The March Fallen

by volker Kutscher

  ‘I’m aware of that.’

  ‘Of course, but now doubts have started to arise concerning the identity of a second dead man, likewise identified by Lieutenant Roddeck.’ The inspector paused as if embarrassed. ‘Perhaps you read about that as well. A few weeks ago we found a corpse in the Spree, to whom the murders of your war comrades can, beyond any doubt, be attributed.’

  ‘It was Captain Engel. Your colleagues in Elberfeld told me.’

  ‘Well, that’s just it. Whether the dead man is, in fact, Captain Engel . . . Herr Grimberg, forgive my indiscretion. As you know Captain Engel was a baptised Jew. Can you tell me if he was circumcised?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘The dead man is not circumcised, hence the doubts I mentioned just now. It wouldn’t be the first time Roddeck had been mistaken.’

  ‘I don’t know if the captain was circumcised, Inspector. He was high brass and I was a staff sergeant. You think he ever stood under the shower with the likes of me?’

  ‘Shame, but perhaps you can still be of service.’

  ‘I can’t imagine how.’

  ‘Apart from Lieutenant Roddeck you are the only survivor from that time. The only man who knows Benjamin Engel. Could you identify him?’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t have time.’

  ‘No need for you to come here. I’ve sent you a few photos of the dead man. They’ll be arriving soon.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Take a look at the pictures and let me know.’

  For a long time after the Berlin inspector hung up, Grimberg stood receiver in hand, staring out of the window. He had suspected something was amiss, that Roddeck was up to something. That he wasn’t playing with an open hand. So far only suspected, but now he knew.

  103

  It was raining heavily, and Roddeck had stowed his script under his jacket. He’d have liked to call the whole thing off, but Goebbels himself had heard him promise over supper at the minister’s own private apartment on Reichskanzlerplatz. He had been invited as the emerging star of the new Germany’s literary scene along with two student leaders who were not only readers of his work but had also spoken enthusiastically about their action against the ‘un-German spirit’. He couldn’t say whether it was the praise or the wine that inspired him, only that he had promptly pledged his support.

  ‘You, my dear Roddeck,’ Goebbels said, ‘are a shining example of what German literature can achieve when shorn of the ballast of its distorting Jewish influence. Now, shine!’

  Aglow with wine, he had dazzled them with his promises, later publishing an essay which, thanks to the Student Association news service, was carried in several newspapers: German Literature in the Year Zero. It was his publisher, Dr Hildebrandt, who had done the lion’s share of the work, but it had been a great success, thrusting Roddeck’s name further into the limelight and ensuring that, already, Märzgefallene was being reprinted for the seventh time.

  About tonight’s speech, also written by Dr Hildebrandt, he wasn’t so sure. It wasn’t that he was afraid of public speaking, quite the opposite. His problem was time, and an appointment he couldn’t afford to miss. It was why he had declined to take part in the torchlight procession which would carry the books from the student residence at Monbijou Palace via Karlstrasse towards the Reichstag, from there down Unter den Linden, and on to the university. No wonder it was taking so long.

  He looked at his wristwatch. Gone half past ten, and where were they? People had been waiting here, by the Opera House, for hours. By now a few students had appeared, as well as the police and fire brigade, and the newsreel who made everything as bright as day with their lights, row upon row illuminating the pyre, the lectern draped in flags behind a bouquet of microphones, and the onlookers, the rain above transformed into glittering threads. The rest of the square was a sea of hats and heads, almost lost in darkness.

  Despite the weather it felt almost like a public festival. Street hawkers peddled hot sausages and drinks, cigarettes and chocolate. Some were selling trench mirrors to bystanders, relics from the war used to look over the heads of those in front. Umbrella salesmen would have done a brisk trade too, but of these there was no sign.

  When everyone was thoroughly soaked, the rain stopped between one moment and the next, as if someone had turned a giant tap to ‘off’. At last he could hear what he had been waiting for, the distant blare of brass instruments, and chants that echoed through the night. Deutschland erwache, Juda verrecke. Germany awake, Jew die.

  He joined the crowd as it streamed towards Unter den Linden, approaching via the central promenade, escorted by mounted police. The mass of students reached back to the Brandenburger Tor, a swaying sea of torches and flags. The trucks with the forbidden books came rolling across the central promenade, normally reserved for pedestrians. Uniformed students stood on the load platforms.

  Above flags and torches emerged a long pole, onto which a head appeared to have been skewered, a bust of Magnus Hirschfeld, the sex researcher, who advocated that homosexuality go unpunished. Few here would have anything against seeing the head of the Jew faggot impaled for real but, like so many of the cowards whose books were being burned, Hirschfeld hadn’t set foot in Germany for years. His filthy institute had been ransacked the previous week.

  As the procession approached, firemen poured canisters of petrol on the soaking pyre.

  When they reached the square – corps students in full regalia, others in the uniforms of the SA and SS – they marched in formation to the SA brass band. This was what he loved about this German revolution: so well organised, so disciplined. No other among history’s revolutions could match theirs.

  He made his way over to Hippler and Gutjahr, the two student leaders at Goebbels’ dinner, and was reaching to shake hands when Fritz Hippler raised his arm in a wordless Hitler salute. Herbert Gutjahr promptly followed. Glossing over his faux-pas Roddeck returned the greeting. The student leaders took him between them and positioned themselves beside the lectern, where they could watch like generals in battle. Dressed in their SA uniforms they hardly resembled students, although they were no older than twenty. Some of the torchbearers were even younger. Marching past, they threw their torches on the pyre and, with a mighty woof, the petrol erupted in blue flames.

  Sandwiched between his hosts, Roddeck no longer dared look at his watch, but knew it must be close to eleven. Time was running away.

  As the fire and the heat grew, the crowd retreated and soon even the trucks had to reverse away. Students formed human chains to transport the books to the flames. So young and enthusiastic, the dynamism of the new Germany was vibrantly present. This was a youth movement and the thought made him feel young again.

  His novel had appeared at exactly the right time. But for Grimberg’s encouragement he would have taken years to finish, but he had been spurred on by the prospect of unearthing the Alberich gold. The book was meant to serve as bait but, if it continued to sell in such numbers, he would have no need of the spoils. He was one of the heroes of the new Germany.

  If he could just do something about the fear, but since Wosniak’s death he had been scared stiff. The letter only made things worse.

  The flames reflected back from the windows of the Opera House and the Kommode, the former royal library which was now the university assembly hall. Shadows danced across the faces in the crowd: an unreal, ghostly effect. He let his gaze wander over them. People were here from all sections of society. All could be future readers of his novel. He hesitated. It couldn’t be, could it? but . . . A face he hadn’t seen in sixteen years. A captain’s uniform from the war. Was it really the man they had been trying to draw out for weeks? Whose initial letter had so terrified them. Whom they hadn’t heard from in almost a year and the arrival of a second letter.

  He scoured the crowd. There were any number of uniforms. Mostly SA and SS, but some Stahlhelmers too. A few veterans wore their uniforms from the war, but where he thought he had seen the captain a wo
man now stood. Behind her the crowd would be lost in darkness but for the flames in the trench mirrors.

  Feverish now, he had to be sure he wasn’t imagining things. Gutjahr whispered, ‘When the band has finished, I will approach the lectern and introduce you’, but all at once Roddeck knew for sure. A better look focused on the unmistakable profile, the captain’s hat, Benjamin Engel in the fiery light looking at him through his spectacle lenses. Benjamin Engel pinning all three speakers with his gaze.

  Roddeck’s eyes closed for a fraction of a second, a single blink, and when he opened them his view was blocked by the human chain. He had lost him again, but there was no doubt. Engel was waiting. He must have read about his appearance at the book burning in a paper somewhere. Achim von Roddeck was a public figure, and it was no secret that he would be here. Was this the moment of revenge Engel had been waiting for? Had the letter been a means of allaying Roddeck’s doubts?

  He turned to the two students and said hoarsely, ‘Gutjahr, Hippler, I’m afraid I must disappoint you. My throat has not improved as I’d hoped. If anything, it’s gotten worse.’ He pressed his script on Gutjahr. ‘Read my words for me, and pass my regards to the Students’ Association. Best wishes for your action, only . . .’ He pointed again to his throat. ‘Only . . . I won’t be delivering any speeches tonight.’

  Gutjahr was about to say something but a look from Hippler told him to keep quiet.

  ‘I’m very sorry, gentlemen. I was too optimistic. I should never have come here against the express advice of my doctor.’ Unable to face another moment in the beam of the spotlights, he plunged into darkness.

  104

  The new hero of German literature stood between two SA striplings, no doubt planning a big entrance. The popinjay couldn’t have wished for better publicity.

  Friedrich Grimberg wondered if the whole thing might be coincidence: the letter arriving a few days after the inspector’s telephone call, and a few days after the photos. Someone must have pushed it through the letterbox. The coincidence being what he thought he had seen the night before, but written off as imagination, Captain Engel on board the suspension monorail as it passed outside his window, his face strangely clean-shaven, almost picture-perfect.

  Opening the envelope, he recognised the signature and knew the sighting had been real. The same handwriting as the previous year’s letter, written in the same style. Only, this letter wasn’t threatening or abusive. On the contrary.

  Grimberg began reading, even though by now he could practically recite its lines by heart.

  I turn to you as the only living comrade whose address it has been possible for me to find. You have nothing to fear from me, I assure you, just as I did not murder our former comrades. Why should I do a thing like that? It is Lieutenant Roddeck who insists on dragging my name through the mire, no one else.

  You, dear Grimberg, were absent at the time of the incident Roddeck so falsely represents in his novel, but believe me: I did not shoot the innocent children, nor did I shoot the soldier Wegener. I do not know who has the children on their conscience, since by the time I arrived they were already dead, but it was Roddeck, the lieutenant himself, who killed Wegener. I saw it with my own eyes.

  He did it out of fear, and it is the same fear that drives him now. Fear of discovery. Is it not possible that he killed our comrades, in order to eliminate the last witnesses capable of exposing his mendacity?

  I was lucky to survive the war, but I too am guilty. I took the gold that Roddeck and his men buried in the forest by Neuville. Since then I have been tormented by feelings of guilt. Now approaching death myself there are matters I would like to set straight; above all I would like to free the name Benjamin Engel from the mire with which Achim von Roddeck has besmirched it.

  I would like, therefore, dear comrade, to propose a meeting. It will not be to your disadvantage.

  So, Engel was alive, but did not realise that he, Grimberg, had tried to kill him. Had planned to eliminate the last witnesses.

  Now, having finally enticed Engel into the open, what choice did he have? Of course he had gone to Berlin. And of course he hadn’t told Roddeck, the traitor, who might be responsible for Wosniak’s death.

  After taking a week’s holiday from the quarry he had told Käthe he had business to attend to. As he had a year ago when he and Wosniak met Roddeck to outline the plan which had turned Achim von Roddeck into a celebrated author. If everything worked out, he wouldn’t be returning to Elberfeld. Not to the quarry, not to Käthe, not to the wreckage of his former life. He was in his mid-forties with time to start afresh, and soon he would have money too. With the help of a trench mirror, he focused on the lectern. The paper had billed Roddeck as speaking on the revival of German literature, but there was no sign of him. The space between the two SA men was empty.

  The younger of the two brownshirts approached the microphone. ‘German students! Our action is directed against the un-German spirit.’

  His voice was on the verge of cracking, his R’s rolling like his eyes. No skilled orator, he was a youngster trying to pass himself off as a tribune . . . but, where was Roddeck?

  ‘Against class struggle and materialism, for a people’s community and idealist view of life,’ the Nazi student said, holding a pile of books aloft. ‘I consign the works of Karl Marx and Kautsky to the flames!’

  He stepped from the lectern and threw the books onto the fire. The crowd looked on with no jeering, no applause, nothing. The next student, with more books under his arm, approached the microphone. ‘Against decadence and moral decay. For discipline and decency in family and state. I consign the works of Heinrich Mann, Ernst Glaeser and Erich Kästner to the flames.’

  These were the fire incantations that had been billed in the paper, but where was Roddeck? What was happening? Why weren’t they sticking to the script? He felt uneasy. He had to tread carefully.

  The incantations continued, and more books were cast into the flames. With the mention of the name Remarque came the first hints of applause. Remarque was one of Roddeck’s competitors, whose books would never again be sold in Germany. Grimberg didn’t feel envy. He was no longer under obligation to Roddeck but, still, had to tread carefully. Since learning that the corpse Roddeck had identified as Captain Engel was in fact Heinrich Wosniak, he refused to put anything past the man. Roddeck might be a coward, but you underestimated him at your peril. He could be cold-blooded when the occasion demanded.

  105

  Achim von Roddeck was sweating. Pushing his way through the crowd outside the Opera House, he worked his way towards Behrenstrasse and the Dresdner Bank. From the square he heard the crackle of flames and the chatter of students. Time and again he turned around, but there was no sign of the captain. He searched his coat pocket for his old service Luger, which he had carried since they’d stood down his police protection; the same gun he had used to silence the hysterical recruit Wegener, earning him the enduring respect of his men.

  He gripped the gun in his pocket and released the safety catch. What few pedestrians he encountered behind the Opera House were heading in the other direction, towards the fire. His watch told him he was ahead of schedule, and perhaps that would give him an advantage.

  Midnight, Engel had said, in the decommissioned branch of the Linden tunnel, directly beneath the square where the books were being burned. The access ramp had been filled when the square was repaved, and trams could only pass through the eastern branch, on the other side of the Opera House.

  He could scarcely contain himself. What had Engel written in his letter? Time to get even. He didn’t say whether he meant the gold or some other debt, but that didn’t matter. Roddeck intended to get even in his own way, and finally put an end to the fear, but the worst thing in war was not being able to see your enemy. When you didn’t even know if he would attack. When all you knew was that he was there. He had felt this way for months, but now his enemy, Engel, was about to reveal himself.

  Two pairs of parallel trac
ks issued from Französischer Strasse, and swept elegantly past the eastern side of the Opera House towards the access ramp down into the tunnel’s east branch. He had passed through several times on the number 12, but could he just walk inside? Signs forbade it, and there wasn’t much room between the track and tunnel wall. He descended into darkness.

  There was no sign of any trams, but still he felt uneasy. Reaching the end of the ramp, he took a flashlight from his coat pocket. It was time to put an end to his fear of Engel’s revenge, of the truth. Having gone out on a limb with his lies, he had sold them to a believing world. Grimberg’s idea was, ‘If you’re going fishing, you need to bait the hook. A man like Engel . . . you have to appeal to his sense of honour.’

  So Roddeck had added a chapter to his war memoirs, detailing an episode which had been shrouded in silence since March 1917, throwing mud at Engel while clearing everyone else, especially himself and Grimberg, who had wanted to kill the loathsome captain from the start, long before they had made their strike.

  But Engel had let their appeal go unchallenged for weeks, even the murders they sought to pin on him. Grimberg had shown his faithful Heinrich what was to be done, and Wosniak’s first task was to simulate his own death so that he could slip into the role of Todesengel. When, at first, things hadn’t gone to plan Roddeck had been forced to take matters into his own hands and really spell it out. Almost at once, the press pounced on the story of the murdering captain, and soon the police had come to believe it, too. Excepting, perhaps, Inspector Rath, whose scepticism had been a nuisance from the start. Still, no one at Alex listened to a man like that these days.

  The journalist, on the other hand, was another matter. His never-ending telephone calls . . . ‘How certain are you that Benjamin Engel is dead? Is the body you identified really that of your former captain?’ Sadly, Roddeck could not complain about him to the police commissioner, and he didn’t dare call the newspaper. Best to let sleeping dogs lie.