The March Fallen

by volker Kutscher

  ‘He was there at the end, so to speak. Franz Thelen witnessed the explosion that buried your father.’

  Walther Engel drew on his cigarette. After all these years, he was still preoccupied by his father’s fate.

  70

  It wasn’t so strange that people thought he was a cop, and he certainly did nothing to correct the assumption when it came up. Not that anyone came out with it in so many words, as if the term police were subject to an evil curse, which in these circles perhaps it was.

  He didn’t have a photograph, but he was good at describing people. Maybe that was why they thought he was a cop. Then there was the reward, dangled in front of whoever he spoke to.

  He’d got a good look at the brat at Bahnhof Zoo, each item of clothing she wore was burned on his brain. And that was how he described her too, never forgetting to add that this Hannah Singer was a dangerous lunatic.

  They treated him with respect here, in a dive bar near the Volkspark Friedrichshain. The area was chosen deliberately; the Volkspark was where he and the other Crows had picked up Hannah, years ago, when she’d first tried to escape. The locals let him sip his beer and go about his business in peace. No one asked questions, just told him what they’d heard.

  So far it was only rumours. A girl fitting Hannah’s description had been hanging around Kreuzberg and Neukölln. Others had information about her in Friedrichshain, but no one had actually seen her. He’d spent a day prowling the bars of Kreuzberg and Neukölln, but here, by the Volkspark, was where he’d made his base. People had to know where to find him.

  Hunched over his beer, he kept his eyes open, which was how he spotted the youth. There was something determined, something excited about him, which set him apart. The youth whispered something to the owner, whom he seemed to know, but kept looking over in his direction. When the owner moved away the youth planted himself in front of him. ‘Heard you’re looking for someone?’

  For days now he had been waiting. The youth was having trouble looking him in the eye, but that was normal. In fact it made things easier.

  ‘A lunatic from the asylum they say?’

  Out of the corner of his eye, he realised his silence made the youth nervous.

  ‘Perhaps I can help you.’

  ‘Perhaps?’

  ‘What do I get out of it?’

  ‘One hundred.’

  ‘Two hundred and you have a deal.’

  ‘One hundred.’

  The youth pretended to consider if it was worth his while, but his face gave him away. He needed the cash, and one hundred marks was hardly chicken feed.

  He could have gone with two hundred, it didn’t make any difference. He wasn’t planning to pay, but yielding too quickly would make the youth suspicious.

  ‘One hundred it is.’

  For the first time he looked into the youth’s eyes, delighting in his unease. ‘But only,’ he said, holding out his hand, ‘if I catch her too.’

  They shook on it.

  71

  The pastor’s office was as Rath remembered: dominated by a huge, intimidating painting of St Norbert, filled with dark wood furniture, two windows facing onto Mühlenstrasse where the Buick gleamed in the cold winter sun. Spring came late to Berlin.

  Having postponed their appointment with Pastor Warszawski once already, today they made sure to leave the Castle in good time.

  St Norbert’s wasn’t exactly close by, nor was it Rath’s home parish, but he knew of no other Catholic priest in Berlin. After four years in this heathen city, Gereon Rath from Holy Cologne hadn’t once attended Mass but, unless he wished to be disinherited, a Catholic wedding was the only option. Rather than choosing someone unfamiliar, he had sought out Johannes Warszawski, whom he’d first met a couple of years back when Warszawski had taken an incense holder to the back of his head. After this painful greeting Rath had come to appreciate the priest, without whose help the Weisse Hand, a secret band of vigilantes who had infiltrated the Berlin Police, might never have been broken.

  All that was ancient history. The reason for today’s meeting was the so-called Brautexamen, which the Catholic Church set all prospective spouses prior to marriage. The pastor, stocky rather than fat, sat behind his desk like a king Rath and Charly had come to beseech. The truth wasn’t so different; to marry a Protestant, Rath had to ask permission of the Holy Mother Church, and whether or not this was granted had less to do with Rath than with his Protestant bride-to-be. That is, with Charly. He hadn’t been this nervous in a long time, and just hoped she could rein in her unpredictable streak.

  So far, everything was going swimmingly. Pastor Warszawski had spoken about the deeper meaning of the marriage sacrament, about the liturgy and order of ceremony, and was noting their personal details.

  ‘Is that a spider?’ Charly asked suddenly, pointing towards the sacred image on the wall behind the priest.

  ‘St Norbert,’ Rath explained hurriedly. ‘That’s how he’s always portrayed.’

  ‘Our patron saint,’ Pastor Warszawski said. His irritability always put Rath in mind of Wilhelm Böhm.

  ‘Why’s it coming out of a chalice?’

  ‘I’ll explain later.’

  Warszawski laughed, and with his laugh the irritability was gone. ‘I needn’t be concerned about someone so inquisitive. You’ll be a fast learner.’

  ‘A fast learner?’ Charly looked baffled, and Rath feared the worst. Keeping his counsel he opted to say a quick prayer . . .

  ‘Well,’ the pastor began, looking serious again, ‘if you are to enter into the sacred bond of marriage with your betrothed here, then the Church must ensure that any resulting offspring will be baptised as Catholics and raised in the Catholic faith. Seen thus, a little awareness of Catholic matters is no bad thing.’

  ‘Well,’ Charly said, ‘I’ve no plans to study Catholic theology.’

  For God’s sake! Rath was sweating blood.

  ‘Nor are you obliged to,’ Warszawski said. ‘These matters can just as well be explained by your husband.’ Rath nodded devotedly. ‘Very well,’ Warszawksi said. ‘Then I can tick that box too.’ He made a few ticks on the form in front of him. ‘That’s the greatest hurdle overcome.’

  More questions followed, on previous marriages, on the voluntary nature of their own vows, on possible impediments and so on, Warszawski ticking the items off one by one. Charly didn’t make any more trouble, and Rath felt relieved.

  ‘Right,’ the pastor said, skimming the form a final time, ‘that’s about it for today.’ He pushed the form across the table towards Charly and handed her his fountain pen. ‘Sign here, Fräulein Ritter.’

  Charly looked around helplessly. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I explained it to you,’ Rath said. ‘The Church has to be sure our children will be raised in the Catholic faith.’

  ‘You didn’t mention signing anything. I thought we were just talking.’

  ‘It’s only a signature.’

  ‘I can’t sign this. I don’t know anything about the Catholic faith.’

  ‘Will you stop making such a fuss!’

  Pastor Warszawski gazed at him sternly, then turned to Charly. ‘Now listen, young woman. I am not the Pope, nor do I presume to pass judgement on your happiness. All I’m interested in, is whether you have the necessary respect for the holy sacrament of marriage. A covenant with God is a great commitment and responsibility. If you take it seriously you will raise your children accordingly.’

  Charly nodded. ‘I take it seriously,’ she said and looked at Rath.

  ‘Then you can sign.’ Warszawski handed her the fountain pen. ‘The most important thing is what’s written in your heart.’

  Charly seemed to appreciate this. She signed the document and Rath thanked God he had come to Johannes Warszawski and not one of the bigoted clerics he knew from childhood. Following Charly’s lead he signed the declaration and returned the pen to the priest.

  ‘Then it’s done,’ Warszawski said. ‘Now, I suggest we
take the opportunity to schedule an appointment for confession. What do you say, Herr Rath?’

  ‘Confession?’

  ‘Of course. Best just before the marriage.’ He winked at him. ‘Which, needless to say, doesn’t mean you are free to sin with impunity until then.’

  Rath forced a smile. ‘Needless to say.’

  Sitting in the car ten minutes later his principal emotion was relief. Charly had signed. The only thing that could happen now was her jilting him at the altar. He watched her out of the corner of his eye and wondered what she was thinking about.

  He was to find out soon enough.

  ‘Let’s stop at Bahnhof Zoo,’ she said, as they approached Charlottenburg. ‘We can look out for Fritze.’

  ‘The boy’s been gone three days. He isn’t coming back. Just be glad he didn’t steal anything from us.’

  Charly glared at him. ‘Fritze is my only link to Hannah Singer,’ she said. ‘I have to find him.’

  ‘Charly, you’re getting too caught up in this business. You shouldn’t be neglecting your own work over it.’

  ‘My own work,’ she said contemptuously. ‘My own work is about as useful as a skin rash.’

  ‘You make it sound like a disease.’

  ‘It is.’ She looked at him. ‘Gereon, there’s something I need to confess.’

  ‘I’m the Catholic, not you.’

  ‘I was at the doctor’s today.’

  ‘Don’t say you’re . . .’

  ‘No!’ She laughed. ‘My God, is that all you lot can think of?’

  ‘You lot?’

  ‘Forget it.’ Charly took a piece of paper from her coat pocket. ‘I didn’t dare show this to you before but, following our meeting with the pastor, I think we should share everything.’

  They stopped at a red light on Schaperstrasse, and Rath unfolded the letter. A medical certificate. He recognised the name of the doctor, one of her friends from academia, perhaps.

  ‘You’ve been signed off for two weeks. You seemed all right last night.’ He gave her a nudge, but she batted him aside.

  ‘Cut it out.’

  ‘I was just saying.’ Since Fritze’s disappearance things were back on the up.

  ‘I had an appointment with Dieter this morning. I know it isn’t right but I can’t bear it in G Division any longer, and I can’t keep running to you.’

  ‘But two weeks . . . What about your inspector training?’

  She shrugged her shoulders, as if to apologise. ‘I can’t go back, Gereon. Not right now. Perhaps things will be different in two weeks.’

  ‘You think? Wieking will still be there; you’ll just have to get used to her.’

  The light turned green and he stepped on the accelerator. He could see she was embarrassed, but felt this was the only way. They drove along Joachimsthaler Strasse in silence.

  ‘Paroxysmal neurasthenia,’ Rath said eventually. ‘What’s that when it’s at home?’

  ‘Nervous exhaustion.’

  He shook his head and smiled. Turning towards her he saw that she was smiling too.

  72

  Leo’s eye socket barely hurt anymore, but he still wasn’t used to the patch. It took a moment for him to recognise his reflection. The man staring back resembled a carnival-goer dressed as a pirate, or a fucking veteran. Had he really made it through the war to spend the rest of his days as a cripple?

  Without the hellish pain, he could forget he was missing an eye until life served pitiless reminders: when he banged his foot, or poured his beer next to his glass. He could no longer judge distances.

  When it came to shooting, however, he was better than ever.

  In the spacious confines of Marlow’s villa he took out his anger on empty bottles and tin cans, and there were plenty around. Boredom had seen to that.

  He had hoped to start on his list of names from that accursed SA cellar, but Marlow had brought him here to Bad Freienwalde, the arse-end of nowhere. Even Marlow seldom left the house, and never its grounds. The only person who’d stayed in Berlin was Liang. The Chinese remained in Marlow’s warehouse at the Ostbahnhof, ensuring that business continued and contacts were maintained. Including those with Berolina, with Leo’s men.

  ‘Relax, Leo,’ Marlow had said. ‘You’re safe here. Right now Berlin’s too dangerous.’

  Leo hadn’t realised it was an order until a few days later when he tried to leave. Berlin was only an hour away, and he could look after himself, but guards prevented him from getting in the car. He was still a prisoner, even if Marlow put it differently. ‘I’m protecting you from yourself,’ he said. ‘I can’t risk you falling into Lapke and the SA’s hands a second time!’

  God knows, that was the last thing on Leo’s mind.

  Let the arseholes fall into his hands. Katsche, Lapke, Sperling, and whatever their names were. Anyone on the list in his head . . .

  Perhaps, he thought sometimes, as he emptied his Browning into another row of cans, it was no bad thing Marlow was holding him here. Wasn’t revenge a dish best served cold? Already, Leo savoured the fantasy in his mind. First up would be Katsche, then Lapke and Sperling.

  And not forgetting this police inspector . . .

  Leo hadn’t added his name until Freienwalde. Marlow explained why he’d had to enlist a cop to bail him out. That Dr Kohn was powerless to do anything. That it wasn’t easy prying people away from the SA.

  Leo understood all that, but then Dr M. told him when he had first spoken to the police inspector. Half a week before Katsche had sucked out his eyeball. Half a week!

  What had he been doing all that time? Scratching his balls?

  If this police inspector, who was supposedly in Marlow’s pocket, had taken his instructions seriously, there was no way he, Leo Juretzka, would be going around with a patch over his eye!

  He hadn’t said anything to Marlow, of course; Dr M. would have regarded it as ingratitude, and Leo didn’t want that. He had simply made a mental note of the name: Gereon Rath. Added it to the list, and taken his Browning back outside.

  73

  When Rath returned from duty on Saturday, Charly was reading with a cup of coffee in front of her on the table.

  ‘You,’ she said, and sat up.

  ‘Pleased to see me?’ he asked. Kirie pitter-pattered over to greet him. He drew back the curtain. The morning fog had lifted, the sun was shining, and for once the house was empty.

  ‘What should we do?’ he asked. ‘Take a trip to the country? It feels like Kirie needs a walk.’

  ‘Why don’t you take her then?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I can’t go outside! Gereon, I’m sick.’

  ‘You’re on sick leave, and fresh air is good for you. Look out of the window. Spring’s almost here.’

  ‘What if someone sees me?’ For a good Prussian like Charly it was inconceivable that she be signed off work, only to stroll blithely through town.

  Rath had pictured their weekend differently. ‘You really want to spend the whole day sitting there? Someone could just as well have seen you yesterday evening at Bahnhof Zoo.’

  ‘That was different, we were looking for the boy. I can’t be going gallivanting off when my colleagues think I’m ill.’

  She sipped her coffee and turned back to her book, making a face as if her hamster had died. Rath had rarely seen her like this. Perhaps this doctor wasn’t so wrong with his ‘diagnosis’.

  ‘For God’s sake, Charly! You can’t spend the whole day in a funk just because the Nazis are in power. It’s only politics. Life goes on.’

  She looked up. ‘Only politics. What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘You know exactly what it means. We shouldn’t be getting worked up over who’s in government. Our job is the same as before: to catch criminals.’

  ‘Is it the same though? Somehow I don’t think so.’

  ‘Something had to give after the Reichstag fire, but things have settled down in A. It’s only a matter of time before normal service
is resumed with you, too.’

  ‘If nothing’s changed in two weeks, then . . .’

  ‘What? You’ll get another certificate? And grumble on until Hindenburg shows Hitler and his Nazis the door?’

  Charly fetched a Juno from her cigarette case and lit up. ‘I don’t know, Gereon. I just know I can’t stand it right now. If I have to listen to Karin swooning over Hitler and the new age one more time . . . I swear I’ll strangle her.’

  ‘Ordinary people like the Nazis. They think they’re going to usher in a better future.’

  ‘I can’t think about it.’

  ‘Let’s wait and see. Striking against the Communists was a natural first move, and there are plenty who’d say not before time. By no means just Nazis.’

  ‘It sounds like you’ve given up on democracy.’ Her disappointment was plain. ‘Or worse, like you never cared about it in the first place.’

  Rath could no longer contain himself. ‘Democracy!’ he said. ‘It’s all I ever hear from you. Democracy, democracy. As if it’s the only solution to Germany’s problems.’ He was surprised to find himself shouting, but continued, he had to let it all out. ‘Who’s responsible for this whole shemozzle? How is it the Nazis have a Reichstag majority? I’ll tell you. Your precious democracy. Who knows, perhaps if you women hadn’t achieved the vote in ’19 the Nazis wouldn’t be where they are now.’

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ Charly stood up and glared at him.

  ‘It’s true. Without female suffrage, they’d never have got so many votes. It’s the women who run after Hitler. I know any number.’

  ‘Any number, eh?’

  Careful . . . There was no way he could offer Hilde Sprenger from Cologne as an example.

  ‘Well, there’s your colleague for a start. And Wieking. Anyway, it’s true: they’d never have got this far without female suffrage.’

  It was almost as if he could hear his own father talking, and he knew he had overstepped the mark. He waited for Charly’s response. She stood with her lower lip trembling. He wanted to go to her, take her in his arms, and tell her he didn’t mean it, but she reacted first with a hard slap, before turning on her heel and exiting the room, slamming the door behind her.