The March Fallen

by volker Kutscher

  Work aside, things between them were great. Since clearing the air last week, they had spent every night together, taken Kirie for walks, listened to music, drank and talked, sometimes even danced, and at the end of it all they wound up in bed, more often than not on the tipsy side. It was almost as if they wished to sever their ties with the world outside, and escape the drabness of routine.

  He was about to stub out his cigarette when there was a knock on the door. A guard looked in. ‘Inspector Rath?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘There’s an SA commando here from Papestrasse. Apparently you requested a prisoner Juretzka?’

  The man who was led in moments later by two brownshirts made a pitiful impression. There were blood-encrusted wounds above his left cheekbone and on his forehead, flanked by bruises. A huge bandage was draped over his right eye. The left eye was even worse, its gaze so dead it was as if the man’s soul had already departed.

  The papers submitted by the higher-ranking SA man, a Scharführer, left Rath in no doubt that the poor bastard in front of him was Leopold Juretzka, nicknamed Long Leo, Red Hugo’s successor as head of the Berolina Ringverein, or what was left of it.

  He soon abandoned any hope that he might be able to speak to Juretzka in private, let alone secure his release and have him returned to Marlow. ‘We have orders to transport the prisoner back to Papestrasse immediately on completion of the interrogation,’ the Scharführer said.

  ‘Looks like he’d be better off in the sick bay. What on earth happened?’

  ‘Lost his right eye. An unfortunate fall.’

  Onto what? An SA dagger?

  The door opened, and Detective Zientek poked his head inside. ‘I was starting to worry, Inspector.’

  ‘The SA have brought in another prisoner.’

  ‘Prisoner Juretzka, Leopold,’ the Scharführer said, looking at his docket. So the SA did keep records after all. Or, at least, they were starting to . . . ‘Requested by Inspector Rath, Gereon.’ There went any story he might hatch for Zientek’s benefit.

  ‘I received a tip-off from one of my informants.’ He hoped this bland explanation might get rid of Zientek, but the detective proved just as stubborn as the two SA officers.

  ‘Let us know if you need any support, Inspector,’ the Scharführer said, as he and his colleague shunted Juretzka onto the chair and took up position behind it. No doubt where they came from, a well-directed blow was as good as a line of questioning.

  Five of them were packed into Zientek’s already cramped office, all eagerly awaiting Rath’s next move. He had no idea what he might ask, only that it wouldn’t be what he was dying to know.

  Who did this to you?

  What do these bastards want?

  Should I put Johann Marlow onto them?

  The only person who didn’t seem interested in Rath’s questions was Leopold Juretzka. The man sat on his chair staring blankly ahead with his one remaining eye as if there were no one else in the room. Or, as if he weren’t there himself, merely his body, and his spirit were elsewhere, out of reach of the police, the SA or whoever.

  ‘You are Leopold Juretzka?’ Rath began. No response. No change in expression. ‘Answer, please! Your name is Juretzka, Leopold Juretzka?’ Silence, dead gaze.

  He attempted another two or three questions, which elicited just as little response, then gave up. ‘This man is not fit for questioning,’ he said to the SA officers. ‘What did you do to him?’

  ‘Like I said. He took an unfortunate tumble. Our steps have iron edges.’

  ‘And that’s how he lost his sight?’

  ‘Who’s being interrogated here, Inspector?’

  ‘Herr Juretzka is an important witness in a homicide inquiry,’ Rath lied. ‘I don’t know the reasons for his arrest, but I must ask that you hand him over to CID, and see that his fitness for questioning be restored.’ Somehow, he had to free this wretch from SA clutches.

  The SA men looked crestfallen. They hadn’t realised their prisoner was so important.

  ‘A homicide inquiry?’ Zientek stood up. ‘Inspector, might I remind you that these are the offices of the Political Police . . .’

  ‘No need,’ Rath responded so brusquely that his colleague fell silent. ‘I didn’t ask for Herr Juretzka to be sent here, but A Division. If you wish to complain, I suggest you take it up with the SA!’

  Zientek’s gaze flitted between the brownshirts and Rath, as if wondering who to pick a fight with: a CID inspector or auxiliary officers who had powerful backers of their own. At length he resolved to sit down. ‘There is no way this man is fit for questioning. I agree with you there.’

  Rath was glad of the support, even if Zientek’s motive clearly lay in being rid of the SA and their prisoner as soon as possible, so that he could continue working through the list of Communists. Erwin Zientek, Rath had observed, was a police officer who liked to finish on time.

  ‘As I said, this man belongs in a hospital,’ Rath said.

  ‘We’re under strict orders to return the prisoner to Papestrasse,’ the Scharführer grumbled.

  ‘You have an infirmary there?’

  ‘No, but . . .’

  ‘Then I order that he be taken to hospital. Under close supervision. I’ll hold you personally responsible if Prisoner Juretzka doesn’t return here fit for questioning within three days.’

  The Scharführer stood to attention. ‘Aye, aye, Sir!’

  Time and again Rath was astonished at the effect of a few barked instructions. Pretend you were on the parade ground and even the unruly Berliners clicked their heels. The Scharführer stepped forward, unfolded the docket and set it on the desk.

  ‘What am I supposed to do with that?’ Rath asked.

  ‘I need a signature, Sir, to certify that we delivered the prisoner to headquarters . . .’ His finger moved to the second column. ‘ . . . and here to confirm your instruction that he be taken to hospital.’

  A quarter of an hour later, Rath sat in Gennat’s outer office and felt his stomach rumble. Trudchen Steiner, Buddha’s long-standing secretary, was heating up sausages. A large pot steamed on the electric stove in the corner of the room.

  ‘Can you hold the fort for a moment, Zientek?’ Rath had said, after the SA men had departed with the unfortunate Juretzka. ‘I need to inform Superintendent Gennat.’

  ‘Fine. So long as it doesn’t become a habit.’

  A response like that, Rath wondered why he had bothered to ask.

  It was almost lunch by the time Gennat could see him. ‘Just a moment of your time, Sir.’

  He was invited to sit on the green sofa. There was no cake, and no sausage either. Rath was brief and to the point.

  ‘You want your old case back?’ Gennat asked, and Rath nodded. Buddha furrowed his brow. ‘Your plan does you credit, Inspector, but it isn’t as simple as that.’

  ‘I never said it was, Sir, but you should know that this needless interrogation of Communists can continue without our support. Most are either in custody or have been interrogated already. There can no longer be any question of a Red threat.’

  ‘We are in agreement there, but the commissioner will see things differently.’ Buddha shrugged his heavy shoulders. ‘You’re not the only man I’ve loaned to 1A, and, believe me, you’re not the only one who wants out. I speak with Herr von Levetzow every day to request my men back, but it’s tricky.’

  ‘I understand that several men have been recalled.’

  ‘For new investigations. Resurrecting a case that’s been shelved is nigh-on impossible.’

  ‘Try, at least.’

  ‘I am trying, Inspector. Every day, but I don’t want you to get your hopes up.’

  Rath went to the door and tipped his hat. ‘Please excuse the interruption, Sir.’

  At least he hadn’t sacrificed his entire lunchbreak. After a brief turn with Kirie, he went to Aschinger to pick up a few Bouletten and made for a free telephone booth at Alexanderplatz train station. He was in luck: Weinert was
still at his desk.

  39

  It seemed barely credible that Köpenick was part of Berlin. The S-Bahn terminus was in Spindlersfeld, meaning Charly had to cover the remaining distance by foot.

  Gereon’s car might have made things easier, but she hadn’t mentioned her trip to him. No one was to know. She had feigned illness again to Karin, and by now it was scarcely a lie. She actually felt sick when she arrived for work in the morning, to be greeted by her colleague’s goggle eyes, her blissful smile and her idotic, naive remarks. As for what lay on her desk . . .

  Köpenick Police Station was in the 241st precinct. Schönlinder Strasse, ten minutes’ walk from the S-Bahn. The man at the gate couldn’t help, or didn’t want to. ‘Böhm, you say?’

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Böhm. Probably been here a week now.’

  ‘Chief inspector? Highest-ranking officer is Detective Brenner.’

  ‘Brenner? Then take me to him.’

  ‘Aren’t you easy to beat down? Chief inspector to detective in three seconds.’

  He told her where Brenner’s office was and she knocked. The man behind the desk looked familiar. Frank Brenner had worked as a detective inspector at Alex a few years back, before disciplinary proceedings set him on a different path.

  ‘Detective Brenner,’ she said.

  The man looked up and raised his eyebrows. ‘If it isn’t young Ritter. What brings you here?’

  ‘Cadet Ritter wishes to speak with Officer Böhm.’

  ‘One of your fellow trainees?’

  Charly forced a smile. ‘I only know he works here. I was passing and wanted to pay him a visit.’

  ‘You were passing Köpenick? It isn’t often you hear that.’

  Charly shrugged. ‘A girlfriend.’

  She didn’t know a soul in Köpenick; she’d last driven through sometime in summer on her return from the Müggelsee. For some reason she’d never actually stopped here, though it was quite pretty with its waterfront, castle and old town, and its town hall, where a simple shoemaker had once shown the Prussians and the world where blind obedience can lead.

  ‘A girlfriend, I see. Then Wilhelm Böhm is a boyfriend . . .’

  ‘An old colleague. As you know. Don’t you want to tell me where he is?’

  ‘I do, I do.’ Brenner chewed on his cigar. ‘But I’m afraid he’s no longer here.’

  ‘Has he been transferred back to Alex?’

  ‘No, of course he hasn’t.’ Brenner was enjoying stalling her.

  ‘Then where might I find him?’

  ‘Police academy,’ Brenner said. ‘We found a new role for him there. In here . . . how can I put it? He had difficulties accepting who was in charge. I had no choice but to act.’

  Charly refused to give Brenner’s remarks the time of day. ‘Police academy . . . How do I get there?’

  Brenner gave her an appraising look. ‘It’s a bit of a trek on foot,’ he said. ‘Kaiser-Wilhelm-Strasse. A good three kilometres.’

  ‘I’ll take a taxi,’ Charly said, shouldering her bag.

  As she reached the door, Brenner piped up again. ‘Officer Schneider will be heading out shortly. He’ll drive you.’

  A little while later Charly sat on the rear seat of a green Police Opel as she was driven through Köpenick in the company of two taciturn men. They crossed the winter-grey Dahme, heading northbound past the town hall to the railway station and eventually turning left. The police academy on Kaiser-Wilhelm-Strasse was a bright new building, as if by dint of its architecture it might produce a generation of bright new officers. The whole site was an expression of hope for an era already in terminal decline. A swastika flag adorned the facade, more out of place here than on any other building in the city.

  The Opel parked in the yard. Charly heard a train thundering across the tracks nearby. Her companions stepped silently out of the car. ‘So, where can I find Chief Inspector Böhm?’ she asked.

  The elder of the pair, Schneider, replied, breaking out in whinnying laughter. ‘Best ask at the gate.’ He and his colleague were still laughing as they disappeared inside the building.

  Reaching the door, Charly realised what was so funny. The man reading a newspaper behind the glass of the porter’s lodge was certainly overqualified. Detective Chief Inspector Wilhelm Böhm, one of the most established and reliable members of Gennat’s Homicide Division, had been assigned porter duties in Köpenick Police Academy. They had even given him oversleeves. Or did he wear them out of choice?

  For a moment Charly regretted her decision to visit, Böhm was clearly embarrassed to be seen like this. He cleared his throat as she approached the glass.

  ‘Sir,’ she said.

  ‘Charly. What on earth are you doing here?’

  ‘I need to talk to you.’

  ‘Well, I’m not short of time.’

  Uniformed officers were speaking in hushed tones in a corner of the lobby. ‘Preferably in private.’

  ‘If you can hold on until the end of my shift.’ He gestured outside with his head. ‘There’s a little café down the road towards the train station. I’ll be with you in half an hour.’

  Back outside, the first thing Charly did was light a Juno. She had been prepared for anything but this. How was it possible for a chief inspector to be downgraded to porter? Half an hour later she had her answer, when Wilhelm Böhm appeared in the small, slightly overheated cafe, now devoid of oversleeves, and dressed as she remembered him in coat and bowler hat, an imposing figure who instantly commanded respect.

  ‘Detective Brenner couldn’t bear my presence any longer,’ he explained as he took his place beside her, a mug of coffee before him. ‘Perhaps he felt uneasy giving orders to a chief inspector. Anyway, he arranged this business with the police academy. Clearly he knows someone there.’

  ‘But they can’t just make you porter! Does Gennat know? Does the police commissioner know?’

  ‘Certainly not, and I would be grateful if you could keep it that way.’ He stirred his coffee. ‘It’s a chance to prove myself, Daluege said, but in reality they’re phasing me out. Seems my face no longer fits.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s your face that’s the problem.’ Charly didn’t know what to say. ‘I’m so sorry, Sir. It’s all my fault.’

  Böhm furrowed his brow as she told him what was on her mind, her carelessness with Weinert, the whole sorry tale. To her surprise he wasn’t in the least angry.

  ‘Oh, Charly,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t transferred because of that ridiculous article.’ He shook his head. ‘No, Daluege won’t stand for Social Democrats at headquarters.’

  ‘You’re a Social Democrat?’ Charly had always assumed that Böhm was above party politics, like Gennat. A democrat to the core, of course, but at the same time non-partisan.

  ‘Come off it! My only membership is with the Lankwitz Allotment Association. Someone from Alex saw me in the Pharus Halls, at an SPD rally. It would seem that’s enough these days to be classed as politically unreliable.’

  ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘Someone saw me there and informed the police commissioner, or went straight to Daluege. No doubt they were waiting for an opportunity. It’s no secret I have a low opinion of the Nazis.’

  ‘That was never an issue in the past.’

  ‘What can you do?’ Böhm attempted a smile. ‘How’s that fiancé of yours? Made any progress on our case?’

  ‘Yes and no. He was seconded to the Politicals. Probably interrogating Communists as we speak.’

  ‘I saw this coming, you know. Soon 1A will have the whole of Homicide working for them. It’s almost a relief to have been transferred out.’ He shook his head. ‘Just when we were starting to get a few leads.’

  ‘A witness got in touch, Wosniak’s former lieutenant from the war. He thinks he knows who the killer is.’

  Charly told Böhm the story, and when she had finished he shook his head. ‘What a lot of cock and bull.’

  ‘That’s what Gereon thinks too.’
/>   ‘Which doesn’t change the fact that Wosniak is dead. Still, what’s one more death these days?’

  ‘Gereon’s secretary is collating everything that comes in.’

  ‘What about the request we submitted to the Reichswehr?’

  ‘Gereon hasn’t mentioned it. He goes through the material with her each night.’

  In fact Gereon was mainly picking up the dog when he called in on Erika Voss, but Böhm didn’t have to know that.

  ‘Do me one last favour, Charly,’ he seized her arm and looked at her beseechingly. ‘Don’t tell anyone about what you’ve seen here. No one, do you understand? I don’t want the bastard who denounced me to have the satisfaction.’

  40

  Entering the green inner courtyard of St. Hedwig’s Hospital, straight away Rath felt the bustle of the city recede. The complex was bigger than it looked from the outside but that wasn’t why he had chosen it, nor was it the building’s proximity to Alex. No, he had chosen it because it was a Catholic hospital. They wouldn’t cooperate with the SA at St Hedwig’s. Even former Chancellor Brüning had found asylum here after being sacked by Hindenburg.

  Not that CID were in the staff’s good books either. The doctor in attendance, who introduced himself as Dr Fabritius, looked at Rath with unmistakable reproach. ‘What happened to this man, Inspector?’

  ‘An accident, the SA tell me.’

  ‘An accident? The man has lost his right eye, the entire eyeball. Let’s leave aside the bruises and cuts, and the two broken ribs.’

  Rath looked around before responding. ‘The SA is no boys’ choir, Doctor, which is why I requested that the man be transferred here, from Papestrasse.’ He looked around a second time to make sure they really were alone. ‘If I have my way, the SA won’t be getting him back. Will you help me?’ Dr Fabritius nodded. ‘I need the patient as a witness in a murder investigation. Is he fit for questioning?’

  ‘There’s no reason you shouldn’t try. He’s certainly responsive. A tough customer evidently. Do you want company?’

  ‘Not necessary. It’s better if I speak to Juretzka out of the public e . . .’ Rath corrected himself. ‘Alone.’