The Fatherland Files

by volker Kutscher

  ‘Stop by the schoolhouse in Wielitzken sometime,’ he had said.

  Thinking back, Rath felt strangely elated. More than being the first decent informant he’d found, Karl Rammoser was also a nice guy. True, he wasn’t technically from Treuburg, but maybe that was an advantage. Maybe it was the fact that he didn’t belong that made him so effusive.

  Rath looked at his watch: time for breakfast if he didn’t want to be late for the distillery. He used cold water for his fatigue, and aspirin for his headache. Luckily, he had remembered to pack a tube in Berlin.

  Kowalski sat waiting in the lounge, this time minus the shaving tissue. He stood to attention. ‘Good morning, Sir.’

  ‘Morning, Kowalski. Any luck yesterday evening?’

  ‘A few witnesses.’

  ‘Any insights?’

  ‘Afraid not, Sir. Only that all three worked at the Luisenhöhe distillery.’ Kowalski fumbled in his jacket pocket. ‘Witness addresses. Question them yourself if you like.’

  Rath stowed the list in his pocket. No sooner had he sat down than the girl who served him lunch yesterday appeared with the breakfast tray. Hella, if he remembered rightly. She pulled a face as if to say: I’m only doing this because my parents are making me. ‘Thank you,’ he said, savouring the smell of fresh coffee.

  ‘Would you like anything else, sir?

  ‘Perhaps some coffee for my colleague.’ Kowalski shook his head. ‘Don’t you want to sit down?’

  ‘Thank you, Sir. I prefer to stand. What are my orders for today? Can I assist with questioning? Or drive you somewhere?’

  ‘I can drive myself. Continue with your work in the archive. You’re bound to hit on something.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Take a look at the newspaper archive as well. I assume there’s one here in Treuburg?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Rath placed the lily-white serviette on his lap. ‘Once you’ve finished going through the case records, head over there. Perhaps today will be the day.’

  Kowalski appeared slightly offended. He wouldn’t have pictured his days in Treuburg swallowing dust. Indeed, no doubt he already had his instructions, but was too Prussian to defy his senior officer’s command. He gave a smart salute and had already reached the door when Rath thought of something else. ‘One more thing, Kowalski . . .’

  ‘Yes, Sir?’

  ‘Do you speak Masurian?’

  ‘A little.’ Kowalski appeared embarrassed by the admission. ‘Groska, for example, means grandmother. And Grosek, grandfather. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Just wondering.’

  ‘My uncle speaks fluent Masurian, and my grandparents spoke nothing but.’

  Rath nodded and dismissed him. After a first cup of coffee he felt ready to take on some solids. The bread rolls here were something else, and the quince jelly must be home-made.

  ‘Hella?’

  Was that her name? Either way she came over. She was a pretty girl, blonde and suntanned, but the braided pigtails made her look like a country cousin. A different haircut, a little make-up, a fashionable dress, and even Berlin men would crane their necks for a glimpse.

  ‘Would you like anything else, sir?’

  ‘No, thank you, everything’s fine.’ He pressed a one-mark coin into her hand. ‘Haven’t had a breakfast like this in a long time.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Her smile knocked him dead, perhaps because it came so unexpectedly. Clearing the table, she brushed against his arm.

  ‘Lots going on today,’ he said. ‘Outside, I mean.’

  ‘Friday is market day.’

  She curtseyed, disappearing with her tray and her smile into the kitchen. He tore his gaze away from her rear and stood up. It was time to go.

  Friday was indeed market day, and it took a long time to crawl through the milling mass of animals and people in the car. Somehow, Rath managed to reach Bahnhofstrasse without running over a pig. In front of the advertising pillar on the street corner, a group of young brownshirts were in the process of tearing down the Communist placards from last night. No one took exception, although Rath debated whether he should intervene. As matters stood, going by the market had cost him ten minutes already. He wouldn’t make the time up now, no matter how fast he drove.

  At five minutes past ten he parked outside the Luisenhöhe estate house. With no one to receive him he rang the doorbell. A liveried servant opened and raised an eyebrow. ‘Director Wengler is expecting me,’ Rath said, showing his card.

  Director Wengler was in no rush. Rath spent the next five minutes waiting in the hall, until the servant returned and bade him enter the drawing room, where the waiting began again. He felt as though he were at the doctor’s surgery. On the table were journals he recognised from Lamkau’s estate: Alkohol and the Spirit Industry Magazine. He leafed through the pages and smoked, but it wasn’t until after finishing his cigarette that the door opened to reveal, not the arrogant servant this time, but the equally glib Herr Fischer, Wengler’s private secretary.

  ‘Good morning, Inspector. Director Wengler will see you now.’ Rath looked at his watch. Half past ten.

  The office looked down the valley onto the great brick chimney of the distillery and, in the distance, the Treuburg water tower. The furnishings were caught between Prussian Junkerdom and modern office. On the spacious desk was a black telephone next to an old-fashioned inkwell complete with fountain pen and card index boxes. On the wood-panelled wall was an oil painting of hunting scenes. Behind the desk hung two portraits in valuable, old-fashioned frames. One showed a grey-haired man with a stern, aristocratic gaze, and the other, far more elaborately rendered, a young woman. In sharp contrast with these oil paintings was a plain, but no less striking graphic detailing the distillery’s revenue curve since 1920. The curve was on an upward trajectory, particularly in the last few years, despite the economic crisis. Perhaps, even, because of the economic crisis. The worse people felt, the more they drank.

  Beneath the graphic, advertising placards for Luisenbrand and Treuburger Bärenfang stood against the wall. Rath recognised the motif from Lamkau’s office in Berlin: the bear with the bottle. It was well done, and it looked as if the Bärenfang was to be the Mathée firm’s next money-spinner.

  Gustav Wengler cut a wiry figure, not at all the obese managing director Rath had expected. He stood as his guest entered behind the overzealous private secretary.

  ‘Inspector. Please come in. My apologies for the delay. Urgent meeting.’

  ‘I think you’ll find this equally urgent.’

  Wengler laughed. ‘Fischer, would you fetch the inspector something to drink. Coffee? Tea? Water? Or perhaps you’d prefer schnapps? There’s no shortage!’

  ‘Thank you, I’m on duty, but coffee would be nice.’ Private Secretary Fischer disappeared. ‘I’m familiar with your schnapps. It’s available in Berlin, you know.’

  ‘But that isn’t why you’re here,’ Wengler said. ‘Or has someone used my Korn as a murder weapon?’

  ‘How do you know there’s been a murder?’

  ‘I fear I may even know the victim.’ Wengler’s face grew serious. ‘You’re a police inspector from Berlin, where my best salesman has just been killed. I can put two and two together.’

  ‘So, you know . . .’

  ‘Edith Lamkau told me a few days ago. The poor woman!’

  ‘Yes, Frau Lamkau is having a rough time. She said you were going to help her . . .’

  ‘Insofar as I can.’ Wengler looked at him. ‘So, Inspector, what are you doing here?’

  ‘Looking for answers. Trying to find out why Herbert Lamkau had to die.’

  ‘You’re hoping the answer will lead you to the killer?’

  ‘That’s usually how it works.’ Rath gazed pensively out of the window at the thick clouds rising from the chimney; the distillery seemed to be in full swing. ‘Do you know why he had to die?’

  Wengler shook his head. ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you there.’

&n
bsp; ‘Then perhaps you could tell me a little more about Herbert Lamkau the man. Before he moved to Berlin and began distributing Luisenbrand, he was employed here by you.’

  ‘That’s true. Herbert was my operations manager at the distillery.’

  ‘Did he perform other tasks for you?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Beating up Poles, for instance?’

  ‘Herbert wasn’t always in control of his temper.’ A deep wrinkle formed at the bridge of Wengler’s nose and his eyes flashed. ‘Have I understood you correctly? You’re implying that he engaged in violence at my behest?’

  ‘I’m just telling you what I’ve heard.’

  ‘Then you’ve been talking to the wrong people. You shouldn’t believe everything you hear.’

  ‘Perhaps I’m talking to the right person now?’

  ‘Herbert Lamkau was no angel, and he made no secret of the fact that he couldn’t stand the Poles. Yes, there were times twelve years ago when emotions were running high and he became physical. But to imply that he did so at my behest is simply outrageous!’

  There was a knock and a girl appeared with the coffee. The private secretary would consider actually serving it beneath his dignity.

  ‘Is it possible that one of these Poles, one of these people Lamkau manhandled, has sought revenge?’

  ‘Anything is possible, Inspector, but why wait twelve years?’

  ‘Lamkau skipped town eight years ago. Do you know why? Things were clearly on an upward trajectory here.’

  ‘You can say that again!’ Wengler gestured towards the sales curve behind him. ‘Since I took over, we’ve increased production by almost 500 per cent. I wouldn’t like to say how many public officials live off the money we pay in taxes.’

  ‘You don’t have it so bad yourself. I mean, you’re an estate owner. People say it was inflation that brought it into your possession . . .’

  ‘People say?’ Wengler tapped a cigarette out of a silver case and looked at Rath indignantly. ‘Where on earth did you hear that?’ Rath remained silent, having drawn Wengler out of his shell.

  ‘Friedrich von Mathée,’ Wengler began, lighting a cigarette without offering one to Rath, ‘was an honest soul and a loyal patriot, but he had no idea about money. The dear man invested almost his entire fortune in war bonds, encumbering the Luisenhöhe estate with massive debts.’

  ‘And you helped him . . .’

  ‘I was the superintendent here and worked as managing director of the distillery. Which I took over after the war. I was to inherit the estate.’ Wengler struggled to get the words out. ‘I was Herr von Mathée’s future son-in-law, but sadly my fiancée . . .Anna . . .passed . . .before we could be married.’

  ‘I see,’ Rath lit an Overstolz. ‘So, you took on the estate before your father-in-law’s death.’

  ‘Otherwise it would have belonged to the bank.’

  ‘How did you manage to write off his debts?’

  ‘I had a little luck.’ Wengler took a deep drag on his cigarette. ‘Inflation certainly played its part.’

  ‘Your schnapps must have helped too.’

  ‘It did.’ Wengler gestured out of the window towards the chimney. ‘The distillery didn’t always look like this. I built a new bottling plant and storage tanks. Today Luisenbrand is famous all over the world.’

  Rath gave a nod of acknowledgement. ‘Not to say, a licence to print money.’

  ‘Luisenbrand is a success story, but you mustn’t think it comes with the territory here in East Prussia. Since we were cut off from the Reich, everything has become that much harder. Especially where agriculture is concerned. How much do you think the Prussian state collects in spirit duty when you’re no longer categorised as a small-scale producer?’

  ‘Which you no longer are.’

  ‘It isn’t just your salary we’re financing with our taxes, Inspector. You can’t blame us for Prussia’s liquidity problems.’ Wengler sounded more conciliatory now. ‘Why do you need to know all this? It has nothing to do with Herbert, or your murder inquiry.’

  ‘A man has to pass the time somehow. But let’s get back to Herr Lamkau. How would you assess his character? I need you to be precise.’

  ‘Herr Lamkau was one of my most capable employees. Operations manager, as I said, and he kept things here shipshape. No idling on his watch. People respected him.’

  ‘How about on the streets? Was he similarly . . .respected?’

  ‘I don’t know why you’re still on about that. Herbert Lamkau was of impeccable character. People always wag their tongues when someone runs up against the law – even if nothing was ever proven.’

  ‘Runs up against the law?’

  ‘You don’t know?’ Wengler shook his head as if to say: a fine inspector, you are! ‘I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but you’re bound to find out sooner or later. A few years ago, Herbert Lamkau was accused of selling moonshine as Luisenbrand. To this day, I still don’t know if it was him or one of his employees. Naturally I had no choice but to fire him, to salvage the reputation of our brand.’

  ‘You assigned him sole distribution rights in Berlin all the same. Wasn’t that reckless?’

  ‘Oh, I challenged him, believe me, but Herbert swore he had nothing to do with it. I offered him compensation, and he started afresh in Berlin, where no one knew him.’

  ‘With some success.’

  ‘With a great deal of success. Thanks to his dedication we’ve achieved market dominance throughout Central Germany.’

  ‘You’re convinced he was innocent?’

  ‘Who can look into another person’s mind? Even if he was guilty, I was certain he wouldn’t try again, not after all that fuss. Mistakes like that you don’t repeat.’

  ‘That’s just it,’ Rath said. ‘Exactly the same thing has occurred in Berlin. Didn’t he pass on Kempinski’s complaint?’

  Gustav Wengler was flabbergasted. ‘Kempinski’s complaint? It’s the first I’ve heard of it.’

  Now Rath was surprised. If Lamkau hadn’t passed on the complaint, there was every reason to suspect he had been making moonshine again. He placed the photo of Hans Wawerka alongside Lamkau’s driving licence.

  ‘What about this man here? Do you know him?’

  ‘He looks familiar. Who is he?’

  ‘Johann Wawerka.’

  ‘Hänschen! Of course! He’s changed a bit since I knew him. He was a labourer at the distillery.’

  ‘And August Simoneit?’

  ‘Simoneit? He was my top fitter. He kept the distillation plants in good nick, let me tell you. You hardly needed to . . .’ Wengler paused. He seemed to have a premonition. ‘What’s happened to these men?’

  ‘They’re dead. Perished the same way as Herbert Lamkau. We think their deaths are linked.’ Wengler gazed, deep in thought, at the smoke from his cigarette. ‘Now I know they were colleagues here at the distillery.’

  ‘I’m afraid I can go one better . . .’ Rath was all ears. ‘Wawerka and Simoneit were both involved in the moonshining scandal.’

  36

  The District Office Cellar Archive was deserted when Rath looked in around twelve. On the reading table was a pile of case files bearing the seal of the Marggrabowa District Court. He leafed through them. All docket numbers ended in ‘24’ – probably an entire year’s worth. Had Kowalski got through them already? How many could there be, in a place like this? He examined the pile, wondering whether he should take a closer look when a voice interrupted his thoughts. ‘Herr Rath! How are things?’

  Chief Constable Grigat stood in the door with his legs apart, thumbs hooked on his uniform belt, a broad smile under his shako.

  ‘No cause for complaint.’

  ‘I’m on my way to the Salzburger Hof, if you’d care to join me? We could talk over lunch.’

  ‘Thank you, but I have an appointment already.’

  ‘Well, then, how about tonight? I take supper in the Königlicher Hof. They have a terrace that gets the eveni
ng sun.’ Chief Constable Grigat appeared to structure his day around mealtimes, and to choose his restaurants according to their cardinal point.

  ‘Perhaps it could be arranged . . . I’m looking for Assistant Detective Kowalski. You haven’t seen him, have you?’

  ‘If I understood him correctly, he was on his way to the newspaper office.’

  ‘Because he found something?’

  ‘I’m afraid he didn’t say.’

  At the marketplace a few men were clearing the remnants of the weekly market: cabbage and salad leaves that lay on the pavement, horse droppings and cowpat. Rath had hoped to park outside the offices of the Treuburger Zeitung, but the space was taken by an Adler sedan. Its owner, a businessman, was discussing advertising rates with a female employee. Rath interrupted. ‘Where can I find Assistant Detective Kowalski?’

  The woman nodded towards the back without breaking her flow.

  Kowalski greeted him with what, by his standards, amounted to euphoria. ‘You were right, Sir! About the paper, I mean. There was nothing in the files, but here . . .’

  Rath drew a headline in the air. ‘Moonshining scandal,’ he said. ‘The good name of the Mathée firm besmirched. Operations manager and two employees arrested.’

  Kowalski looked at the papers in confusion. ‘You already know?’

  ‘Director Wengler was very forthcoming.’

  ‘Even though the distillery was caught up in the affair?’

  ‘You’d be amazed what a sound interrogation technique can yield.’ He grinned. ‘The fact that proceedings were discontinued made it easier for Herr Wengler to divulge.’

  ‘Discontinued,’ Kowalski said. ‘That may be, but it was in the papers for weeks. I’ve gathered all articles related to the case. You can see for yourself.’

  For the most part the articles confirmed what Wengler had said. The director himself was quoted on numerous occasions, stressing that the Luisenhöhe distillery had nothing to do with the scandal. In fact, it was a victim, since the bottles containing the tainted schnapps all carried the Luisenbrand label. We will do everything in our power to assist police in their inquiries, he had said.