The Fatherland Files

by volker Kutscher

  ‘I’d like to take these out,’ he said, gesturing towards the shelf.

  ‘All of them?’

  ‘All of them.’

  ‘I’ll have to make out a membership card,’ she said, rummaging in one of the card boxes.

  Rath placed his identification on the table. ‘I think this will do.’ She hesitated for a moment, before helping him load the books into a cardboard box.

  He was about to leave when he spied a table next to the entrance, on top of which was today’s edition of the Treuburger Zeitung, secured against theft by a long, thin chain. ‘Is this always here?’ he asked, chin pointing towards the front page.

  ‘Not for loan, but you’re welcome to take a look.’

  ‘But the paper’s here at night?’

  ‘Yes. It stays there until morning, when I lay out the new edition.’

  ‘So it’s possible that during his night-time visits, Artur Radlewski also read the paper?’

  ‘I wouldn’t put it past him.’

  ‘Can you remember roughly when in December Artur returned those books?’

  She knew the exact date.

  Kowalski was astonished to find Rath outside the door. ‘I wasn’t expecting you so soon, Sir.’

  ‘How’s the head?’

  ‘Better already.’

  ‘No concussion?’

  ‘Luckily for me.’

  ‘Good,’ Rath said. ‘I have a task for you.’ Kowalski looked at him expectantly. ‘Go to the newspaper’s administrative office, and look at the editions for 9th December 1931, as well as the 8th and 10th to be sure. See if you can find anything that might’ve lured the Kaubuk out of his forest.’ Kowalski’s face fell in disappointment. ‘After that,’ Rath continued, ‘you’ll need to use your local knowledge. Berlin’s asking if there could have been others involved in the moonshining scandal of 1924. Names that don’t appear in the case file or newspapers. Do some asking around, and see what the Treuburg rumour mill churns out.’

  ‘You think the Kaubuk isn’t finished?’

  ‘I don’t think anything. Detective Chief Inspector Böhm from Berlin wants us to ask around, so that’s what we’re going to do. Böhm is leading the investigation.’ Kowalski nodded eagerly. ‘When you’ve finished that,’ he pressed the box of books into Kowalski’s hands, ‘you can spend tonight looking through these. Should make for ideal bedtime reading.’

  ‘What are they?’

  ‘Books read by Radlewski. I’d like to know if any contain instructions for making poison.’

  Kowalski nodded, took the box inside, and returned moments later carrying his hat. Rath dropped him outside the newspaper office and drove onto Luisenhöhe. Regrettably, Herr Director Wengler wasn’t home, the liveried servant informed him, barely a note of apology in his voice. Fischer, the private secretary, was likewise unavailable. The servant couldn’t say where the two men were; couldn’t, or didn’t want to.

  Rath tried the distillery. The secretary in the operations manager’s office looked as if she were preparing to go home. ‘I’m afraid Herr Assmann isn’t here,’ she said.

  ‘Herr Assmann? Doesn’t he live on Lindenallee?’

  She arched her eyebrows. ‘Yes, but you won’t find him there. Herr Assmann is away on business. Danzig, then Berlin.’

  ‘When’s he coming back?’

  She looked in her appointments diary. ‘It says here: Berlin until further notice.’

  ‘Until further notice . . . What’s he doing in Berlin?’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t know, but I can give you the name of the hotel he’s staying in.’

  ‘Not necessary. I just need a list of all employees who worked at the distillery in the spring of 1924.’

  ‘I think,’ the secretary said, ‘I should call Herr Assmann after all.’

  ‘You do that,’ he said. ‘Do whatever it takes, but I’ll need the list this afternoon, let’s say by five.’ He smiled at her. ‘If it isn’t ready by then, I’ll be obliged to return for a third time, with a warrant.’

  The secretary looked horrified, and began dialling with her index finger. Somehow he felt pleased to have upset her plans. ‘Berlin,’ he heard her say as he exited the office. ‘Südring, seven-four-zero-three.’

  A number in Tempelhof. He remained in the hallway listening. The secretary asked for a room number. So, the operations manager was staying in a hotel in Tempelhof, where the Lamkau firm had its headquarters.

  ‘Herr Assmann,’ she said. Evidently she took no pleasure in disturbing her employer. ‘Please excuse the interruption, but I’ve just had an Inspector Rath here . . .’

  45

  It was the sort of dive Charly would never have set foot in unaccompanied. It didn’t even have a name, at least none that was printed above the door or on either of the grime-covered display windows. Not far from Potsdamer Platz, it was a completely different world. Mohamed Husen held the door for her and cleared a path through the drinkers. A number of them looked up briefly when they entered, but she soon realised no one was interested in the white woman with her black companion.

  Perhaps that was why Husen had suggested the place. At lunch today he had been smoking on the balcony dressed as a Sarotti Moor. ‘A colleague dropped out at the Turkish Café,’ he explained. She pitied him his fate, but Husen didn’t seem to mind the ever-changing outfits; if anything it gave him pleasure. He took the whole business in good humour.

  Now he was dressed like an ordinary European, wearing a grey suit and elegant bowler hat, which he hung on the stand. He led her to a table by the long wall at the back, where they could talk in peace over coffee and cigarettes.

  ‘Not an ideal spot to take a lady,’ he said, offering her a Muratti, ‘but the coffee’s better than in Vaterland, and no one’s going to shoot their mouth off if we’re seen together.’

  ‘That’d be the last thing I need.’ She showed her ring. ‘I’m engaged.’

  Husen laughed. ‘I’m married, but you’re right. That doesn’t stop people’s imaginations running away with them. Particularly where colleagues are involved.’

  There was smoke everywhere, and all sorts of negotiations were being brokered at the tables. She couldn’t vouch for their legality, but Husen was right. No one was looking at them. ‘How are you settling in?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not made for kitchen work.’

  He looked at her. ‘Stick at it, and you can work your way up to waitress. You’ll earn more money, and there are tips.’

  ‘I’ve never waited tables.’

  ‘You learn quickly. If a vacancy pops up somewhere I’ll let you know. Maybe you’ll be lucky and won’t have to dress up.’

  Talk about career prospects, she thought, but even so, she was grateful for his concern. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘That’s kind.’

  The waiter arrived with their coffee.

  ‘Waitressing’s pretty easy, you know,’ Husen said, once the man was gone. ‘Set down your plates and cups, pour a few drinks. Then it’s all maths and remembering the right table.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ she said. ‘My training’s as a stenographer, but I guess these days you have to be flexible. You mentioned recently that you know this spirits buyer . . .’

  ‘Chief Red Nose?’

  ‘Maybe he needs an office hand?’ she asked. ‘He must have more correspondence than a head chef.’

  ‘Which is why he’ll have one already. I’m afraid you’re too late.’

  ‘Perhaps you could put in a word for me, if a position became free.’

  Husen took a drag on his cigarette. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know him that well. I just know that he enjoys a drink at the Wild West Bar, and that . . . Goddamn it!’ He broke off mid-sentence and hid behind the menu.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked.

  ‘Speak of the devil . . .’ Husen spoke so softly she could barely hear him. ‘Riedel’s here.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Chief Red Nose,’ she heard him whisper behind t
he menu. ‘He’s just come in. What’s someone like him doing in a place like this?’

  ‘He won’t have anything against two colleagues having coffee together after work.’

  ‘If he sees us together, Vaterland will be full of exactly the kind of rumours we want to avoid.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘I need my job. And you don’t want to lose yours either.’

  ‘Then what do we do?’

  ‘We leave, but separately. You go first. He won’t know you yet, unless he’s been in the kitchen recently.’

  ‘Why would he have been?’

  ‘Because he’s Kempinski’s main buyer. He orders the hard stuff for Unger too.’

  ‘I’ve never seen him upstairs.’

  ‘Good. Then off you go. We’ll meet outside.’

  She stubbed out her cigarette and stood up. She didn’t want Mohamed Husen losing his job on her account.

  She only knew Alfons Riedel from Gereon’s description, but, in a place like this, the red nose and slightly outmoded attire immediately stood out. He hung his hat and coat next to Husen’s bowler, granting her at most a fleeting glance as she retrieved her coat from the stand. Reaching the door she recognised a face through the large window pane, and made a beeline for the telephone booth that stood against the wall.

  In the reflective glass of the booth she saw the face look left and right before entering, apparently reluctant to set foot in such a disreputable establishment. The man stood in the dining area, looking around. Manfred Unger, head chef and target of her covert operation in Haus Vaterland.

  She took the receiver from the cradle and pretended to make a call. Instead of rummaging in her pockets for change, however, she took out her little make-up mirror and opened it. Yes, Unger was making straight for Riedel’s table. The two men knew one another, Gereon had been right. Rather well, if their cheerful manner was anything to go by.

  She watched Husen remove his hat from the hook, nod briefly at Riedel, who barely accorded him a glance, and make for the exit. As he reached the door, two men jostled past him into the smoky lounge. She wouldn’t have noticed them hovering by the entrance with their backs to her were it not for the scarcely perceptible twitch of the chin with which one of them gestured towards Unger and Riedel’s table. She watched as they sat next to the would-be blackmailers. She’d have given anything to eavesdrop, but there was no way she could simply appear at an adjoining table.

  Was she actually going to witness a pay-off? The new arrivals had removed their headgear, and now she waited for one of them to discreetly place an envelope under his hat and slide it across the table. Or, perhaps they were accomplices, and this blackmailing business was somehow linked to a Ringverein?

  She was wrong on both counts. One of the new men might have been lanky and a little gaunt, but as soon as she saw the pair’s faces she knew they hadn’t come to make a payment. Their eyes brooked no argument; men like this wouldn’t be blackmailed.

  Not that Unger and Riedel seemed to have realised. There was a brief argument, during which the spirits buyer affected a manner of superiority, only to pause mid-flow and puff out his cheeks as if gasping for air. He sat at a slight angle, stock-still, not daring to move, his head increasingly the colour of his nose. The man opposite leaned forward slightly and continued speaking, unperturbed. He had one hand under the table, and though she couldn’t see exactly what he was doing, she knew it must be painful. All of a sudden Unger appeared in a rush to get up, but the second man pressed him back in his chair. She almost pitied the blackmailers.

  Without warning, Riedel, who had turned a deep shade of purple, began nodding, and now Unger, too, wagged his head eagerly. The synchronised display made for a ridiculous sight, but the two strangers appeared satisfied, put on their hats, and exited the lounge as swiftly as they had entered.

  The whole thing had lasted barely five minutes. Among the remaining patrons, it appeared no one had seen anything. Even if they had, this wasn’t the sort of place you got involved.

  Unger and Riedel remained at the table. The waiter brought two beers and two schnapps, which must have been ordered sometime before, and Riedel, whose head was still red as a beet, drained the Korn using his left hand. He held his right hand tight to his body as if afraid the fingers might fall off. Unger raised his glass almost as if to propose a toast, only to give a start as Riedel scolded him.

  Charly was startled by a knock on the glass. A man wearing his hat at an angle banged a coin against the pane. ‘Are you putting down roots here, woman? If I don’t get on that phone soon, there’ll be hell to pay with my old lady.’

  She hung up and left the booth, but before stepping onto the street, she took a final glance at the two men, who appeared completely at a loss, stricken somehow. Unger drank his beer and gazed into thin air, and she couldn’t be sure he wasn’t looking in her direction. She turned her head away and left the café. Now she just had to think of a reason for leaving Mohamed Husen waiting so long. She no longer had so many questions for the African waiter, and, those she did have, were very different from a quarter of an hour before.

  46

  Rath reacted badly when the servant at the Luisenhöhe estate tried to fob him off again on Sunday morning. ‘Listen here! If you don’t want to be responsible for the Prussian Police carrying out a house search in your esteemed Herr Wengler’s residence, then I suggest you tell me where I can find him. Today!’

  Clearly it was the first time the arrogant pizzle had been spoken to like that. He gasped for air. ‘One moment, Sir. I’ll see what I can do.’ The liveried servant vanished behind a door.

  Rath was certain he wouldn’t have to make any inquiries as to Gustav Wengler’s whereabouts. Most likely he was simply counting to sixty in his head. As expected, after about a minute the man re-emerged. ‘I’ve been informed that Director Wengler is at the festival site in town.’ He sounded more nasal than a hundred Frenchmen. ‘However, he is very busy . . .’

  ‘I thought the plebiscite anniversary was tomorrow?’

  ‘Preparations.’ The man now spoke exclusively through his nose. ‘Director Wengler is, after all . . .’

  ‘I know. Chief of the Homeland Service.’ Rath enjoyed interrupting the smug bastard. ‘So, where’s this festival site of yours?’

  The man threw him a glance that implied you had to be a particularly unworthy species of insect not to know where the festival site was. ‘Hindenburg Park, by the district war memorial.’

  ‘Where is that?’

  ‘On the road out to Goldap, by the lake.’

  Rath headed back towards town. People here were starting to get on his nerves. He longed for Berlin, all the more since finally managing to get hold of Charly yesterday evening in a prosaic exchange during which they had mostly discussed work. Her Cinderella-like existence in the Haus Vaterland kitchen was starting to bear fruit. Messrs Unger and Riedel were indeed involved in blackmail, which had apparently brought them into conflict with the underworld. Perhaps they’d hit upon someone who’d paid his protection money, and was now receiving a service in return. Bagmen didn’t like it when people got in their way. It now seemed increasingly unlikely that the business had to do with Lamkau’s death, but Rath was pleased Charly had a lead which would net her a few points with Gennat, not to say her actual boss, Friederike Wieking.

  As for himself, he had at least partially completed Böhm’s list of tasks, having collected the employee names from the distillery yesterday afternoon. Ready on time, as promised, the list was neatly typed and devoid of spelling errors. He’d have gladly had its author accompany him back to Berlin.

  The cars lining the road ensured that Hindenburg Park was easy to find. Rath pulled over and strolled across the site, which was a mix of sports grounds and parkland. Flags fluttered on all available poles, black-and-white, and black-white-and-red; but nowhere the red-black-gold of the Republic. Everywhere you looked was a hive of activity; next to the athletics field a marquee was being erected
, on the side of which were advertising slogans for Treuburger Bärenfang and Luisenbrand. Next to it was a carousel, and sausage, tombola and gingerbread heart stalls, even a shooting gallery – a veritable funfair stretching across the main path. Meanwhile the ubiquitous slogans for Mathée firm products left visitors in no doubt who was funding – and profiting from – the whole shebang.

  The war memorial at the end of the park looked like a church that hadn’t been completed: an apse with no altar or roof, a semi-circle of rubble stone with lancet windows affording wonderful views of the lake. The monument was decked with flowers and garlands, while the platform, which was accessed by a rubble perron, housed a similarly adorned lectern, above which members of the fire brigade were fixing a banner. Prussia and the Reich Semper Fidelis. Rath couldn’t shake the impression that the Oletzko District Fire Department had acquired its ladder truck not so much to extinguish blazes as to help decorate public festivals.

  At the foot of the memorial a handful of men were erecting the stage. In the meantime Gustav Wengler had appeared on the plateau, surveying the workers beneath him like a military general. Alongside him was an entourage of three men, one of whom Rath recognised instantly. Chief Constable Grigat stood gazing self-importantly from underneath his shako, moustache combed, uniform ironed, and hands folded behind his back. The other two wore formal dark suits and top hats. Even from afar they looked like senior public officials.

  Rath climbed the steps and Wengler extended his arms as if to greet an old friend. ‘Ah! Our visitor from Berlin!’

  ‘You’re a hard man to pin down, Herr Wengler.’

  ‘Chief Constable Grigat says the same about you.’ Wengler gestured towards his companions. ‘Might I introduce: District Administrator Wachsmann, Mayor Maeckelburg – Inspector Rath from Berlin.’

  He shook their hands, Grigat’s too. All this glad-handing made him feel as if he were attending an official function. ‘Looks like it’s going to be one hell of a party,’ he said.