The Fatherland Files

by volker Kutscher

  ‘Welcome home,’ he said at last, just to say something, and took her in his arms. He breathed in her scent and, even if her perfume was as foreign as her appearance, underneath he perceived the unmistakable fragrance of her skin, a fragrance that consigned all traces of estrangement to oblivion, reviving countless memories along the way. Not memories, exactly, but something from a deeper place, a place he hadn’t even known was there. So much lay in her scent that he felt as if their months of separation had never occurred.

  He stepped back to look into her smiling eyes.

  ‘Are those for me, or were you expecting someone else?’

  ‘Marlene Dietrich must have missed the train.’

  She rolled her eyes, but smiled. Rath handed her the bouquet.

  ‘Now I’m completely defenceless,’ she said, raising both hands. In the left she held a small travel bag, in the right the bouquet of flowers.

  ‘Defenceless is good,’ he said, and kissed her. When she reciprocated, he could have fallen on her there and then, but the dog had started to bark and people were looking their way.

  ‘How about we go somewhere more private?’ Rath said, and she smiled.

  He organised a baggage handler and led Charly to the car where the handler stowed Charly’s suitcase and bag onto the dickey seat as Kirie sprang inside. He removed her by the collar, consigning her to the tip-up seat next to the cases.

  ‘She should know to sit in the back when I’ve got company,’ he said, taking his place beside Charly and starting the engine.

  ‘Have you had a lot of company these last few months?’

  ‘So little that Kirie has forgotten her manners.’

  Charly didn’t seem to notice that they turned off from Hardenbergstrasse as soon as they reached Steinplatz. When he opened the passenger door on Carmerstrasse, however, she looked around curiously. He lifted the dog out of the tip-up seat, then the suitcases, and marched towards the building behind Kirie, who already knew the way, glad that Charly couldn’t see his smile. She followed them up the small exterior staircase into a bright, marble-panelled stairwell.

  ‘Good morning, Herr Rath,’ the porter said from his lodge.

  ‘Morning, Bergner.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ Charly whispered, as they stood by the lifts more or less out of earshot. ‘Where are we?’

  ‘Patience. You’ll see.’

  Rath pressed the button and the lift door opened. He didn’t have to tell the boy where they were headed, and when they emerged onto the third floor, Charly could scarcely believe her eyes.

  He took the key from his pocket and opened up, and Kirie disappeared straight inside. Opening the door wide he set the cases down on the marble floor in the hall, turning away so that Charly couldn’t see his grin. Only now had she spotted the brass plate next to the door.

  Rath, it said simply. He hadn’t wanted to commit himself to an initial. At least not yet.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ she said, stepping inside.

  ‘I thought I’d upsize a little,’ he said, helping her out of her coat. ‘Don’t you want to look around?’

  She gazed in admiration. Even the hallway was impressive. Bright and modern. Only Kirie, who had settled in her basket and was blinking sleepily, disturbed the picture-perfect image.

  ‘How long have you been living here? Did they make you detective chief inspector, or move you straight up to superintendent?’

  He was afraid she might ask something like that. ‘Inheritance,’ he said, as casually as possible. ‘Uncle Joseph.’

  That was true, of course, but his godfather, who had died six months previously, hadn’t left him much. He thought it best not to mention the cheque that had arrived from overseas three and a half months ago. It might not have carried Abraham Goldstein’s signature – the two-thousand-dollar consulting fee was made out by Transatlantic Trade Inc. – but Charly would put two and two together, which was precisely what he hoped to avoid. No one could know that he accepted handouts from dubious sources, and, further, that he actually believed it was money owed – especially since the Free State of Prussia was in no position to pay him properly. His yearly salary didn’t amount to five thousand marks.

  He loved Charly’s dark eyes all the more when they were wide open like this. He knew how much she adored modern architecture, and had furnished the four rooms accordingly. It wasn’t cheap, but the leather, steel and fine wood was sturdy enough to last a hundred years.

  He opened the door to the drawing room. ‘If you would be so kind as to step this way.’

  The morning sun sent its first rays through the window onto a lavishly decked breakfast table of freshly baked bread rolls and coffee. The champagne stood in the cooler, and the glasses were in their place.

  Charly seemed genuinely lost for words. ‘I . . .gracious me. Well, how’s that for a welcome party,’ she said.

  ‘A Berlin breakfast. I’m sure you couldn’t bear the sight of another baguette with Camembert.’ He gestured towards the one door he still hadn’t opened. ‘And afterwards, I can show you the bedroom.’

  ‘You old lecher!’

  ‘At your service, my lady.’ He realised even the thought of going next door aroused him. Suddenly breakfast didn’t seem quite so important.

  ‘Isn’t that . . .’ Too late. She had seen the champagne. ‘ . . .Heidsieck Monopol?’

  The same brand they had drunk the first time, in Europahaus. When Rath thought that three years had passed since then, his next move seemed long overdue. Pouring carefully, he handed her a champagne glass. The one with the ring.

  They clinked glasses. Charly smiled, revealing her dimple. He studied her as she drank. After a moment she hesitated and fished the ring out of the bubbles. She didn’t say anything, just stared at the glistening ring as it dripped through her fingers. Slowly she began to grasp its significance.

  ‘Fräulein Charlotte Ritter,’ he said, taking her hand. ‘With God as my witness, I, Gereon Rath, do hereby request your hand in marriage.’

  He gazed into her astonished eyes and realised, for once, that his customary irony was misplaced. ‘Charly,’ he said, thinking he had never been so earnest before in his life, ‘will you marry me?’

  She stared at him, in shock almost, or so he thought, and sank onto the nearest chair. ‘Phew,’ she said. ‘That’s quite enough surprises for one morning.’

  ‘I thought I’d propose before we went into the bedroom. I’m Catholic.’

  ‘That’s never stopped you before.’

  ‘Charly . . .’ He was still holding her hand, actually kneeling before her now like some romantic suitor from the last century. ‘I should have asked you long ago. Only . . .Paris got in the way. But I’m serious, goddamn it. Will you be my wife?’

  She looked at him. ‘Don’t misunderstand me, but before I respond, I have to . . .’ She broke off and started again. ‘Gereon, you realise that it’s a very serious question. And even if you should have asked it long ago, it’s still rather – sudden. I . . .’

  She broke off again, and all at once he knew why he had shied away from this moment for so long; why he had continued to avoid it despite purchasing the ring more than a year ago. The sense of estrangement he had felt at the station came hurtling back. The woman before him wore the latest in Parisian fashion; the Berlin girl of memory was gone.

  He let go of her hand and was about to get up, when he felt her taking his head in her hands and kissing him. The erotic atmosphere he had thought destroyed returned, or his erection, at least.

  ‘Is that a yes?’ he asked.

  ‘Let’s not talk. Not now. Later.’ He kissed her again and began to unbutton her blouse. ‘Take it easy. Didn’t you want to show me the bedroom?’

  ‘As you wish, madam.’

  ‘We aren’t married yet!’

  He lifted her high and carried her through. She was just as soft and warm and feather-light as he remembered. He didn’t know if he had made a fool of himself with his proposal, didn’
t know how she would respond; he only knew that she had brushed the weighty topic aside with a kiss, and now, suddenly, everything was as it had been before.

  The telephone rang, but he refused to be perturbed, edging Charly further into the bedroom, where he lowered her onto the bed and kissed her, fiddling with her blouse a second time as she loosened the knot in his tie.

  The telephone rang again. Whoever it was, they were stubborn – but Rath was determined to ignore the sound until Kirie’s bark drowned it out. Charly grinned and said, ‘Perhaps you should take it after all.’

  He looked at his watch. A quarter to six. He went over to answer.

  ‘Gereon! Finally! Where the hell have you been hiding?’

  Reinhold Gräf. Exactly as Rath had feared. ‘I just ducked out to the train station.’

  ‘Just ducked out? I’ve been trying to reach you for ages . . .’

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Male corpse. Haus Vaterland. Potsdamer Platz.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Shit is right. Now, for God’s sake get a move on, before along with everyone else Böhm cottons on to the fact that the duty inspector is absent.’

  Rath hung up and straightened his tie. He didn’t have to say anything to Charly. She was already buttoning her blouse.

  3

  Haus Vaterland overlooked Potsdamer Platz like a marooned pleasure steamer, and in a sense that’s what it was. It didn’t give a hoot about patriotism, only with fleecing its clients for cash. Behind the building’s façade around a dozen restaurants of all kinds waited for custom: a Bavarian brauhaus, a Spanish bodega, a Wild West bar, a Turkish café, and more, all with furnishings, menus and entertainment to match. Those who came in just to stare weren’t welcome, with would-be patrons obliged to buy food and drinks vouchers at the door.

  During his first days in Berlin, Rath had tried to find a home of sorts in the Rheinterrasse, but all it offered was oversweet wine and tacky Rhine romanticism. As for Berlin’s famous metropolitan flair, an idea propagated mainly by Berliners themselves, Haus Vaterland was something of a let-down. Provincial tourists might stop and gawp, but to Rath’s mind, the more sophisticated drinking establishments in the west, such as Femina or Kakadu, had a lot more going for them. The building impressed by its sheer size, as well as its neon strip lights, which dominated Potsdamer Platz at night.

  At this hour, however, the marooned pleasure steamer was as deserted as a ghost ship. Only the cars at the goods entrance, above all the murder wagon, suggested that something was afoot. Rath parked his Buick behind an Opel from ED, the police identification service, but remained inside. He took a drag on his Overstolz and blew smoke against the windscreen. Never had he felt so reluctant to work, so begrudging of his profession, as this morning. He had suggested that Charly come along, but she had refused. ‘What would people say if we appeared together?’ He felt aggrieved by her response, even if he knew she was right.

  He stubbed out his cigarette in the Buick’s tiny ashtray and got out, determined to get this over and done with as soon as possible and return to Carmerstrasse.

  Dr Karthaus, who wore his white coat even outside the dissecting room, stood at the entrance, cigarette in hand, chatting to a uniform cop. The officer saluted as Rath approached; the pathologist nodded his head.

  ‘Good morning, Doctor.’

  ‘Good of you to join us, Inspector. I’ve been smoking my lungs black waiting. Car trouble, was it? You should get yourself a German model.’

  Rath ignored the dig. ‘What can you tell me about the corpse?’

  Karthaus gave a gentle smile. ‘That’s the good thing about the Criminal Police – you get to explain everything three times. Come with me and I’ll show you. It’s upstairs. The undertakers have been positively itching to take it away.’

  ‘Upstairs?’

  Karthaus flung his cigarette into a puddle. ‘If you would be so kind as to follow me,’ he said, and, without waiting for a response, turned and headed inside.

  Rath followed the white coat into a large, plain room with two freight elevators and a stairwell, that seemed to be Haus Vaterland’s goods reception. Karthaus took the stairs to the fourth floor where two uniform cops and two men dressed in black waited in front of the lift doors. On the floor was a zinc coffin.

  ‘Can we get going?’ asked one of the men in black.

  ‘In a moment,’ said Karthaus. ‘The inspector here needs to look at the corpse.’ He gave a sour smile and gestured towards an elevator car hanging a metre too low in its shaft. Two forensic technicians were taking fingerprints from its buttons, as well as from a wire mesh cart loaded to the brim with crates of schnapps.

  ‘An accident, was it?’ Rath asked, lighting another cigarette. Even now he felt little interest. Couldn’t Gräf have dealt with this on his own?

  ‘Accident?’ Karthaus gazed sceptically. ‘I’m afraid not.’

  Rath climbed down into the car, cigarette between his lips, and the pathologist followed.

  The dead man was wearing grey overalls. His eyes were well out of their sockets, gazing wide open as if they had witnessed the full horror of eternal damnation. For a moment Rath had the idea that the freight elevator in Haus Vaterland might lead straight down to hell. Instinctively he followed the dead man’s gaze, but saw only yellowed plywood.

  ‘So how did he die, if it wasn’t an accident?’

  The doctor cleared his throat. ‘I know it sounds unlikely, but I’m certain the autopsy will confirm my assessment that . . .’

  ‘Autopsy?’

  ‘Your colleague has already telephoned the public prosecutor. On my recommendation, of course.’

  ‘Where are my colleagues now?’

  ‘As far as I know, questioning witnesses. Now, as I was saying, unless I am very much mistaken the man here drowned.’

  The forensics men continued stoically with their work.

  ‘Drowned?’ Rath asked. ‘Don’t you normally drown in water?’

  ‘Perhaps the corpse was simply dumped here.’

  ‘Doesn’t look like it,’ said one of the forensics officers. ‘Not according to the footprints. Everything points to him entering the lift himself.’ His colleague secured another fingerprint on the wire mesh cart’s steel tubing. ‘Besides, he came here in his own van. He wasn’t dumped here by anyone.’

  Dr Karthaus shrugged. ‘We’ll know more once the autopsy is complete,’ he said.

  ‘Where did you say Gräf was?’

  ‘Questioning witnesses in some office or other. Ask the cops,’ Karthaus said and climbed out, seemingly in a hurry to leave. Rath stubbed out his cigarette on the floor, about chest height, and followed.

  The undertakers heaved the zinc coffin towards the elevator as one of the uniform cops offered to take him down to his colleagues. Rath followed through the eerily deserted Löwenbräu, where the fug of yesterday’s beer still hung in the air, and into the vast central hall. From here a multitude of stairways, tribunes, elevators and doors led to the various restaurants and attractions that Haus Vaterland hosted across four floors. Normally a hive of activity, now the hall’s size made it seem supernaturally calm. Around two dozen men were seated on the stairs, some in kitchen aprons, others in waiter’s uniforms or lounge suits, a few more in worker’s overalls. If the four or five uniform cops were like dogs guarding a herd of sheep, then Assistant Detective Andreas Lange was their shepherd, manning the stairs with two additional uniform officers.

  ‘Morning, Inspector,’ he said. ‘Good that you’re here.’

  ‘Morning, Lange. What a lot of people!’

  ‘Witnesses. Detective Gräf rounded them up.’

  ‘And all of them saw something?’

  ‘We don’t know yet. These workers were on early shift at the probable time of death. Or late shift.’

  ‘All of them?’ If Gräf really meant to question each one, they’d be here all day. ‘Let’s just be grateful this didn’t happen last night during the rush. Then there�
��d be another thousand people on the stairs.’ Rath thought of Charly in Carmerstrasse, and his mood darkened further. ‘Any findings?’

  ‘Depends how you look at it. We have a dead man, and an unusual cause of death. Otherwise no idea what happened to the poor fellow.’

  ‘Do you really think it’s possible that he drowned?’

  ‘If that’s what the doctor says.’

  ‘Has he been identified?’

  Lange took a document from his pocket. ‘Forensics found this in his overalls.’

  Herbert Lamkau, Rath read. A driver’s licence, issued in October 1919 by the Oletzko district authority. The man’s eyes flashed, piercing the photographer with his gaze, a look he must have copied from Kaiser Wilhelm.

  ‘Lamkau. That’s what it says on the delivery van too, isn’t it?’

  Lange nodded. ‘Must be the manager.’

  ‘Strange that he should be making the delivery himself . . .’

  ‘Depends on the size of the company. Perhaps he’s the only employee.’

  ‘A small-time firm supplying a huge enterprise like Haus Vaterland? I don’t think so. Try to find out how big it is, and whether Lamkau always made the deliveries himself.’

  ‘Right you are.’

  ‘And tell the ED men to check the lift was working properly. Just to be on the safe side.’

  ‘We’ve already spoken to the in-house engineer. As well as the chef, who literally stumbled on the corpse. He called the lift up to the fourth floor and almost fell into the car when he opened the door. At the last moment he saw that it was too low in the shaft, and managed to hold on. That’s when he saw the corpse.’

  ‘And raised the alarm.’

  ‘Yes. He informed the guard, who alerted us. The engineer says there’s nothing wrong with the lift.’

  ‘It doesn’t look that way to me.’

  Lange shrugged. ‘He’s assuming someone activated the emergency switch between the two floors. Sometimes when that happens the lift’s no longer properly aligned, and doesn’t stop on floor level.’