The March Fallen

by volker Kutscher

  Today at Bahnhof Zoo he was working his little boy charm on rich-looking passers-by, of which there were any number. Hannah didn’t know what he was serving up – her role was to collect the takings – but whatever it was, it did the job. Almost everyone he spoke to parted with a few coins, and no one thought to call the police. There was no shortage of uniformed cops around either.

  She didn’t look like a beggar in her new clothes, and certainly not a fugitive from Dalldorf. She didn’t know if the cops had photos to help with their search. They had taken a few after the fire, but she didn’t look like that anymore. Her gaze had been so empty, back when she thought her life was over. It wasn’t until Huckebein tried to kill her that she had been overtaken by an almost demonic will to live.

  Yes, she wanted to live, she knew that now, even if she wasn’t sure what she wanted from life. First just survive; don’t get caught. The police, flanked by the odd brownshirt and German Shepherd, didn’t seem to be looking for her, but she stood behind a pillar anyway.

  Concentrating hard on them, at first she didn’t notice the man limping down the platform steps. This time he wasn’t dressed in the uniform of an asylum warder, but a fancy coat and equally ill-fitting bowler hat. Berlin wasn’t quite as big as she thought. She made no sudden movements, but Huckebein was heading straight for her and already looking her way. Had he recognised her? She couldn’t be certain. She’d never worn such new clothes in her life, not in the asylum, and certainly not in the Crow’s Nest, and her hair was covered by a red beret.

  But he had recognised her, she could tell by his eyes, and his slow, deliberate movements like a tiger trying not to alert its prey. Why here? Why now? She hurried away.

  Bursting out of the train station, she rushed down the the steps to the underground, turning to confirm that he was behind her – but with his leg he couldn’t move quickly. Hannah laughed. She realised she was faster; he had no chance on the steps.

  ‘Stop that girl! She’s a fugitive from the asylum!’ he shouted.

  She tried to look as normal as possible so that no one could think he meant her. Briskly, but without running, she climbed the steps to the other side of Hardenbergstrasse, in the shadow of the railway overpass. Stop that mad girl came the cry from below. He didn’t have to be the one to catch her. It was enough to have her sent back to Dalldorf. Once she was there, he could kill her in his own time; finish what he had begun.

  She pretended indifference. As long as he didn’t appear up here and start pointing his finger, she’d be fine. Berliners weren’t famous for interfering in other people’s business.

  Seeing the tram chug slowly down Joachimsthaler Strasse, she took a running jump and . . . a young man grabbed her hand and helped her up.

  ‘You do know you’re not allowed,’ he said sternly, before smiling and throwing her a wink.

  Hannah returned his smile and thanked him, pushing towards the rear of the car behind a heavy-set matron. Gazing through a gap in the passengers she spied Huckebein limping up the underground steps and looking around. He threw his hat furiously onto the ground. Too bad, my friend, she thought, looks like I’ve escaped for a second time. The conductor came and she placed a ten pfennig piece in his hand. Luckily Fritze had already given her some of his takings. There would be no trouble on the tram.

  She stayed on for a few stops, eventually alighting on Kaiserallee, far away from Bahnhof Zoo. Standing in the shadow of a newspaper kiosk she broke into such hysterical laughter that she wondered if Dalldorf hadn’t made her crazy after all.

  44

  Juretzka appeared in the Castle at eleven on the dot, escorted by two SA officers and Marlow’s lawyer, Dr Kohn. Kohn was granted entry to the interrogation room; the SA agreed to remain outside.

  When everyone was sitting down, including stenographer Christel Temme, Rath took his place behind the desk. Juretzka wore a black eye patch over the gauze bandage covering his empty socket, which lent him a swashbuckling appearance. He still looked the worse for wear, albeit not as listless as in hospital yesterday. He sounded better too, rattling off his statement while Temme diligently noted everything.

  Rath leaned back contentedly. Everything was going according to plan. The commissioner had freed a few extra men and Rath had settled on Henning and Czerwinski, nicknamed Plisch and Plum. The pair were unlikely to exceed their brief, or ask too many difficult questions. He had deliberately avoided requesting Gräf, and not just because of his erstwhile colleague’s familiarity with the case.

  Plisch and Plum had already been dispatched to Potsdam, after Erika Voss had discovered that one of Wosniak and Roddeck’s former comrades lived there. The unit’s other surviving members were further west, in Magdeburg and Elberfeld. Corporal Meifert, now a senior teacher, was the only one on their list who lived within visiting distance of Alex.

  Rath planned to call on the others next week, along with Engel’s widow in Bonn. They had little more to go on than Engel’s name and the results of his medical examination. That and the photo the Reichswehr had enclosed from its archives. Gazing proudly into the lens with his curled moustache, Engel didn’t look any more spiteful than your average Prussian officer. Rath recognised the look from the portrait of his brother, taken shortly before Anno was killed in action. He placed Engel’s photograph on the table in front of Juretzka, who nodded his recognition as agreed.

  ‘Yes, that’s the man I saw at Nollendorfplatz.’

  It sounded almost a little too mechanical, but Christel Temme studiously took it down. Rath had requested her for a reason; there was every chance Erika Voss would see through the swindle.

  ‘If you could make out a fair copy . . .’ he said, when she had committed everything to paper.

  He waited until she closed the door behind her and he was alone with Kohn and Juretzka. ‘This business with your eye,’ he asked. ‘How did it happen?’

  ‘That’s none of your concern,’ Juretzka said. ‘Just see that I get out of here.’

  Rath nodded.

  ‘So what happens now?’ Kohn asked. ‘The SA are waiting for my client outside. They don’t care that I have a prisoner release order.’

  ‘Don’t worry about the SA.’ Rath spoke quietly, not knowing if they could hear behind the door. ‘Come to my office at three o’clock this afternoon.’

  ‘And how . . .’

  ‘Just trust me. Be there at three and you can walk out of here with Herr Juretzka, but right now I need you to leave. Make a little scene as you go.’

  ‘By all means, Inspector.’ Kohn put on his hat, and took a few frantic breaths until his face turned red.

  ‘This is an outrage,’ he shouted, flinging the door open. ‘An outrage!’ He turned in the doorway. ‘My client is not a common criminal!’

  Rath calmly followed. ‘Your client is a common criminal,’ he said.

  ‘There will be consequences, Inspector, that much I can guarantee!’

  ‘Do whatever you see fit, but Prisoner Juretzka’s place is here in custody. And there’s nothing a Jew shyster like you can do about it.’

  ‘You mean to insult me now?’

  ‘Please. It must still be possible to call a Jew a Jew.’

  Kohn let his gaze flit to the SA officers and back. He waved dismissively, turned on his heels and stormed down the corridor, coat billowing behind him.

  The SA men gazed after him in amusement. ‘Let’s have the prisoner then,’ said the higher-ranking of the two, a Scharführer.

  ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘We have to get him back to Papestrasse. You’ve finished interrogating him, haven’t you? And he’s seen a doctor. Time to take the gloves off.’

  ‘Prisoner Juretzka is staying here.’

  ‘We have strict instructions to return him once the interrogation is complete. He’s a career criminal.’

  ‘Once the interrogation is complete. It will be continuing after lunch.’ He winked at the Scharführer. ‘Without a lawyer.’

  The SA man nodded and g
rinned.

  ‘For the time being Juretzka will remain in police custody. I should be through with him by tonight. You can come and fetch him then.’

  The SA officers looked uncertainly at each other. ‘Very well,’ the Scharführer said at length, ‘but you could have spared us the waiting around.’

  Right on cue the custody officer emerged, whom Rath had requested by telephone. ‘I’m here for a Prisoner Juretzka,’ he said.

  The SA officers took their leave with a Hitler salute and the custody officer placed Juretzka in handcuffs. ‘I hope I can rely on you to return the prisoner at three o’clock,’ Rath said, ‘and that he’ll be fit for questioning.’

  ‘Have no fear, chief. You’re not dealing with the SA here.’ He turned to Juretzka. ‘You have bread and pea soup to look forward to.’

  45

  The canteen was as chaotic as ever. Rath looked for an out-of-the-way table to read Roddeck’s novel in peace. The story of the murdering army captain was now their official line of investigation. If the police commissioner needed a Jewish villain in order to approve Gereon Rath’s return to Homicide, then he could have one.

  Achim von Roddeck had excoriated Benjamin Engel in print, depicting him as a cold-blooded sadist who took pleasure in death, only to die in an explosion himself. Or not, if the lieutenant’s hunch was correct.

  ‘Afternoon, Gereon. Can I join you?’ Reinhold Gräf stood tray in hand.

  ‘Reinhold! Sit down!’

  Gräf unfolded his napkin and began on his soup. Pea soup. Rath wondered if it was the same as the batch served in custody. It wasn’t for nothing that he’d plumped for pork with sauerkraut and mash.

  ‘Still working for the Politicals?’ he asked when the silence threatened to become embarrassing.

  Gräf nodded and gestured towards the manuscript. ‘I see you’ve got your old case back?’

  ‘Orders of the police commissioner. After the Wosniak investigation wound up in the papers again.’

  ‘Through no fault of your own, of course . . .’ Gräf grinned over his spoon. There was something in his tone that Rath couldn’t abide.

  ‘You think I enjoy being summoned by the commissioner?’ he barked, regretting it instantly. Goddamn it, he thought, the man’s done nothing to you. Once upon a time you thought of him as a friend. Until you realised he’d been lying all these years . . .

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean anything. So, there’s something in this lieutenant’s story after all?’

  ‘Looks that way.’

  With that, conversation stalled again and, for a time, there was nothing to be heard save the tinkling of cutlery and murmur of voices from other tables. Gräf placed his spoon to one side.

  ‘About what happened recently. I have the feeling you might have got the wrong end of the stick.’

  Rath was surprised Gräf could broach the subject so directly. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s just, I have the feeling you’ve been avoiding me lately.’

  ‘I have a lot on my plate. I’m getting married soon.’

  ‘Fare thee well bachelor days . . .’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘Why don’t we have a drink in the Dreieck to mark your final days of freedom?’

  ‘Let’s.’

  Rath was glad when Gräf had cleaned his plate and said his goodbyes. He lit a cigarette and pretended to immerse himself in Roddeck’s manuscript, but couldn’t concentrate any longer. Soon his thoughts turned elsewhere.

  Returning from lunch the interview transcript lay on his desk, ready-typed by Christel Temme, quick and reliable as ever. He picked it up, left a note for Erika Voss and went on his way. Gustav Kohn was waiting outside the interrogation room when he arrived. There wasn’t an auxiliary officer in sight as Leo Juretzka was escorted in at three on the dot by the same guard as before.

  ‘Shall we, then?’ Rath said and opened the door.

  ‘Should I wait?’ the guard asked.

  ‘No need, but you can take off his cuffs.’

  The guard did as bidden, and pressed the cuffs into Rath’s hand. ‘Your choice,’ he said and went to the door. ‘Shout if you need me.’

  Rath waited until he was gone, then unfolded the interview transcript.

  ‘I’ll read what you need to sign before leaving,’ he said, and began. ‘“On the afternoon of February 20th 1933, I was passing under the elevated railway line at Nollendorfplatz when I saw a man leaning over a homeless person, who then proceeded to walk in my direction. Since he was coming towards me, I got a good look at his face; it was the same man whose image Detective Inspector Gereon Rath later showed me.”’

  ‘Rolls off the tongue,’ Juretzka interrupted. ‘What are you going to do with it?’

  ‘It’ll go into the case file. It’s my justification for prising you away from the SA.’

  ‘You already have. So I don’t need to put my Friedrich Wilhelm on it, am I right?’

  ‘Your what?’

  ‘My client prefers not to provide his signature,’ Kohn said. ‘He retracts his statement.’

  ‘That will make it harder for me to justify Herr Juretzka’s release from SA prison.’

  ‘You’ll think of something. My client’s incarceration had little to do with the rule of law, so I wouldn’t go overboard on any legal justification.’ Kohn gestured towards Juretzka, who seemed more and more like a swashbuckling pirate the nearer he came to release. ‘Herr Marlow doesn’t want the name Juretzka appearing in any police statements.’

  ‘Then tell Marlow that I’m risking my career here. Juretzka only got out of SA prison as a result of this statement – and now you’re saying he won’t sign?’

  ‘Marlow tells me you’re the resourceful type, Inspector. You’ll think of a solution. Why don’t you just tell your superiors what happened: that Leo Juretzka and his Jew shyster played you for a fool.’

  ‘Thanks for the tip.’

  ‘Yours for free, and I should tell you, my services usually come at a price.’

  Kohn stood up. Juretzka followed.

  ‘That thing there,’ Rath said, pointing towards Juretzka’s eye patch, ‘will make your client stick out like a sore thumb. Be careful that the SA don’t fetch him back. Ringverein members are about as popular as Communists.’

  ‘Once we pass through these doors, you won’t be seeing my client for a very long time. Everything’s prepared, there’s no need for you to worry . . . and yes,’ Kohn said, reaching inside his briefcase. ‘Here. So that you have something in writing.’

  He placed the document on the table. A prisoner release order.

  Dr Gustav Kohn left the room with his client, a career criminal wanted by the SA, and Rath sat at the table, playing with the handcuffs the guard had left him. When the telephone rang he gave a start. It was Erika Voss. ‘Please excuse the interruption, Sir, but it’s urgent.’

  ‘You’re not interrupting. What is it?’

  ‘Detective Czerwinski is on the line. If you wait a moment, I’ll patch him through.’

  ‘What is it?’ Rath asked, when he could hear Czerwinski wheezing.

  ‘Boss?’

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘We’re here at this teacher’s house.’

  Rath looked at the watch Charly had given him. ‘You’re only there now?’

  ‘He wasn’t home, so we waited.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Alfons spoke to a neighbour who was coming up the stairs with her shopping. Gereon, I think you’d better get out here.’ Czerwinski paused awkwardly. ‘The woman says Linus Meifert was found yesterday in the park. He’s dead.’

  46

  Rath dropped Charly and Kirie at home before heading out on the AVUS to Potsdam, where Police Headquarters was a tiny, two-storey building that looked as if it went back to the days of Old Fritz. It was in Priesterstrasse, in the immediate vicinity of an enormous barracks at least twenty times its size. In Potsdam the military had always called the tune, even now when Germany was barely allow
ed any soldiers. At least, in contrast to Alex, there was plenty of parking outside.

  Henning and Czerwinski were waiting under the two old-fashioned streetlamps outside the entrance. Recognising the sand-coloured Buick they threw away their cigarettes.

  ‘So?’ Rath asked.

  ‘Meifert was found dead in the park over by the palace.’ Czerwinski pointed towards the end of the street. ‘The pleasure garden. A stone’s throw from here.’

  ‘How did he die?’

  ‘It’s better you ask Inspector Lehmann. He’s . . . how shall I put this? Not especially approachable.’

  ‘He’s the lead investigator?’

  ‘Very much so. He insisted on seeing our commanding officer. Seems to be beneath his dignity to speak with a humble detective.’

  Detective Inspector Lehmann was a textbook example of a Prussian official. Discreet and dressed in a grey suit, his sense of duty was bursting from his ears. He listened as Rath made his report. ‘And you think the cases go together?’

  ‘A witness in my investigation has died on your patch.’

  ‘This isn’t my patch, this is my city. We’re not part of Berlin yet.’

  Rath ignored the Potsdam sensitivity. ‘Was it a violent death?’

  ‘I should say so. Someone thrust a sharp object up his nose. A stiletto or something like it.’

  Just as Rath had feared. Evidently there was some truth in Achim von Roddeck’s arcane tale. ‘Then I can more or less guarantee the dead man is part of my case. Let’s get him transferred to Pathology in Berlin.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary. The corpse has already been examined.’

  ‘Perhaps so, but I think we’d be better off in Hannoversche Strasse. The pathologist there, Dr Schwartz, has already examined the first corpse and will be able to draw comparisons.’