The Fatherland Files

by volker Kutscher

  ‘There must be something about this in the files,’ Rath said. ‘Even if proceedings were discontinued, there was still an investigation.’

  ‘I’ve been through the whole of 1924. Two or three cases involved moonshining, but nothing compared to this, and none mentioned Luisenbrand.’

  ‘You’re sure you’ve seen them all?’

  ‘Chief Constable Grigat had everything from 1924 sent over.’

  ‘Grigat?’ Rath asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  Rath took the pile of newspapers and made for the door. ‘Come with me,’ he said, when Kowalski gave him a questioning look. ‘Come with me!’

  Erich Grigat was eating his dessert when they entered the Salzburger Hof dining area. Kowalski stayed by the door while Rath went over. Grigat looked up, making a surprised face. ‘Ah, Inspector! Did you have a change of heart?’ He gestured towards his pudding bowl. ‘You’re a little late. I’m afraid I’m just finishing up.’

  ‘I’m not here to eat,’ Rath placed a yellowed front page of the Oletzkoer Zeitung on the table. He slammed his fists on the dusty paper. ‘This caused quite a stir in your town eight years ago.’ He read from the report. ‘Marggrabowa. Three men have been taken into custody today for their part in the Luisenbrand moonshining scandal. As has been previously reported, the bootlegged alcohol, the consumption of which has been deemed extremely hazardous, was stowed and marketed in original Mathée Luisenbrand bottles. The men in custody are all distillery employees, and include the operations manager. Police continue to investigate.’

  ‘What’s this got to do with me?’

  ‘Police continue to investigate,’ Rath repeated. ‘Lamkau, Simoneit and Wawerka were under investigation in the spring of 1924, and I have to get it from the papers!’

  ‘Why the fuss? The most important thing is you know now.’

  The greedy constable’s composure riled Rath even more than the missing police file. With some effort, he controlled himself.

  ‘For two days you have known that the Berlin Police is trying to establish a link between these three men,’ he said. ‘You give me a paper-thin file that contains little more than their names and have Kowalski here plough through any number of case files, all of which are irrelevant. But the decisive file concerning the Luisenbrand scandal . . .’ – He beat down on the paper again. – ‘ . . .is strangely nowhere to be found.’ He took a deep breath and smiled. ‘That’s why the fuss.’

  ‘I’m sure there’s an explanation,’ Grigat said, dabbing at his mouth with a serviette. ‘Assistant Detective Kowalski requested all case files from the year 1924, and I had them sent over.’

  ‘Except clearly you didn’t . . .’ Rath took a deep breath. ‘You’re in charge of the police here . . .’

  ‘In the whole Oletzko district!’

  ‘Which means you ought to be able to supply case files in their entirety!’ Rath shook his head. ‘What a fucking mess!’

  ‘Moderate your tone, Inspector!’ Grigat placed his serviette on the table and stood up. His moustache twitched. ‘You’re forgetting yourself, and who you’re speaking to. The Oletzko District Police will not stand for it, you are not my superior!’

  ‘No, you’re right there.’ Rath rummaged for the letter he hadn’t wanted to use. ‘Dr Bernhard Weiss in Berlin is my superior. He’s counting on me to solve a murder, and he’s counting on you to assist me in my inquiries.’

  ‘What more do you want? I’ve done exactly as your Dr Weiss requested. I had a file put together on the men in question, granted you and your colleague access to our records and prepared a workstation for you complete with telephone. I’ve given you every possible assistance, and even raised the prospect of additional support. It’s you who hasn’t taken advantage of it!’

  ‘I don’t need support. What I need is a better organised regional police authority and district court.’

  ‘Now, listen here, Inspector!’ Grigat turned red. ‘We don’t have many police officers in Treuburg and the Oletzko district. Here in town I have a handful at my disposal, as well as two secretarial staff. Outside of Treuburg there are a dozen gendarmerie posts and the Border Commissariat in Gross-Czymochen, and that’s it. When things get tight – if someone’s sick or on holiday – then we call in reinforcements from Goldap or Lyck. We can’t always go by the book, as you can in Berlin. We have to take things as they come: to identify unroadworthy vehicles and conmen alike; attend to registry tasks as well as criminal records. Files relating to an age-old case are the least of our worries. Apart from that, the archiving of case files is the responsibility of the district court and public prosecutor’s office, not the regional police authority.’

  Rath decided to backpedal. Warring with the local authorities was no help to anyone. ‘You’re right, Constable. My apologies. I’ve no intention of arguing with you. You cannot be held responsible for every foul-up that occurs in Treuburg. In all likelihood, as you say, the error lies with the court.’

  ‘I’m glad you see it that way, Inspector.’ The man’s moustache ceased twitching.

  ‘Now,’ Rath said, managing a smile, ‘let’s find out why that moonshining file was never delivered.’

  ‘Now?’ Grigat made the sort of horrified face that was the trademark of dyed-in-the-wool public officials everywhere. ‘On a Friday afternoon?’

  *

  The district court building was located next to the district office, and most employees seemed to have finished for the weekend. Only the porter remained when Rath looked in with Grigat and Kowalski.

  ‘Afternoon, Feibler,’ Grigat said.

  The dishevelled old man in the porter’s lodge stood to attention. ‘Sir!’

  ‘Anyone in Registry?’

  ‘No one, Sir!’

  ‘We need to look inside. It’s urgent. You have a key, don’t you?’

  The porter’s gaze flitted suspiciously between them. As a good Prussian, he was loyal to Grigat, but unsure of his companions.

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not authorised to give out files, Sir.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ Rath interrupted. ‘We are concerned about the whereabouts of a particular document. Once we establish that, we’ll proceed through the proper channels.’

  The porter eyed him suspiciously but lifted the wooden barrier and exited his lodge. He led them into a chilly, windowless room secured by a steel door. ‘Year?’ he asked.

  ‘Twenty-four,’ Rath said.

  ‘I see. Then we’ll have to check the archive. Right at the back.’

  Once inside, the porter switched on the light. ‘Inventory’s here,’ he said, gesturing towards a thick tome, but they didn’t need the inventory to locate the shelf. Two racks above floor level had been cleared. Rath crouched to look. Nothing: neither on nor behind the shelves.

  ‘Like I told you,’ Grigat said. ‘I had everything sent over.’

  ‘Then the file must be somewhere else.’ Rath went over to the inventory and traced down the index of cases from 1924 to find: Lamkau. Infringement Against Reich Alcohol Legislation. He took out his notebook and recorded the docket number and archive shelf mark. Soon he was back in front of the empty shelf. ‘The file must have been here,’ he said, looking at Kowalski. ‘Are you sure you haven’t overlooked something?’

  ‘Believe me, Sir, I looked through everything, page by page.’

  Rath turned to the porter. ‘There must be some index documenting which files have been removed?’

  ‘Of course, but the inventory won’t help you. The withdrawal register’s back the way we came.’

  ‘Let’s take a look inside then.’

  ‘I don’t know if I’m authorised . . .’ the porter began, but Rath cut him off.

  ‘Listen, I’m not sure if you’ve realised, but the three of us, we’re the good guys. We’re not here to make your life difficult.’

  The porter looked at Grigat inquiringly.

  ‘He’s right, Feibler. Let us look inside.’

  No one could ac
cuse the registry office of being disorganised. Under today’s date was a record of one hundred and seven case files, complete with docket number and archive shelf mark. Grigat wasn’t lying. Rath compared the sequences against his notebook but found no match.

  ‘Someone must have taken the file.’

  He leafed back through the withdrawal register, paying attention only to the final two numbers. Most dated from 1930 or later, but then, little by little, older cases began to appear. Rath had already gone back a few pages when his finger alighted on a sequence ending in ‘24’. He checked his notebook. A match!

  Case file II Gs 117/24 had been withdrawn almost three years ago.

  ‘Date of withdrawal, Monday, 30th September 1929,’ Rath read. ‘By a PM Naujoks.’ He looked at the porter. ‘Is it normal for case files to be out this long?’ The man with the uniform cap shrugged. ‘Goddamn it!’ Rath said. ‘Someone must know!’

  The porter winced at every word, but Grigat’s thoughts were elsewhere.

  ‘Naujoks?’ he asked. ‘Polizeimeister Robert Naujoks?’

  ‘You know the man?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say “know”. Robert Naujoks was my predecessor here. He took early retirement.’

  ‘He’s the one stashing these case files?’ Rath was surprised. ‘I don’t know about you, but I picture my retirement differently.’

  ‘Naujoks was a strange bird.’ Grigat gestured towards the date in the register. ‘The 30th of September must have been his final day on the job. I started exactly one day later.’

  37

  Robert Naujoks was younger than Rath expected, in his late fifties. The former police constable had chosen to spend his retirement outside the Oletzko region, in a garden settlement in the district capital of Lyck, about thirty kilometres south of Treuburg, and situated, likewise, on a lake. It seemed lakes were a necessary condition of Masurian town life.

  The Lycker Lake had a small island that was connected by bridge to the mainland, and it was this island that Naujoks viewed from his study window as he sat smoking his pipe. There are worse fates, Rath thought, as he and Kowalski were shown to their seats.

  ‘So, you’re interested in the Luisenbrand affair,’ Naujoks said. He wore braces over his shirt, and in his cantankerousness was slightly reminiscent of Wilhelm Böhm – despite being ten years older, white-haired, and without a walrus moustache.

  ‘We’re interested in Herbert Lamkau, August Simoneit and Johann Wawerka,’ Rath said. ‘A chunk of whose past is contained on your shelves.’

  ‘The file you mentioned on the telephone? Why these three? Are you investigating them?’

  ‘I’m investigating whoever is responsible for their deaths.’

  Naujoks’s eyebrows gave a twitch. ‘They’re dead?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Excepting his eyebrows, Naujoks remained motionless.

  A maid served tea. Robert Naujoks was clearly a bachelor, a status common among police officers. Rath wondered if there might be a reason, realising, in the same moment, that he hadn’t contacted Charly, hadn’t even sent a postcard since arriving in East Prussia.

  He took a sip of tea. ‘I used to know a Naujoks in Cologne,’ he said. ‘We were altar boys together, a long time ago. You’re not related?’

  Naujoks looked at him blankly. ‘I’m Protestant.’

  Like Böhm, the man was impossible to engage in relaxed conversation. ‘Why did you take the file?’ Rath asked, ‘on the day of your retirement?’

  Like a stony monument to police investigators of the old school, Robert Naujoks sat on his leather-upholstered armchair and stared blankly out of the window. Only the occasional glow of tobacco from his pipe bowl gave any indication that he was still alive.

  Naujoks took the pipe from his mouth and leaned forward. ‘Do you know that feeling? When a case just won’t let go?’

  Rath, who knew all too well, nodded his response. ‘They’re the ones you’d do anything to close,’ he said. ‘Damn nuisance for your private life when the work follows you home. It can swallow you up.’

  ‘That’s just it. My case isn’t closed. Proceedings were discontinued at the behest of the public prosecutor.’

  ‘You were called off?’

  ‘If you like.’ Naujoks looked out of the window. ‘Though I’m no dog.’

  In some ways he was not unlike a bulldog, albeit one distinguished by years of service. He manoeuvred his body out of the leather chair with surprising ease, and fetched a thick lever arch file with the reference number II Gs 117/24 from the shelf. He placed it on the table. ‘Here it is,’ he said.

  Rath opened the cover. Photographs of Lamkau and Wawerka gazed back and, for the first time, Simoneit’s face was there too. The trio might not have inspired confidence but they didn’t look like hardened criminals either. Simoneit appeared almost delicate, unlike Wawerka, who was a great hulk of a man. Only Lamkau’s face had something nasty, something devious, about it.

  ‘A trio of moonshiners,’ Rath said, looking at Naujoks. ‘Hardly a spectacular case, even if a prominent distillery was implicated. What is it that won’t let you go? The fact that you couldn’t prove anything?’

  He knew the investigation had stalled, having read the newspaper articles in the car on the half-hour journey over. It was even alleged that a distilling kettle with Lamkau’s prints had been taken from the evidence room. In other words, not the retired constable’s finest hour.

  ‘The answer’s in there,’ said Naujoks.

  ‘And my answer? Why the three men were killed?’

  ‘I’d need more information about their deaths.’

  ‘None of them died well. They were paralysed by Indian arrow poison and drowned. We still don’t know the exact cause of death. But . . .’

  ‘Indian arrow poison?’ Naujoks raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Two died in their beds, one in a freight elevator, but what it has to do with moonshining beats me. Apart from the fact that Lamkau was clearly at it again in Berlin, this time with a prominent business.’

  ‘It wasn’t just moonshining, Inspector,’ Naujoks said, knocking out his pipe. ‘We also investigated a fatality.’ He stood to retrieve a second folder. ‘And I believe the two cases are linked.’

  A little later, Rath and Kowalski sat in the car heading north-east. Kowalski steered with the same pensive expression he had maintained in Naujoks’s parlour, but somehow this was different. Rath couldn’t have said just how, but he was starting to understand that Masurian silence was a multifarious beast.

  ‘Something on your mind?’ he asked.

  Kowalski took a moment before he began. ‘I didn’t want to say anything in the presence of Chief Constable Naujoks, Sir.’

  ‘What didn’t you want to say? Do you think he killed our trio?’

  ‘No.’ Rath had meant it as a joke, but Kowalski shook his head, deadly serious. ‘There could be someone with a motive.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Did you see Naujoks’s reaction when you mentioned the Indian arrow poison?’

  Rath nodded.

  ‘Perhaps I should tell you the story of the Radlewski family . . .’

  Martha Radlewski was the fatality Naujoks had touched upon, a notorious drunk found dead in her shanty on the outskirts of town. Next to the body was an almost empty bottle of the tainted Luisenbrand. Naujoks believed she had died from methanol poisoning, but was alone in this view, and somehow the investigations were never merged. Noting the abnormal size of Martha Radlewski’s liver, the pathologist had expressed astonishment that she’d made it to forty-nine, and attributed her death to alcohol abuse in general, rather than the tainted Korn.

  Naujoks had said nothing about a Radlewski family, but why would he? The files attested that Martha Radlewski had died alone and destitute, a long-time slave to the bottle.

  ‘If there’s a story, then why didn’t Naujoks tell it?’

  ‘Perhaps he doesn’t know,’ Kowalski said. ‘Though he must do – everyone here does. I’d guess
his silence is a means of protecting someone. Perhaps he regards these deaths as a kind of belated justice and doesn’t want to voice his suspicions.’

  ‘You know who he’s trying to protect?’

  Kowalski nodded. ‘The Kaubuk.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The Kaubuk. A kind of bogeyman that generations of Masurian parents have used to scare naughty children. Only, here in the Oletzko district, he’s real.’ It was the first time Rath had heard Kowalski say so much in one go. ‘His name is Artur Radlewski.’

  Kowalski didn’t finish until they’d reached the Lyck road and were filtering into Treuburg.

  The story was among the strangest Rath had ever heard. An oddball had lived in the forests around Treuburg since at least the outbreak of war. He dressed like an Indian in leather and hides, hunted with a bow and arrow, and lived on whatever nature could provide. He had fled home as an adolescent and was supposedly Martha Radlewski’s son.

  ‘You think he’s avenging his mother’s death?’

  Kowalski shrugged. ‘When you mentioned the Indian arrow poison, I couldn’t help thinking of the Kaubuk. Naujoks too, I’d be willing to bet.’

  ‘So, which forest do we find him in, this Kaubuk? Or Radlewski, I should say.’

  ‘I’ve no idea where his hideout is. People say it’s on the moors, somewhere only he and his dog know, though it’s possible he doesn’t live there any more. The story is from my childhood, and I haven’t been in this part of Masuria for years.’ Kowalski shrugged. ‘I don’t know, it was just an idea.’

  ‘The man would certainly have motive, but why wait this long?’

  ‘Perhaps because he had to find our trio first, and go west, into the cities. Not easy when you look like an Indian. Who knows how long it’d take to get used to civilisation again after all these years?’

  ‘Supposing Radlewski junior has left the wilds to avenge his mother. Do you think Naujoks might be holding something back?’