The head waiter, initially so blasé, bowed and scraped on hearing the name Rath. ‘But of course, Herr Rath, if you would be so kind as to follow me. We have a fabulous table for you.’
The staff in Horcher was as numerous as it was discreet. He needn’t have worried about Marlow’s name being mentioned. A man in tails took their coats as a colleague led them through the dining room into a smaller lounge, where a bottle of champagne stood in a cooler on a freshly laid table. No sooner had Charly taken her place than a third man slid a footstool under her seat and they felt as if they were the most important people in the world. Horcher had made an impression on Charly, and Rath was pleased as Punch.
They sat by the window and looked out onto Lutherstrasse. Diagonally opposite, a building front displayed an old sign for Eldorado, a transvestite bar Rath had visited during his first days in Berlin. On duty, when he was still working for Vice. It had been forced to close in summer, one of the first official acts of the staunchly conservative police commissioner Melcher, who had been appointed last year by Papen. Around a hundred queer bars in Berlin had been closed. The Nazis didn’t stand for any of that nonsense, even though half the SA were . . . Suddenly Rath remembered the blond youth standing half-naked in Gräf’s kitchen, in his old kitchen, and shuddered. For all he tried to erase it from his mind, the image refused to budge.
‘What’s wrong?’ Charly asked. ‘Are you cold?’
‘I get it whenever I come into the warmth from outside.’
A waiter filled their champagne glasses, while the maitre d’ distributed the menus and recommended the house speciality, Faisan de Presse, pheasant bones, minced to give the sauce its special flavour. Charly looked at the menu and checked there were no waiters close by. ‘Gereon,’ she said. ‘Isn’t this a little expensive for us?’
‘You only live once.’ They clinked glasses. ‘Luckily, we don’t have to get by on a single salary.’
‘On two salaries,’ she corrected.
‘There’s also Uncle Joseph’s inheritance. God rest his soul.’
Charly fell silent. Rath knew she came from poorer circumstances, and expected little by way of inheritance. She couldn’t know that Uncle Joseph hadn’t left him much, or that the money in his account was from Marlow’s handouts.
‘Thank you for this,’ she said. ‘What are we celebrating? Your final night as a thirty-three year old?’
‘Why not?’ Rath raised his glass a second time. ‘Here’s to tonight.’
He thought back to their reconciliation yesterday evening in Carmerstrasse. On returning home he had discovered her in the kitchen in a frenzy of activity. He stood speechless as she greeted Kirie. ‘You like Bouletten, don’t you?’
‘Are you talking to me or the dog?’
She advanced cautiously, taking him in her arms. ‘I’m sorry about this morning, Gereon. I’m such a clot.’
She had actually apologised! Something must have happened, and he’d soon find out what. After tentatively conceding that there might be political reasons for Böhm’s exile after all, he was met with a shake of the head.
‘No. Böhm was summoned because the press made a mockery of his case, and that’s my fault.’
‘Weinert wrote the article, not you.’
‘Where do you think he got his information?’
‘Come again?’
‘I met him at the Reichstag on the night of the fire. He had already filed his story and, frozen as we were, we wound up in an automat on Friedrichstrasse.’
‘And . . .’
‘And I mentioned Böhm’s case, Wosniak and the set-up at Nollendorfplatz, which you’ll remember was partly my idea. I couldn’t have known he’d make a story out of it.’
‘What do you mean, you couldn’t have known? Weinert’s a journalist, he makes his living turning information into stories. Especially information no one else has.’
‘I thought he was your friend.’
‘Someone like that can never be your friend.’
‘Someone like that?’
‘A hack like Weinert.’
‘Either way I’m going to apologise to Böhm. I owe him that much.’
‘Do whatever you think is necessary, but don’t blame yourself. Above all, don’t get mixed up in this. You are not responsible for Böhm’s fate. His card was already marked.’
He took her in his arms, and she nestled close. The crabbiness of the previous days was gone, and he kissed her properly for the first time since returning from Cologne. The news that he had to work on Sunday sobered Charly up somewhat, but by that stage they were lying next to each other sharing a cigarette, one of his as always. Never enthusiastic about his birthday, Rath wasn’t in the least put out by having weekend duty foisted on him by the Politicals. Even so, he put on a disappointed face, and said: ‘What can you do? There’s a time for work . . .’
‘And a time for play . . . but why Sunday, when they’re giving you Saturday evening off?’
‘You know what the Politicals are like. Always making a huge secret of everything.’ Which was when he realised they could just as well go out on Saturday, and Johann Marlow had made it possible.
What made Horcher unique was that the dishes were prepared at your table. Charly chose steak tartare and pheasant, Rath smoked salmon and chicken kiev. They watched as the chicken was braised and the pheasant flambéd. It all tasted wonderful. Though it wasn’t necessary he added a pinch of salt, just as he had with Charly’s Sauerbraten and yesterday’s Bouletten.
‘So, what exactly are you doing tomorrow?’ she asked.
‘Interrogation’s the name of the game. That’s all CID are good for, according to my new colleague.’
‘Interrogation. To what end?’
‘To uncover links between van der Lubbe and our Berlin Communists.’
‘You actually think they exist?’
‘We’ll find out soon enough.’
‘According to canteen gossip, even Diels thinks van der Lubbe was acting alone.’
‘Diels? The head of 1A?’
‘Your new boss,’ she said. ‘It’s all Göring’s doing. He wants evidence that points to multiple perpetrators and a Communist conspiracy. By hook or by crook.’
‘Still, it’s not like you’re doing anything different, implicating a harmless gang of youths in a political conspiracy.’
‘Which is exactly why I reported sick yesterday. I hope things ease off again after the vote. If they don’t, I’m not sure I can continue to work in G Division.’
‘Where would you go?’
‘Maybe I can get a pass back to A if Gennat puts the case strongly enough. I’ve been part of homicide teams before.’
‘Not even Buddha can help you there. The only women in A Division are stenographers.’
She looked at him angrily. ‘In the meantime we’re working for Göring more than Levetzow,’ she said at length. ‘Things can’t go on like this.’
‘Göring or Levetzow – what’s the difference? They’re both Nazis.’
‘Yes, but Göring is deploying police officers specifically to hunt Communists. All police officers, not just Diels and the Politicals.’
‘Maybe that isn’t as daft as you think. The Communists want to destroy our Republic.’
‘And what do the Nazis want?’
‘Things aren’t nearly as bad as people make out. The election’s tomorrow, which means we must still live in a democracy.’
‘We’ll see about that. I hope the Germans haven’t gone completely mad, but, honestly, I don’t know anymore.’
An unearthly quiet passed through the restaurant. The maître d’ was speaking insistently to the head waiter, who kept looking over at Rath and Charly’s table. The waiters tried hard to conceal it, but they had been seized by temporary panic.
At length the maître d’ approached. ‘I’m very sorry about this, but if I could ask you to take your dessert in the main lounge?’
Rath was tempted to make a fuss, knowing he had Marl
ow’s influence to call on but, seeing Charly’s face, decided not to ruin their night. He wondered what on earth could have happened for a restaurant to be so foolish as to undo a table reservation made by Johann Marlow. Was Charlie Chaplin back in town, or Max Schmeling?
Two waiters led them to their new table, which, though no longer next to a window, was even more secluded. Rath looked on as two diners took their old seats, a fat man in evening dress accompanied by a considerably slimmer woman. Until now Rath had only seen his face in photos: Hermann Göring, Reich Commissar for the Prussian Interior Ministry, their supreme commander and head of the Prussian Police. A widower of two years, he was on the hunt for a bride. Or perhaps he was out canvassing for his party?
So, Göring was more powerful than Johann Marlow. To Rath that was more impressive than the Pour le Mérite he wore – evidently medals were a feature even of the minister’s evening dress – and all the various offices he held besides. Horcher would never have altered a table reservation made by Johann Marlow for Severing, or any of the other Social Democrats who’d headed the Prussian Interior Ministry.
This wasn’t how he’d imagined their special night. He decided to leave as quickly as possible and see in his birthday at the Kakadu-Bar. They’d take their digestif there, knowing it was a guaranteed Nazi-free zone. The brownshirts didn’t like the place; at Kakadu, they even allowed Negros on stage.
32
Although they arrived early, a long queue had already formed outside the polling station. Rath looked at his watch. ‘I need to be at the Castle by ten,’ he said.
‘They’re not going to bite your head off for fulfilling your civic duty.’
He wasn’t sure if Charly was being ironic. It was only the second time they had voted together, despite many opportunities in recent years.
As the queue moved slowly, he imagined himself at home, listening to Duke Ellington with coffee and a cigarette. At least it was getting warmer, not long now until spring. He put an Overstolz to his lips and offered one to Charly, who declined. He shrugged and struck a match. Hopefully they’d be inside by the time he finished.
Men in uniform stood on the perron outside the entrance: SA officers minus the auxiliary police brassards. He breathed a sigh of relief. The last thing they needed was polling stations supervised by party loyalists. Instead that task fell to a lone cop who bobbed up and down on his bootheels looking stern, as if that would be enough to ward off Communist insurgents. The truth was, any Reds planning to disrupt voting in upmarket Charlottenburg would be more likely dissuaded by the SA than a single uniformed cop.
Three SA officers were in attendance, along with two members of the Stahlhelm. Rath couldn’t see any representatives from the Reichsbanner. The Democrats appeared reluctant to provoke their nationalist counterparts.
The SA men wore campaign posters over their brown shirts. When times were hard Hindenburg voted for Hitler, now it’s your turn. Vote List 1. Above the slogan was a picture of the Reich President and his Chancellor. Hitler looked at the old field marshall with such reverence they might have been father and son. The Führer’s gaze was more hypnotic on the second poster, which also showed him next to Hindenburg. The Reich will never be destroyed – if we are loyal and as one. The third SA man was positioned next to the main entrance. His poster showed President and Chancellor looking down on a sea of people waving swastika flags – almost as if Hindenburg had joined the Nazis. Did the old man realise how much he was being exploited?
The Stahlhelm campaign appeared staid in comparison. Vote List 5: Hugenberg, Papen, Seldte. Kampffront Schwarz-Weiss-Rot. The men who had helped bring Hitler to power. A man in a fur coat with a bowler hat and thick glasses descended the stairs.
‘Good morning, Herr Doktor,’ Charly said. Dr Bernhard Weiss was the former deputy commissioner of the Berlin Police, and their old boss. Rath tipped his hat.
Weiss’s face brightened. ‘Good morning. Let’s hope it’s a good evening too, eh?’
‘And that the early editions give us reason for cheer,’ Charly said. ‘Maybe by this time tomorrow the police guard outside your house can be stood down.’
‘We’ll see,’ Weiss smiled.
The three SA officers began whispering. The second man pointed at Weiss. ‘It’s Isidor,’ he cried. ‘What does he want here? I thought he’d be in Palestine by now.’
The other brownshirts guffawed. Before Weiss could respond, Charly broke the line and planted herself in front of them. ‘This man is Dr Bernhard Weiss, and he is the best police officer Berlin has ever known.’
The brownshirts stared blankly and a smile formed on Weiss’s mouth.
‘And you lot call yourself auxiliary police?’
‘Easy does it, Fräulein. It was only a joke.’
‘Then I’m glad you’re not a comedian.’
The man turned red as the whole queue burst out laughing, even the Stahlhelm officers and one of his SA colleagues. Charly reclaimed her place in the queue as Rath waited for the brownshirts to launch their attack, but none came. The comedian poked his colleague in the ribs and tried to stop him laughing.
Rath turned to speak to Weiss, but he had gone. He made a point of taking Charly by the hand. The brownshirts would have him to deal with if they tried anything, but he and Charly passed without further incident. The SA men gazed to the side or down at their puttees.
Standing in the booth, Rath hesitated for a moment as he skimmed the long list of parties. As a good Cologner he’d always voted for the Centre Party. The only time he’d voted in Berlin was last November when Charly had compelled him.
He hesitated another moment before placing his cross next to the SPD. The Social Democrats. Never again, he told himself. God knows he didn’t have much time for the workers’ party, but he thought them most likely to defy the Nazis. More likely than the Centre Party, which was yet to take a stance on the new government. Perhaps it was a little thank-you to Grzesinski, whom Rath had rated highly as police commissioner. Even so, he felt a little ashamed as he cast his ballot. Gereon Rath votes SPD! If his father learned of it, he’d be disinherited.
He smiled to himself as they left the polling station. Only one of the SA men risked an angry glance, but now it held respect. Charly refused to look at the brownshirts, but when she linked arms with him he felt proud. Perhaps she was right. Tomorrow it would be over, and the Nazis would creep back inside whatever hole they’d emerged from. If the election didn’t see to it, then at some point Hindenburg must put an end to this brown-shirted farce.
Outside Bernhard Weiss’s Steinplatz residence a dozen uniformed cops stood guard. He had lived here since being evicted from his police apartment in Charlottenburg, and Rath was relieved the Berlin Police hadn’t simply hung him out to dry.
He accompanied Charly to Carmerstrasse, where the Buick was parked, handed her Kirie’s lead, kissed her and made his way to the Castle. There were voting queues all over the city, each one accompanied by SA officers holding posters and shooting angry glances. Detective Zientek waited inside for him.
‘Haven’t you voted?’ Rath asked as he hung his coat.
‘Of course,’ Zientek said. He seemed to be in an excellent mood. ‘Zap, zap, job done. Doesn’t take much, does it?’ He rummaged in his in-tray and handed Rath a list. ‘These are ours.’
‘What is it we’re doing exactly? I’ll need more than just a list of names.’
‘They’re all Communists, I can guarantee you that.’
‘So?’
‘So, get going. Show me what you can do.’
‘What am I meant to extract from them?’
‘Whatever you like, Inspector. In the best case, evidence of a Communist revolt. If they should confess to a murder, a break-in, or even to being queer, that’s equally good. The main thing is to keep ’em here until six o’clock.’
Rath needed a moment. ‘Six? That’s when the polling stations close.’
‘Correct.’
‘We’re preventing them fr
om voting?’
‘No flies on you CID officers.’ Zientek extended a hand. ‘Welcome to the Political Police.’
33
It seemed almost as if the entire SA had found its way to Steinplatz shortly before polling closed. All Charly wanted was to take Kirie for a walk before dusk, but the Nazis had turned the square’s green spaces brown. SA officers continued to appear in droves, and Charly’s evening stroll with Kirie was transformed into an obstacle course.
Men in brown shirts looked up at the apartment on the second floor of number 3, Steinplatz. ‘Isidor!’ they chanted. ‘Come out, or we’ll come in!’
A cordon of uniformed cops blocked Weiss’s apartment building on all three sides, preventing the brownshirts making good their threat. So, it wasn’t just the SA that had increased its presence here, Charly noted with relief. At least these officers were still on the right side.
She held Kirie at a distance from the mob. No one paid her any attention, but all these angry, red faces gave her the creeps. The SA were always unpredictable, especially in numbers. What if her friend from this morning spotted her and alerted his mates? Or one of them got it into his head that she looked Jewish? It wouldn’t be the first time; the fact that Charly had no Jewish blood didn’t matter. Her short, dark hair made her suspicious; SA men went wild for blonde pigtails. She crossed Hardenbergstrasse and walked north-west towards the ‘Knee’ and the green spaces of the technical college, where there were no brownshirts, just normal pedestrians enjoying a Sunday stroll. Berlin as it had always been.
She completed the short circuit back to Hardenbergstrasse, but something was happening over on Steinplatz. Quickening her step, she saw the mob surge towards the cordon.
The March Fallen Page 15