but Huckebein too.
Jeder Preis ein Schlager, the sign above the entrance said. Every price a winner. Hannah stepped into the enveloping warmth. At Kadewe one of the uniformed porters had sent her on her way within seconds, but at Jonass she didn’t stand out quite so much. You could buy on credit here, which meant there were more shabby-looking figures about, and fewer judgemental looks. A gaunt girl in an oversized coat attracted little attention. She strolled through the aisles, past the clothes racks and up and down the stairs until she found what looked like a suitable place to sleep.
The large wooden trunk in the furniture department was the kind of place no night watchman would think to look. Hannah would have liked nothing better than to climb straight in but, as soon as she opened the lid, she felt half a dozen pairs of eyes on her. She gave the trunk a look of appraisal and replaced the lid.
The department store idea came from the Märchenbrunnen posse. They recalled a girl who would get herself locked in at night so that she could make off with jewellery and so forth. For Hannah the appeal resided less in stealing jewellery than the prospect of a meal and something warm to wear, and the chance of a few hours’ comfortable sleep.
The Märchenbrunnen posse weren’t a fixed set, not like the hundreds of gangs with martial-sounding names like Red Rats or Black Hand, but a handful of homeless youths or runaways who had chosen the Märchenbrunnen in Volkspark Friedrichshain as their meeting point around the same time Hannah had finally escaped the hell of the Crow’s Nest. The Crows had found her again a few days later, of course, and hounded her back to Bülowplatz. Back to her slave’s existence selling matchsticks on the Weidendammer Bridge along with her bitter, crippled father whose morphine addiction swallowed the greater part of their takings.
Still, those few days in summer had shown her a life in which she owned little but was free; in which she had friends. Escaping from Dalldorf, memories of those warm nights had driven her back to the Märchenbrunnen, the Fairytale Fountain, but Hansel and Gretel’s noses were covered in icicles and there were no young people for miles around. Since then she spent her days in the Volkspark and surrounding area looking for the posse, and her evenings scouring department stores for somewhere to sleep.
Yes, she was a thief. The coat wasn’t the only thing, and she didn’t feel guilty – a girl like her couldn’t sink any lower. The only thing that made stealing difficult was the fear of getting caught. If someone handed her over to the cops, she would be sent back to Dalldorf, perhaps even to jail. Somewhere, at any rate, where Huckebein would find her.
Of course Berlin wasn’t completely safe, but how, she asked herself each day, would she survive outside the big city? Owning nothing but the clothes on her body she was better off in the capital than out in the country where the farmers would chase her off their land. Cold as the winter here might be, there were plenty of opportunities to get warm.
In the meantime, she took up position in a stairwell of the office wing, where the employees finished earlier than those on the floor. Hannah looked for somewhere to hide in the ladies’ toilet, knowing from her experiences in Tietz that it would be searched before closing. The staff toilets might be different. She waited for the glow of light in the lavatory window to dim . . . and then started.
For a moment she didn’t know where she was. She must have fallen asleep. Even the toilets here were pleasantly warm. She considered going properly to sleep, but fear of the night watchman jolted her awake. She didn’t know how late it was, but the light from the department store was gone and it was almost pitch black. She groped her way forwards and out.
The door to the sales floor was still open. She worked her way gradually towards the furniture department, taking cover behind whatever shelves she could find, until she reached the trunk. Stretching for one of the cushions draped over a nearby sofa, she lifted the lid and climbed inside. She just needed to adjust her legs slightly and everything was perfect albeit dark as an inkwell. Only when her eyes had grown accustomed to the gloom did she notice the cracks in the wood through which light filtered.
On the cusp of sleep a noise startled her. It must be the night watchman doing his rounds. She scarcely dared breathe, but listened and hoped that he might soon be on his way. The steps drew closer until . . . Goddamn it! He must have noticed one of the sofa cushions was missing. The lid above her opened.
Paralysed by fear she squinted upwards; her ‘night watchman’ was equally terrified. A boy of perhaps eleven or twelve, dressed even more shabbily than she was, looked down at her out of large, frightened eyes.
PART II
SMOKE
Thursday 2nd March to
Sunday 26th March 1933
Smoke, visible suspension of carbon or other particles rising from a burning substance as a result of complete or incomplete combustion.
MEYERS GROSSES KONVERSATIONS-LEXICON,
1905
27
Neuville, March 1917
The beam creaks but still refuses to budge. Only when a fourth horse is harnessed does it yield, and the building collapses in a huge pile of dust. The men interrupt their work and applaud as if they had witnessed a vaudeville act. Each tim
e a unit succeeds in collapsing a building the others show their appreciation, only to engage in an even more spectacular act of destruction.
I let them do as they please, ensuring only that they do not descend into a frenzy of annihilation. A German soldier must never lose his discipline or resort to savagery. Observing this rule even in the chaos of war is what makes us strong.
Much of our work is already done. Many buildings, above all on the western side, have been destroyed by enemy fire, even the ancient church tower which, until the latest British offensive, had withstood countless allied assaults.
Our brief is to take care of the rest: the aim of Operation Alberich is to leave nothing behind, nothing which might, in any way, serve the advancing foe. Our sector comprises a dozen of the two hundred villages that must be razed to the ground.
We detonate rail tracks, bridges and roads, contaminate wells and burn fields, make kindling of orchards and fell roadside trees. Yes, we clear and burn down entire forests. We take everything we can from the houses and cellars before turning them to rubble: food of course, but also items left behind when we deported the men to labour camps, and the women, children and old people to basements and shacks on the edge of Alberich territory, where they are herded together like cattle.
It might lack the honour of single combat, but this is a necessary and dangerous operation. We will be among the last to leave Alberich territory. Unbeknownst to the enemy, four entire armies have already withdrawn, entrenching themselves in the impregnable ferroconcrete of the Siegfried Position. My unit is one of the last charged with destruction work, simulating the presence of troops who have long since retreated.
A little away from the village is a splendid estate, left miraculously unscathed by the war, a neat villa with servants’ quarters and gardens. The house is said to have belonged to a bank manager, but presently it is where I reside with my faithful Heinrich, the orderly who has accompanied me since Marne. The garden walls have taken hits, but the house itself remains intact, although its days are numbered. I have tasked my best men with its destruction. On the day we withdraw to the Siegfried Line, we will blow up the bank manager’s villa along with the schoolhouse next to the church where the rest of the men are housed. Chief Artificer Grimberg, a demolition expert holding the rank of staff sergeant, is among the best in his field. The men are preparing the house to his instructions, drilling holes and planting explosives as he dictates.
I am sitting in the orderly room dictating the situation report, when Wosniak brings a message.
‘Beg to report, Sir: there is something wrong with the cellar.’
‘What do you mean something wrong?’
‘It’s too small. If the Herr Lieutenant would care to see for himself.’
I follow him down to the cellar, where the men hover in front of a brick wall which until yesterday was the site of wine shelves reaching to the ceiling. The shelves have been cleared and the wine incorporated into army stock in the officers’ mess.
Corporal Meifert, a budding mathematician, makes his report. The area of the ground floor does not match that of the cellar.
‘You’re certain, Meifert?’
‘I notice these things, Sir.’
‘A false wall?’
‘That’s what we suspect, Sir.’
‘Knock it down.’
This is the order they have been waiting for. Private Wibeau, a wiry Huguenot, is already wielding a sledgehammer. He winds up and, as the first blow strikes, around a dozen bricks fall back with a hollow crash. A dark hole opens up in the wall and Wibeau swings the hammer for a second, a third time. The hole grows larger, and when enough light filters into the room from our side, there is a shimmer, which becomes brighter as the chamber reveals itself. Finally we are gazing upon a sparkling wall, which rises above its brick counterpart, perhaps a metre high, and is piled with – gold.
Wibeau retrieves one of the bars, weighing a solid twelve kilograms, and shows me the embossing.
BANQUE DU NORD
OR FIN
999,9
400 oz
As we later discover, the manager of the Banque du Nord made a secret vault in his private cellar, storing his bank’s gold reserve for safekeeping as our second army stood outside Cambrai.
‘This gold is hereby requisitioned,’ I say. ‘It must be taken to safety.’
I see the disappointment in my men’s eyes. So much gold, and all for the Kaiser. Still, they comply, tearing down the brick wall and fetching the bars from the secret chamber. When there are footsteps on the stairs they stand to attention. As Wegener, recruited to the front just days before, salutes, a gold bar falls from his hands and crashes to the floor. No one laughs. Captain Engel frowns at the foot of the stairs.
‘They told me I’d find you here, Lieutenant.’ He looks around. ‘I thought your men were preparing the house for detonation.’
‘Beg to report, Sir: we have discovered considerable quantities of gold in the cellar.’
‘And?’
‘I have given orders for it to be requisitioned and brought to Cambrai before we continue with our preparations.’
Engel examines the bars, which shine as bright as day in the light of the cellar window, and rubs his chin. ‘You are right,’ he says. ‘The gold must not fall into enemy hands, but it is too late for it to be transported to Cambrai. It would hinder our retreat, and jeopardise the outcome of the entire operation.’
Captain Engel goes to far greater lengths to implement Ludendorff’s brief than is dictated by tactical measures. His unscrupulousness has led some to christen him Todesengel; certainly he seems to revel in the malevolence that accompanies any war. For him Operation Alberich is not simply a duty, a terrible and necessary measure to resist the enemy. On the contrary, he enjoys spreading death and destruction.
I am not talking of the enjoyment my men take from demolishing enemy houses. The common serviceman may find pleasure in destruction, in the razing of buildings and detonation of bridges, but contaminating wells is an order he fulfills only out of soldierly duty. Not so Captain Engel. For him it is not sufficient to leave behind a wasteland. Rather, the enemy should discover an inhospitable lunar landscape, where death lurks in every cellar, behind every stone. The order to pollute the drinking water is thought to have come from him, likewise the booby traps lining the roads, concealed in our abandoned trenches and dugouts.
‘Operation Alberich takes priority, Sir. Of course,’ I reply. ‘But . . . with respect we can’t just blow up the gold along with the house.’
‘Of course not. We’ll take it with us, tonight, but not to Cambrai. Find a secure hiding place, Lieutenant, one that the enemy won’t discover when they move in, or when the fighting has ceased.’ He looks around him, as if making the men swear an oath. ‘Gold doesn’t rust,’ he says. ‘We’ll come for it when the war is over.’
Engel doesn’t say who he is referring to, but everyone in the room understands. No matter the outcome of the war, the gold belongs to us. Not to the French, and not to the Kaiser either.
‘Make your preparations,’ he continues. ‘I’ll wait for your report in the orderly room.’ I salute. ‘And . . . don’t breathe a word of this to anyone. Can I rely on you? All of you?’ Engel’s gaze alights on Wegener, an ex-grammar school pupil with a reputation as a loose cannon.
‘Yes, Sir,’ he says. ‘Not a word, to anyone.’
There is no need for the other men to respond; their acquiescence is palpable.
Engel gives a satisfied nod. ‘When do you intend to detonate the house, Lieutenant?’ he asks, as if the issue of the gold has been dealt with once and for all.
‘On the day of our withdrawal. As soon as we’ve evacuated.’
‘I have a better idea. Detonate the explosive charge once the enemy has moved in and taken up quarters. Where is your demolition expert?’
Grimberg steps forward. ‘Chief Artificer Grimberg at your service, Sir.’
‘Can you set a time fuse to d
etonate in a week or two from now?’
‘Yes, Sir,’ Grimberg says, clearly uncomfortable at the prospect. Blowing up buildings is not the same as luring people into a deadly trap.
‘Good. Then see that it’s done. You are hereby excused from transporting the gold.’ With a satisfied smile the captain climbs the steps once more.
Todesengel, they call him. Now we know why.
Needing a break from Roddeck’s stuffy prose, Rath laid down the manuscript and lit a cigarette. Charly had been asleep when he got home, much later than expected, to a bottle of wine with two glasses, one of which was unused. He had poured the rest of the wine, and begun leafing through the novel. Thankfully, Hildebrandt’s markings had spared him the first one hundred and thirty pages.
Perhaps it was just that this particular type of literature, the ubiquitous, mass-produced military novels, even a book like Ernst Jünger’s Stahlgewittern which his father had gifted him for Christmas years before, left him cold. He went to the cupboard, fetched the bottle of cognac and poured himself a large glass before continuing.
When our work here is done, the village will be unrecognisable, a wasteland devoid of life. We must take this and all the various imponderables of war into account as we search for a suitable hiding place. We need a fixed point in the landscape, a landmark that cannot be destroyed. But what, in this conflict, resists destruction?
In the forest by the road to Cambrai is an erratic boulder, a huge rock that not even the most powerful grenade can touch, even as it lays waste to the surrounding terrain. We agree to stow the gold here, burying it so deep in the rock’s cloak that it will survive the turmoil of war.
Oh, I am aware these are anything but honourable intentions – but what is a German soldier to do when his commanding officer not only condones such an action, but orders that it be carried out?
The March Fallen Page 12