Today it is clear to me that a man like Engel should never have been allowed to embark on an officer’s career. A German soldier must be able to trust that his superiors are men of honour. In those days I lacked perspective, wasting little time on political matters, and so it was that things took their fateful turn. I am not seeking here to excuse my actions as a twenty-three year-old man. As a lieutenant in the glorious Prussian Army, I ought to have listened to my conscience, rather than a captain who did not merit his rank. To this day I feel ashamed, even if it is a relief to come clean finally, after so many years.
I had organised a truck, which Wibeau parked outside the bank manager’s villa. The estate was at the far end of Neuville, some distance from the other houses, and infinitely removed from the nearest inhabited building, the village school, where the majority of our men had taken up quarters.
We waited until midnight to start.
Captain Engel oversaw every aspect of the operation personally, even counting the gold bars on three separate occasions to ensure that each one landed in the truck. We transported the gold in buckets; when the trucks were fully loaded and Engel had counted the bars for a fourth time, we covered them with a few dirty tarpaulins, which we secured with our assault rifles.
Wibeau knew the way. Turning off the road he dimmed the lights and drove slowly. None of our comrades could learn of our night-time operation. Captain, lieutenant or private, we were all in the same boat, and would face court-martial if it emerged that we had misappropriated such a large sum (perhaps several million gold marks!)
A bumpy woodland path led us to the clearing with the boulder. Our vehicle was fairly shaken about, but it was nothing new for these men; at least tonight they wouldn’t be heading to the Front.
Reaching our destination, we jumped down and fetched the spades from the truck. We spoke quietly and only when necessary. We had already dug the pit and started filling it with gold when events took a dramatic turn.
The surprise came from the forest.
They came from the south, meaning they couldn’t see the truck, still less our group, hidden as it was behind the giant boulder. Even so, by the time they spied the truck and its soldiers working in feverish haste to fill a pit with gold bars, it was too late. They stood there, holding hands like Hansel and Gretel, the shock having turned them to pillars of salt. Wosniak caught sight of them first. ‘We have visitors, Sir,’ he said.
I saw them on the edge of the clearing, still standing wide-eyed, a gaunt-looking youth, perhaps sixteen, and a girl, somewhat younger. Not so much Hansel and Gretel as Romeo and Juliet. Or perhaps just two French children searching for firewood under the cover of darkness. We never found out exactly what they were doing, but it was clear they hadn’t reckoned on encountering German soldiers in the middle of the night.
Meifert and Wibeau instinctively reached for their carbines and took aim.
The lovers stood even more motionless than before.
‘Que faites-vous ici?’ I asked.
Before either could answer a shot fell and a dark stain appeared on the boy’s forehead. He fell like a sack and the girl let out a heart-wrenching cry.
I turned to Meifert and Wibeau in horror; both looked equally startled. As I wondered who had fired the shot, gunfire pierced the night-time air for a second time. I turned around and saw Captain Engel, in his hand a still-smoking revolver.
The girl had collapsed beside the boy but was still gurgling. Engel fired again from point-blank range.
Todesengel. On one occasion Engel was said to have killed a French soldier who had been felled by a shot to the stomach, then got caught in the wire in front of our lines. The soldier had been crying for his mother before Engel shot him in the head, an act of mercy, one might think, but later in the dugout Engel explained that he’d done it to prevent the Frenchman from upsetting his company’s morale. For all he was concerned the man was welcome to die like a dog. This was just one of many stories told about him, and no one knew if they were true or not. After that night, I wondered if they might only scratch the surface.
In the heat of battle one doesn’t stop to think. In war soldiers must do things they can never reveal to their families at home, and all in the name of the Fatherland. Anyone who has seen the strain to which front soldiers are exposed, will know what I am talking about. Each person reacts differently to the horrors of war. Wegener, the recruit, has never served on the front. It almost seems as if these are the first dead bodies he has seen.
‘You shot them,’ he says in disbelief. ‘They were children, and you shot them!’
Engel aims a second bullet at the boy. Blood spurts from his head as if from a fountain.
‘Remove the corpses, soldier,’ he says, looking Wegener directly in the eye. ‘Otherwise our hiding place will be compromised.’
‘We can’t just sweep this under the carpet. We have to report it. It needs to be investigated.’
‘This is a war! People die. Get used to it.’
‘What you did has nothing to do with war,’ Wegener says, and his voice nearly cracks. ‘You killed two innocent people.’
‘You’re explaining to me what war is, soldier? Do as I say! Remove these corpses!’
‘I can’t. This needs to be reported. It needs to be investigated.’
‘Calm yourself, man,’ Captain Engel barks. ‘You’re getting hysterical!’
But Wegener refuses to calm himself, seems, indeed, to have lost all control. He is shaking, there are actually tears running down his cheeks. ‘That was murder. I have to report it.’
‘What are you talking about? Now, do as I say!’
Wegener looks around as if seeking support from his comrades. ‘We have to report this,’ he says. ‘It is a German soldier’s duty . . .’
Before he can finish, Engel has fired the fifth bullet from his revolver. Wegener looks at the dark stain forming on his uniformed chest, as it glistens damply in the moonlight. His eyes seem to grow wider as if he cannot quite understand what is happening, then he topples like a tree and lands head first on the forest floor.
We stand in disbelief. Todesengel has slain a member of our company like a rabid dog.
‘Lieutenant?’
Engel stows his weapon away.
‘Sir?’
‘Write in your report: German soldier murdered by French partisans. Perpetrators killed in self-defence.’
‘With respect, Sir, that’s not how it happened.’
‘You making trouble like that bag of nerves?’ Engel gestures towards the dead Wegener. ‘The truth is what I tell you. Or do you think a lieutenant’s word is worth more than that of his captain?’
I fall silent as he turns to the others. ‘We are all in the same boat, men. There is no room here for traitors. I did what I did for you – because someone had to.’ Somehow Captain Engel still manages to sound cheerful. ‘Now: your report, Lieutenant.’
‘Two partisans lay in wait for the inexperienced Private Wegener, but his comrades were able to neutralise them.’
‘Very good.’ Engel nods and looks around. ‘The recruit might not have understood, but I hardly need tell you what betrayal means. It is the choice between wealth and court-martial.’ He pauses, and I can see that his words have made an impression. ‘The gold here belongs to us all. But only so long as no one mentions this. To anyone, ever. When the war is over, we will return and claim what is ours.’
I remember still how he said over and not won.
When the war is over . . .
This was the great revelation. A crime that had been suppressed in the turmoil of war was now on the brink of being exposed. The story went on and on, but he couldn’t read any longer. His eyes were closing and the bottle was empty. He stubbed out the cigarette and made his way to bed, snuggling up to Charly, who mumbled something and smelled so good that he fell straight to sleep.
28
Something roused Hannah from sleep. When she opened her eyes, everything was dark. She sat up,
banging her head. ‘Shhh!’ someone whispered. Gradually, memory returned. The Jonass Department Store. The trunk. The boy she had finally allowed in. It was tight but they had snuggled together and fallen asleep. She hadn’t felt so rested in ages.
The boy lifted the lid and light streamed in so she could see his face more clearly: freckles, shaggy hair that was somewhere between blond and brown. He was twelve at most, surviving on the streets. ‘We have to go,’ he said, stretching. ‘If they catch us crawling out of here we’re finished.’
Hannah followed him out of the basket and trotted behind him through the still-dark department store. In the textiles department the boy swept clothes indiscriminately from the rails and under his arm.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Kitting myself out. Wouldn’t be worth it otherwise.’
Hannah, in nightshirt and three cleaner’s overalls under the stolen coat, made for the Ladies’ section. She lifted thick, warm knitted tights, a winter dress, a scarf and underwear, and went to the fitting room to change, dropping her old clothes in the wastepaper basket. The coat was still in decent shape, but the gumboots rubbed her calves. She worked through several boxes of shoes. It wasn’t easy finding a pair to fit. They heard the jangling of keys. She felt panic rising but the boy refused to be perturbed. He laced up new half-boots and gestured for her to be quiet.
As if she hadn’t thought of that herself! He was the one who’d started on the clothes.
‘If they catch us and we never see each other again,’ he whispered, stretching out a hand. ‘My name is Fritze.’
‘Hannah,’ she said.
They crawled along the sales floor until they heard the night watchman’s footsteps. How were they supposed to get out of here? She took a leaf out of Fritze’s book and remained calm as he hurled a large brass ashtray from one of the display cabinets through the half-light. It landed with a loud clang somewhere on the other side of the floor.
‘Who’s there?’ the night watchman shouted, moving to where the ashtray had struck against something metal.
‘Go,’ Fritze hissed.
With barely time to catch their breath, let alone think, they ran through a door into the large office wing, descended a flight of stairs and climbed out of a window into an access yard with countless Aschinger trucks. They charged up Prenzlauer Allee, sprinting until their lungs gave out, and used their last ounce of strength to vault a wall.
Never again, she thought, gasping for breath. Never again would she spend the night in a stupid department store. Leave that to those tattle-tales over by the Märchenbrunnen, but . . . gravestones. They had landed in a cemetery. It was some time before she had enough air in her lungs to speak. ‘So, you’re Fritze?’
Fritze had sticky-out ears that glistened red in the rising sun, and freckles on his nose.
‘Then good luck, Fritze, and thank you.’
She marched off in the direction of the Volkspark and the Märchenbrunnen, but realised after a few metres that he was following her. ‘What do you want?’
He tilted his head like a dog. ‘Breakfast?’
Now she thought of it, she hadn’t eaten for two days. ‘You’re a funny one, aren’t you? Where shall we go? Kranzler or Josty?’
‘Bolle!’
She didn’t realise what he meant until they were strolling along a deserted Winsstrasse, scooping up freshly delivered milk bottles. They could still see the Bolle truck at the end of the street, over by the gasworks.
‘The early bird drinks the milk,’ Fritze grinned under his milk moustache, after they’d drained the bottles in a bush by the Immanuelkirche.
Not so daft after all, the little squirt. You couldn’t eat milk, but it filled you up. She decided to take him to the Märchenbrunnen after all. There was hardly a soul around at this hour, certainly no young people.
‘Do you know Fanny?’ she asked. ‘Or Kotze?’
‘Who?’
‘They meet here sometimes, along with the rest.’
‘Nah.’
They sat by Puss-in-Boots and the miller’s son on the perimeter wall and waited. Fritze kicked stones against the wall and occasionally into the water beyond. She was finding him increasingly irritating, but said nothing. Her bad temper had more to do with waiting in vain for the Märchenbrunnen posse.
After a while he said, ‘I don’t think your friends are coming.’ He tilted his head like a dog again. ‘What are we going to do now?’
‘How should I know. I’m not your mother.’
Fritze winced as if he had been dealt a blow.
29
Rath wakened to the scent of coffee wafting through the apartment. The bed beside him lay empty, but from the kitchen he heard pots and pans clattering. He didn’t need long in the bathroom, and less than ten minutes later was fixing his tie in front of the mirror. ‘Good morning,’ he said as he entered the dining room, planting a kiss on Charly’s cheek and taking his place at the breakfast table. She poured coffee. ‘Thank you.’
‘Late one yesterday,’ she said.
‘Overtime.’
‘What kind of overtime?’
The type that involved chatting to Johann Marlow in the back of his Adler sedan while Liang chauffeured them across town?
‘Are you moonlighting as a reader now?’ she asked. ‘Or publishing your war memoirs under a pseudonym?’
He had left the proofs on the living room table. ‘New development in the Wosniak case. A man’s appeared, and I don’t know if he’s crazy, or holds the key to the whole thing.’ He told her about Roddeck and, as always when they discussed police work, she listened with interest.
‘Sounds like Böhm’s lumped you with a pretty thankless task.’
‘Actually, Böhm knows nothing about it.’
Charly saw red. ‘Don’t you ever learn? Going it alone, again. You need to . . .’
‘How can I tell him when he’s nowhere to be found? He was summoned by the commissioner yesterday morning. I haven’t seen him since.’
‘That doesn’t sound good.’
‘You can say that again. It’s never a good sign when the commissioner’s involved.’
‘Well, you’d know.’
‘All it takes is one bad decision. Böhm’s no saint. He doesn’t always play by the rules.’
‘I never said he did.’
‘At least I’ve never been escorted to make my report by two auxiliary officers.’
‘Come again?’
‘Two SA officers took him away. It was almost like they were arresting him.’
‘You never thought he might have been summoned for political reasons?’
Rath laughed out loud.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘Nothing. It’s just . . . Political reasons? Böhm’s no Communist. Breaches of duty, they said. Multiple breaches of duty. He’s done something wrong, and now he has to take the rap. You just can’t bear to see your hero knocked off his pedestal.’
Charly shook her head in that arrogant way he couldn’t stand. ‘Haven’t you noticed that things have changed in the last few weeks? Even at police headquarters?’
‘Our commissioner’s a Nazi. So what? When the Social Democrats were in charge, the commissioners were Social Democrats. As far as that role’s concerned, being a good police officer has always taken a back seat to party membership.’
‘Grzesinski was a good commissioner. Even if he had his SPD membership to thank for his appointment.’
‘Friederike Wieking is a good police officer too, despite what you might think about her politics.’
‘What are you trying to say?’
‘Nazi, Social Democrat, it doesn’t matter. The main thing is to be a good police officer.’
She looked at him wide-eyed. ‘How can you be so blinkered?’
‘What?’
‘Blinkered! Have you ever thought there might be a difference between the Nazis and the Social Democrats?’
‘Of course there’s a difference, but from a
politically neutral perspective it doesn’t matter.’
‘Gereon, stop talking before I get seriously annoyed.’
‘Goddamn politics! Now I remember why I hate it so much. It only causes arguments.’
‘Maybe you should take a little time to think before you say anything else on the matter.’ She placed her napkin on the table. ‘Despising politics while spouting such nonsense shows an unhealthy mix of arrogance and ignorance!’
‘Well, thank you for the masterclass on arrogance, Fräulein Doktor! That’s the way to show a college drop-out!’
‘Just because you dropped out doesn’t mean you’re barred from thinking!’
‘And just because you finished your degree doesn’t give you the right to treat me like an idiot!’
‘Then stop acting like one. Where are you going?’
Rath grabbed Kirie by the collar and yanked her into the corridor, took lead, hat and coat from the hook, and slammed the door behind him. Allowing Kirie to jump into the Buick ahead of him, he pulled out of his space with squealing tyres.
Driving to work alone was getting to be a habit. Alone with Kirie, who seemed content now that she had reclaimed the passenger seat. As they reached the Landwehr canal, Rath realised he’d forgotten the manuscript, which must still be on the living room table, but resisted the impulse to turn around. He couldn’t have her thinking he was backing down.
‘Stupid woman!’ Kirie turned her head in astonishment. ‘I wasn’t talking about you,’ he said, ruffling her fur. ‘You understand me.’
Couldn’t they all just leave him in peace: Charly with her political problems, Roddeck with his meddling demands for police protection, the press with their articles, Böhm with his trench dagger, Gräf with his queer Nazi, and not least Marlow with his latest incitement to ruin.
‘SA auxiliary officers have arrested one of my men,’ Dr M. had said in the back of the sedan, ‘and no one knows where he’s been taken.’
‘Auxiliary forces are only authorised to make an arrest in the company of a regular police officer.’
The March Fallen Page 13