The Fatherland Files

by volker Kutscher

  Mohamed Husen didn’t turn a hair. He was probably used to it, Charly thought, examining her tired face in the mirror and fixing her lipstick. Either way, if they spoke again they’d have to go somewhere else. They were simply too conspicuous in the Wild West Bar. If the waiters here started gossiping, the rumours would soon reach the central kitchen, and Charly would be out of a job.

  Sitting, at last, in a taxi to Gereon’s flat in Charlottenburg, she considered what she could actually tell him about Haus Vaterland. That she had met a black man in the Wild West Bar and attracted the attention of everyone inside? No, it would be enough to tell him about the tainted Luisenbrand. She asked the driver to stop in Carmerstrasse and paid as she got out. She gazed down the street towards Steinplatz, and looked at the house fronts. It still didn’t feel like home, but she was looking forward to seeing Gereon and Kirie and spending the evening together.

  The porter greeted her casually as she passed his lodge, and the lift boy brought her to the third floor without having to be asked. Perhaps it did feel a little like home after all and, after a day like today, there was nothing she needed more than the feeling of coming home.

  She rang the bell, inspecting her fingernails as she waited and realising that, although she had rubbed her hands with toothpaste, she had completely forgotten to brush her teeth. She would almost certainly still smell of alcohol. Damn it! There was a crash, and then she heard his steps. The door opened. Gereon was in hat and coat, and Kirie seemed to be elsewhere, otherwise she’d have greeted Charly long ago.

  ‘You just got home too?’ she asked.

  He shook his head. ‘On the contrary.’

  She didn’t understand what he meant until she registered a large suitcase in the hallway. ‘What’s going on?’ she asked, trying to locate a smile. ‘Engaged two days, and you’re leaving me already?’

  ‘Something like that.’ He forced a smile. ‘I’m afraid I have a confession to make . . .’

  27

  The scissors are sharp; they need only touch the newsprint and it falls to pieces. Carefully, you cut around the double black border. It should remain intact, you don’t want to destroy it.

  O Death where is thy sting? O Hell where is thy victory?

  You wonder whether it was the widow who chose Corinthians or the funeral parlour. But what does it matter?

  For as much as it has pleased Almighty God in his unfathomable wisdom to take unto Himself my beloved husband, suddenly and unexpectedly departed from his busy life.

  Such a death notice reaches many people, but still only those who read the newspaper in which it appears. You, on the other hand, ensure that the right people set eyes on it; people the widow doesn’t know, of whose existence she can barely even conceive.

  Herbert Lamkau

  * 5th January 1890

  † 2nd July 1932

  It appeared in the Kreuz-Zeitung. A Prussian like Lamkau, you ought to have guessed. The man in the kiosk was about to complain at your leafing through so many newspapers one after the other for the third day in a row, but bit his tongue when you produced your wallet, and looked at you strangely as you straightaway purchased two copies. Still, he said nothing. That is the wonderful thing about Berlin. No one is surprised by anything.

  You still have one more task to take care of in this city, and then, finally, you will be able to take the long road back. Back into the past.

  To the day when your old life ends.

  There is nothing you can do. You relive it over and over again. It was a beautiful day, that much you still remember, until the moment it was destroyed and the world shattered like thin glass.

  A glorious Sunday morning, the city decked out in bunting and flags. But the peaceful surface is deceptive; underneath is hatred. You meet the hostile glances they cast in your direction with a smile. You smile because you believe in the future; you don’t know that your life is already at an end – the moment you step out into the street and blink in the sunlight.

  PART II

  Masuria

  7th to 13th July 1932

  If you ask what people are like here, I have to say: like everywhere! The human race is a monotonous affair. Most people spend the greatest part of their time working in order to live, and what little freedom remains so fills them with fear that they seek out any and every means to be rid of it.

  Johann Wolfgang Goethe,

  THE SORROWS OF YOUNG WERTHER

  28

  The engines roared in Rath’s ear, an infernal noise, but it took an age before the plane started moving. Suddenly, he felt a jolt and soon they were gathering speed. Instinctively he gripped the rests with his hands, until a glance outside told him they were being taxied across the strip.

  Charly had told him that flying was different from a tower or scaffolding: he wouldn’t have any problems with his vertigo. Statistically speaking, aeroplanes were actually safer than trains and motorcars. That was all very well, but right now he was scared, scared, goddamn it – and they weren’t even airborne!

  Her reassurances had proved in vain as they waited alongside twelve others, mainly businessmen, for the Königsberg night flight to be called. ‘Perhaps you’ll see an elk,’ she said, as if his trip to Masuria was some kind of holiday.

  He wasn’t sure if she was being comforting or sarcastic but, whatever, she wasn’t in the best of moods. On the journey to Tempelhof they had barely exchanged a word, and what little they had said had been ill-tempered. No doubt she had pictured their first week of engagement differently. She certainly couldn’t have imagined one of them would be leaving so soon.

  The journey passed in silence until they reached the Yorck Bridge and he came clean about Dettmann. What choice did he have? Sooner or later, it would have got out, and, besides, now that they were engaged, he had resolved to be more honest. With Charly, at least.

  ‘You have to learn to control yourself,’ she said.

  ‘Maybe, but the arsehole still deserved it.’

  Then he saw that, despite her best efforts to look stern, she was stifling a grin, and he knew once and for all that he’d done the right thing. A few days in exile seemed a fair price and Gennat was right, someone had to make the journey east, so why not him? After all, it was his investigation. Perhaps the flying was part of his punishment. Buddha had certainly been keen to scotch any notion that he might drive there himself.

  ‘Have you any idea how long that will take? You need a transit visa to pass through the Corridor, and the Poles won’t exactly welcome you with open arms, especially not when they see you’re a police officer.’

  ‘Don’t we have an agreement with the Polish Police?’

  ‘You’ll be dealing with customs officials, not police officers.’

  Buddha had refused to budge, Rath’s ticket was already on the desk, and all other arrangements had been made. Gennat handed him the travel documents. ‘You’re expected first thing tomorrow morning at police headquarters in Königsberg. Report to Superintendent Grunert; he’ll assign you a vehicle.’ First thing tomorrow. Suddenly Rath realised how keen they were to be rid of him. ‘You’re not due at the airport for another six hours. See that you pack something warm. Masuria can be very cold, even in summer.’

  Before he could head home to follow Gennat’s advice, Rath visited Deputy Commissioner Weiss for a letter of introduction that called upon all officers of the Prussian Police and Gendarmerie to provide Detective Inspector Gereon Rath of Berlin with any assistance he might require. While Rath skimmed the text, Weiss took the opportunity to launch into one of his political sermons. ‘I want you to appreciate the significance of your presence there as a Prussian officer.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Do you know why the Brüning government stepped aside?’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not interested in politics, Sir.’

  ‘Well, you should be, Herr Rath. You should be! Everything we do is political, whether we like it or not.’

  ‘With respect, Sir, I see things
differently. My job is to fight crime.’

  ‘Things are delicate in the East. The farmers are having trouble with the landowners and many have left the country. The Brüning administration has been a disaster. In April, the Masurians hailed this Hitler – a man who has only just finagled himself German citizenship – as if he were the saviour of East Prussia, and already the Nazis are talking of a “Masurian awakening”. You know how they glorify everything and exploit it for their own propaganda.’

  ‘What are you trying to say, Sir? That they’re all Nazis in East Prussia? Should I invest in a swastika brassard as camouflage?’

  ‘The opposite. I want your presence in East Prussia, and in Masuria especially, to be an advertisement for Prussian democracy . . .’

  ‘Not German democracy?’

  ‘You are welcome to try, of course, but I fear there is no longer such a thing. The Reich might still be a Republic in name, but in reality it is simply biding its time until the Kaiser can be re-installed – or a military dictatorship proclaimed. Ever since Hindenburg appointed that schemer, von Papen, as chancellor.’

  At some point Rath switched off. He had no interest in all this political bickering. Like Weiss, he was no fan of the self-proclaimed Führer and his SA thugs, but then so what? You didn’t have to vote for him. He caught himself wondering when he had last visited the polls. At the presidential elections he had stayed at home. Hindenburg, Hitler or Thälmann – what sort of choice was that?

  He gazed out of the window. In the headlights he could make out the grass of Tempelhofer Feld. It was only hours since Weiss had sent him on his way, and now he was clattering across the airstrip. They had told him a Junkers G31 was a highly reliable craft. Luft Hansa had been flying to Königsberg for six years, but it was a mystery how this droning, rattling, old crate would get off the ground, let alone stay airborne. It felt as if it might disintegrate at any moment. His forehead was slick with sweat.

  He unfolded Weiss’s letter, but his concentration failed and he soon gave up. A glance out of the window told him they were still on the runway.

  His neighbour on the other side of the aisle appeared more at ease, burying his head in a paper as though on a train. Rath gazed at the article and tried to take his mind off things. Polizei überlastet. Die Folgen von Demonstrationsfreiheit. Right to demonstrate leaves police feeling the strain. The topic should have interested him, but the words blurred before his eyes. He was still thinking about all the strange noises the plane was making.

  By now they seemed to be accelerating. He was jolted back in his seat, and, all of a sudden, realised they must have taken off, despite not being able to see anything for the darkness outside. Somewhere beyond there appeared a blaze of lights, and he recognised the brightly lit colossus that was Karstadt on Hermannplatz, and the network of streets: a spider’s web of light that took his breath away. They were flying, they were actually flying! The question was, for how long.

  The paper on the other side of the aisle rustled gently and Rath stared into the red-cheeked face of a portly man in his mid-forties. ‘Your first time?’ the man asked.

  ‘Hm?’

  ‘You realise you don’t have to hold onto the armrests. You’re not going to fall out of the plane.’ The man laughed, but he wasn’t being spiteful.

  Rath looked down at his hands on the armrests. His knuckles had gone white. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘Trains are fine; and I’ve even done the odd transatlantic crossing. But I don’t like this at all.’

  ‘Never mind, you can rest easy. As long as you have your parachute, you’re safe.’

  ‘My parachute?’

  ‘You mean you don’t have one?’ The man made a horrified face.

  ‘No!’

  ‘Well, then . . .’ The man burst out laughing. ‘Just a little joke. No harm meant.’

  Rath tried to smile. ‘What business do you have in Königsberg?’

  ‘Wood.’ The man leaned across and stretched out a hand. ‘Hillbrich, furniture manufacturer. Yourself? What brings you East?’

  ‘Crime.’ He shook Hillbrich’s hand. ‘Rath, CID.’

  ‘Police? I can sleep easy, knowing my pocket watch is safe.’

  Rath forced another smile as, somehow, the monotonous drone of the engine calmed him. He looked out of the window, realising he felt no vertigo. All he could see were a few scattered lights like stars on the ground. He had no idea where they were.

  ‘What do you think?’ he asked. ‘Will we land on time?’

  Hillbrich looked at his watch and shrugged. ‘I think so,’ he said. ‘As long as those dirty Polacks don’t gun us down.’ There was a moment’s pause before Hillbrich clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Just joking, old boy. I’ve flown to Königsberg hundreds of times, Danzig too, without any problems. You’re better off flying than passing through that accursed Corridor, where the Poles treat you like a criminal.’

  This was going to be fun. Rath resolved not to smile for the remainder of the flight.

  Shortly afterwards, the steward prepared the sleeping cabins. He wasn’t convinced he’d get any sleep, but accepted the offer, if only to avoid having to listen to any more jokes. The gentle rocking, which had filled him with dread moments before, now achieved the opposite effect. He closed his eyes, thinking of Charly, and soon his thoughts turned to dreams.

  29

  She stared at the ceiling, unable to sleep. Goddamn it!

  She was in her own bed at Spenerstrasse, even though Gereon had left her both the Buick and the key to his flat. Still, the last thing she had wanted was to stroll past that same porter again, who stood guarding the stairwell in Carmerstrasse like some kind of Cerberus!

  God knows, she had pictured tonight differently. How had it ended like this? A consoling arm would have been nice, a degree of sympathy, perhaps even a little pampering after the day she’d had. Even now she still saw onions, nothing but onions, as soon as she closed her eyes. She’d probably dream of them too, assuming she fell asleep at all.

  She’d wanted to tell him about her mission on the German onion front, about how she had spoken to someone with information about the Luisenbrand scandal, but Gereon hadn’t been the slightest bit interested in her day. Instead, everything had revolved around him: his encounter with Dettmann and his punishment as a result. When he casually mentioned that he’d confessed to their engagement, she could have slapped him. Given, however, that they were racing up the Tempelhofer Berg on Belle-Alliance-Strasse, she decided not to risk it.

  ‘You did what?’

  ‘Charly, please! There was no other way. Buddha cornered me. I’m sorry.’

  ‘We had an agreement!’

  ‘He congratulated us. You don’t stand to lose anything. I’m the one he’s sending to East Prussia.’

  ‘You think I’m happy about my fiancé being dispatched to the middle of nowhere? You didn’t even leave me the dog!’

  ‘You have to work tomorrow. Erika will look after her.’

  ‘Does she know we’re engaged?’

  ‘Of course not.’ He looked at her with his puppy-dog eyes. ‘Come on, Charly. At some stage everyone’s going to know. That’s the point of getting married. So the whole world can see we’re together.’

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right!’

  After that they’d reverted to silence.

  By the time they pushed the luggage trolley towards check-in, her anger had abated. Thinking about what Gereon had done to Dettmann, she took a kind of mischievous pleasure in the image. For once he had done the right thing, damn it, no matter how stupid it might have been. Well, sometimes doing the right thing was stupid. Perhaps, on some level, he had accepted his banishment for her sake, and that was deeply flattering – more so than she cared to admit. She despised male posturing, but even so it was wonderful knowing he had defended her, perhaps even avenged her a little.

  Did Gennat really hope to gain anything by this East Prussian operation? Perhaps it was more impor
tant that Gereon be removed from the line of fire; that way there was no risk of Inspectors Rath and Dettmann duelling at first light.

  Things could certainly have turned out worse. Another disciplinary hearing and Gereon Rath could kiss goodbye to his police career, just when he was on the verge of marrying and starting a family. Now that would be stupid, even though she had a career these days too. She looked up at the ceiling and smiled at the idea of her returning home, exhausted from work, to find her husband in an apron and brandishing a wooden spoon. What a crazy idea! Not to say unrealistic: Gereon’s culinary skills were even more questionable than her own – and that was saying something.

  As far as the cooking went, they’d both have been better off finding a new partner . . .

  She heard the apartment door opening and Greta giggling quietly. She seemed to have brought her latest crush home, a lodger with a strict landlady who didn’t allow female visitors. It wasn’t the first time he had stayed over. Would the two of them make it? Would Greta even want them to? She was a permissive sort, so permissive it was sometimes frightening. Charly still hadn’t told her friend that she was engaged. She knew that she wouldn’t be in favour, either of Gereon, whom she’d always given the cold shoulder, or, indeed, the concept of engagement itself.

  Still, at some point, she’d have to confess. Admit that she couldn’t stay much longer in Spenerstrasse. Even now, just thinking about it, she felt the wrench of separation. She and Greta had lived here more than four years, with a couple of breaks, and for the most part it had been good. Why did life have to be so complicated?