‘Erich!’ she said sternly. ‘How could you do this to your parents? Begging from passers-by! You should be ashamed.’
‘But Auntie!’
She grabbed hold of an earlobe and wrenched him away from Kirie. ‘You deserve a good hiding!’
‘But I had no money for the train.’
‘Did you run away again?’ She pulled on the boy’s ear so that he stood on tiptoes with his head tilted to one side. ‘I’ll see to the little rascal. Thank you, Officer.’
The cop looked satisfied, likewise the SA auxiliary officer. ‘Don’t be too strict on the lad, and give him his fare. You can certainly afford it.’ He gestured towards the brass doorbell as if that explained everything. ‘Then he won’t have to beg from strangers. Bad enough with all these street urchins. If there’s one less out there . . .’
‘Will do,’ she said.
‘Sorry again for the disruption, ma’am. In future tell your sister to keep a closer eye on the little devil.’ He turned to the boy and wagged his finger. ‘Just make sure I don’t catch you begging again. Do we understand each other?’
The boy nodded as best he could given he was still being held by the ear.
‘Else we’ll lock you up and your parents can come fetch you from jail. Or your aunt!’ He winked at Charly and gestured discreetly towards his companion. The two of them marched down the stairs.
Only when the door clicked shut did Charly finally let the boy go. He rubbed his ear while Kirie sniffed at him and wagged her tail.
‘Good boy, Fido,’ the boy began, but Charly interrupted him.
‘Fido’s name is Kirie,’ she said, ‘and what are you doing here!’
‘Still had your address, didn’t I?
‘All these lies . . . it’s nothing to be proud of.’
‘They’d have sent me back into care.’
‘And what am I supposed to do? It’s not like you’re actually a baker’s apprentice.’
‘Just don’t send me back. I’ll jump out of the window.’ He looked serious.
‘Don’t say that.’
‘I know you’re a cop but I thought I could talk to you.’
The boy’s instincts were good. Gereon always said she was too soft, especially when it came to the weak and vulnerable. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to send you back. Do you have somewhere to go?’
‘I’ll find something.’
She led him into the kitchen and made him a cup of cocoa. ‘Hungry?’ He nodded. She prepared a few sandwiches and fetched Hannah’s file from the living room. When she laid the photo on the table he stopped eating, staring reluctantly at the ED portrait of Hannah Singer.
‘This girl,’ Charly said. ‘The one I showed you before. I’m looking for her.’
‘Haven’t seen her, sorry. It’s a long time since I’ve been at Bahnhof Zoo.’
‘But you’ve seen her before? Her name is Hannah Singer.’
‘I don’t know her.’
‘Yes, you do! I save you from the cops, play along with the whole auntie charade, give you food and drink, and you won’t even tell me your name! You won’t tell me anything!’
Kirie’s gaze flitted between them.
‘I just told you my name.’
‘So it’s Erwin, is it?’
‘If I say it is.’
‘Ten minutes ago, it was Erich.’
He looked perplexed, then defiant. ‘It’s none of your goddamn business.’
‘I think it is, and not because I want to send you back. I just want to know who I’m dealing with.’
‘Fritze,’ the boy said. ‘Friedrich.’
‘OK, Fritze. Believe me when I say that I want to protect Hannah. I’ve no intention of harming her. She’s in danger, and I have to find her.’
‘But I’m looking for her too.’ Fritze sounded almost desperate. ‘One day she was just gone. There was this man at Bahnhof Zoo who shouted: Stop that mad girl! or something, then he spoke with the cops.’
‘You saw him?’
‘From a distance. I wasn’t sure if he meant Hannah. Back then I didn’t know she’d bust out of Dalldorf. Was it a warder?’
‘I think it was the man who’s after her.’ She showed him the pre-war photo of Benjamin Engel. ‘Could it have been this man?’
‘It could have been anyone. His face looked as if it had been through a meat grinder.’
‘You didn’t notice anything else about him?’
‘He had a limp, and a bowler hat.’
‘You have to help me, Fritze. If you see this man anywhere, I want you to head straight for the nearest telephone booth and call me. And if you see Hannah, bring her to me.’
‘She won’t come.’
‘It’s more important you tell me where she is.’
‘If I knew that . . .’ He looked at her helplessly. ‘I’ve been at Bahnhof Zoo for days on end, but there’s no sign.’
‘I’ll make a suggestion. You can sleep on the sofa, warm up a little and take a bath. I’ll give you food, and in return you help me look for Hannah. How about it?’
‘What if I don’t find her? Will you stick me back in care?’
‘Never, I promise.’ The boy oozed suspicion. ‘How about it? We’ll go together and you can show me all the places you’ve been with Hannah. The dog needs walking anyway.’
65
Rath had seen it coming after the weekend’s headlines. Despite the official line that close cooperation with the press was to be avoided, the public image of the Berlin Police was not to be taken lightly and so, this Monday morning, in light of his continued failure to deliver the Jewish mass murderer dead or alive, despite express orders to the contrary, Magnus von Levetzow had summoned him, once more, to report.
‘Inspector Rath,’ the commissioner said icily, ‘how kind of you to join me. I wonder if I could trouble you for a little information.’
‘Very good, Sir.’
‘How many dead bodies,’ he said, voice growing louder with each word, ‘will it take before you find our killer?’
‘With respect, Sir, it isn’t that simple. My team doesn’t have the resources.’
‘Enough of your excuses!’ When he wanted to, Magnus von Levetzow could really shout, and beat his fist on the table. ‘Half of Warrants is out looking for Benjamin Engel. The sketch you had made has been sent to all police stations in Prussia, together with a profile of the suspect. Talk about resources!’
‘Why am I sitting here,’ Rath asked, ‘if Warrants are to blame?’
‘You are here because of your own failures, and because you have exploited the powers invested in you as a police officer in a manner I refuse to tolerate.’
‘I don’t know what you mean, Sir.’ Rath knew what Levetzow meant all right. Roddeck had squealed.
‘Do I really have to explain? You treated a Prussian lieutenant, a former soldier whose life is under threat from the very man you are supposed to be apprehending, as a suspect.’
‘Convention dictates that all persons connected to a fatality are required to present their alibi. Since we were dealing with a new victim I felt compelled to ask Lieutenant von Roddeck for his.’
‘Just so there are no misunderstandings, Inspector. There’s nothing I like more than my officers getting in touch with their inner Rottweiler, but make sure you snap at the right people! The ones who can tell you where Benjamin Engel is hiding.’
‘With respect, Sir, that’s precisely what I’m doing. I’ve already grilled his supposed widow, we’re still looking for his driver, and above all we have the sketch with the description of the Magdeburg . . .’
‘Then don’t stop! I want you to question anyone who’s had anything to do with Benjamin Engel’s life, starting with his childhood friends and Rabbi. The murdering Jew has to be somewhere, and someone knows where. They’re the ones you grill, not poor Roddeck, a decorated war veteran.’
‘Yes, Sir.’ Rath did his best to sound contrite. He’d had a lot of practice down the years, and not just w
ith this commissioner. ‘As far as Wibeau’s concerned, there’s no need to ask Roddeck for his alibi. I was interrogating him at the time.’
Levtzow shot him a glance. ‘Speaking of interrogations: we’ve received a complaint about you from the SA Field Police. Apparently you let a dangerous career criminal and alleged Communist escape during an interrogation?’
‘The man is a witness in the Wosniak investigation. He didn’t escape, his lawyer had a prisoner release form.’
Levetzow waved dismissively. ‘You were played by a Jew shyster and the witness retracted his statement. Am I right?’ Rath nodded. ‘Meaning you lost your witness, and the SA their prisoner.’ Rath nodded. ‘Perhaps you should have treated this lawyer with the same obstinacy you reserved for poor Lieutenant von Roddeck!’ Rath nodded. ‘Then get to work, Inspector. Find this Engel!’
‘Yes, Sir.’ Rath stood up.
‘Report to me as soon as you pick up his trail. I want to be kept personally informed.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Good, now get out of here.’ Magnus von Levetzow stretched out his right arm. ‘Heil Hitler!’
The salute caught Rath off guard. Unsure how to react, he settled for clicking his heels and taking his leave with a brisk bow. In the corridor he felt like an idiot, but at least he hadn’t been cajoled into thrusting his right arm aloft.
Back in his office he took Benjamin Engel’s biography from the file. As Levetzow had said: from his childhood friends to his Rabbi . . . To think, he didn’t even know if the man was alive.
The official report from 1917, which had found its way to police headquarters, gave no clues either. The episode was described more or less exactly as in Roddeck’s novel, which was hardly surprising when you looked at the signature on the form. Back then, the lieutenant had questioned the witnesses himself. Alongside demolition expert Grimberg, the focus had been on Engel’s driver, Franz Thelen. In point of fact, they were the only witnesses, or at least the only ones present when the charge detonated.
Absent from the report was the question, first raised by Grimberg, of whether Engel’s death might not have been an accident. The interrogation mostly consisted of the demolition expert exploring the various possibilities that might have led to the charge going off prematurely, including the stray pigeon he later mentioned to Rath. The statement made by Engel’s driver was more straightforward: a British artillery grenade must have landed in the trench and set off the trap. Unfortunately Thelen, the only other witness to the explosion, seemed to have vanished into thin air. In 1917 he had been sent to the Eastern Front, and in 1919 had joined a volunteer corps fighting against the Red army in the Baltic States. Erika Voss had been unable to find a current address.
A search for Engel’s corpse had never taken place, since the area in question had ceased to be part of German territory. If he had survived the blast, the advancing enemy, whether British or French, would surely have found him.
Rath skimmed the biography. Benjamin Engel was born in Siegburg in December 1883 and educated in Bonn, where he also attended university. The only period he’d spent outside of the Rhineland was in Munich, where he had completed his studies before taking his commission in the Bavarian Army. He had married Eva Heinen, whom he’d obviously known for some time, immediately following his return from Munich in 1907, and entered his parents’ furniture business. The couple welcomed a son, Walther, in 1908, and a daughter, Edith, followed in 1913. No mention of Rabbis or childhood friends, but Rath noted the names of the groomsmen all the same. Perhaps one was a friend from school days. After that came the Catholic priest who had married them, probably the same man who had baptised Engel.
Police colleagues in Bonn had been shadowing Eva Heinen since Rath’s visit to the Rhineland last week, but the only point of interest were her walks in the nearby Siebengebirge mountains, where her driver would drop her most mornings. Rath didn’t think the surveillance would lead them to Engel: by now it was clear the killer was based in Berlin or environs. It was here, rather than the Rhineland, that he had struck: Berlin, Potsdam, and on the train between Braunschweig and Magdeburg.
There was a knock at the door. ‘Yes,’ he said, reluctantly. He hated it when his secretary wasn’t there. He hated it even more when she wasn’t there, and he was interrupted. This particular interruption had a cute face, however, and lovely brown eyes.
‘Is this a bad time?’ Charly asked.
‘It’s fine. Come in.’
She crossed the empty outer office. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I forgot Erika isn’t here today.’
‘No problem. Should I lock the door?’
‘Gereon, really!’
‘Are you surprised? We had company last night, which means we have to take advantage during the day.’
‘Don’t start that again.’
Returning from work last night he had felt like a stranger in his own home. Charly intercepted him at the door and placed a finger to her lips, leading him on tiptoes into the living room where a boy lay under a woollen blanket on the sofa, at the end of which Kirie was curled into a little ball as if watching over him.
‘That’s Fritze,’ Charly whispered, before steering Rath into the kitchen and closing the door behind them. Eschewing a cognac in his favourite armchair, Rath made do with warmed Bouletten and a glass of water, after which Charly told him what the boy was doing there. Clearly she was in battle mode. Her gaze said the boy stays, or I go, and Rath was too tired to engage.
At breakfast the boy made himself useful in whatever way he could. Charly even entrusted him with Kirie’s morning stroll. Rath secretly feared he’d sell her to the nearest passer-by, but he was back after a quarter of an hour. A warm place to sleep obviously meant more than a hasty mark or two. Charly had promised he could stay for a few days, mentioning this only once she and Rath had left for work. She had already introduced Fritze to the porter, saying he was her nephew from Zehdenick. That way he could come and go as he pleased. ‘He’s helping me find Hannah,’ she had explained.
Rath swallowed his anger in the car, but could no longer hold his tongue. Charly was ready. ‘There’s no way I’m sending him back on the streets. He stays with us until I think of something else.’
‘How about a children’s home?’
‘Why do you think he bust out in the first place? He says he’d rather die than go back, and I believe him.’
‘And that’s not the only thing.’
‘Gereon, let’s not fight here too.’
‘Who’s fighting? As a matter of fact I suggested the exact opposite.’
‘Lecher!’ She couldn’t help but smile.
‘Then what are you doing here?’
‘Duty call.’ She gestured towards his desk. ‘The documents from the Bülowplatz fire, can I have them?’
‘What do you want with them?’ Rath rummaged in his drawer. The file was somewhere near the bottom.
‘I’m looking for a fallen girl,’ she said. ‘It’s what G Division are for.’
‘If you’re seeking refuge . . . from Wieking or your colleague – you can always use my office.’
‘I’m not sure your secretary would appreciate that.’
‘Erika’s off for the next two days, and I’ll see Plisch and Plum are kept busy.’
‘Then you’ll lock the door . . .’
‘Who knows?’
Charly kissed him back, but withdrew when he tried to embrace her.
‘Not now, Gereon,’ she said, waving the file. ‘No time.’
She turned at the door. ‘Can you tell me where I’ll find Reinhold?’
‘He’s still out hunting Communists. Why?’
‘He was the one who dug up this fire business in the first place. Perhaps he knows something that isn’t in the file.’
‘Hannah Singer, Fritze Don’t-Ask-Me, Alex back in the day . . .’ Rath sighed. ‘Could it be that you have a weakness for street children?’
‘Every woman has her secrets,’ she said, waving the file
as she disappeared.
66
The wind whistled across Bülowplatz as Charly stepped out of the U-Bahn. She turned up her collar and circled the Volksbühne until Karl Liebknechthaus came into view. It was the first time she had seen the building without banners and Communist mottos. The rows of windows looked dead and deserted, like the square itself, as if the former Communist party headquarters held some dark threat. The Liebknechthaus had attracted workers from across the city with its slogans and political rallies, but for the past two weeks a Nazi flag had flown from its roof and Communists were thin on the ground. Upstanding citizens had always given Bülowplatz a wide berth and, where once it was fear of Communists, now it was fear of being mistaken for one. Only the Volksbühne reminded Berliners it was one and the same square.
Charly tried to locate the site where Heinz Singer and seven other beggars had been consumed by flames on New Year’s Eve 1931. The shacks of old were gone, with new buildings erected all around. The scene of Assistant Detective Stephan Jänicke’s murder four years ago was now a cinema. The Crow’s Nest, meanwhile, had been replaced by an apartment block, and there was nothing to suggest beggars had once lived here. So many pasts erased, Hannah’s too, and that of her father.
Horst-Wessel-Haus it said above the Liebknechthaus portal, where two SA auxiliary officers stood guard. It wasn’t the only building the Nazis had renamed. A second new plaque hung resplendent by the entrance: Police Headquarters, Berlin, Department for the Prevention of Bolshevism.
Charly showed the SA officers her identification and went inside, reluctant to treat the brownshirts as colleagues but with little choice. They had told her the room number at Alex. Reinhold Gräf looked up in surprise.
‘Charly,’ he said, pleased to see her. She struggled to believe what Gereon had told her. Just because someone worked for the Politicals and was friends with an SA officer, it didn’t make them a Nazi. ‘What brings you here?’
The March Fallen Page 28