AS ROLF APPROACHED the front doors of police headquarters he felt a tug at his sleeve. It was Peter Hofstengl, Gretl’s father. The colors of his face were white and red, with the red concentrated around the eyes. His clothing stank both of cigarette smoke and of having been worn for many days straight.
“Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Hofstengl?”
“Sir,” Mr. Hofstengl spoke as if apologizing for every syllable, “Could you please tell me where I can find my wife?”
“Your wife, sir?” Rolf couldn’t think of where she might have gone, or why Mr. Hofstengl thought he’d know.
“My wife. I need to know where to find her. Your men took her into protective custody two days ago, and they said I’d be told where she was going, but no one’s said anything to me yet and I’m afraid for her, sir. She has medication she needs to take, you see, sir. And she’s been neglecting it anyway, with the stress of Gretl’s… you know. And now I don’t know whether they know to give it to her, you see, sir. So if you could just see your way clear to telling me where I could find her.” Mr. Hofstengl’s head drooped, like that of a man begging for a penny. A couple of uniformed cops came out of headquarters. They eyed Rolf and Mr. Hofstengl as if they were dog turds on the steps. Rolf pulled Hofstengl to one side.
“Sir,” Rolf said. “You did say that they said ‘protective custody’?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Stay here. I’m going to see what I can do.”
Rolf moved through the rooms and hallways of headquarters with a singleness of purpose that had been alien to him since his arrival. He burst into Weissengel’s office without knocking, the door swinging so widely and so violently that it knocked over a stack of Rolf’s old files; old papers and gray file folders cascaded to the floor. Weissengel’s expression, at first shocked and appalled, iced over when he realized it was Rolf who had done this to his office.
“Kommissar, is another juvenile attempt at sabotage?” Weissengel said.
“Why is Gretl Hofstengl’s mother in protective custody?”
“Whatever do you mean, Kommissar?”
“Her husband’s outside. He said your boys paid them a visit a couple of days ago and hauled her away. He wants to know where you took her, and so do I. Now where is she?”
Weissengel stood and puffed his chest out to better display his SS uniform. “Kommissar Wundt, protective custody orders are a matter for the Gestapo and those branches of the Order and Criminal Police that we choose to deputize. It does not concern you at all.”
“Hauptstürmführer Weissengel, it does concern me. I made promises to these people. They’ve already lost one family member, and I don’t want them losing any more.”
“They should have thought of that, especially in light of our past services to their family in identifying their daughter’s killers.”
“We didn’t identify them. You know it. I know it, and they know it.”
“I do not know it,” Weissengel said. “As to what you know, as you can see I’m already having great difficulty ascertaining what you really know.”
“Where is Mrs. Hofstengl?”
“Go to hell, Kommissar.”
“What did you say to me?” Rolf stepped around Weissengel’s desk. “Say it again, you miserable little shit, and I’ll throw you through the wall.”
Weissengel smirked at Rolf. “You do, and you, or your wife, will learn firsthand what happened to Mrs. Hofstengl. You don’t really believe you still have protection, Kommissar? We own you. You belong to us. And if we decide that you’re no longer useful, we’ll put you to other uses in Dachau. Your commie, Jew-loving, rug muncher of a wife too.” Weissengel grabbed Rolf’s arm. Rolf jerked away. “Come on, Kommissar. Throw me through a wall. I dare you. Throw me.”
Rolf stepped back, keeping his arms at his sides. “What did you call my wife?”
“Kommissar, I want a full report on your activities since you were attacked, on my desk, tonight,” Weissengel said.
“Can’t do it.”
“Then you’re dead.”
“I have an assignment to carry out for Kriminaldirektor Brüning tonight, so I won’t be available.”
“What assignment?”
“Surveillance. I’m not at liberty to explain more. If you want more, talk to Kriminaldirektor Brüning. Now, would you mind telling me where Mrs. Hofstengl is?”
“Yes, I would mind.” Weissengel started picking up the spilled files. “Tell him she’ll write soon.”
“Is that the truth?”
“How the fuck do I know what that stupid old bitch will do?” Weissengel shouted. “What makes you think I care?”
“You shipped her off. But I’ll pass along your message to Mr. Hofstengl. I’m sure he’ll appreciate it.” Rolf clicked his heels, gave a Hitler greeting salute so violent that it forced Weissengel to duck, and marched out of the office.
It occurred to Rolf, as he made his way through the squad room back to the front doors, that this surveillance assignment could be used to get Weissengel off his back, at least temporarily. All he had to do was backdate the surveillance order a couple of weeks and say he was checking up on some allegations made against a prominent figure, whose name he wouldn’t reveal until facts could be ascertained with any degree of certainty — the world’s greatest put-off phrase. When could facts be ascertained with any degree of certainty? What in the world was “any degree of certainty”? Let Weissengel tie himself up in knots over that for a few days. He stopped at the desk of an Inspector Stark, picked up a pad of paper and wrote a quick note. Stark looked up from a report he was typing, “Can I help you, Kommissar?”
“Yes,” Rolf finished the note, tore it off, folded it in half, and handed it to Stark. “I want you to deliver this note to Kriminaldirektor Brüning immediately. You’ll find him at his racquet club.”
“Sir, I have a lot of paperwork…”
“I said immediately, Inspector. Take the note and go.”
“Where is his racquet club, sir?”
Rolf told him the address and ordered him to hurry. Stark stuck the note in his shirt pocket and scrambled out of the squad room. Rolf glanced at the report flapping in his typewriter, found three spelling errors in the first four lines, and wondered where the hell they’d found these people. He took a quick look around for Hans-Josef. When he didn’t see him, Rolf stopped by the front desk and told the desk sergeant that he wanted Hans-Josef here at 1830 hours to help him with the surveillance. That done, he went outside to try to explain to Mr. Hofstengl what had become of his wife.
A few hours later, sitting in overstuffed, high backed chairs near the cool, red marble walls of the Führerbau’s Great Hall, Rolf and Hans-Josef monitored the dais where a gaggle of SS men had gathered. Their target, Standartenführer Von Attar, mingled with his subordinates, affecting the imperiousness of manner that all members of the black order probably practiced at home for hours on end. (Among them, to Rolf’s amusement, was Spender, who seemed anxious to kiss his master’s ring. Oh, if the rest of these people only knew where else Spender’s — and his wife’s — lips had been.) The rest of the Great Hall was filled from wall to wall with youth who’d come to listen to this man explain to them their future roles as Aryan men.
Hans-Josef said to Rolf, “What did Mr. Hofstengl say when you told him about his wife?”
“I was rather surprised that he didn’t just fall at my feet weeping. I think I would have. Instead, I did see tears, but he held himself together, at least while I was there. He did ask me what he should do next.”
“What did you say?”
“I told him to go home and wait for a letter. If she was able, she’d probably write soon. I also told him that if he had any friends in high places, he might want to bring them to bear.” Rolf cast his eyes over the assembled crowd. Rolf had never had much use for teenagers. Even when he was one, he’d always gotten along better with adults (though the power difference between him and them always presented its own problems). But while he knew it was the prerogative of older generations to fixate on the flaws of the younger ones, what disappointed Rolf was how eager these kids were to believe what Hitler and von Schirach and the rest were peddling. He wanted to pull one of these twerps aside and say, “Son, in my day, we used to question our elders and piss them off. What’s the matter with you?”
Hans-Josef said, “By the way, boss, the reason I was out was that my wife called. She’s pregnant.”
Smiling sadly, Rolf said, “That’s wonderful news, Inspector. I’ll buy you a drink later.”
“Thanks. I mean, we’re very happy.”
“And the tax credits you’ll get won’t be bad either,” Rolf said. “Klara and I have been paying penalties for a couple of years now. The revenue office is worse than a mother-in-law.”
“I guess it would have scared us, having a kid three or four years ago, but now we feel a bit more solid, like it’s the right time. Besides, she’s Catholic, and you know how their families can be about children.”
“Sure.”
“I mean, I was thinking I was going to be hauled before the pope and the Führer if we waited too much—” At this point Rolf stopped listening because he saw, seated around a table on the other side of the Hall, two of the Hitler Youth who’d attacked him and Anika. His blood chilled to the point of freezing beer at the sight of them, and the logic of revenge screamed for him to charge across the Hall, tackle them and arrest them here and now, never mind a blown cover. He looked down to see that his hand had already reached under his jacket for his Walther.
But he let his hand drop to his side. Instead, he excused himself from Hans-Josef and took a brief stroll among the tables. He worked hard to avoid being seen. All he wanted was the table number. Once he got close enough to read it, Rolf threaded his way among the Youth, Youth Leaders, and parents back to Hans-Josef. He whispered. “Do you see those Youth over there at table 9?”
“What about them?” Hans-Josef asked.
“They’re the ones who beat the shit out of me. I want them arrested.”
“Sir, that may not be such a good idea. It might bring up the whole reason you were in Lehel in the first place.”
“Do it anyway, after the speech. And make sure they feel as though they’re being arrested.”
“Why me?”
“Because I need to go after Von Attar. Hold them at headquarters until I can get there. I want to deal with them personally.”
Hans-Josef turned his head so that he could track someone who’d just entered the room — an older man in an SA uniform, probably a troop leader for a squad of these ungovernable little shits. When he turned his attention to Rolf again, Hans-Josef said, “Okay. Just one thing.”
Rolf felt a twinge in his chest, and sat down in hopes of easing it. Having Klara there with a needle for him would have been a relief, but he didn’t want to feel good right now. He’d get some morphine tonight, he told himself, so that he could sleep. “What?”
“I get to terrify them first,” Hans-Josef said.
“Okay. Just don’t start anything I can’t finish.” Soon after, the lights changed to put the focus on the dais, and the introductions and cheering began. It started with the headmaster of the nearest Adolf Hitler school. From the look of the swaying, pudgy, jowly civil servant mumbling his way through an introduction, his head had been in a trough full of schnapps since at least eleven this morning. Rolf assumed that someone in his coterie had tried to stop him from taking the podium, only to be rebuffed by a man who takes from every drop of alcohol that touches his tongue the confidence necessary to insist he can still do as he likes.
The headmaster’s speech staggered on for ten slurring, nigh incomprehensible minutes. As Rolf approached the maximum level of embarrassment one human being could feel for another, the drunken schoolmaster said the words “Standartenführer Horst Von Attar”. The applause that followed reflected the audience’s collective relief. The headmaster staggered away and plopped into an overstuffed chair at the edge of the light while the Standartenführer took the podium and began.
His speech was standard stuff — the myth of pure blood, the commitment to soil and the need to defend all against the predatory Jew and the ignorant French half-negroes. The older generation had brought Germany to ruin so the youth, the future, needed to reclaim the Germany of Frederick Barbarossa and Martin Luther. Though the content was standard, Rolf had heard both Goebbels and Hitler do it with greater style. Hitler always brought urgency and theatrical pathos to his addresses, while Goebbels generally eschewed grand emotional flourishes in preference to sneering and sarcasm. Their styles matched their personalities, while all Rolf could tell about Von Attar from this speech was that he was a man, in a uniform and death’s head cap, giving a speech. The secret to Von Attar’s rise lay not in his charisma, but presumably in some other part of his survival kit: ruthlessness, intelligence in picking patrons, or willingness to do dirty work. How charming did a man have to be if he was willing to perforate his boss’s enemy with a rusty dirk?
At length — Der Ring Des Nibelungen length — Von Attar’s droning gave way to a silence whose duration implied that he’d finally uttered his last scheduled word. The crowd of blossoming thugs and toadies mustered dutiful applause. A piano played a few bars of a march, and all rose to sing Unsere Fahne Flatteret Uns Voran. Another man came to the podium — the headmaster appeared to be asleep — and made another couple of announcements having to do with buses, rides, and other housekeeping issues, before the lights came back up and the youth started chattering and shoving and chasing each other around.
Hans-Josef started moving through the crowd to get to the boys at table nine, while Rolf kept watch over Von Attar, who for now was mixing with the other adults. Rolf ears were full of the Great Hall’s chatter until a loud bang silenced everyone and turned all heads to Hans-Josef, who had just slammed one of the boys’ heads against a tabletop and cuffed him. Another boy started to step away, but Hans-Josef drew his gun and, shouting “HALT!”, pointed it in the kid’s face. Now Hans-Josef was holding up his badge. The guards, stationed at points around the Hall, saw the badge, and moved to help Hans-Josef detain two other boys. Everyone stayed still while Hans-Josef and the SS-guards escorted the three boys, heads bowed, weeping audibly, out of the Great Hall.
Gradually, subdued conversation resumed, and Rolf turned his attention back to Von Attar. The next few minutes watching him nearly paralyzed Rolf with boredom, exacerbated by an increased, burning pain in his chest.
The crowd of adults on the dais gradually thinned, leaving Von Attar and a few others who seemed to have little to say to each other. Finally, a youth approached Von Attar and struck up some sort of conversation. The boy might have been twelve or thirteen, certainly no older, and Von Attar seemed to perk once their chat began. There seemed to be a lot of laughing and animated talk passing between them.
Someone tugged at Rolf’s suit jacket. He looked down and spotted a short teenaged boy in a Hitler Youth uniform. His glasses, octagonal shaped, struck a memory in Rolf, but he couldn’t assemble it into anything that seemed significant. Rolf turned back to watch Von Attar, “What do you want?”
“Would you mind telling me who you are, sir?” said the boy.
“Yes, I would mind.”
“But sir, I don’t think you belong—“
Rolf pulled his badge out and flashed it to the kid before sticking it back in his pocket. Von Attar and the youth were walking toward one of the exits. Rolf rose from his chair and stepped around his wee interrogator to follow. He tailed Von Attar and the youth down the marble stairs, through the atrium, and outside. The night smelled of tree pollen and humidity. A well-polished Packard Super 8 pulled up to the curb. Von Attar offered the kid a chance to get inside, which he took, scrambling into the passenger side and sitting erect like a happy dog. Rolf crossed the street to get to his own car, got in, and started it. Von Attar got behind the wheel of the Packard and gingerly eased it into traffic.
Following Von Attar through city streets posed few problems for Rolf. An occasional lane change helped him blend in with the other cars behind Von Attar, and at times he allowed himself to get into Von Attar’s blind spot, where he could see both the man and the kid. This didn’t last. Soon they’d moved into trees and dark, and Rolf had to resort to a few of the tricks wired into this car. The car sported two kinds of headlights, between which he could switch, and also had a button next to the ignition that turned off the driver’s and passenger’s headlights, alternately. This, and staying a few hundred meters back, seemed to help Rolf evade detection. Von Attar never sped up, or made quick turns. He kept it at about 70 kph, fast but not hurried. So as they went south, Rolf kept switching up his lights, and sometimes switched them off on long straightaways, just to keep Von Attar’s rear view mirror from exposing him.
As they traveled, Rolf realized that he was trailing Von Attar on the route to Berchtesgaden and the Obersalzberg. Briefly, Rolf toyed with the idea that the Nazi leadership had a side line in buggering boys — considering Hitler’s stated admiration for the Spartans, Rolf couldn’t count this as a surprise. It would leave him with a considerable problem if true, of course. If Hitler, Himmler, Göring et.al. were all pederasts, to whom should Rolf report? How would Kriminaldirektor Brüning blackmail his way into a better job, and how would Rolf get the list for Anika? The idea was fantastic, but Rolf needed some source of interest as he watched the red brake lights of Von Attar’s Packard bounce in the distance.
Through the town of Berchtesgaden they went. Rolf knew what to do if Von Attar pulled up to park at a hotel, but the creep passed them by. On Von Attar drove, further up into the hills, until Rolf started thinking seriously of what he was going to tell the guard at the SS gate beneath the Berghof if he had to deal with him. But a few kilometers outside of Berchtesgaden, Von Attar took a left instead of a right. Rolf switched his light to a single and followed. The road, narrow and tree lined, seemed to be closing in all around him. Without the moon’s help, it was too dark to run on one light, so Rolf flicked another switch. A second after, Rolf saw a flash of brown, the car jolted, and the windshield cracked and bathed in blood. Rolf jammed the brakes down. The car squealed to a halt.
Rolf drew his pistol and got out of the car. His lights were still shining into the woods (he’d come within a half meter of crashing into a deep black ditch). On the dented and crumpled hood lay a doe. One of its legs had gotten caught in the bumper and snapped clean. Blood was everywhere, but the doe’s eyes were still open and her chest still heaved with each laborious, rattling breath. Rolf looked down the road, and saw nothing but darkness. Waves of sickness washed over him from the ugly mess on his car and the knowledge of what was going to happen to that boy. If Hans-Josef had been here to back him up in his car, as he should have been, this would only be an inconvenience instead of a disaster. But there was no time to dwell. Rolf shot the deer in the head a couple of times to end its agony, then pushed and pulled and shoved to get the carcass off his car and into the ditch. That sweaty, filthy work done, he returned, covered in blood and matted fur, to the driver’s seat. He drove on, making a mental inventory of all the places along here where he could stop and scanning the sides of the roads for brake lights.
About five kilometers further along, Rolf spotted the Packard in a clearing off the road. Its headlights were on, pointed into the woods. Rolf saw the tall shadow of a man silhouetted against the tree trunks. He shut off his own lights and pulled the car over. He radioed in that he’d spotted a disabled suspect vehicle on the roadside on the Tanzenbengasse, then he quietly opened the car door, slid out, and approached with as much stealth as the ground could afford. The towering shadow was connected to the feet of Von Attar, who stood about a meter in front of the car. Rolf caught the glint of Von Attar’s knife, which looked like a long kitchen blade, in the headlights.
“Manfred!” Von Attar shouted, “Oh, Manfred! Come back! You’ll never last out there! There are mountain lions, Manfred. Mountain lions everywhere. They’ll eat you, Manfred! Come back!”
Rolf reached the back, passenger side fender of Von Attar’s car. This was close enough. He raised his pistol and shouted, “Freeze!” Von Attar tightened, as if a million volts had just passed through him. “Put your hands up! Now!” Rolf shouted. Von Attar, trembling, complied. His pants fell down around his ankles. “Turn around and face me!” Von Attar did so. His shirt was open, and his genitals dangled from under his shirttails. “Drop the knife, right now!”
Von Attar held onto it.
“Do you want to get shot, Standartenführer? Drop it!”
Von Attar let the knife go. It fell to the gravel with a clink. Rolf took a step forward, “All right. Moving slowly, put your hands on the hood of this car. Keep looking at me.”
Von Attar obeyed. Soon Rolf had him cuffed and on the ground. He left the knife where it was. He wanted it for evidence. Now he had to find the boy. “Manfred,” Rolf shouted. “This is Kommissar Rolf Wundt with the criminal police! I’ve caught the man who hurt you! I need you to come here now! I’ll take you back home! Manfred!”
A small boy emerged from the woods, naked save for his red neckerchief. Rolf took him around the car, away from Von Attar, and put him in the passenger seat of his car. He took a blanket out of the trunk and wrapped the boy in it, then radioed in for assistance. A half hour later, Rolf was behind the wheel of Von Attar’s Packard, and a sweet ride it was, heading back for headquarters with Von Attar in the back seat. Manfred was on his way to Berchtesgaden for some clothes, a doctor, and a ride back home. The knife was on the front seat, in a bag, with an official evidence tag on it. All these things made the present moment feel more final than it probably was.
“You do know who I am, Kommissar?” Von Attar said.
“Of course. I don’t tail people at random. This car drives beautifully, by the way.”
“It ought to. It costs more than your house. My other one’s a Mercedes.”
“Yeah, I can see it’s been a sweet life for you so far. Shame about this.”
“Oh, I’ll get out from under this. I have friends whom your superiors have only read about.”
“Really? I’ve met Göring, Himmler, Heydrich, and Frick. Who else do you know?” Rolf asked.
“The owner of the Berghof,” Von Attar said. Rolf checked the rear view mirror and saw his smug smile at the mention of the Führer.
“He must be quite the friend to let you fuck young boys in his front yard. Or does he not know about that?” Von Attar looked out the window in lieu of a reply. “But, given that he’s a friend. I’m sure you’d like me to place a call to the Reich’s Chancellery Office when we get to headquarters, to ensure that he takes a personal interest in your case.”
“You don’t need to do that.”
“No, Standartenführer, believe me, not only is it no trouble, it’s also my pleasure. By the way, Standartenführer, on an unrelated subject, would you mind telling me where you were on the 30th of May this year?”
“That’s ridiculous. How should I remember?”
“Oh, for some people it’s a memorable date. That’s the day I met Himmler and Göring, and it’s the day a little girl named Gretl Hofstengl was found dead on a farm outside of Munich.” Rolf held up the knife. “This wouldn’t be the knife that slit her throat and carved Judenmörder Erwache in her chest, would it?”
“That case? I read about that. I had nothing to do with it. I want my lawyer,” Von Attar said.
“I’m sure the Standartenführer is aware of his rights, or with his lack of them. I ask again: where were you on May 30th, 1936? Please bear in mind that your answers will be checked carefully.”
“All right, Kommissar. I read about that case in the paper, on my way back from a trip to Hamburg.”
“What paper?” Rolf asked.
“Der Stürmer.”
“Der Stürmer came out on June 3rd. That says nothing about where you were on the 30th.”
“Yes it does. I bought the paper while I was waiting for a train back to Munich. I’d been in Hamburg on business from the 28th to the 4th. I got back on the 4th in the early morning. I was in meetings every day — eight or nine hour sessions. You can check.”
“We will.”
“To think you’d think I’d murder young girls.”
“Sorry to insult you. I’m sure you’d like to be congratulated on restricting yourself to boys.”
“I didn’t mean it that way, Kommissar. You know I didn’t mean it that way.”
“I caught you with a knife in your hand and your prick hanging out, and you presume to tell me what I know? When my Kriminaldirektor said I might get lucky tonight, I don’t think even he dreamed about this.”
“Who is your Kriminaldirektor?” Von Attar asked.
“Kriminaldirektor Helmut Brüning.”
“Oh, yes. I should have known. This is political. That’s what this is. You did this to spoil my chances at promotion, didn’t you?”
“I don’t recall forcing you to cooperate, Standartenführer."
“It doesn’t matter. You’ll see. I’ll show you what can and can’t be done with someone like me.”
“Good for you,” Rolf said. As nice as it would have been for Von Attar to shut up, Rolf knew that it was best to keep him talking, and took every syllable he managed to hear from the bastard without shooting him as a further sign of his own professionalism and restraint. It also kept him from thinking too much about what had gone on in this car while Rolf had been cleaning the doe off his hood. Rolf’s sides ached with every breath now, and he still had a long night ahead of him. He looked up from the road and watched the phone lines that paralleled the highway. Soon they’d be vibrating with news of this prisoner, from here to Berlin and, if Von Attar spoke the truth about his connections, from Berlin to the Obersalzberg.
And buzz they did. The first call traveled from Rolf’s office to Helmut’s home, reporting that he had Standartenführer Von Attar in custody on suspicion of child rape and attempted murder. Helmut, though he sounded groggy on the phone, audibly perked at the news of the attempted murder charge and said he’d be down “faster than a falcon on a pigeon.” The next call went to Weissengel, who wasn’t home. His housekeeper took the message, but since she had no suggestion for an alternate number and Rolf didn’t care enough about Weissengel to hunt for him, the matter ended there. Rolf then put in his promised call to the Reich’s Chancellery Office in Berlin, explaining to the person on duty that the Standartenführer had wanted to make sure that the RCO was aware of his plight.
Curiously, the first person to arrive at headquarters was Weissengel, who showed up in Rolf’s office dressed in rumpled, mismatched civilian clothes, red-faced and apparently ready to chew steel and shit rust. Rolf smiled as politely as his contempt for Weissengel would allow and asked what he was doing here.
“You have Standartenführer Von Attar?”
“Yes.”
“My God, Wundt, you didn’t shoot him, did you?”
Rolf looked down at his blood smeared tunic. “No, stupid. I hit a deer on the road. What do you take me for?”
“Where is he?”
“In interrogation room one. We’re letting him stew in there for right now.”
“You need to release him right now, Kommissar.”
“You know what he did.”
“I know what you said, and I don’t take your word as reliable."
“The Gestapo’s position is to cover for this rapist then, is it?”
“It would be a mistake to put it that way, Kommissar. Let him go.”
“I’m afraid it’s too late for that,” Rolf said.
“Why?”
“I’ve contacted the Reich’s Chancellery Office in Berlin to inform them of his arrest.”
“Who told you to do that?” The red in Weissengel’s face drained to white.
Rolf shrugged. “Von Attar. He intimated that they’d have an opinion on the matter of his arrest. I said it was a good idea to find out, and so it was.”
“What did they say?”
“They’re formulating a response. In the meantime, the prosecutor has also been notified. He’ll be down shortly, as will Kriminaldirektor Brüning. The family should be picking their son up from the doctor in Berchtesgaden. I’m sure they’ll be anxious to speak to you, if you wish to be involved in this case. Do you wish to be involved in this case?”
A question arose in Rolf’s mind: would he prefer watching Weissengel squirm, as he was now, or would he rather, say, see him run over by a truck or placed in the care of his own torturers? Rolf lingered over the matter for a few delicious seconds before concluding that this was best — watching Weissengel struggle to calculate the precise, narrow sequence of moves that would allow him to escape from this situation without appearing to have betrayed the wishes of Heydrich or Himmler.
“I take it your report to the Reich’s Chancellery Office was detailed?” Weissengel asked.
“Nauseatingly so,” Rolf said. “The written one will be even worse.”
Rolf’s telephone rang. It was the Reich’s Chancellery Office. The secretary told him to hold for Phillip Bühler. He sounded like a man roused prematurely from what had been a deep and satisfying sleep.
“Is this accurate?” Bühler asked.
“Yes, sir,” Rolf said.
“The Führer asks that you follow the law.” Bühler hung up without a goodbye.
“Who was that?” Weissengel asked.
“Guess.”
“And?”
“We’re following the law.”
Weissengel flopped into one of Rolf’s chairs. For a moment, Rolf thought it strange that this news would please the little shit. But it made sense. Weissengel could say his hands were tied, that the word came from the Führer to abandon this man and what higher law was there than his will? Another bullet of blame successfully dodged.
A few minutes later, Kriminaldirektor Brüning showed up. He was a man trying, with little success, to mask a look of delirious happiness. Rolf briefed him on the arrest, and noticed, as his narrative progressed, the direct relationship between the increasing joy on Brüning’s face and the rising pain in his own side. He really did have to go home soon.
After he briefed Brüning, he and the Kriminaldirektor adjourned to Brüning’s office, sans Weissengel, who said he was calling it a night. Brüning shut the door after Rolf came in. “What the hell happened to you? I thought you found the boy alive.”
Rolling his eyes, Rolf said, “I did. I hit a deer.”
“Oh. You want the list, right?”
“That was the arrangement.”
“It’s going to take some time, Rolf.” Brüning tossed his jacket on his chair. “It’s going to be difficult.”
“Don’t try to welsh on this.” The pain in Rolf’s chest was quickly spreading to his head. “I need that list.”
“I’m not welshing,” Brüning said. “Who said anything about welshing? Have I ever broken a promise to you?”
Rolf imagined this depended a great deal on the definition of a promise. In the strictest sense, the answer was what he said: “No.”
“What have I done to make you believe that I was walking away from my commitments? I’ve—”
“I know, sir, you’ve protected me and my work,” Rolf said. “And I’ve said that I’m grateful. Still, you are political. Your only interest is self-interest. Besides, isn’t anyone who tries to climb up the Nazi pole a suspect?”
“There are many fine people in the party, Rolf,” Brüning said. “They’re not all Heydrich and Himmler. I’m not, am I?”
“I can’t say you are.”
Brüning sat on his desk. “Damned right. I think I’m a decent man. I don’t wish anyone harm. I’m not perfect, but I’m not the devil either.”
“The devil has a reputation for keeping his word.”
“But he always perverts the bargain. Like a Jew.”
This was the first time Rolf had heard Kriminaldirektor Brüning make a clearly anti-Semitic remark. It sent a tremor through his body that released more pain in his torso. It was possible that Brüning had just never talked this way around Rolf, but if that was true why would he do so at this moment? Brüning’s office seemed to shrink to half its size, and Rolf reached for the doorknob.
“All I meant,” Brüning said, “was that it might take me a day or two. You’ve done me a great favor. I’ll repay it. And who knows? If you change your mind and decide to stay, I could make you a Kriminaldirektor.”
“Just the list, sir. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. And get cleaned up. Your shirt’s disgusting.” Rolf opened the door and stepped out into the squad room. He wanted to get air, and maybe sit a moment, because right now it felt as if someone had wrapped a mooring rope around him and was pulling it tight for the sheer meanness of it.
Hans-Josef stepped out from an interrogation room and crossed the squad room to say “Kommissar, what do you want to do about your prisoners?”
“Book him into jail. I’m done with him for tonight,” Rolf said.
“I don’t mean Von Attar.”
Rolf felt in his knees the reminder of the Hitler Youth he’d made Hans-Josef arrest. The clock said 0140, and Rolf thought, okay, that’s the time, now what’s the month?
“You said you wanted to interrogate them yourself,” Hans-Josef said. They’re in separate interrogation rooms, the three I arrested and two more I picked up after I went a couple of rounds with them. Do you want your turn?”
Yeah, he wanted his turn. He took the boys’ files, selected the one for Ewald Genchler at random, and joined the little shit in Interrogation Room 6, where he found Ewald sweaty and shaking, stripped to the waist and perched on a metal chair. Rolf dropped his file down in front of him. “Look up at me, Ewald.”
Ewald looked up.
“Are you frightened?”
Ewald nodded.
“What frightens you? Is it the blood?”
Ewald nodded.
“You think I did something to your friends to get this on me?” Rolf asked. “Is that what’s getting to you? The chance that I’ll beat you? The chance you won’t leave this building alive?”
Quivering, Ewald burst into tears. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. God, I’m sorry.” The words poured out of him faster than the tears did, tumbling over each other. Sorry... God... Sorry... Please...
“That may very well be, but you are also a rapist and a thug, Ewald.”
“I... never... raped...”
“You would have, though, wouldn’t you?”
“No... please... I just want to go home. I’m sorry.”
Rolf sat down beside Ewald. “Look at me.”
“Why?”
“Because I told you to.”
Ewald looked Rolf in the eye. Running from Ewald’s nose was a rivulet of snot. “Yes?”
“You and your friends remind me a great deal of my brothers, Emil and Dietrich. They were both older than I was, and for as long as I knew them, I never saw them or their friends do anything but bully and terrorize weaker kids. My dad egged them on, and my mom was too weak from cancer to do much about them. All three of us went to war. I was captured. They died. My dad joined them some years later, and when I read the news from his second wife, I tried to figure out how I should feel about it. Do you know what conclusion I reached?”
Ewald shook his head.
“The world’s better off without them. They’re much better as compost than they ever were as human beings.”
“Why tell me this?” Ewald asked.
“Because I think it’s likely you’ll die in prison, Ewald. When I hear that that’s happened, I’ll feel just as much for you as I felt for my father and brothers. Ewald, you’ll be much better as compost than... well... you know the rest.” Rolf grunted with pain as he rose from his chair. “Go ahead and cry for yourself, Ewald. There’s nothing else left for you.”
Turning on one heel, Rolf strode out. Hans-Josef was there. Rolf asked him to find someone to drive him home.
About forty-five minutes later, Rolf was home, thanks to Sergeant Pachall, desk man of the night watch, who was pleasantly taciturn the whole way there. It was like having an U’Wa menhir as a chauffeur. Rolf went straight to Klara in the bedroom. It was hot in there still, a function of the day and the west facing windows, and she was naked. A slight breeze blew in from the open windows. Under less painful circumstances, Rolf’s thoughts would have turned to lust, to the curve of her shoulder blades, to the tiny hairs riding the nape of her neck, but instead, when he shook her, he said simply: “Morphine”.
After Klara sat up and pulled Rolf down to a sitting position on the edge of the bed, she ran down to the kitchen to get the morphine out of the refrigerator. Rolf sat nearly straight up, which was the easiest way for him to keep breathing. An eternity passed before Klara returned with the morphine and her syringe. The injection came, and suddenly the bands around his chest slackened, and Rolf could lie back. Klara, still naked, hovered over him, checking his breathing and his eyes. When she seemed satisfied that he was reacting correctly to the dosage, she headed back downstairs. Rolf wondered why she’d gone there, but he was feeling too tired to check.
Ten minutes or ten thousand years later, the bedroom door opened, the light came on, and something landed on Rolf’s chest. He grabbed it. It was one of Klara’s notebooks, the kind she’d used for keeping shorthand records of her patients’ therapy sessions.
“Do you remember how to read my shorthand?”
Klara had taught Rolf, years ago, to follow D.E. shorthand. Rolf eventually selected a speedier version of it, with more contractions, but he thought he could remember. He looked at the first lines of the notes: “Notes on Subject Epp.”
“Subject—” Rolf said.
“Don’t say another word. Just read.” Klara piled some pillows at the headboard and sat back against them, watching Rolf. “Notes on Subject Epp”: what had Klara done?
Notes on Subject Epp
22/6
Epp is sitting at a small wooden table, far from the bar and from the other drinkers, alone. I’d wondered if I’d be able to pick him out in a crowd, but his affect would make him stand out anywhere, except perhaps in a room full of schizophrenics. Epp appears to be incapable of making ordinary social gestures. He does not smile at waitresses or patrons. He does not even look up when they talk to him. I noticed that the waitress leaned far in, close to his ear, to take his order. Either she’s showing off her cleavage in hopes of getting a bigger tip, or (more likely) Epp refuses to speak above a very low volume. There are several attractive women in the hall, some without male companionship, but Epp shows no sign of interest.
At no point does any patron approach Epp to speak with him; indeed it seems that all of them maintain a distance from him. No one has yet taken possession of an adjacent table, though the hall is fairly crowded. There are two possible reasons for this, and they needn’t be mutually exclusive. It is likely that a plurality, or possibly even a majority of patrons is aware of Epp’s incarceration at Dachau, making them afraid of being tainted by association. I also note the presence of three black-uniformed SS men seated at the bar. While it is not certain that they’re watching Epp, the possibility cannot be dismissed, in light of the patrons’ behavior so far. It also cannot be dismissed that at least some of Epp’s flat affect can be attributed to their presence, though if this is true, it’s hard to understand why Epp doesn’t simply pay his bill and go home. Surely, if liquor is what he wants, there are other, possibly less stressful, ways of obtaining it.
This issue leads to a broader question: why does Epp bother coming here at all, if it gives him no pleasure to do so? It would be tempting to say the alcohol, but so far I’ve watched him consume four half-liters of pilsner. Drinking it seems to give him no pleasure at all. He sips, he wipes his lip with a napkin, and sits, looking blankly at the wall. If he’s an alcoholic, he betrays no signs of satisfaction at having drunk: no smiles, no laughter, yet no indications of depression or shame either. He might as well be drinking water while waiting for the appetizer course. His increasing disequilibrium when standing or walking to the restroom is the only evidence of intoxication that he manifests. Another possibility that occurs to me is that Epp is trying to drink himself to death, and maybe he comes here because he’s afraid that if he stays at home and drinks, his family will stop him.
Epp is now leaving the bar. It’s nearly closing time. There are only a few of us still here. There’s me, and I’ve been nursing the same glass of dunkel for the last two hours, a couple of men playing chess, the three SS men, and Epp. I notice that as Epp prepares to leave, two of the SS men are watching him and the third is getting up to go to the telephone. I fear for his safety, but there’s nothing I can do for him. I’ll finish my beer and go home.
23/6
Today I drove past the Epp farm and noticed a car parked across the street. The Gestapo isn’t being particularly subtle about this. So I went to the bar, which is where I’m reporting from.
Epp arrives at his customary time. He orders a beer from the bar and sits in his usual corner to wait. Once again, blank affect and no effort on his part to speak to anyone. I’m thinking about going over there, but there is one other person sitting in his corner of the bar. He’s trying to look as if he’s reading a book, but I haven’t seen him turn a page, and he’s holding the book in such a way that he can keep an eye on Epp. He also never touches his drink. It just sweats on the table in front of him. I think I’ll leave now and come back at closing time.
It’s now closing time. The bar is emptying out. Epp comes staggering out of the bar. The man with the book is close behind him. I watch the man with the book go to his car, get in, and drive off. I don’t think the Gestapo is bothering to follow him between home and the pub. They’re just watching both ends. I’ll come back tomorrow and try to catch him during his walk, when he’ll be both sober and alone. Of course, this assumes that he gets home safely tonight, which, judging by his raggedy gait, is about an even bet.
24/6
I’m in the back of the car now. Magda Kurz is driving. (Rolf remembered Magda vaguely as the woman who picked Klara up for their bridge club games. Rolf had had no idea that his wife trusted the woman with anything more than the bid of three-no-trump. He remembered Magda’s car very well. It was a two-tone Mercedes Mannheim 370K, red with black detailing. Magda, like Klara, was an excellent driver, which presumably gave the two something else to base a friendship on.) We’re hoping to catch Epp on his way to his pub. We plan to drive him around, question him, then drop him off a plausible distance past the pick-up point. I’ve brought a piece of red cloth to mark the spot where we pick him up. Average walking foot speed for a man on pavement is three kilometers per hour, and with Magda keeping track of the time, we should be able to drop him in such a spot that no one at the pub end will think he’s either unusually early or suspiciously late.
We’ve just passed the Epp farm and the Gestapo car is gone. Presumably they leave after he does and come back when they think he’s due to return home. It’s a shame I don’t still have my practice. The sort of people who work for the Gestapo probably manifest enough neuroses and compulsive behaviors to keep me busy all year round.
Magda’s just pulled up alongside Epp. I open the rear door. He’s nervous, even a little scared.
I’ve convinced him to get in the back with me. Magda’s driving us around. We’re talking.
“You’re Kommissar Wundt’s wife?” he asks.
I say yes.
He asks me if you sent me. I tell him no, you don’t know I’m here. From his posture and expression I can tell he’s skeptical. He asks why I’m writing, and I explain that I’m a psychiatrist and am used to taking notes. He studies me for a moment and, seemingly convinced, appears to relax a little. I introduce Magda to him, and I explain the nature of the situation and our plans for dropping him off. This seems to calm him still further, though I’m sure he’s not completely at ease.
“What information can I give you?” he asks.
I tell him that I know that he knows the identity of Gretl Hofstengl’s murderer. He denies this at first, but I tell him that, like him, I’m in the profession of spotting liars, so he’s wasting his time. It is at this moment that he confirms his knowledge with a nod and says in an undertone, “Yes.”
“Could you tell me his name?” I ask.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I’m being watched. You’re taking these precautions because you know I’m being watched, right?”
“Right,” I say.
“Yes. So suppose I told you the name of this killer, and your husband located and arrested him. How would he explain the capture? Police intuition? Lucky guess? No. They’d trace it back to me, and I’d go back to Dachau and never come out again.”
“When were you at Dachau?” I ask.
“From 1933 to just a couple of months ago.”
“They sent you there for shooting a putschist, is that right?”
“Yes.”
“Did they have any other reason?”
“I’m a member of the Communist party.”
“That’s rare among police, isn’t it?”
“My commander protected me because I was good at my job. I understand your husband’s commander protects him for the same reason. That’s why I decided to help him along, that and I couldn’t stand what happened to those poor Jewish kids.”
“You could have prevented that by telling what you knew, Mr. Epp.”
“I’m not going to be sent back.”
“Why would they send you back?”
“You’re trying to trick me into revealing something. I won’t do it.”
“What would you reveal by answering my question?” He looks out the window, refusing to reply. “May I guess? If I guess correctly, will you tell me? I think that’s fair, don’t you? If I reason it out, then you didn’t say anything. Isn’t that so? Isn’t that like the hints you passed to my husband?”
“Yes.”
I asked him if Gretl Hofstengl’s killer was someone important. “What do you mean by important?” He asked.
“Is he a figure of national significance?”
“No.”
“Of local significance? Is he from a wealthy family, or a well connected one?”
“Yes.”
“Let me see if I can describe him. Tell me if I get anything wrong. He’s between thirty to forty years of age. He dresses well. He’s outwardly charming and refined, even aristocratic in demeanor. He’s left handed, familiar with drugs — Gretl Hofstengl had traces of chloral hydrate in her system — and he owns a place in the city proper, a townhouse, a properly soundproof facility, with a private garage, where he can murder in private and take the body to a mode of transport without being seen.”
Epp: “I won’t contest anything you’ve said so far.”
“I also think that you had him incarcerated at one point.”
“Why?”
“The list of victims in your file ends in 1928, after which the file has no further entries. My husband says the case was listed as inactive only a few weeks after the death of the last victim, which in a murder case would be unusual. There’s no indication of an arrest or suspect. That’s either purged or it never existed to begin with.”
“True,” Epp said.
“My husband found no court documents related to any case like this.”
“I don’t think he would have, no.”
“And you couldn’t have purged those.”
“I couldn’t have, no.”
“So you got him out of the way somehow. You didn’t arrest him.”
“No.”
“Did you make a deal with his family to keep him locked away, in an institution perhaps? Voluntary commitment?”
Epp doesn’t reply to this. Me: “That’s it, isn’t it? You knew you had the right man, but you also knew that his connections could save him.”
“Hitler tried to take over the country, and he spent only a few months in prison for it. That told me what I needed to know. If only I could have shot the son of a bitch then and there.”
“Are you talking about the murderer or Hitler?”
Epp: “Whichever. They both deserved it, and I should have done it, the way they did Rosa. Hitler, Ludendorff, Himmler, we should have killed them all. Instead we followed the law. And the law let him go. I wasn’t going to let them do it again. Not for this son of a bitch.”
“Was his family National Socialist?”
“Yes. At least, the important members all were. Once Hitler took over, they could get him out. Nobody knew what he’d done. I’d kept it private. Most of the file and witness reports your husband received were purged in 1928. It was part of the deal. I never thought that the Nazis would come to power. Who believed that would happen in 1928? Did you?”
“No,” I said.
“Me either, and I was paranoid. But I was paranoid about Hohenzollerns, not Nazis. What time is it?”
I ask Magda. She tells me twenty minutes have gone by. I tell her to loop back around. On the way, Epp says, “Your husband is an outstanding detective.”
“Yes.”
“I followed his work on the Vampire of Dresden case with great interest. Helmut made the right choice in bringing him here.”
“Thanks.”
“How did he cope with the pressure of the investigation? He seems very professional, but I know that there’s enormous pressure in such cases. How did he manage it?”
“Badly,” I told him.
“But he had you, right? I mean, I had no one. No woman ever stayed with me. He had someone to talk to. And you could help him.”
“I helped him in some ways but not others.” There’s the red cloth. We’re stopping soon.
“He turned to drink too?” Epp asks.
“Not so much,” I tell him.
Magda stops the car and we let Epp out. As we drive away, he starts down the road toward the pub, where he’ll presumably drink himself senseless again. He’ll die soon, I think. I don’t think the world has anything in store for him that he either wants or needs, except for the means of escaping from it. Such a waste.