The Fatherland Files

by volker Kutscher

  District Administrator Wachsmann gazed proudly. ‘Few districts in Masuria commemorate the plebiscite on this type of scale.’

  ‘Might I borrow Herr Wengler a moment?’

  ‘We were discussing the order of ceremony, Inspector.’

  ‘It’s all in hand, Gustav!’ Wachsmann clapped him on the shoulder. ‘You deliver the main speech after I’ve said a few words of introduction. Musical society to set the tone . . .and then the open-air concert, as always.’

  ‘I’m glad that’s all done and dusted,’ said Rath. ‘It’s urgent.’ He looked at Wengler’s entourage. ‘Perhaps, Herr Director, you know somewhere where we might speak in private . . .’

  ‘How about a little stroll in the park?’

  Rath agreed and they went on their way. For a moment he was afraid Erich Grigat might feel compelled to join them but, when no invitation was forthcoming, the constable chose to keep the local dignitaries company instead.

  ‘What’s so urgent?’ Gustav Wengler asked, once they were out of earshot.

  ‘New developments,’ Rath said, lighting an Overstolz. ‘In our murder inquiry.’

  ‘I’ve heard you requested a list of employees from the distillery, from 1924.’

  ‘That’s right. The trail leads into the past.’ He halted and looked at Wengler. ‘Does the name Radlewski mean anything to you?’

  ‘Paid a visit to old Naujoks, have you? Grigat mentioned something along those lines.’

  ‘I’m not talking about Martha Radlewski. I’m talking about her son.’ Wengler looked astonished. ‘It’s possible that Artur Radlewski is avenging his mother’s death, and that your former employees . . .’

  ‘Revenge? Why? The woman was notorious. She drank herself to death.’

  ‘Perhaps her son sees it differently. Perhaps he thinks it was the moonshine that killed her.’

  ‘If he really thinks that . . .’ Wengler looked Rath in the eye, ‘ . . .then why has he waited this long?’

  ‘Those are questions that still need answering, but he would have a motive, potential knowledge about the poison used, and he has no alibi.’

  ‘A savage who lives alone in the forest wouldn’t.’

  ‘I’m being serious, Herr Wengler. Radlewski hasn’t been seen for almost nine months. He could be responsible for the killings in the west.’ Rath took a deep drag on his Overstolz. ‘We need to know if there are other distillery employees who could’ve been involved in 1924 . . .’

  ‘So, that’s why you need the list.’ Wengler laughed. ‘Inspector, you do know that proceedings were discontinued? I mean, you have the file. Nobody knows where this rotgut came from, or who sold it as Luisenbrand.’

  ‘That might be true of the courts, perhaps, but that’s not what we’re talking about here. We’re talking about Artur Radlewski. Herr Wengler, my colleagues in Berlin are concerned that Radlewski’s vendetta, if that’s what this is, might not be over. I share their concern.’ He stared back at Wengler. ‘I would ask you to take a look at the list. Perhaps something will occur when you see the names.’

  Suddenly Gustav Wengler became serious. ‘Do you have a cigarette?’ Rath opened his case and Wengler helped himself, inhaling greedily as the lighter’s flame touched the tobacco. The director thought for a time. ‘Inspector,’ he said. ‘I don’t know if this is important, since no charges were ever brought, and there was no mention of it in the paper. But . . .my brother.’

  ‘What about your brother?’

  ‘Siegbert was a police officer here. He . . .how shall I put this?’ Wengler shook his head, as if pained by the memory. ‘He was accused of being in cahoots with the moonshiners, or at least of having tipped them off about a raid.’

  ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘There was nothing in it.’ Wengler threw Rath a hostile glance. ‘They found a hideout in the forest by Markowsken, but by the time police arrived there was no one left to arrest.’

  ‘And your brother took the fall?’

  ‘Obviously there was no one there. I’d have been astonished if an operation like that had succeeded. Police uniforms in a forest. That’s about as conspicuous as . . .’

  ‘ . . .an Indian in a capital city.’

  ‘Something like that.’ Wengler managed a smile. ‘At any rate – Siegbert decided to put in for a transfer. With all those rumours swirling around . . . Sometimes it’s better to make a fresh start.’

  ‘You don’t have to tell me,’ said Rath. ‘So, where did your brother make his fresh start? He could be in danger. We have to warn him.’

  ‘It’s a city you’re familiar with, Inspector. My brother has been in Berlin for almost eight years, as a traffic officer.’

  47

  The hollow space under the board between the bedroom and lounge. That is where you have stowed everything you need in case the police call again. Every day you reach inside, fetch the curare pipe, Veronal solution and needles, head to the train station and await your chance. To be alone with him. A single moment will suffice.

  You examine the red cloth, which you now fold and place with the other items, and with the red, the memories return.

  A red cloth hangs from the railing of the town mill bridge, easily overlooked among all the colours decorating the town. On each entrance to the marketplace they have erected triumphal arches of fir, swathed in black and white and red. Dieses Land bleibt deutsch, you read on one; on another, Das Land ist unser, unser soll es bleiben. Both proclaim allegiance to the Reich. Polish words are nowhere to be seen. You have emerged from the polling station and are making your way down Deutsche Strasse when you see the red cloth fluttering in the breeze. Your heart pounds; you must fetch your bike from the shed. If you pedal hard, you can make it out to the little lake in half an hour: the place you always meet.

  But you don’t reach the lake, you don’t even reach the shed. As if by magic the trio from the distillery plant themselves in front of you. They are wearing Homeland Service brassards, and even at this hour, appear to be drunk.

  ‘Where’s the fire, you dirty Polack?’ their leader asks, a man who takes pleasure in tormenting other people.

  ‘Jestem Prußakiem,’ you say. They don’t like people using this language, especially not to say they are Prussian. You won’t tell them how you voted. They will only think their crude propaganda, their threats and their violence have succeeded. They think you are a Polish sympathiser, you don’t know why. Perhaps because you come from Warmia and are Catholic. Perhaps because you once protected Marek, the Pole, when the men from the distillery drunkenly abused him in Pritzkus’s bar. Perhaps, even, because of your name, though there are many here who don’t have German names.

  They are drawing closer now, and you realise there was no need to provoke them; they were coming for you anyway.

  ‘That sort of talk’ll get you a good thrashing,’ the bigmouth says.

  ‘It’s long overdue,’ the youngest seconds, a giant of a man, a Masurian who ought to know better than to get involved with these thugs, who only spout nationalist rhetoric as a pretext for breaking people’s noses. Still, perhaps that is the Masurian tragedy: its people want to be more German than the Germans themselves.

  The little one says nothing, but you see the belligerence in his eyes.

  You have no choice. You roll up your sleeves, break off a slat from the shore fence and prepare to defend yourself.

  Gradually they approach, there is no escaping them now. Behind you there is only the river.

  You strike the Masurian giant first, and the strongest of the trio goes to ground. In the meantime the dogged little man has hurled himself at your legs, and you know that if he succeeds in toppling you, all will be lost.

  He clings on, no dislodging him, not even a blow from the slat can knock him loose, and though you struggle, eventually you lose your balance and land on the dusty turf. The Masurian is languishing on the grass, forehead bloodied, but now their leader is upon you, gazing down with boundless contempt in his eyes. He kicks you in
the solar plexus and suddenly you can’t breathe. Still the little man clings to your legs, you can’t get up, and now the ringleader is winding up again – when a police whistle pierces the summer air.

  48

  Up here he issued the commands. He loved the feeling, and it was why he still loved this job, even if it wasn’t what it used to be . . .but, wasn’t that true of everything? Time was when a whole village had answered to him, then a small town; now it was just an intersection. True, it was the busiest in Europe – assuming the information they provided to tourists on Unter den Linden was correct.

  Trams approached from every angle, buses droned impatiently; between them, cars and taxicabs flitted through what spaces they could find, the bicycles gleaming in the milling mass like insects blinded by the sun.

  He turned the lever, and the traffic filtering through Potsdamer Strasse came to a halt. At the front of the line was a taxicab, behind it the number five bus, and, drawing up alongside the cab, a blonde cyclist inadvertently displaying too much leg as her balance failed her. When they would move again would be his decision alone. Up here in the traffic tower he ruled the world!

  There were regulations concerning how long a carriageway could remain closed, but they were subject to interpretation and who the hell was going to check on him? He knew the police commissioner’s official car as well as that of his deputy; the murder wagon likewise. If he saw any of them in line, or a fellow officer, he’d switch straight to green, obviously. But not now, with a cute blonde in a summer dress making a show of her legs.

  Yes, Siegbert Wengler still loved his job, even if it used to provide more thrills. That said, for a man of his age, a blonde in an airy summer dress afforded exactly the right level of thrill to distract from the tedium of his shift, the greatest challenge of which consisted in climbing the ladder that led inside the traffic tower. He looked at his wristwatch. The relief was late. Scholz, the greenhorn! Had he lost track of time in that toilet cubicle at Potsdamer Bahnhof? Or missed his train? He’d give him what for, and it was hardly the first time! If he had to wait any longer than ten minutes, he’d chalk it up to overtime and leave it to the bloody greenhorn to explain.

  In Potsdamer Strasse the first cars began tooting their horns. He took a final glance at the girl’s legs before turning the left-hand lever and bringing the traffic on Stresemannstrasse to a standstill. When he switched the lights to green on Potse, the blonde disappeared behind the two gatehouses flanking the carriageway like little temples, pedalling hard into the chaos.

  Siegbert Wengler was looking forward to finishing his shift, and stretching his legs. Perhaps he’d take a woman tonight. Only, not at Jette’s on Potsdamer Strasse; he had to make sure he didn’t fall into old habits while the killer was still at large. Thanks to his brother, he could afford one of Jette’s girls more or less whenever the fancy took him. Good food, good drink, a woman every now and then, it was more than most fifty-two-year-olds could manage in this city. More than most people his age could hope for from life.

  Soon he’d be retiring. Perhaps he’d return home. The hardest thing would be the girls: there wouldn’t be too many places like Jette’s in Treuburg, or in Masuria – period. He’d have to head out to Königsberg, Danzig, even.

  At last a man in blue uniform and white sleeves crossed the intersection. He couldn’t make out the face under the shako but, by the leather case, it had to be Scholz. Only a greenhorn would transport his sandwiches in a huge thing like that. Still, you needed your sandwiches up here, and a thermos full of coffee went a long way too. It could be draining work in the traffic tower.

  The uniform cop had disappeared underneath the tower, his steps already audible on the ladder. Siegbert Wengler noted the change of shift, accurate to the minute, in the notebook that hung by a string from the control panel, packed his lunchbox and thermos, and stood, legs apart, ready to give that slowpoke Scholz the welcome he deserved. To his disappointment, it was a different face that emerged in the hatch door.

  ‘Who are you?’ he asked, in the tone he had reserved to read the greenhorn the riot act.

  The uniformed officer put down his bag, stood up straight and saluted. ‘Beg to report: the relief. Standing in for Constable Scholz!’

  ‘Standing in? First I’ve heard of it.’

  ‘Constable Scholz sends his apologies. He was taken ill.’

  Siegbert Wengler shook his head. So, Scholz was a malingerer too. ‘That doesn’t excuse your tardiness, Constable!’

  ‘Of course not, Sir. My apologies.’

  ‘Do you know your way round the control panel?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  Wengler leaned over the notebook to erase the name Scholz and replace it with that of his stand-in. ‘Name and rank?’ he barked.

  Behind him there was no response, and suddenly Wengler realised what it was about this new colleague that had thrown him. The huge leather briefcase on the floor was Constable Scholz’s, no doubt about it. Still wondering what it could all mean, he felt the man embrace him from behind, and then a stabbing pain in his neck.

  He tried to defend himself but the man was too strong, and when, finally, he was released, his legs gave way underneath him. He sank to the floor as if the strength had been drained from his body. He could barely move, his muscles refused to obey.

  The uniform cop opened the large case, which really did belong to Scholz, and pulled out a red cloth. ‘Recognise me?’ he asked, unfolding the cloth and placing it over Wengler’s nose and mouth. Wengler tried to shake it off, but couldn’t move, he had no choice but to submit, as if paralysed. He couldn’t speak, his tongue felt alien in his mouth, like a wet rag. ‘You ought to. Because my face is the last thing you’ll ever see.’

  Wengler gazed into the face, but it was no good, he couldn’t place it.

  The face disappeared, and when it returned the man held a large bottle of water which he had apparently fetched from the case. Siegbert Wengler started to shake; those muscles, it seemed, functioned still.

  Then came the water. At first all he felt was the cloth grow damp and clammy, but then the water penetrated the fabric, into his mouth and nose. It spread everywhere, into his jaws, deeper and deeper. He couldn’t breathe, it was everywhere. He lay motionless, unable to put up a fight. Only the muscles he had no control over seemed still to function: his heart pounded, reflexes stirred in his throat, he was choking; he tried to throw up, to spew out the water, but couldn’t. He thought he was drowning, no, he didn’t just think it, he knew, he was drowning. Now, at this very moment, as his whole body quivered in the throes of death, he had only seconds to live and didn’t know why.

  Then the dripping wet towel was removed, and he could breathe again, despite feeling as if he had just died. Breathe, breathe, breathe, was all he could think of.

  ‘That’s how she felt too,’ the man said, ‘and I couldn’t save her. I want you to know how she died.’ Wengler stared at the dark, dripping wet cloth. ‘Remember now?’ his tormentor asked, replacing the dank cloth over his nose and mouth. ‘You ought to. You helped lock me up. Back in Marggrabowa.’

  Siegbert Wengler felt the damp cold of the fabric on his skin, saw the man lift the bottle, and the thought of the water alone filled him with mortal terror. He’d have screamed in panic if he could, but the screams sounded only in his head, piercing as a siren. The eyes of the man glinted under the shako, as the bottle tilted, and then, just before it reached the cloth and drowned him a second time, he remembered. Siegbert Wengler knew why he must die.

  49

  Just another half-hour in Haus Vaterland. Never before had Charly so looked forward to finishing a shift; she could hardly wait. Any kind of police drudgery would be preferable to this. Just a few hours overtime . . .it had ruined her day, her whole weekend in fact. She had been hoping to rummage through Unger’s papers undisturbed, but Sundays were the busiest time.

  At least she wasn’t peeling vegetables. A dishwasher had cancelled at short notice and they
had been unable to find a replacement. She wasn’t sure why they had asked her, perhaps her onion peeling wasn’t up to scratch. She couldn’t say if she was any better at washing-up, but had suffered no breakages so far.

  She observed Manfred Unger carefully. There was no sign that he’d been intimidated by the two goons from last night, and certainly not that he’d spied his new kitchen maid-cum-office assistant in the same dive. He treated her as he always did, with relative kindness, being less concerned with chiding her than he was the rest of his staff. So far, they hadn’t exchanged a word, though she felt his eyes on her the whole time. Whenever she turned around, he was looking at her through the glass window.

  Washing dishes might have been kinder on her eyes, but it wasn’t a promotion, and she still had her work cut out. The machine had to be fed like a hungry wolf, and, when the dishes emerged, more often than not you had to wash half again by hand. Her apron was soaked through, and in some places the water had penetrated to the skin, where her clothes clung damp to her body.

  She’d promised Greta that they’d head out to the Wannsee for a girls’ afternoon, a much-needed distraction after her perfunctory exchange with Gereon yesterday. A few hours in the afternoon sun, swimming and browsing a detective novel would be just the ticket. No doubt they’d have to fob off the advances of the odd man, but Greta was a past master, and the more puffed up, the better.

  She felt as if she were being watched again, and squinted to the left, only to find that Unger was gone. The office was empty. Suddenly she heard his voice from the other side of the conveyor belt. ‘Fräulein Ritter, you’ve stood there long enough.’ She turned round and saw the head chef and a stick-thin boy clad in an apron. Unger pointed at the boy. ‘Franzeken here will relieve you.’