The March Fallen

by volker Kutscher

  Rath rarely discussed politics with Paul, and was relieved his friend couldn’t stand the Nazis either. ‘In Catholic Cologne of all places. I thought they voted Centre here.’

  ‘Not by a long shot. The police even banned them from holding a rally on Friday. Adenauer’s final campaign speech was cancelled. Even he could no longer do anything about the swastika flags on his town hall. Things have been frantic since the Reichstag vote.’

  Rath manoeuvred the Buick out of its space and through the milling mass at a snail’s pace. It took some time before he had a clear run, and people could be seen again on the pavements. People going about their daily business without uniforms or flags. There was still such a thing as normal. The crowds outside the town hall had seemed so unreal it was as if all this were happening in another city – in another world.

  At Platz der Republik he stopped to let Paul out. ‘Braunsfeld,’ his friend said, leaning over the window. ‘Blumhoffer Nachfolger. Hildegard Sprenger, Sales.’

  Rath gave a wry smile, and saluted. ‘Aye, aye, Sir!’

  He drove on, lost in thought, without the slightest idea how he was going to tell this girl, whom he hadn’t seen for two weeks, that she was just a one-night stand. Stopping at a florist, he bought a small bouquet and drove via Aachener Strasse to Braunsfeld. The lemonade factory wasn’t as big as he’d expected. Trucks were being loaded on the yard, but with metal barrels rather than bottle crates. He asked the porter for Fräulein Sprenger from Sales, concealing the flowers behind his back.

  ‘First floor, second door on the right.’

  Hilde Sprenger looked at him wide-eyed as he peered through the door. Annoyingly she wasn’t alone; a female colleague sat at the desk opposite. ‘Now, there’s a surprise,’ she said. ‘Are they for me?’

  ‘The porter actually, but he didn’t want them.’ She laughed a perfectly nice, normal laugh. ‘I thought I might buy you a coffee, seeing as I was in the area. Do you have time?’

  The woman at the other desk pretended not to be interested. Hilde stood up and smoothed down her dress. ‘A quarter of an hour, for sure. I was about to take a break anyway. There’s a cafe on Aachener Strasse.’ He handed her the flowers. ‘Hedwig, could you put these in water for me?’ Her colleague took the bouquet with a grin. ‘Are you in town long?’ she asked, when they were outside.

  ‘No.’ Rath didn’t know what else to add.

  ‘Then you’re lucky you found me. I’m on holiday next week.’

  ‘You are?’ He cleared his throat. ‘Do you mean the cafe up ahead? It looks nice.’

  This time they ordered coffee rather than Afri-Cola. Hilde took a cigarette from her handbag and he gave her a light. She smiled nervously and smoked. He flipped open his cigarette case. ‘You’ve already realised I’m not Paul Wittkamp,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t clear that up before, I was called away unexpectedly. I hope it wasn’t too much of a shock.’

  ‘It’s my own fault, going back like that, but I was curious. I wanted to see you again.’

  ‘I’m not even from Cologne. I’m a Berliner.’

  ‘You don’t sound like one.’

  ‘I grew up in Klettenberg.’

  ‘A Cologne boy after all.’

  ‘Before I lapsed.’

  Hilde grew misty-eyed. ‘Berlin,’ she sighed, as if these two syllables held all the promise of the world. ‘Lucky you.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Right in the heart of the metropolis.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘Well then, have you seen him?’

  ‘Seen who?’

  ‘Who do you think? The Führer, of course!’ There was such enthusiasm in her eyes it was as if she were discussing Willy Fritsch. ‘I just wondered. Weren’t you at the Reich Chancellery? In January, I mean, when he stood at the window.’

  ‘I had to work.’ He had got caught in the Nazis’ torchlight procession on the way home, but he didn’t want to mention that. This wasn’t what they were supposed to be discussing. The conversation had taken an unwanted turn, not that Hilde had noticed.

  ‘Isn’t it wonderful that the national revolution has reached Cologne?’ she asked. ‘That Adenauer and his Jew cronies are out on their ears at last?’

  Rath’s cigarette almost fell out of his mouth. Hilde didn’t look like a Nazi zealot. He’d thought she was a modern girl, fun-loving and open to adventure, and that Nazi girls wore bunches, not bobs.

  ‘My family is on very good terms with Konrad Adenauer,’ he said sharply. ‘And to my knowledge he’s no Jew. As for his cronies . . .’

  ‘Did I say something wrong? Sorry, I shouldn’t have started on politics.’

  Perhaps the conversation hadn’t taken such an unwanted turn after all. He stood up with such a sudden aversion to this naive Hitler-worshipper that his next move came easy. ‘I’m sorry. I thought we had something in common, but it seems I was wrong.’

  He laid a two mark coin on the table, more than enough for the bill, snatched his hat and coat from the stand and left. He didn’t look around, but caught sight of Hilde Sprenger gazing after him in the reflective glass. She probably thought she had messed up with a single, ill-advised comment. With politics.

  Well, it was no bad thing if at least one person in Cologne had cause to temper their Nazi enthusiasm. Above all, Rath was glad to have this business behind him, even if things hadn’t turned out as expected – but perhaps that was no bad thing either.

  53

  The tea dance began at five on the dot in Hotel Eden, and Charly was all dressed up. The risk of running into a colleague who might squeal to Wieking in a place like this was low; the cost, on the other hand, would be high. She had told Gereon as much on the telephone, but he had said it wasn’t important so long as she came away with a result.

  Somehow she’d let herself be talked into going it alone! He was right, though, he’d never manage to prise her away from G Division officially, and there was no doubt that undercover operations had their appeal. This particular operation was so undercover that not even police knew about it. Still, what could they do? It was only dancing . . . for all that she was supposed to be ill.

  She had left Kirie with the porter and walked fifteen minutes to the hotel, saving the taxi fare. The afternoon would be pricey enough. The Eden advertised itself as ‘the most modern luxury hotel in West Berlin’, and it was certainly among the most expensive.

  She went straight from the cloakroom to the ballroom, taking her place at one of the tables near the dancefloor. She ordered a glass of house champagne, lit a cigarette and looked around. The band was already playing, and the room was filling even though it was only a few minutes after five. It was mostly women at the tables, the majority of whom wore expectant looks, until the first gallants arrived and led them to the floor. It seemed to Charly as if the dancers chose the most ardent looking women. Certainly they weren’t interested in the smokers. She stubbed out her Juno and tried to look keen. Before long a pomaded, southern-looking type with a pencil moustache arrived and essayed a perfect bow. A peacock, the kind she’d usually have sent packing.

  ‘May I have this dance?’

  She smiled, reached for the man’s outstretched hand and stood up. The band played Latin American. She would have preferred Jazz, but that was asking too much at five in the afternoon.

  She didn’t know the dance, but it wasn’t an issue. Her partner held her firmly and, thanks to his steady hand, her legs did what they were supposed to. No comparison with Gereon, whose range just about extended to the slow numbers.

  ‘The lady dances well.’

  ‘Entirely thanks to you.’

  His response was a self-satisfied smile. Conversation wasn’t his strong point. Charly chose to lead. ‘What’s your name?’ she asked.

  Her pomaded gigolo gave her a conspiratorial glance. ‘Just ask for Bertrand,’ he whispered.

  ‘From France?’

  ‘Brussels.’

  ‘How about Achim von Roddeck?
Will I find him here too?’

  Just ask for Bertrand looked confused at first, then insulted. ‘No, not anymore.’

  ‘They say he’s an author these days.’

  His face told her he didn’t wish to discuss a former colleague, but nor did he wish to rebuff her. Or perhaps he wasn’t allowed. He smiled sourly. ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t know a lot about Herr von Roddeck.’

  He wheeled her across the dancefloor. Charly tried again. ‘Can you make a living from it? Dancing, I mean?’

  This time Bertrand didn’t even manage a sour smile, just looked thoroughly peeved. ‘I am dancing with you, because there is nothing I enjoy more in this world than dancing,’ he said. ‘And because the lady is a very talented dancer.’

  And because you’d be on the breadline otherwise, Charly thought. ‘Why did Roddeck dance?’

  ‘I can only hazard a guess.’

  ‘Then hazard away.’

  The dance was at an end, and with an elegant turn the Belgian snapped her backwards, catching her in his hands just as she feared she might hit the ground. The other dancers applauded. His eyes glared at her as he escorted her back to the table, but his mouth was smiling. ‘Why are you quizzing me about a colleague?’ he asked.

  ‘Well . . .’ Charly attempted a smile of her own. ‘You’ve got me.’ She looked at the ground in shame. ‘I’m a journalist,’ she said. ‘My paper asked me to write a feature on Achim von Roddeck’s former life. That’s why I’m here.’

  For a moment she feared he might call for the house detective. ‘If that’s how it is, you shouldn’t waste your time dancing,’ he said. ‘Come back at eight o’clock when my colleagues and I eat dinner. You can ask your questions there. Willy can tell you more about Roddeck than me.’

  ‘Willy?’ she looked around.

  ‘He won’t be here until the evening.’

  Again, Bertrand looked a little piqued. Charly pressed a five mark coin into the palm of his hand. ‘Thank you,’ she said, shaking his hand. ‘Hopefully your colleague is just as discreet.’

  ‘Discreet . . .’ he said, stowing the coin swiftly away, ‘ . . . we dancers are only discreet where our female clients are concerned.’ He managed a smile that wasn’t sour. ‘Colleagues, on the other hand, are fair game. Especially former ones.’

  Bertrand from Brussels made for the next table, bowing elegantly before a buxom blonde and leading her to the dance floor.

  ‘The lady dances well,’ Charly heard him say, as the two glided past. She drained her champagne, set down the glass, placed a two-mark coin on the table and left the room. The female cloak room attendant gazed at her in astonishment. It was probably the first time anyone had left the five o’clock tea dance at this hour, at least without a companion.

  54

  Arriving in Klettenberg, Rath hesitated a moment before ringing the front door. Frieda opened and looked at him wide-eyed.

  ‘Young man. Back again I see.’

  ‘Just passing through.’

  ‘I’m glad you’re here. We’re going out of our minds inside.’

  She let him in and fetched his parents. Engelbert Rath looked as if he hadn’t slept, greeting his son as if he had seen him only five minutes before, and disappearing into his study.

  ‘You must excuse Father,’ Erika Rath said. ‘The last few days have been a little frantic.’

  ‘Why isn’t he at police headquarters?’

  ‘He called in sick. They know he’s a friend of Adenauer, and given Elfgen says he can no longer guarantee Konrad’s safety, your father fears the worst.’

  ‘The district president said that?’

  ‘The very same, but don’t go thinking Elfgen is actually doing anything about the brownshirts. It’s white feathers all around.’

  Rath couldn’t help but smile. ‘Sounds like someone here didn’t vote for the Nazis. Am I right?’

  ‘Of course not! What are you thinking?’

  After what he had seen earlier, her outrage did him the power of good. ‘It’s all right, Mama, I was only teasing.’

  ‘Your father’s party colleagues have been calling all day.’ She led her son into the sitting room where Frieda had laid out a pot of tea. ‘What are you doing here anyway?’

  ‘Police business.’

  ‘You’ll stay the night?’

  ‘If it’s no trouble.’

  ‘Trouble? Of course not . . . Wait! There was something.’ She stood up and went to the drawer to fetch a letter. ‘This came for you. We were going to send it on to Berlin, but seeing as you’re here . . .’

  Rath looked at the envelope. Cologne Police Headquarters. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘But Papa must.’

  ‘I didn’t want to bother your father with it. He has enough on his plate at the moment.’

  He opened the envelope. It was a summons. A Detective Wiefelspütz from the Cologne Police wished to speak with him. One Herr Wilhelm Klefisch had accused him of misappropriating fifty marks from his wallet.

  ‘What is it, son?’

  ‘Nothing important.’ He stowed the letter in his jacket.

  Engelbert Rath didn’t join them until supper, seeming tired but restless at the same time. Rath had never seen him unshaven before. His father had even managed on the black day they received news of Anno’s death.

  ‘I’m sorry I’m in such a mess, Gereon, but the telephone has been ringing for days and nights on end.’

  ‘I hear Adenauer’s been deposed.’

  ‘That’s what Gauleiter Grohe says. The brown mob stormed the town hall this morning.’ Engelbert Rath shrugged his shoulders as if to apologise. ‘Ever since the Reichstag elections, the SA have been behaving as if they own the city.’

  ‘And you’re letting them?’

  ‘What do you mean you?’

  ‘The police. The Centre Party. You!’

  ‘What would you have us do?’

  ‘Help Adenauer. Prevent the town hall from being stormed.’

  ‘Our hands are tied, boy. The district president has instructed police to avoid any conflict with the SA. Anything else would lead to bloodshed.’ Engelbert Rath sat in his armchair, hunched and helpless.

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘You don’t know what’s been happening here. It’s as if everything’s been turned on its head.’

  ‘Elfgen’s a Centrist, isn’t he?’

  ‘Of course he is,’ Engelbert Rath said, as if the prospect of the Cologne District President belonging to any other party were simply unthinkable.

  ‘Yet here he is playing into Nazi hands?’

  ‘Some party members believe we must move with the national uprising and steer it in the right direction, rather than stand in its way.’

  ‘By working with people who would have Konrad Adenauer up against a wall?’

  ‘Gereon, you don’t understand . . .’

  There was a knock and Frieda peered through the crack in the door. ‘Apologies, but it’s urgent. You’re wanted on the telephone. The mayor.’

  ‘Adenauer?’

  ‘Who else?’

  Frieda looked appalled. In her world Konrad Adenauer was still mayor of Cologne. Rath found it equally hard to imagine someone else in the post. It felt almost as if God himself had been dethroned. For as long as he could remember the mayor here had been Konrad Adenauer, and for as long as he could remember the man had been a regular in the Rath household. Only two weeks ago he had been drinking Frieda’s tea.

  Engelbert Rath stood up. ‘Excuse me, but I’ve been waiting to hear from Konrad all day. Let’s hope he’s arrived safely in Berlin.’

  ‘Adenauer is in Berlin?’

  ‘The brownshirts would have shot him here.’

  ‘Then what’s he doing in Berlin, of all places? Talk about the lion’s den. If you think the Nazis have taken over Cologne, wait till you see things there.’

  ‘What do you think he’s doing? He’s going to call on the Prussian Interior Ministry and
protest against what is happening here. Konrad is still the rightful mayor, and president of the Prussian State Council besides.’

  ‘Call on the Interior Ministry? On Göring?’

  ‘Who else?’

  ‘But he’s a Nazi too!’

  ‘As well as being acting Interior Minister. He won’t like hearing how the SA have been carrying on down here. He’ll do something about it.’

  Suddenly Rath realised that his father, once so in control of this city, had lost his political compass.

  55

  Charly entered the ballroom of the Hotel Eden just after eight o’clock. A new band played softly, there were no dancers and only a few guests, all of whom sat at the tables. An army of waiters prepared for the evening ahead. She waved one over.

  ‘Sorry, but the dancers – could you tell me where they eat?’

  The waiter looked at her disparagingly. Perhaps he thought she was a girlfriend of one of the men. No doubt that sort of thing was frowned upon here. The dancers didn’t dine with their clients in the hall but had their own table in the basement, just by the kitchen. In the servants’ quarters, where they were joined at the long table by liftboys, chambermaids, porters and other hotel staff. Just no waiters, right now they had their hands full.

  The dancers were already in evening dress and a little apart from the rest. Charly’s gallant from the afternoon spotted her and stood up. ‘There you are,’ he said, stretching out a hand with such perfect elegance she was afraid he might request a second dance. Instead he led her around the table and made the introductions. ‘Gentlemen, this is the reporter I mentioned earlier, Fräulein . . .’

  ‘Weinert,’ Charly said. It was the only name she could think of.

  ‘Fräulein Weinert is writing an article on our former colleague Roddeck, who, as we know, is currently making waves as an author.’

  The dancers in the Eden were a motley bunch, bound only by their polished manners and more or less attractive appearance. Their table, meanwhile, was so full of gossip they could have been taking coffee at Kranzler. Everyone had a story to tell. She sat down between Bertrand and a blond youth he introduced as Willy from Vienna.