The Fatherland Files

by volker Kutscher

  Some of the patrons were amused, others got to their feet. Rath didn’t imagine they’d be on his side if things turned nasty. He doubted whether they had actually been privy to the exchange; more likely, they were simply spoiling for a fight, glad to show this big-city type what they thought of him.

  He should have brought Kowalski after all! In any low dive in Berlin he could resolve this, but here, without a local by his side, he felt helpless. He was debating how identifying himself as a police officer would play when the man in the linen suit and wire-framed spectacles stood up, placed his serviette next to his roast potatoes and said something to the old-timer and the men beside him.

  Rath could have sworn that he, too, was speaking in Polish. After his experience with the old man, however, he resolved to keep his counsel, standing with his fists inwardly raised, waiting to see what would happen.

  Glasses man seemed to have found the right words, even if Rath hadn’t understood them. The men laughed heartily and clapped the old-timer on the shoulder. He returned to his schnapps, which the landlord refilled, and the men, who moments before had been itching for a fight, did likewise. One of them said something to his neighbour and pointed at Rath, and they burst out laughing again.

  He turned to face his saviour, who took him by the arm. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Leave Pritzkus here a few marks for your beer and for Adamek’s Korn, then get your hat and coat. It’s best we go elsewhere. Who knows how long the mood will hold.’

  Rath did as bidden, remembering his cigarettes from the table, and the pair exited the lounge. ‘Thanks again,’ he said when they reached the marketplace. ‘Things could have got nasty in there.’ He opened his cigarette case, and offered an Overstolz.

  ‘No problem,’ the man said, lighting up. ‘Strangers rarely venture inside Pritzkus’s. You have to do your bit to prevent misunderstandings.’

  ‘No kidding. I don’t have any Polish.’

  ‘That wasn’t Polish Adamek was speaking.’

  ‘I still didn’t understand a word.’

  ‘It was Masurian,’ the man continued. ‘A variant of Polish, maybe, but the people here are proud Prussians. They don’t consider themselves Polish.’

  ‘I’m Prussian too,’ Rath said. ‘Rhine-Prussian.’

  ‘A “Booty-Prussian” then. These people are Ur-Prussians. They’ve always been great patriots, even in times when no one spoke German apart from the parish priest and estate owner.’

  ‘Some of them still don’t seem to have learned any German.’

  ‘Old Adamek understands everything, believe me. He just feels more at home in his native language, especially after a few schnapps. But he’s a Prussian patriot through and through.’

  ‘Yes, I realise that.’

  ‘Forget about it, it’s over now. But you should be more careful about using the word Polish, especially here in Treuburg, where people are proud of the fact that only two votes were cast for Poland in the entire district.’

  ‘You know your stuff.’

  ‘It’s my job.’ The man stretched out a hand. ‘Rammoser,’ he said. ‘Karl Rammoser. I’m the teacher over at the village school in Wielitzken. A good place to contemplate the vagaries of the passage of time.’

  ‘Rath, CID Berlin.’

  ‘Delighted. But there’s no need for introductions. News here travels fast.’

  ‘In that case, since we’re already acquainted, let me stand you a beer.’

  ‘Gladly.’

  ‘Then you can tell me what kind of Prussian you are. Going by your name, I’d say Alpine-Prussian. But as far as I know, Old Fritz only occupied Silesia, not Tyrol as well.’

  Rammoser nodded. ‘Alpine-Prussian,’ he repeated. ‘First time I’ve heard it – but it rings true. Or, at least, true enough.’

  A short time later they sat in a more welcoming bar, suggested by Rammoser. ‘A Rhine-Prussian like you won’t stand out quite so much in the Kronprinzen. It’s even open to holidaymakers.’

  Indeed, it looked like there were a few eating their supper on the adjoining table. From Berlin, judging by all the big mouths, from father down to youngest daughter. Still, anything was better than the Salzburger Hof, where staff would keep Chief Constable Grigat informed of Rath’s every move. ‘It’s nice here,’ he said. ‘Why would you go to Pritzkus’s?’

  ‘Because,’ Rammoser raised his glass, ‘it’s cheap and the food’s good. How much do you think a Prussian village schoolmaster earns?’

  ‘You’re speaking to a fellow comrade-in-suffering,’ Rath said, likewise raising his glass. ‘To Prussia and its destitute officials.’ The men clinked glasses. ‘Rammoser doesn’t sound very Prussian to me. Are you from Bavaria?’

  ‘Try telling my father he wasn’t Prussian. He’d have challenged you to a duel.’ He set his beer glass down. ‘No, my family came to Prussia from Salzburg two hundred years ago, like many other Protestants who were expelled at that time.’

  ‘Then you’re a refugee, a kind of Huguenot?’

  ‘Something like that,’ Rammoser said. ‘You wouldn’t believe how many nationalities have been subject to Prussian rule down the years. Germans, French, Dutch, Silesians, Lithuanians, Jews, and, of course, Poles. And they all consider themselves Prussian. More Prussian, at any rate, than some Rhinelander looted from Napoleon’s bankruptcy assets.’

  ‘So that’s why the old man reacted so sensitively. I thought he was Polish.’

  ‘Do you know what bound the Poles across the generations, even when they no longer had a nation to call their own? It wasn’t language, but religion. And do you know why twelve years ago nearly all Masurians voted for Prussia? In spite of the language?’

  ‘Religion.’ Rath felt as if he were back at school.

  ‘Correct,’ Rammoser said. ‘The Masurians have lived under Prussian rule for years. They’re Protestant through and through, as well as being Prussian patriots. Ordinary people here have always spoken Polish – or Masurian, which is a Polish dialect, as opposed to a German one. We, the teachers, are responsible for the fact that the younger generation speaks German. But at home, with their grandparents, I’d be willing to bet that most still speak Masurian.’

  ‘So they are kind of Polish, then?’

  ‘That’s a delicate subject since the 1920 plebiscite. No one wanted to be suspected of harbouring Polish sympathies, least of all the Masurians.’ He lowered his voice. ‘There were some pretty ugly scenes. Beatings, broken windows, arson attacks and worse. Some people here turned into real Pole-bashers. The relationship’s been poisoned ever since. Not that the newly created Polish state was entirely blameless, of course; if they’d had their way they’d have annexed all of East Prussia. They would still. At least, that’s what people around here think, and they’re wary as a result. You have to understand that old Adamek probably thought you were trying to insult him.’

  ‘If he really wants to be German, then perhaps he should speak the language.’

  ‘First, he doesn’t want to be German, but, above all, Prussian. Second, after five or six Doppelkorn Adamek only speaks Masurian – but that doesn’t make him any less German. Any claims to the contrary, and you’ll have me to deal with!’

  ‘I wouldn’t dare.’ Rath grinned. ‘But tell me one thing. What did you say to Adamek and the other men just now?’

  ‘You really want to know?’

  ‘At least why they laughed like that.’

  ‘Well, now . . .’ Rammoser cleared his throat. ‘I told them they shouldn’t take you so seriously, that you’re just a poor, stray Zabrak who knows no better.’

  ‘A poor, stray what?’ Rath asked, before waving the teacher away. ‘Actually, forget I asked. I can work it out for myself.’ He took a drag on his cigarette. ‘So, in other words, you exposed me to ridicule.’

  ‘It never hurts to be underestimated.’

  ‘Well, if that’s the case, then thank you.’

  ‘At your service.’

  Rath fetched the photos from his bag
. ‘I only wanted to ask Adamek about these men. You don’t happen to know them?’

  ‘Is that Lamkau?’ Rammoser asked. ‘What’s happened to him?’

  Rath felt mildly euphoric. At last, someone who knew who Lamkau was. ‘He’s dead,’ he said.

  ‘No great loss.’

  ‘Careful. You’ll make yourself into a suspect.’

  ‘I knew I shouldn’t have said anything.’

  ‘What have you got against Lamkau?’

  ‘He was one of Wengler’s thugs. I wouldn’t like to say how many people he put in hospital.’

  ‘Wengler? Director Wengler?’

  ‘That’s right. Gustav Wengler. The owner of the Luisenhöhe estate.’

  ‘He had a band of thugs?’

  ‘That’s old hat. It was a long time ago.’

  ‘Doesn’t surprise me, given how he snaffled up the estate during inflation.’

  ‘Wengler, a profiteer from inflation? Who told you that?’

  ‘I heard it somewhere,’ Rath said.

  Rammoser was thinking about something. ‘Do you have a torch, Inspector?’ he asked suddenly.

  ‘I think there’s one in the car.’

  ‘Let’s go.’ Rammoser drained his glass. ‘I have to show you something. Perhaps then you’ll understand that things here aren’t quite so simple.’

  ‘When are they ever?’ Rath said. Arriving at the car he located the torch and stowed it in his pocket. ‘Where to?’ he asked. ‘Wouldn’t we be better off driving?’

  Rammoser shook his head. ‘It isn’t far, five minutes perhaps. Besides, you’re not exactly sober.’

  The marketplace was still lit, but when they entered the appropriately named Stille Gasse – Silent Lane – everything went pitch black. A few lights were visible from the windows in the distance, otherwise nothing. Rath switched on the torch. They walked uphill for a time, before the beam of light fell on a circular brick wall.

  ‘The water tower,’ Rammoser said. ‘We’re almost there.’

  Rath now knew roughly where they were. The Treuburg water tower was easier to locate than the church steeple. Rammoser opened a wrought-iron gate, which gave a slight squeak. Somewhere in the dark an owl hooted. Then the light fell upon a gravestone. ‘Are we . . .is this the . . .?’

  ‘Treuburg Cemetery,’ Rammoser said. ‘The Protestant one. The Catholics are buried down by the lake.’

  ‘I didn’t think there were any Catholics in Treuburg.’

  ‘Well, there’s you, Inspector.’

  ‘I hope I don’t wind up in the cemetery. Even if it is by the lake.’

  ‘I might have prevented it today. But you need to mind your step.’

  ‘Which is why you’ve dragged me here, in the middle of the night?’

  ‘Something like that. So that you come to a greater understanding of our region and its people, and don’t put your foot in it again.’ Rammoser came to a halt. ‘So,’ he said. ‘Here we are.’

  Rath shone the torch where the teacher pointed to reveal a family grave. Simple, Doric columns flanked a large marble slab with a French inscription: Passant! Souviens-toi que la perfection n’est point sur la terre, si je n’ai pas été le meilleur des hommes. Au moins ne suis-je pas au nombre des méchans!

  Rath could make out the name Friedrich von Mathée, as well as those of other family members buried here. ‘The owners of the Luisenhöhe estate,’ he said. He couldn’t help but whisper, as if the deceased family members might be listening from beyond the grave.

  ‘Correct. But it’s two lives I wanted to draw your attention to. Pass me the light.’

  Rath handed over the torch, and Rammoser manoeuvred the beam of light until it rested on the names. Anna von Mathée, Rath read, * 15th August 1902 † 11th July 1920.

  ‘Is that the daughter?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Rammoser said. ‘His only one.’

  ‘She died on the day of the plebiscite.’ Rath shook his head. ‘What kind of story is this?’ Suddenly he felt completely sober.

  ‘A tragic one. Anna von Mathée was Gustav Wengler’s fiancée. She was murdered on the day of the plebiscite.’

  ‘Murdered?’

  Rammoser nodded. ‘It was a doctor of all people, a registrar at the local hospital. He raped her, then drowned her in the lake.’

  ‘That’s terrible.’

  ‘Most of the people around here wouldn’t have begrudged Wengler killing the man. Especially given the anti-Polish sentiment at the time.’

  ‘The killer was Polish?’

  Rammoser shrugged. ‘It was hard to say in those days. He was certainly Catholic, and he sympathised with the new Polish state.’

  ‘So now he’s languishing in a Prussian jail.’

  ‘Not any more.’

  ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘Anna’s killer died trying to escape. People around here regard it as a higher form of justice.’

  ‘And it was this sorry tale that turned Gustav Wengler into a Pole-basher, as you put it?’

  ‘Wengler could never stand the Poles, even before the murder, but a Pole-basher – that was Herbert Lamkau. He and his men beat the living daylights out of anyone they thought was Polish.’

  ‘The way you tell it, there aren’t any Poles here. Even the ones who speak Polish.’

  ‘Back then it was enough just to be Catholic, or favourably disposed towards Poland. If you’re looking for people with a reason to hate Herbert Lamkau, you’ll find plenty here.’

  ‘Could it be that someone wished him dead? One of his victims perhaps?’

  ‘I wouldn’t go that far, but there won’t be many shedding a tear. On either side of the border.’

  ‘Including you?’

  ‘I got into a tangle with him once, around the time of the plebiscite, when things were pretty heated here. Still, that’s long forgotten now. I was away for a few years training as a teacher, and by the time I returned Lamkau had gone.’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t follow,’ Rath said. ‘You excoriate Lamkau, while at the same time standing up for his master, Wengler. Is there a point to this story?’

  ‘There is no story, and I’m not standing up for anyone. God knows I’m no fan of Gustav Wengler, I just want you to understand what was happening here after the war. The present can only be understood through reference to the past.’

  Rammoser was starting to sound like a teacher again. The beam of light drifted back onto the name Rath had just read.

  Friedrich von Mathée * 23rd November 1847 † 2nd May 1924

  ‘Gustav Wengler was the designated heir of the Luisenhöhe estate,’ Rammoser continued. ‘Friedrich von Mathée only had the one daughter, and he wanted her to marry his trustee. His sons all fell in the war.’

  ‘Gustav Wengler was the estate’s trustee?’

  ‘He’d have inherited it anyway, but took over from old Mathée prior to his death because of debt issues. That’s where all the local gossip stems from – not least because he’s made a pretty penny since.’

  ‘No doubt he’d have preferred a living bride.’

  ‘And no doubt it was her death that made him seek refuge in his work. He made the Mathée name great in memory of his murdered fiancée, whom he never got to lead to the altar.’

  Rath realised he was shivering. It had grown cold. ‘Let’s get back to the Kronprinzen,’ he said. ‘I could use a drink after that. As well as some light, and a little company.’

  When they returned to the marketplace there was almost no light from the houses, and the street lamps were out. Rath lit the way with the torch. The light caught an advertising pillar on the corner of Bahnhofstrasse, startling two figures armed with a wall brush and bucket who immediately took to their heels.

  Rath almost cried ‘Stop! Police!’, but managed to restrain himself. ‘Who was that?’ he asked.

  ‘I’d wager it was Albrecht and Rosanki.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Our local Communists. You mustn’t think you only have them in Berlin.�
�

  ‘I fear we have more than two.’

  Rath approached the advertising pillar and found three election posters arranged neatly alongside each other, still damp with paste. The other posters were untouched, even the Nazi ones: no graffiti moustaches, no torn corners. ‘I thought we’d caught them at sabotage, but they were only putting their posters up.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m wondering why they ran if they weren’t doing anything wrong.’

  ‘If you were a Communist trying to put up election posters in Treuburg, you’d know,’ Rammoser said. ‘It isn’t much fun running into Wengler’s boys on the job.’

  ‘Wengler’s boys? Does he still have a band of thugs? I thought the plebiscite settled all that.’

  ‘The plebiscite didn’t settle anything,’ Rammoser said. ‘It’s just that Wengler’s thugs wear uniform now, and put up posters themselves. The ones with the swastikas.’

  35

  Rath was awakened by a fearful clamour and hullabaloo, as if a thousand people were cheering a boxing match while the Town Musicians of Bremen performed at maximum volume.

  The reality wasn’t so different. Still a little dazed, he padded towards the window and pulled back the curtain to see that the peaceful Treuburg marketplace of yesterday had been transformed into a madhouse. Cows and horses, geese and hens, sheep and pigs; animals were being sold everywhere, their din merging with the cries of the market barkers. East Prussian constraint, it seemed, was just a state of mind.

  He sloped into the bathroom and felt his head as, slowly, the memories returned. Rammoser, the village teacher. The night-time excursion to the cemetery. The stories about Herbert Lamkau and Gustav Wengler. The drinking. One beer had turned into two, and before long the first Luisenbrand had been ordered. He had stopped counting after that.

  ‘This is the stuff Wengler made his fortune on,’ Rammoser said, as they toasted the first schnapps. That was their final word on the subject, though they continued to drink the stuff, ordering round after round to chase their beers.

  Rath had thought little of it, since he wasn’t the one who had to cycle six kilometres home. As it transpired, he had greater problems crossing the marketplace and climbing to his room on the first floor than Rammoser did with his trusty bicycle, which he had left against a street lamp. He swung himself onto the saddle without so much as a wobble.