The Fatherland Files

by volker Kutscher

  ‘Then get going. I need to send the names by lunchtime. Detective Chief Inspector Böhm’s requested them already.’

  Kowalski nodded and looked towards the front as the district administrator, Wachsmann, buttoned his jacket and climbed the steps to the war memorial to open the official ceremony commemorating the 1920 plebiscite. The whispering at the tables died when the microphone issued its first sound. Wachsmann contented himself with a simple greeting; the majority of his address consisted in listing the names of the local dignitaries present. Rath was pleased that Dr Wachsmann also bid them welcome on behalf of the mayor; there would be no need to submit to this pantomime a second time.

  ‘I would like, in particular,’ Wachsmann said, having now worked his way through his list, ‘to welcome those here from the west. The Corridor may continue to rupture our Fatherland, but, as your presence demonstrates, we remain very much part of the German Reich, to which we professed our loyalty exactly twelve years ago. Ladies and gentlemen, I welcome those families from Berlin and Pomerania who have holidayed in Masuria for years, unstinting in their solidarity with our beautiful region. I extend an equally warm welcome to all those celebrating the plebiscite anniversary with us today for the first time. May you return, next year, and in ten, in twenty, in fifty years!’ His gaze passed among the rows like an itinerant preacher hailing the newly baptised. ‘Now, please join me in welcoming to the stage a man who, twelve years ago, fought unswervingly to repel the Polish assault on our hometown! Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Gustav Wengler!’

  From the far reaches of the memorial ground Director Wengler approached at a measured pace, dressed in formal dark suit and top hat. The effect was more dramatic than rising from a table at the front. Rath couldn’t help but grin at the thought of him waiting behind a tree, speech tucked under one arm. Despite the obvious artificiality, the people hailed the owner of the Luisenhöhe estate like a tribune. Rath dutifully joined the applause, but felt uneasy. He didn’t know what to make of Wachsmann’s gushing national pathos, which also featured heavily in Wengler’s speech, the opening lines of which were peppered with terms such as Heimat, Vaterland and Treue. Homeland, Fatherland, Devotion.

  The director was the better speaker, which surprised Rath, who had assumed that oratory was the most important weapon in a politician’s armoury. Perhaps Wengler was the better politician too. It seemed as if the entrepreneur were the secret ruler of this town – or perhaps there was no secret about it.

  ‘We all know what happened twelve years ago,’ Wengler announced. ‘To many of you today it will seem only natural that Masuria should have remained German. In fact, it was anything but. We had to fight. In trying to wrest our homeland away, the Poles did everything they could to sow hatred and discord among us . . .’

  Rath remembered Rammoser’s words: that it had been Wengler and his thugs sowing the hatred and discord. How many of their number would be dressed in brown today? The Treuburg SA had commandeered an entire table for itself, and, in point of fact, its members listened more attentively to Wengler than the rest. As far as Rath could see, the estate owner wore no swastika, not even the little lapel badge Hitler’s party colleagues were so fond of displaying. Perhaps the man didn’t belong to the party, and simply used it for his own ends. Something like Johann Marlow, who presided over the Berolina Ringverein without ever having been a member. In Rath’s eyes the SA were little more than a gang of criminals, at least in Berlin. Here in Treuburg things were different.

  ‘Their gamble didn’t pay off,’ Wengler continued. ‘We Treuburgers resisted their cunning and trickery and professed our unswerving devotion to the Reich. We did not yield! Even when Polish propaganda and its lies claimed a human life.’ He made a brief, but effective pause. ‘Most of you know what I am talking about. Who I am talking about. A woman from our midst; a woman who gave her life so that she might profess her allegiance to Prussia and Germany. On the day our fate was sealed, the fate of our town and our district, the fate of the whole of Masuria, so too . . .was her fate sealed.’ He broke off as if overcome by the memory.

  Rath looked around at people gazing in silence towards the front, a few women dabbing their eyes with handkerchiefs. The teachers wore looks of reverence, even Rammoser, though the lines around his mouth suggested he didn’t agree with everything Wengler had said. The librarian’s expression was easier to interpret. Maria Cofalka regarded Gustav Wengler with distaste, if not outright revulsion. Rath could understand. He, too, was repelled by the theatricality of Wengler’s act. He looked at the man’s face, unsure if his feelings were genuine, or simply a means of adding emotional authenticity to his yearly address.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Wengler said now. ‘Please be upstanding so that we may commemorate Anna von Mathée’s death with a minute’s silence.’

  Chairs scraped, isolated coughs and whispers died, and an almost religious stillness descended. The only sound was the wind rustling in the trees. Rath gazed into serious faces. Anna von Mathée’s death still touched people twelve years after the event.

  ‘I think that most of you know Anna’s story,’ Wengler continued. ‘Most of you are aware of how she was killed; that it happened on the day of the plebiscite, at the hands of one of those alien elements that sought to rob us of our homeland. Most of you know that Anna was my fiancée. Her death gives me every reason to hate her killer, but today I do not wish to speak of hatred, only love. Nor do I wish to speak of the past, only the future.’

  The love Wengler proclaimed was love for the Fatherland, and the future he conjured was music to the ears of the brownshirts alone. Despite his statement to the contrary, the chief of the Homeland Service did not let the past lie. He spoke instead of ‘wounds that refused to heal’, referring to the Corridor as ‘that wedge which has been driven between Prussian body and soul’. Again, the pause was timed to perfection. ‘They have separated us from the Fatherland, but they will never tear our German hearts from our breasts! One day we will be bound with the Reich once more, and the humiliation of Versailles erased.’

  Rath was familiar with this rhetoric. When a speaker pulled out the stops in this way, he could count on the approval of his public, irrespective of politics or class. Even so, he had never heard anything like the primal jubilation that erupted from the Treuburgers when Wengler finished. Gradually he began to understand why the Nazis, who played on people’s feelings in a similar way, had met with such a positive response here, despite the Masurians’ Polish roots mitigating against their place in the Nazi world view.

  The open-air concert began, so loud it was impossible to hear yourself think. Rath drained his beer and left Kowalski, tapping on his wristwatch as he went. ‘I need those names for one o’clock.’

  Strolling across the festival site, he realised he wasn’t the only one opting to give the musical society’s concert a miss. Mothers waited patiently with their offspring by the merry-go-round, while, a few stands along, a group of lads clouted the high striker to impress the lasses. The puck was sent catapulting towards the bell, and the strong man received a kiss from his sweetheart as a reward. Rath made out Hella’s blonde pigtails and the brown uniform of the SA. Her boyfriend wasn’t the only brownshirt here. The younger members mostly stood before the high striker or shooting gallery, none of them older than twenty. Those at the gallery were likewise surrounded by village beauties. Uniforms were still important in Germany, Rath mused, if only to impress the fair sex. It was the same at the marksmen’s festivals in the Rhineland, youthful sharpshooters prancing in their uniforms to dazzle the girls. Only, the lads here didn’t belong to any gun club, but a political goon squad that until recently had been banned.

  Rath thought of the Communist posters. Glued under the cover of darkness, here were the boys who’d torn them down.

  The scent of roasted almonds and Lebkuchen drove him towards more rustic pleasures, and he ordered a kielbasa at the stand. Polish sausages were still in demand. He bit inside. Not bad.

/>   ‘Bon appétit, Inspector.’ Behind him stood Karl Rammoser.

  ‘Would you like one too?’ Rath asked. ‘It’s on me.’

  ‘No, thank you. I already have plans.’

  ‘Perhaps I can repay your hospitality another time.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I’m surprised to see the SA out in uniform.’

  ‘Klaus Fabeck and his boys? I’d rather they celebrated in uniform than brawled with Communists in plain clothes.’

  ‘Wouldn’t be much of a fight. There are only two Communists here.’

  Rammoser changed topics. ‘Maria mentioned you stopped by the district library?’

  ‘That’s right. Because of Radlewski.’

  ‘You still suspect poor Artur?’

  ‘Not if he could assure me, in person, that he hasn’t set foot outside East Prussia these last few months.’

  ‘Maria’s worried about Artur; she thinks you have the wrong man. No one knows him better around here.’

  ‘I can believe that. She was in love with him, wasn’t she?’

  ‘I’m too young to know the full story. Apparently, she was smitten at school.’

  ‘Perhaps she still is.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Rammoser glanced at the table of dignitaries where Gustav Wengler now took centre stage; planets orbiting his sun. ‘How did you like the speech?’

  ‘Impressive.’ Rath couldn’t think of a more diplomatic response.

  ‘Many think Wengler should go into politics.’

  ‘If politics is about making yourself popular by telling people what they want to hear, there’s no doubt he’d be a success.’

  ‘The way it looks, he sets greater store by his distillery than his political career.’

  ‘At least that way he can’t do any damage.’

  ‘Folks here like what he says.’

  ‘So much the worse. Shouldn’t you be trying to make peace with Poland? They’re your neighbours.’

  ‘You’re preaching to the converted but, given Wengler’s story, his hatred is understandable.’

  ‘Maybe. I just find it pretty tasteless, the way he . . .’

  ‘Exploits his personal history for effect?’

  ‘Something like that,’ Rath agreed. ‘He infects the whole town with his hatred. I think it’s dangerous. It isn’t just the acclaim. It’s the people who acclaim him.’

  ‘You have to understand they’re afraid of being forgotten, over in the Reich.’

  ‘People rail against the Corridor in the Reich too. Only in Berlin, the Nazis aren’t part of the village community.’

  ‘Well, maybe that’s because Berlin’s no village.’

  54

  Constable Erwin Scholz lay on his sickbed, wan-faced, skin colour scarcely distinguishable from his bed linen, but he didn’t seem to have sustained lasting damage. That was something, at least.

  Next step was to discover what had put the poor man out of commission, even if Gräf was certain the blood analysis would point to curare, or some other form of Indian poison. In the meantime he and Lange had become experts in all things South American, though they still hadn’t traced the source of the poison that had killed Lamkau and his fellow East Prussians. This despite the industrious Lange borrowing various academic texts to aid them in their inquiry. Perhaps the mysterious killer had cooked up the poison himself, a would-be Indian prowling noiselessly through Berlin murdering its citizens: a gruesome image.

  Erwin Scholz knew nothing about that, but then he knew just as little about what had befallen him at Potsdamer Bahnhof, where a member of cleaning staff had found him slouched in the gentlemen’s toilets in the middle of the night.

  ‘His body was heavily sedated for hours, and his circulation still hasn’t returned to normal,’ the doctor had said. ‘You need to be patient with him.’

  Sadly, patience was the one thing they couldn’t afford. The crazy Indian had struck again, and this time the victim was one of their own. As a result, Gennat had chosen to strengthen the Vaterland team’s reserves. Almost all homicide detectives were now at Böhm’s disposal with the exception of the Phantom troop, which had been left untouched. For whatever reason, Buddha seemed to dote on Dettmann.

  Böhm wanted to recall Rath from East Prussia, but so far his efforts to reach him had proved in vain. Gräf could imagine why. Gereon had never been especially good at keeping Böhm in the loop. In fact, he was a past master at avoiding him, mostly because he couldn’t stand the man, but sometimes because he had a lead he didn’t want to share.

  Well, yesterday he had shared – and, goddamn it, he had been right. Already the Berlin press had wind of it. A dead man in the middle of Potsdamer Platz couldn’t be kept secret. Too many people had witnessed the gridlock, and the murder wagon parked at the foot of the traffic tower.

  The pale constable looked wretched, but this was no time for sympathy. Gräf took out his notepad, ready to begin. ‘How well did you know Sergeant Major Wengler?’

  There was a shrug from the bed. ‘He was a colleague. Taught me how to use the controls.’

  ‘Is there much teaching involved?’

  ‘Not really. But you know how it is . . .the older generation aren’t always so good with technology. Knowing how to operate all the buttons and switches was a source of pride.’

  ‘Were you ever at Wengler’s home?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you know where he lives?’

  ‘In Schöneberg, I think.’

  ‘He moved. A few weeks ago.’

  ‘Moved? Where?’

  ‘I was hoping he might have said something to you.’

  Yesterday evening, Gräf had called at Wengler’s registered home address in Feurigstrasse with a team of forensic technicians. The landlady peered suspiciously through the crack in the door. No wonder. Gone nine, and here were five men whose rumpled suits and tired, sullen faces did not inspire confidence. They looked as if they’d spent most of the afternoon crawling on the floor, which, of course, they had.

  ‘Police? What do you want from me?’

  ‘From you, nothing. We’re here for one of your tenants. Siegbert Wengler. We need to take a look at his flat.’

  ‘You have the wrong address. He doesn’t live here any more.’

  Siegbert Wengler had moved four weeks before, though no one knew where, neither the landlady, with whom he had lived for almost eight years, nor Wengler’s Traffic Police colleagues. He had no close friends on the force, at least none that Gräf had spoken to, including Constable Scholz.

  ‘Is it possible he felt threatened?’ Gräf asked. ‘Did he ever hint at something like that? I mean, was there a reason he lived such a secluded life?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Sir, but Sergeant Major Wengler wasn’t much of a talker. Do you have any idea who might’ve killed him?’

  ‘The way it looks, the same man who stole your uniform.’ The constable’s face grew paler still. Gräf showed him a sketch commissioned by Lange following a witness statement. It had come out pretty generic; the most eye-catching thing was the shako. ‘Could it have been this man? Perhaps you noticed him at the station beforehand? Someone behaving suspiciously?’

  Constable Scholz gave the sketch a good look before shaking his head. ‘I don’t recognise the face.’

  ‘Pity. We could’ve been onto something there.’

  Scholz gestured towards the shako. ‘The uniform he’s wearing is mine, I assume? I’d like to help, but I didn’t see the man. I felt him grip me from behind, there was a sting in my neck, and then everything went black.’

  ‘But you’re certain it was a man . . .’

  ‘Of course . . . You think a woman would be capable of overpowering me?’ Gräf said nothing. ‘In the men’s toilets, I’d have noticed a woman straightaway.’

  ‘Do you have any explanation as to why no one realised you’d been attacked?’

  ‘There was no one else around.’

  ‘In the station toilets?’

  ‘It’s where I
always go before my shift starts. There are no washing facilities in the traffic tower, no toilet either. You have to plan ahead. No way you can work up there with a weak bladder.’

  ‘Plan ahead, understood.’ Gräf made a note. ‘And you always use the same washroom . . .’

  Scholz nodded. ‘I take the Wannsee line to work. Seems only natural.’

  ‘Just so there are no misunderstandings. You use the same washroom facilities at Potsdamer Bahnhof every day?’

  ‘Yes, for God’s sake. Why’s it so important?’

  ‘We’ll see,’ Gräf said. He didn’t want to put the man under any more strain, but it looked as if this stranger had spent days, perhaps even weeks, waiting for the opportunity to steal his uniform and gain access to the traffic tower.

  55

  Goddamn it! Did he have to take care of everything himself? He hung up, ruing the fact that the cabins were equipped with swing doors, but at least now he knew why he hadn’t reached Charly yesterday evening, and why Böhm had wanted to speak with him.

  Kowalski waited outside the post office. ‘What news from Berlin?’ he asked, pushing himself up from the wing of the car. ‘Are they happy?’

  ‘Get in.’ Kowalski obeyed without further comment. Rath sat in the passenger seat. At least here he could slam the door.

  Kowalski had provided the names at one on the dot, five more distillery workers who, according to the Treuburg gossip mill, were implicated in the moonshining scandal. Two had moved, but three were still employed by the distillery, among them Dietrich Assmann, the operations manager, currently on business in Berlin.

  ‘Good work on your list, Kowalski.’ Böhm had noted each name meticulously: Berlin didn’t want any more mistakes. No doubt Warrants were already working flat out.

  Rath stared out the window as Kowalski rolled the engine. The Communists had been at it again. Down with Fascism! Join the Communist struggle! Choose List 3! They must have put them up in broad daylight this time; the slogans were still damp from the paste. Today the marketplace was more or less deserted, save for the pile of wood in its centre. It looked as if the townsfolk were still searching for a heretic to burn.