The Fatherland Files

by volker Kutscher

  She closed her eyes, picturing a mound of onions, only this time she fell asleep.

  30

  Königsberg Police Headquarters bore no comparison with its Berlin counterpart, feeling almost homely in style. If anything, the modern train station on the other side of the road was more monolithic. Despite the strong Luft Hansa coffee, Rath felt tired as he climbed out of the taxi and heaved his case up the stairs.

  They had landed at Devau Airport in Königsberg half an hour earlier, but he had been awake since the stopover at Danzig two hours before. Taking off for a second time, he had gazed upon Danzig centre and the mighty Marienkirche, even winding down the window to locate the Crane Gate among the toy houses, and let in a little fresh air. He could get used to this flying business.

  At headquarters, he soon found his way to the relevant office. Behind the desk sat a fat, excessively jovial man with thin glasses and thinning hair. The superintendent had clearly been expecting him, for no sooner had he entered than a secretary placed a tray of fresh coffee on the table.

  ‘Welcome to Königsberg,’ he said, stretching out a hand. ‘Grunert, Superintendent Wilhelm Grunert.’

  ‘Gereon Rath. Detective Inspector.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know. They announced you at reception.’ Grunert gestured towards the visitor’s chair, and Rath sat down.

  ‘So, you’re off to Treuburg, Superintendent Gennat tells me . . .’ Grunert poured coffee.

  ‘Yes, Sir. We have a lead in a homicide case.’

  Rath took a sip: a clear dip in quality compared with the plane, but police coffee was supposed to wake you up, not taste good.

  ‘You’re looking for the killer here?’

  ‘His victims.’ Rath lit a cigarette. ‘Three men from East Prussia; the killer is most likely in Berlin.’

  ‘Then let’s hope you catch him soon. A serial killer?’

  ‘Seems that way.’

  ‘One who has it in for East Prussians?’

  ‘Former East Prussians. Treuburgers, who’d been living in West or Central Germany for years.’ Rath smiled. ‘Nothing to fear so long as you stay in East Prussia.’

  Grunert’s secretary must have smelled the cigarette smoke, and entered with an ashtray for Rath.

  ‘Very well,’ Grunert said, rubbing his hands. ‘Then let’s get you on your way. If you set off now, you should be in Treuburg by midday. I’ve taken the liberty of letting the local police know. I thought you could discuss the matter over lunch.’

  Rath felt uneasy. How many people knew he was here? All he needed now was a red carpet and brass band. ‘Many thanks, Superintendent.’

  ‘We’ve arranged a car for your onward journey.’

  ‘Then I’ll just need a decent map. I’m afraid I don’t know my way around here.’

  ‘No need. I’ve something better.’ The superintendent picked up the receiver and pushed a white button under the dial. ‘Fräulein Sieger,’ he bellowed into the mouthpiece. ‘Please send Kowalski in.’

  Moments later a gaunt young man with straggly blonde hair entered. There was something odd about his appearance. It took Rath a moment to realise there were still bits of toilet tissue clinging to his face and neck from his morning shave.

  ‘Where culture ends, there Masuria begins,’ Grunert declared and laughed. The youth remained impassive. ‘Assistant Detective Kowalski here is a local, and will serve as your companion.’

  This was all he needed! He’d been looking forward to a solo journey through the expanses of East Prussia, but now they’d assigned him a chaperone. Rath took his place next to the dour Kowalski on the narrow front seat of a pitch-black Wanderer W10 which had seen better days. From 1926, he estimated, which made it significantly older than the vehicles belonging to the Berlin motor pool. He’d never have thought he’d find himself longing for a green Opel.

  As Assistant Detective Kowalski steered through the dawning city, past the castle and over several bridges, he wondered if it had been Buddha who’d requested his presence, or perhaps Superintendent Grunert. Either way, he wasn’t sure whether the man was there to provide assistance or surveillance, but at least he was a local.

  He lit a cigarette and debated whether he should draw Kowalski’s attention to the lingering evidence of his morning shave but decided against. By now most of the tissue had fallen away, save for an isolated wisp that clung stubbornly to the young man’s chin. He blew cigarette smoke through his nose so that Kowalski couldn’t hear him sigh and gazed in the opposite direction. They passed a low city gate and a park, allotments and suburban houses as the city began to fray into the countryside.

  He was prepared to endure his driver’s silence up to a point, but as the cigarettes and kilometres mounted his patience began to wear. An hour after they’d set off from Stresemannstrasse neither of them had said a word, which was more than any self-respecting Rhinelander could bear.

  ‘I’ve worked with East Prussians before,’ he began, after clearing his throat. Kowalski nodded silently while overtaking a horse and cart that sagged under its load. Rath lit his next cigarette and fell silent. It occurred to him that Stephan Jänicke was dead and Helmut Grabowski in prison, making his two East Prussian colleagues unlikely conversation starters. He gazed out of the window onto a sleepy avenue that meandered through the countryside past a still lake surrounded by woodland and wheat fields. ‘It’s pretty here,’ he said. ‘The region, I mean.’ Again Kowalski nodded. ‘So, you’re from Treuburg?’ Another nod. ‘Is it as pretty as here?’

  ‘Prettier.’

  Rath didn’t know if he could chalk Kowalski’s response up as a success, but at least the man had said something. He stubbed out his cigarette. They passed through a little town. Wehlau, Reg. Bez. Königsberg, the sign said. Wehlau, Administrative Region of Königsberg. A pair of storks had built their nest on a telegraph pole near the entrance.

  ‘So why did you leave, if Treuburg’s so pretty?’

  ‘I was transferred.’

  ‘Do you know the Mathée firm? Luisenbrand?’

  Kowalski looked at Rath reproachfully, as if he took him for a drinker, nodded and again focused on the road. ‘It’s part of the Luisenhöhe estate,’ he said.

  Now it was Rath who turned his head, gazing at Kowalski in astonishment. ‘A proper estate? With a Junker and all that?’

  Kowalski shook his head. ‘It used to belong to the von Mathée family, Huguenots ennobled by Old Fritz himself. But they went bankrupt during the great inflation, or something.’

  ‘How about now?’

  ‘Mathée’s old managing director took it on.’

  ‘Wengler? Director Wengler?’

  ‘That’s the one. Made a truly model company of it, the distillery especially. Mathée Luisenbrand is distributed all over the world. People are very proud of it in the Oletzko district.’

  It was Rath’s turn to nod. All it needed was a little patience, and these East Prussians became positively loquacious.

  31

  The Treuburg marketplace was enormous. So enormous, in fact, that there was a tree-covered hillock in its centre. The church sat regally at the summit, its spire towering above the trees. At the foot of the hillock were a few houses, the town hall, and, next to it, a school and the fire station. ‘The largest marketplace in Germany,’ Kowalski announced, and Rath believed him. It was so large that, at first glance, it appeared to be something else. It was as if time here had stood still: smart, gabled houses lined its four sides, road traffic was still dominated by horse-drawn carriages, and a few sheep must have escaped their pen, or perhaps simply belonged in the centre.

  Kowalski braked and, within seconds, the official car of the Königsberg Police was mobbed by children squinting through its windows. No red carpet or brass band, but it wasn’t exactly what Rath would call a discreet entrance. He rolled his eyes. All he needed now was for the local press to take his picture, and invite him to sign the town’s Golden Book.

  It was not yet twelve. ‘Shouldn’t they
be in school?’ he asked.

  ‘Summer holidays,’ Kowalski said, stepping on the accelerator. The children jumped aside and grew ever smaller in the rear-view mirror until the W10 left the marketplace. Kowalski continued to a little river and crossed a bridge, passing another church and eventually reaching a large brick building overlooking the shore. Oletzko District Administrative Office, the sign bearing the Prussian eagle read. Rath got out of the car and stretched his aching limbs before following his aide-cum-chaperone inside.

  They passed through an anteroom occupied by a bespectacled girl, reaching the office of a portly man who wore an old-fashioned moustache and blue uniform.

  ‘Our visitor from Berlin,’ the uniformed officer said, after Kowalski made his report. ‘We weren’t expecting you so early. Please, take a seat!’

  Rath sat on the visitor’s chair and admired the view from the window behind the desk: lake glistening in the midday sun, boats pitching and tossing, the whitewashed diving platform of the public baths, dark green treetops on the far side of the shore. Feeling as if he were on holiday he lit a cigarette. ‘Did we speak yesterday on the telephone?’ he asked. ‘Chief Constable Grigat?’

  ‘That’s right. Erich Grigat. Welcome to my humble abode. It isn’t often we have visitors from the capital.’

  ‘You’re in charge of the Treuburg Police?’

  ‘De facto, let’s say. De jure, of course, the police chief would be Landrat Wachsmann, the district administrator. But I am his highest-ranking officer.’

  ‘Nice view you’ve got here. My office looks out onto the suburban railway and district court. There’s soot everywhere because of the trains.’

  ‘It’s worth making time for our little town. The lake, the new park with the war memorial.’ Local pride was etched all over Grigat’s face. ‘Have you seen our marketplace? The biggest in the whole of Germany! Seven hectares.’

  Rath nodded and drew on his cigarette. ‘Very impressive.’

  Grigat fetched a file from the drawer. ‘I’ve taken the liberty of doing a little digging and, lo and behold, the three names you passed on yesterday were all registered here in the district at one point.’

  ‘Two were born here in fact,’ Rath said. ‘Do you have their addresses?’

  ‘It’s all in here.’ Grigat tapped the file. ‘Let’s discuss it over lunch. I’ve booked us a table at one in the Salzburger Hof.’

  ‘Don’t put yourself out on my account.’

  ‘I eat lunch there every day. Besides, it’s also your hotel. I’ve taken the liberty of reserving a room for you.’

  The round-the-clock service was starting to get on Rath’s nerves, but in the meantime he bowed to his fate. ‘Many thanks,’ he said, looking at his watch. ‘That’s still a bit away. If you don’t mind, I’d like to get to my room and freshen up a little. I spent last night in the plane and still feel a little washed-out.’ He stubbed out his cigarette and stood up. ‘We’ll talk at one.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Rath looked at the file. ‘You don’t mind if I take this? That way I can read up a little before lunch.’

  Grigat made a face as if he minded very much. Then his smile returned. ‘Of course.’

  A little later, Rath and Kowalski stood at the reception of the Salzburger Hof. Kowalski deposited Rath’s suitcase by the counter and made to leave.

  ‘Where are you staying?’ Rath asked. He wouldn’t have been surprised if the assistant detective had gestured towards the back seat of the car.

  ‘My uncle lives just around the corner. Goldaper Strasse. I’ll report back at one if I may, Sir.’

  ‘Of course. Go to your uncle. I won’t need you again till two.’

  Shortly afterwards Rath stood gazing out of his first-floor window. They had given him a balcony room overlooking the Treuburg marketplace; it even came with private bathroom and running water, the hotelier had proudly informed him at reception. Despite his suitcase still being unpacked, he flopped down onto the bed, exhausted by Masurian hospitality, and glad at last to be alone. He dozed for a while, before a glance at his alarm clock told him it was time: only half an hour until his lunchtime meeting with Chief Constable Grigat.

  He went into the bathroom and shovelled cold water on his face until he felt halfway revived. He sat by the window with Grigat’s file.

  The information gathered by the Treuburg Police was sparse but there were no gaps. All three men had indeed lived for a number of years in Treuburg, or Marggrabowa as it was known then. August Simoneit and Hans Wawerka had never left their home town before the summer of 1924, when both packed their things and headed west, the one to Wittenberge, the other to Dortmund.

  Herbert Lamkau had come to Marggrabowa a few years after the war and initially registered as living at the Luisenhöhe estate. After that he had lived on Lindenallee, likewise until 1924.

  Before the war, Simoneit had lived in a village called Krupinnen, which was also part of the Oletzko district, registering his address at Legasteg in Marggrabowa following his return from battle in 1918. Wawerka, meanwhile, had always lived in the Schmale Gasse, in the town centre.

  Rath decided to wait until after lunch to look at the three addresses and the Korn distillery. After that he had to find out what happened in the spring of 1924. What had prompted the three men to leave town in the same year? He felt certain that if he could answer these questions, he’d find the link between them – and, perhaps, the reason they were murdered.

  He lit a cigarette, stepped onto the little balcony and gazed down at the square. So, this was Germany’s largest marketplace, as everyone was at pains to tell him. Right now it was the probably its most deserted too. The vast expanse lay desolate in the midday heat. Children would be at home eating lunch with their mothers, and even the sheep had disappeared. A lone group of young men wearing brown uniforms and swastika brassards emerged from the little wood by the church and marched across the square. In Berlin the presence of brownshirts inevitably denoted a threat. On the sunlit Treuburg marketplace, against a backdrop of pretty gable houses, there was something almost idyllic about it, as if a group of SA officers on their way to lunch was just another aspect of small-town life. This impression was reinforced when the blue uniform of Chief Constable Grigat emerged from an alleyway into a cordial exchange that ended when the policeman touched his shako in military salute.

  In Berlin it would have been unthinkable for a police officer to greet Nazis in this way. Rath stubbed out his cigarette on the wrought-iron balcony railing and remembered his audience with Bernhard Weiss. Was Erich Grigat a Nazi? Not officially, of course, otherwise he would have had to quit his post. Still, an officer couldn’t be prevented from harbouring political sympathies. Rath reflected that one or two of his Berlin colleagues might pull on the brownshirt as soon they were permitted.

  He went inside, took the file from the table and made his way downstairs. Grigat was already seated when he entered the dining room.

  ‘Afternoon,’ the constable said, looking up from the menu.

  He returned the greeting and sat down, placing the file on the lily-white table cloth. ‘So, what can you recommend?’

  ‘Seeing as we’re in East Prussia, you might want to try the Königsberger Klopse or buttermilk blintzes and caraway meatballs. It’s all there.’ Grigat leaned over the menu as if protecting a secret. ‘I’d take the roast pork and potato dumplings.’

  ‘I can get that in Berlin.’

  ‘But not like here.’

  Grigat was right. The meat, which was served by a young girl following a starter of beetroot soup, was mouth-watering, and there was plenty of it.

  ‘Did you manage to get some reading done?’ Grigat asked, pointing at the file.

  ‘There wasn’t much to read. The most intriguing thing is why all three left Treuburg in the same year.’

  ‘No idea. There’s no information about that.’

  ‘Can you remember any of them? Personally, I mean.’

  ‘Sadly not.�
�� Grigat swallowed and dabbed at his mouth with a serviette. ‘I only moved here in the autumn of ‘29 but you can always ask around. You’ve got the addresses; perhaps someone here can remember them.’

  ‘Precisely what I had in mind. I can take a look at your lovely town while I’m at it.’

  ‘If you need any help, just say. I could place a man at your . . .’

  ‘Not necessary, thank you. I have Herr Kowalski.’

  ‘Of course. Where is he, by the way?’

  ‘At his uncle’s.’

  ‘Your companion has relatives here?’

  ‘Actually, he’s from here himself.’

  ‘Then you should ask him. Perhaps he knows what happened in ‘24.’

  Rath nodded. Not such a bad idea, although he wondered how old Anton Kowalski would have been eight years ago. He was probably still at school.

  At last they conquered the mountains of flesh. The blonde girl cleared the plates and, without being asked, served two bowls of a golden yellow mixture topped with raisins.

  ‘Masurian Glumse,’ Grigat explained.

  ‘Glumse?’

  ‘What you’d call Quark. Tastes like cheesecake without the biscuit.’

  Erich Grigat was right, it tasted good. Even so, Rath felt as if he’d endured a lengthy meeting with Buddha. Grigat, however, couldn’t get enough. He sat rubbing his hands. ‘You wanted to try something East Prussian? How about a Pillkaller to finish?’

  ‘I don’t think I’ve got room for anything else.’

  ‘To help with digestion.’ Grigat grinned, hands already raised. ‘Hella? Can you bring us two Pillkaller, please!’

  Moments later the girl returned. She wore long blonde pigtails, the sort of hairstyle that had long since gone out of fashion in Berlin. She balanced two large glasses of Doppelkorn on her tray, a slice of liver sausage on top of each, spread thick with mustard. Rath found the sight alone disgusting.

  ‘Put the sausage on your tongue, pour the schnapps over it, then swallow,’ Grigat said, and demonstrated.