An aggressive-looking SA man stood guard outside Juretzka’s room. An auxiliary police officer. ‘You can’t go in there,’ he said, as Rath approached.
‘On the contrary. CID had Herr Juretzka transferred here. After a bad . . . accident in Papestrasse.’
‘What are you trying to say?’
‘That the poor man had an accident. That’s correct, isn’t it?’ The SA man looked suspicious. ‘I’m going to question him now. See that I am not disturbed. That goes for your superiors too.’ The SA man gazed stupidly. ‘Do I make myself clear?’
‘Yes, Sir.’ The man stood to attention.
Leo Juretzka was alone in his room. It wasn’t just his eye that was bandaged, but his left ear too; there were various sticking plasters attached to his face. He wore a patient gown and looked as if he had been washed. The expression in his remaining eye was still strangely blank.
‘Good day, Herr Juretzka,’ Rath said, approaching the bed. ‘Please don’t say anything until you’ve heard me out.’
Juretzka nodded.
Rath pulled up a chair, and positioned himself so that he could whisper into Juretzka’s un-bandaged ear. ‘I’m from CID. Johann Marlow knows you have been transferred here, but won’t be able to secure your release with the help of his lawyer alone. I had to tell a white lie to get you out of SA prison. If we don’t want to get busted, you’ll have to help corroborate it. I’ve informed the SA that you are a witness in a murder investigation.’
For a moment Juretzka’s left eye seemed to grow larger.
‘I’m going to have you brought into police headquarters for questioning. Here’s what you’re going to say. Make sure you memorise the details.’
As Juretzka listened, life slowly returned to his face. Rath wouldn’t get another chance to speak to him alone like this. At Alex there would a stenographer, perhaps even a colleague present, and his ‘witness’ needed to be in shape.
‘Got it?’ he asked. ‘Nollendorfplatz, you remember?’
‘Yes.’ Juretzka’s voice was scratchy. He seemed not to have spoken in a long time.
‘Good. Then that’s what you say tomorrow at headquarters.’
‘And then?’
‘Then you’re done being an SA prisoner. We’ll let you go, and the boys in Papestrasse won’t notice a thing. Make sure you hole up somewhere no one knows you and where the SA can’t find you. It . . .’
They were interrupted by shouting in the corridor. Rath looked out. The SA officer was remonstrating angrily with a gaunt, well-dressed man, Marlow’s lawyer, Dr Kohn. Rath had seen him on one previous occasion, during a memorable appearance in court. One of the finest exponents of his craft, even he was powerless against the SA.
‘Prisoner Juretzka is in protective custody. He cannot be released.’
‘Then show me the arrest warrant!’ Kohn appeared to be sizing the man up for a duel.
‘According to a decree issued by the Reich President on 28th February article one hundred and fourteen is no longer valid . . .’
‘Stop!’ The lawyer waved dismissively. ‘I’ve heard it all before.’ His belligerence returned. ‘But you must grant me the opportunity to speak with my client.’
‘Out of the question,’ Rath interrupted.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘CID,’ Rath showed his identification. ‘I’m satisfied that Prisoner Juretzka is currently unresponsive.’
‘Are you qualified to make such a pronouncement?’
‘Come and see Dr Fabritius yourself, if you don’t believe me, but leave Herr Juretzka in peace.’ The SA man broke into a grin. ‘If you wish to speak with your client, then be at police headquarters tomorrow at eleven. A Division. You can provide legal counsel there.’
Kohn appeared to wrestle with himself before nodding his agreement. ‘Where can I find this Dr Fabritius?’
‘I’ll take you to him.’
Before Rath set off with Marlow’s lawyer he threw a glance at the SA man, who responded with a conspiratorial wink. Rath grinned back. It couldn’t hurt to have the SA think he was on their side.
41
He looked at his watch before starting across the bridge. He had arrived at the train station in good time, but was moving less freely than usual and didn’t want to be late. Another ten minutes would surely be enough. He could already see the bare treetops on the other side of the River Havel.
Meifert had appeared relieved when he’d suggested the meeting point. No doubt the idea of receiving an acquaintance from his previous life, a comrade from the war, within his own four walls or even at school, was awkward. He had sounded uncertain on the telephone. The encounter with his past must have rattled him.
Stone statues of soldiers lined the Kaiser-Wilhelm Bridge, with all the uniforms of Prussia’s glorious past represented save the most recent. Their presence was summoned, not in carved stone, but in the flesh and blood of an ex-serviceman who stood by the balustrade on crutches, gaze lowered and hand outstretched. How many veterans were forced to demean themselves and beg? Not every ex-soldier had such a cushy number as Linus Meifert. Minus, as he was known in those days, and did the mathematician’s students call him the same thing?
Even the old city palace made a wretched impression. Once the seat of Prussia’s power and splendour, today it housed the employment exchange and a few offices of Potsdam Municipal Council. These were strange times.
Minus sat reading a newspaper towards the rear of the deserted pleasure garden. A gravel path ran parallel to the railway line that separated the grounds from the river. Meifert had gained weight and his hair was thinner, but there was no mistaking it was him.
Approaching his quarry, he tried to hide the pain that walking caused, but in the end it proved unnecessary. Meifert didn’t look up until he reached the bench. He put his paper to one side. ‘You?’ he said.
‘Who did you expect?’
He knew very well who Minus had been expecting. He took another step closer to the bench, while his left hand felt for the soft, smooth handle. The soldier’s bride. His ‘bride’ was no rifle, but something far more elegant, and equally deadly.
‘I thought you were dead.’ Meifert folded his newspaper precisely.
‘Do I look dead?’
‘I haven’t said a thing, and nor will I, but I can’t vouch for Roddeck.’
‘You don’t have to.’ Before Meifert could say anything else, he grabbed his head in a choke hold and stabbed. Meifert gave a final gasp before his body went limp. The whole thing lasted less than three seconds. He looked around before removing the blade. Still no one.
‘Who’s dead now?’ He let the corpse slump. ‘I’m sorry, Minus, but there’s no other way. For what it’s worth . . . I hated you even then.’
He resisted the impulse to spit on the corpse. Leave no trace, he thought, wiping down everything he had touched with a white handkerchief. He gazed on his work like a painter admiring his latest portrait. Minus sat on the park bench, looking as if he had nodded off while reading his paper. An idyllic image, when you ignored the blood that trickled from his left nostril and dripped red on the page.
It had taken days for anyone to notice the dead tramp at Nollendorfplatz, but this was Potsdam, not Berlin. Things would move faster here.
From the tower of the garrison church, the bells chimed the first notes of Üb immer Treu und Redlichkeit, before the fast train rattled across the line from Magdeburg and drowned out all other sounds.
42
It had worked. Weinert had delivered a major story in Der Tag, dripping with all kinds of jingoistic hullabaloo. Wosniak, the faithful orderly, killed because his lieutenant was threatening to reveal the truth about an army captain who had murdered two innocent civilians and one of his own soldiers. At first Weinert had refused to mention that this captain was Jewish. ‘What does that have to do with anything?’ he had asked.
‘It increases the chance of the case being reopened. My commissioner is a Nazi and a Jewish villain alw
ays plays well.’
So, now the article read:
Jewish Captain Engel, missing since March 1917, was previously thought killed in action. Now a witness present around the time of Heinrich Wosniak’s murder has emerged, who claims to have seen a man matching the dead captain’s description last month at Nollendorfplatz. Is someone out there determined to suppress the truth, if necessary by lethal force?
Weinert must have acquired a galley proof of Märzgefallene, or perhaps an advance copy, and he quoted freely from Roddeck’s miserable effort. Unfortunately it wasn’t just Der Tag that carried a story on the Wosniak case, but the Kreuzzeitung too. Rath found the paper on his desk as he brought Kirie in to Erika Voss.
‘The police commissioner wants to see you,’ she said, gesturing to the page that lay open. ‘And I think I know why.’
POLICE REFUSE TO PROVIDE ENDANGERED AUTHOR PROTECTION
DEATH THREATS WON’T PREVENT WARTIME REVELATIONS FROM COMING TO LIGHT – STAY TUNED FOR MORE
Esteemed readers of the Neue Preussische Zeitung,
The eagerly awaited serialisation of the novel Märzgefallene, which charts Lieutenant Achim von Roddeck’s wartime experiences on the Western Front, will begin, as previously announced, in these pages this Monday 13th March. This is due, in no small part, to the great courage of the author, who, in the face of the gravest of threats, remains steadfast in his desire to reveal uncomfortable truths from the Great War.
‘I will not submit,’ Roddeck told the Neue Preussische Zeitung. ‘A Prussian officer will not be intimidated.’
His brave stance is especially remarkable given the undeniable gravity of these threats, which have already claimed the life of Lieutenant von Roddeck’s faithful orderly, who led a harsh but proud existence as a disabled war veteran before dying a violent death some days ago at Nollendorfplatz.
It is all the more inexplicable, therefore, that the Berlin Police should refuse our endangered author any form of personal protection. Particularly when the investigating officer, one Detective Inspector Gereon Rath, still has nothing to show for his efforts, despite the eye-opening testimony of Lieutenant von Roddeck, who has provided the aforementioned inspector with a forensic account of the background to these threats and the potentially lethal danger arising from them.
The article went on, taking up almost half a page, but for Rath the byline sufficed. Martin Frank, you piece of shit, he thought.
True, the piece might not have been as sensational as those usually carried in Der Tag or B.Z. am Mittag. Displaying all the hallmarks of the Kreuzzeitung’s old-fashioned, militaristic posturing, its content was nevertheless highly defamatory. Even so, the scurrilous conjecture – garnished with the odd swipe at Jews in the officer corps – was by no means the worst thing about the article. No, the worst thing was the threefold appearance of the name Gereon Rath, on one occasion complete with police rank.
No wonder the commissioner wanted to see him. When he reached the office, however, the wooden bench outside was already occupied. ‘Good morning, Inspector,’ Ernst Gennat said. ‘Do you have any idea how much I hate climbing stairs? Usually I speak to the commissioner on the telephone.’
‘My apologies, Sir. I had no idea the case would create such waves.’
‘You’ve been talking to the press again, I see.’ Gennat held the offending paper in his hand.
‘It was Herr Frank who telephoned me. He didn’t say he was reporting on the case.’
‘You should have told me he called.’ Buddha produced a second newspaper from under the Kreuzzeitung. Der Tag. ‘What about this? You may not be mentioned by name, but this Weinert’s an acquaintance of yours, am I right?’
‘Yes, Sir. He also telephoned me. But only after I spoke with you the other day and . . .’
‘You might at least have told me about this mysterious new witness.’
‘After our conversation I didn’t hold out much hope of working the case again . . .’
‘So you fed your friend Weinert with information so that the commissioner would come under public pressure.’
‘To help you, Sir.’
‘Thank you, but in future keep me informed of new developments as they come in. This witness of yours. Is he reliable?’ Rath nodded. ‘And he confirms the suspicion that Wosniak was murdered by a veteran previously assumed dead?’
‘Looks that way.’
‘Not such a busybody after all, your Lieutenant Roddeck.’
‘Perhaps not.’ Rath was contrite. Best get some practice in. The police commissioner was bound to deal out more of the same.
A wiry, scar-faced man emerged from the commissioner’s office. Rudolf Diels, the new head of Section 1A, from the Interior Ministry and appointed personally by Göring. What might he want here, to free up even more CID officers for the Politicals?
Diels issued a brief, polite greeting to Gennat and disappeared. Rath watched him as he went. They were around the same age, and already Diels was head of the Political Police. Rath wondered if he’d ever make it past detective inspector.
‘Please proceed, gentlemen,’ Dagmar Kling said. Levetzow’s secretary had appeared behind Diels in the doorway. Gennat rose from the bench, breathing heavily. For a moment Rath was tempted to offer him an arm, but decided against it.
Magnus von Levetzow looked stern behind his desk. ‘So, gentlemen, there you are.’ Rath und Gennat sat on the uncomfortable chairs the commissioner kept for guests. Nothing had changed since the Zörgiebel years. ‘You know why you are here,’ Levetzow began.
Rath left the talking to Gennat. ‘I believe I have the reason here in my hand.’ Buddha lifted the newspapers.
‘How is it the press are better informed about developments in a murder inquiry than I am?’
‘Might I remind the commissioner that the case was shelved last week on the instructions of the Daluege Bureau.’
‘Since when did the Daluege Bureau adjudicate on such matters?’
‘It was they who transferred Chief Inspector Böhm out of Homicide, and decreed that Officers Gräf and Rath be seconded to the Political Police to help thwart a Communist conspiracy . . .’
‘Yes, yes, I know all that.’ Levetzow waved dismissively. ‘No one said we should shelve a murder inquiry, especially given such explosive developments.’
‘We haven’t, Sir.’ Rath interjected before Gennat could say anything, ignoring his superior’s angry glance. ‘With respect, I tasked my secretary with collating all fresh evidence, and liaising with me on a daily basis.’
‘Then why haven’t you been liaising with me?’
‘Apologies, Sir,’ Gennat said, ‘but we didn’t want to bother you with details. Might I remind you that in the course of the last few days I have repeatedly requested that my men be reinstated.’
‘I have just spoken with Senior Government Councillor Diels. Starting from next week, we will be reassigning all CID officers currently seconded to the Political Police to their respective departments.’
‘Then Diels’s theory has been vindicated?’ Rath asked, and instantly regretted it.
‘Pardon me?’
‘Well,’ Rath stammered. ‘Word is that Diels doesn’t believe in the conspiracy theory being propagated by Göring. As far as he’s concerned, this van der Lubbe is a lone hand.’
‘Who told you this?’ Levetzow furrowed his brow.
‘I heard it somewhere. In the canteen most likely.’
The commissioner gazed suspiciously at him. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said at length. ‘The police cannot afford such press coverage. Especially now.’ Rath had expected nothing less. ‘Never again,’ Levetzow slapped the newspapers with the flat of his hand, ‘do I wish to read anything like this! We’re not dealing with the usual scandal sheets here.’
On the contrary, Rath thought. Der Tag was a ‘scandal sheet’ at best, but no doubt a Nazi gauged things differently. Certainly as far as anti-Semitism was concerned, the paper left little to be desired.
‘I don’t thin
k I need tell you what must be done,’ Levetzow concluded his lecture. ‘Inspector Rath is to be released from Political Police duty with immediate effect, to devote himself to the Wosniak investigation. I will see to the personal safety of Lieutenant von Roddeck myself.’
‘Thank you, Sir,’ Rath said zealously. Gennat remained silent.
‘I don’t expect thanks,’ Levetzow said. ‘I expect results.’
‘Then you can rest assured, Sir. Progress will be swift. With our new witness . . .’
‘I’m not interested in the progress of your investigation,’ Magnus von Levetzow thundered. ‘All I want is for you to track down this mass-murdering Jew!’
43
The squirt was becoming a real pain. He clung to her like a limpet. Eleven years old, and already on the streets. There were things he’d experienced in care that he wouldn’t talk about. ‘I’d rather die than go back,’ he had said, and, in the end, it was this sentence that bound them. Hannah recognised her own despair.
There were times when it felt good not to have to wander the streets alone. Occasionally Fritze had won a smile from her, pilfering an apple, or wheedling a mark out of someone in a fur-coat, but in the evenings she realised just how attached he was to her.
Still too innocent to want anything indecent, Hannah thought of him more as a kind of kid brother, but all too often felt like . . . ‘Fritze, I am not your mother!’
How many times had she said it now, and seen how the statement stung him? He no longer had a mother either . . . but was that a reason to follow her around like a dog?
Whatever her feelings she knew she had to get rid of him. She was the one on the run. It was just a line for him, that he’d rather die than return to care, but for Hannah it was true. She would die if she was ever picked up. Prison, care, or Dalldorf, Huckebein was sure to find her.
Since their night in the trunk, they hadn’t been apart for a second, and she wondered whether the Märchenbrunnen posse would take her seriously with him in tow. For all that, he was resourceful, and not just when it came to breakfast; he knew the best places to sleep too. Hannah hadn’t had to spend another night in a damp sandpit since Fritze came on the scene, and as for scrounging money there was no one better.
The March Fallen Page 19