The Fatherland Files

by volker Kutscher

  Approaching from Lyck he could already make out the Treuburg water tower, but instead of holding course, he bore left and drove up to Luisenhöhe. The staff in the estate house were surprised to see him again. Yes, Herr Wengler had returned, yesterday evening in fact, but unfortunately he wasn’t home. After church he had gone to vote, and he still had business to attend to in town.

  When was he expected?

  A shrug.

  ‘I need to find Herr Wengler. It’s a matter of life and death.’

  The servant looked at Rath as if he had never heard such nonsense. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘I’ll pass that on.’

  ‘It might be too late by then. Just tell me where I can find him.’

  ‘Try the marketplace, that’s where Herr Wengler’s polling station is.’

  In Treuburg, too, flags hung from windows. Lots of black-white-and-red, interspersed with swastikas. There was even a little black-red-and-gold on show. Only Communist colours were absent; perhaps the Nazis had burned their flags.

  The girls’ school on the marketplace had been transformed into a polling station. Outside the entrance stood a few of Fabeck’s SA boys, brown shirts freshly ironed, hair parted straight as a die. They threw Rath dirty glances but, in the absence of their Rottenführer, seemed unsure whether to take matters further. ‘Berliners aren’t permitted to vote here,’ said one, as Rath pushed past.

  ‘Who wants to vote with people like your Führer standing?’

  Before the youth could respond, he disappeared inside. Dressed in their Sunday best, the Treuburgers were fulfilling their patriotic duty. Gustav Wengler was nowhere to be seen. ‘The Herr Director has voted already,’ one of the polling officers said. No more information was forthcoming.

  Outside, he found Klaus Fabeck and troops blocking his path. ‘If it isn’t our busybody friend from Berlin,’ Fabeck said. ‘SA-officer Brandt tells me you’ve been insulting the Führer . . .’

  ‘Have I?’ Rath lit a cigarette. ‘Well, he isn’t my Führer. I’m sorry if I hurt your tender feelings for the man. I forgot you lot are all gay.’

  ‘You’re lucky it’s polling day, Inspector. Once these elections are over, you’d better watch out. People like you will be first for the chop.’

  ‘People like me?’

  ‘Those who mock the Führer. Once Adolf Hitler assumes his rightful position as leader of the German Volk, only true Germans . . .’

  ‘He didn’t even make it to Reich President,’ Rath interrupted. ‘Perhaps it’s time Herr Hitler headed back to Austria. Half a year ago he didn’t have citizenship, now he’s telling us what it means to be German?’

  Fabeck stood poised to attack, but his two companions held him back.

  ‘Leave it, Klaus,’ said one. ‘He’s a cop. He’s trying to provoke you, so he can lock you up.’

  Rath lifted his hat. ‘I bid you good day.’

  Without hurrying he made sure to put a little distance between himself and the group. Fists inwardly raised, he readied himself to strike, but the attack never came.

  Outside the Kronprinzen he ran into Karl Rammoser, who sat on the terrace in the shade. ‘Inspector, what are you doing back in Masuria?’

  ‘Try keeping me away.’

  ‘Isn’t it polling day in Berlin?’

  ‘I have more important things to do. I’m looking for Gustav Wengler.’

  ‘I saw him about an hour ago, coming out of the polling station. Exchanged a few words with the SA lads, then got in his car.’

  ‘Well, he isn’t home. I was up there just now.’

  ‘Then I assume he’s gone for a drive. He does that sometimes, just hops in his car and drives around, out to some lake, or forest.’

  ‘It is pretty around here.’

  ‘You’re telling me. Only, not everyone has a Mercedes to enjoy it.’

  ‘A Buick will do just fine.’ He gestured towards his car, which was parked down by the roadside. ‘Can I drive you home?’

  ‘Too early for me, I’m afraid. I’m meeting someone for lunch.’

  ‘Well, then . . .’ Rath tipped his hat by way of goodbye.

  He wondered how long he could leave the Buick by the marketplace before the SA slashed his tyres. It hardly faded into the background, besides being the only vehicle here with IA plates. It seemed even the Berlin tourist family had returned in time to vote. All other cars bore the East Prussian registration IC.

  He got in his car and considered where Polakowski might be hiding. He had no idea. This trip to Treuburg might be a crackpot idea, yet he knew Polakowski was here somewhere, waiting to complete his revenge.

  He settled down. If Wengler was in his Mercedes then he was safe, for the time being. Whether that was true at Luisenhöhe was another matter.

  At least he had managed to pick up the trail again after Danzig. That ought to pacify Böhm somewhat. He started the engine and set off. Perhaps he should take a leaf out of Wengler’s book and enjoy the scenery, and maybe he’d meet the maroon-coloured Mercedes along the way.

  Something on the Lega bridge was flapping in the breeze. He reversed a few metres and looked out the side window. A red handkerchief was tied to the railing. He pulled over and got out of the car. No doubt about it, it was the same as the one they’d recovered from the lift at Haus Vaterland. In the traffic tower at Potsdamer Platz; in Wittenberge and in Dortmund. Fearing the worst he gazed over the railing, scouring the Lega’s shallow waters for a corpse.

  He took a deep breath before climbing down to the river to check underneath the bridge. Only when he was certain there was no body did he return to the handkerchief. It was dry.

  Suddenly it dawned on him that the red handkerchiefs were a signal to Polakowski’s victims, rather than a simple means of torture. The same signal had lured Anna von Mathée to her death – and Jakub Polakowski to ruin.

  Rath got into the Buick and drove to Markowsken without filling up. He’d only have enough for another few kilometres but couldn’t afford to be late. Wengler had almost certainly seen the sign.

  Apart from two horse carriages, the road was clear. His instincts hadn’t betrayed him: the red Mercedes was parked by the edge of the forest.

  Gustav Wengler wanted rid of this man who threatened his legend, this man who knew his status was founded on lies and hypocrisy. Did he think he had the edge on Polakowski? That was what Herbert Lamkau and Siegbert Wengler had thought, until Polakowski administered his needle and resistance was crushed. Did Wengler realise exactly how his brother had died?

  Rath drove into the forest until the road became track, parked and started walking. He didn’t know how far it was, couldn’t be sure he wouldn’t get lost again without Adamek and his local knowledge; but still he continued, until suddenly he saw the water sparkle through the trees.

  He considered calling out loud, so that he could bring home the folly of Polakowski’s endeavour, but then the man would be warned, and he would never catch him. And Rath wanted to catch him. Not just because he was a mass murderer, but because he might be a viable witness in the case against Gustav Wengler. He worked his way through the forest until he could see the little lake – but it was too late.

  Standing in the shallows over Gustav Wengler’s inert body was Hartmut Janke, aka Jakub Polakowski, the man whose life Wengler had so utterly destroyed. Wengler’s head was submerged, but Polakowski pulled it out. Wengler gasped for air, but not as frantically as someone who fears he will drown. The tubocurarine must be at work. Polakowski apparently spoke with Wengler, who sat listlessly in the water.

  Rath imagined Polakowski speaking with his other victims, reminding them of their sins, of the harm they had visited on himself and Anna, even asking about Gustav Wengler, as, slowly, he ended their lives.

  Then he realised he wasn’t alone in the forest. A man was crouched behind a thick pine trunk, brown suit scarcely visible against its surroundings. It was Erich Grigat in plain clothes, his weapon drawn and trained on Polakowski. He meant to shoot Polakowski dead f
irst time, and not hit Gustav Wengler by mistake.

  Rath could have made short work of things with his service pistol, but it was locked in a Polish border office.

  Down by the water Polakowski was still speaking, and Grigat had eyes only for the killer and his next victim. Rath grabbed a stick from the forest floor, and approached the chief constable slowly from behind, making sure he didn’t step on any withered branches that might give him away. It was a trick he had from reading Karl May, although perhaps fortune looked kindly on him. As Gustav Wengler’s head was thrust underwater a second time, he struck, and Grigat slumped to his knees before collapsing sideways on the soft forest floor. His service pistol, a Luger, fell out of his hand. Rath claimed it, walked the final few metres to the shore, and emerged from the shadow of the trees.

  Polakowski didn’t see him, hadn’t heard him above the splash. Wengler lay on his back, face submerged in the water. A few bubbles rose to the surface, otherwise all was still. Wengler didn’t so much as twitch.

  Rath caught himself taking pleasure in the scene: the great Gustav Wengler drowned by his own wretched victim. Wasn’t that just, and didn’t he deserve to die? Should he, Rath, not simply wait until Polakowski had completed his task before making his arrest? He just needed to stay quiet, to avoid startling Polakowski and preventing him from carrying out the execution, but the other part of Rath’s conscience was already working. His right hand released the safety catch on Grigat’s Luger and held it at the ready, as his feet continued towards the shore. It was time to end this.

  ‘CID, Berlin,’ he said. ‘I’m armed. Please do as I say.’ Polakowski’s body grew rigid. Though the man’s back was to him, Rath felt certain it was devoid of expression. ‘Remove the man from the water. Slowly and carefully.’

  Polakowski lifted Wengler by the shoulders. No sooner did his head surface than he took a deep, heavy breath. The escaped convict, who had spent long years wrongfully languishing in jail, held his victim and tormentor above the water.

  ‘Bring him ashore.’

  Rath didn’t know if that would save Wengler. He had no idea if and when the curare would exert its deadly effect, or if Wengler already had too much water in his lungs. Polakowski seized Wengler’s body under the armpits and dragged him slowly towards the shore.

  ‘Now lay him down, place your hands in the air and turn around.’

  Polakowski obeyed, but turned so quickly that Rath scarcely knew what was happening, knocking the Luger out of his hand in a single motion. The pistol landed in the undergrowth, and Polakowski was on him.

  The man was strong and deadly serious. Polakowski took his neck in a chokehold. He couldn’t prise his hands free. He wriggled and thrashed his legs, reared up, but it was no use. Polakowski stayed on top, hands squeezing mercilessly until, suddenly, his grip loosened and he toppled to the side like a felled tree.

  Rath gripped his neck and looked up. Gustav Wengler stood over him, holding Grigat’s Luger in his hand, which glistened with Jakub Polakowski’s blood. Rath was confused. It was strange to see a firearm used as a primitive cudgel, but it had worked, Polakowski had been immobilised. Wengler had saved his life.

  Rath would never have thought he’d have to feel grateful towards the man, yet here he was. ‘You need a doctor,’ he said. ‘He’s injected you with tubocurarine. Probably in a fatal dose. It’s a miracle you can even stand.’

  ‘You disappoint me, Inspector!’ said Wengler. ‘I thought you were more intelligent than that, and less scrupulous.’ He grew more serious. ‘I’d hoped you’d shoot the swine. The man was trying to kill me.’

  ‘He didn’t inject you with paralytic poison?’

  ‘He injected me with something, and I’m sure he believed it was the Devil’s work.’ Wengler laughed. ‘When really it was saline solution.’ He gestured towards a large tree by the shore. ‘The needle lay hidden there for days. I had a hunch he’d want to finish things here, and asked Erich to keep an eye on the lake. It was no problem to switch the needles.’

  ‘Then you were playacting? Why?’

  Wengler looked at the weapon. ‘Did you get this off Erich? That isn’t nice, you know. It’s his service pistol. Where is he, by the way?’

  ‘Sleeping the sleep of the just. Now explain: why the dying swan?’

  ‘Why, indeed? To manufacture a situation where the bastard could be gunned down without Erich being brought to trial.’

  ‘It was all planned?’

  ‘Inspector, for more than two years I have known that Polakowski was outside, planning his revenge. He made the mistake of obtaining false papers from Paul Marczewski of all people. In Königsberg. Without realising I do business with the man.’

  ‘Did business with the man.’

  ‘I see you’re well informed. Yes, sadly I had to end our business partnership but, back then, it proved very useful. When the Polack started making inquiries about my people, Marczewski naturally informed me right away.’

  ‘You knew the whole time? Why didn’t you protect your men?’

  ‘Why should I? They’d become a nuisance. The sins of one’s youth.’ He shook his head. ‘Inspector, I’m trying to legitimise my business operation and these tales of moonshining are damaging.’

  ‘But . . .your own brother . . .’

  ‘If you must know, Siegbert was a corrupt bastard. Sooner or later he’d have blackmailed me if I’d interrupted my payments. He’d cost me far too much already, and he was a lazy swine.’

  ‘Then Polakowski acted in your interests.’

  ‘You know, he thought he was scaring me with those death notices. I was pleased with his work. How much do you think it’d have cost to pay someone for all that?’

  ‘Well, you ought to know. You paid for Assmann, didn’t you? Or did Lapke go halves with you?’

  ‘Inspector, if you’re so clever, why is it I have to do your work for you?’

  Wengler raised Grigat’s pistol and aimed at the unconscious Polakowski. Rath closed his eyes.

  ‘Wengler, you can’t! I’ll have you for this.’

  ‘You think you’re going to survive?’ He aimed the pistol at Rath. ‘First I’m going to shoot the Polack, then I’m going to shoot you. Afterwards we’ll cook up a nice story about how you tried to save me, but died a hero’s death. Poor Grigat sustained a blow to the head during the struggle, of course, but will testify to my version of events. A police witness always looks good.’

  ‘I’m warning you, Wengler. My colleagues will be here any moment.’

  Wengler laughed. ‘Even you don’t believe that. The way Grigat tells it, you’d rather run from your colleagues than keep them informed.’ Suddenly his laughter died, and he gazed over the barrel with an ice-cold expression. ‘Any more and you’ll be first to go.’

  ‘Wengler, you wretched . . .’

  Creature, Rath was about to say, but he ran out of time. He heard a whirring sound, then a noise that sounded like a fence post being driven into a quagmire. A shot struck his shoulder and threw him backwards looking up. Gustav Wengler stood as before, Luger smoking in his hand. In his neck was a long, thin arrow.

  Wengler dropped the pistol and reached with both hands for his throat, gasping for air as he tried to remove the shaft. The next arrow struck him in the left eye and it was as if he had been snap-frozen. He stared rigidly towards the lake, at a thick shrub on the other side of the little bay, before tilting like a tree slowly torn from its roots, falling sideways into the water and landing on his back.

  Rath sat up, only now aware of the pain in his shoulder. Wengler’s lifeless body lay in the shallows. Two arrows, one in his throat, one in his left eye, protruded like solitary reeds.

  99

  Again Rath sat on Ernst Gennat’s green armchair, only this time things were more serious. This was no dirty trick. A man had died during a police operation, and not just any man but a Treuburg luminary, whose obituary served as a moving tribute to national pathos everywhere.

  On the day that oug
ht to have been his greatest triumph; the day on which nationalist forces saw an unparalleled upsurge in his beloved Treuburg, Gustav Wengler, philanthropist sans pareil, died in a hail of Berlin Police bullets.

  Rath was familiar with this kind of tone. He had endured similar in Cologne, and eventually been forced to leave. He didn’t care what they wrote about him in Treuburg, but Erich Grigat was more than making up for it, despite the counter statement issued to the Treuburger Zeitung by Berlin Police Headquarters, refuting the paper’s more outrageous claims. The police constable was still on sick leave, recovering from a serious head injury with relatives in Elbing, and had already put in for a transfer.

  It was probably for the best, even if Editor Ziegler wouldn’t be able to preserve Gustav Wengler’s reputation forever. Maria Cofalka’s death was being investigated. Königsberg CID had a Homicide unit on site, which included Anton Kowalski, and, by their last telephone conversation, it was only a matter of time before the deceased Wengler was implicated by one of Fabeck’s troop. At least here, it seemed time was working in justice’s favour. Each SA man that sat in custody was a victory for public security. Since the vote the brownshirts had stepped up their brutal and often fatal assaults. The surge in Nazi votes promised anything but stability.

  Gennat glanced at Rath’s report and shook his head. ‘Well I never.’ The superintendent gestured towards his sling. ‘How’s the shoulder?’

  ‘Fine, thank you. Bandage comes off next week.’

  The blood-soaked bandage and sling that held his arm steady made a wretched impression, but had been a great help in mollifying Charly. Confined to his bed by doctor’s orders, he had been moved by her concern. So much so that he’d almost forgotten about the pain.

  ‘I still don’t understand why you took Chief Constable Grigat’s service pistol.’

  ‘To arm myself. Mine was with Polish border officers in Wirsitz. I knew Polakowski couldn’t be far away.’

  Gennat raised his eyebrows. ‘Yet it was Gustav Wengler who was shot!’