THE FAMILY HIMMELWALD made their initial fortune back in 1810. After two failures, Jorg Himmelwald’s third textile mill prospered and propelled him into the upper echelons of Bavarian society, where, despite his bourgeois manner, he managed to land a fetching young thing in the land rich/money poor aristocracy, Baroness Wilhelmina of Miltenberg. Their marriage produced nine children, the seventh of which was Dieter Himmelwald’s grandfather, Karl Himmelwald, who apparently founded a wide variety of businesses, none of which succeeded, but which he always came through laughing thanks to his father’s connections and an advantageous marriage to a Prussian landowner’s daughter.
Their oldest child, in spite of his waste-of-space of a father, managed to rise to a high position in the company Jorg founded, expanding and diversifying its interests in highly profitable ventures worldwide. This was Franz Himmelwald, who married an older woman, apparently a teacher of his, and fathered only one child, Dieter, who attended the University of Munich and the University’s medical school. He’d been a good undergraduate student, but only a middling medical student. It may have had something to do with his interest in politics. He joined the Freikorps in 1919 and the NSDAP in 1922. His medical practice, which started in 1926, grew rapidly, thanks presumably to his family’s connections, as well as those he’d cultivated with party members. In spite of his membership in the party, Dieter also treated several prominent members of the Jewish community and he obviously bought his spectacles from them.
Dieter’s practice continued to prosper from 1926 until 1928, when it abruptly stopped. He shut his offices down, moved his records to storage, and checked himself into a psychiatric asylum in Dortmund (for exhaustion, or so the records said). There Dieter stayed until 1933. By then his parents were dead, and he’d come into sole possession of his inheritance, which was enough to buy half the Alps. In spite of his great wealth, he didn’t retire to the mountains or the seaside. He returned to Munich, moving into an exclusive apartment complex. He tore down the apartment complexes across the street (his family had owned them), and within a year replaced them with his eight story, historicist throwback of an office tower, which a newspaper of the day called Schloss Himmelwald.
Rolf, standing in front of Dieter’s edifice, had a number of thoughts running through his head. The first was that the building itself excelled the typical Nazi structure in that it was large but not overwhelming. Dieter’s building covered the entire city block, with retail shops on the lower levels and offices above. The style was much in keeping with the surrounding architecture, with roof spires and elaborately decorated window and door frames. (In thinking about Schloss Himmelwald’s rapid growth, Rolf guessed the building was probably reinforced concrete underneath the facing stones.).
It must have taken, Rolf thought, a lot of guts to sink money into a project like this back in 1933, with a depression on and certainly no guarantee of sufficient income from office rents. When Rolf checked the office directory on the ground floor to find out exactly where Dieter’s office was, he wasn’t surprised to find that there weren’t that many companies with offices here. What did surprise him was how much smaller the building seemed on the inside than on the outside. He’d have thought that the lobby would have been larger, and that more than two elevators would have been needed to transport everyone to and from all the offices that may not have been filled, but had surely been planned.
Rolf rode the elevator to the seventh floor, where he found himself in a long, U-shaped corridor that stretched about halfway around the building. On the outside rim, Rolf saw a publishing company and an accountant’s office. Three other office fronts were empty, their transoms shuttered, their windows bare of company names or slogans. On the other side, and taking up the entire inner part of the building, apparently, were the offices of Dr. Dieter Himmelwald. A middle aged woman and her teenaged son pushed the door open. Rolf caught it, let them pass through, and entered.
If Rolf had been a patient hoping to get in to see the doctor today, he’d have been out of luck. The bottoms of anxious patients filled every cushion of every chair and couch in his waiting room. Rolf caught sight of a familiar face on his way to the receptionist’s desk. Lina Heydrich sat on a chair next to a potted plant, reading a magazine. She didn’t look up at Rolf, and Rolf, not wishing to attract her attention, averted his eyes and focused instead on the young woman who worked the desk. She was an attractive girl, no more than nineteen, and Rolf’s thought on seeing her was how similar she was to Himmelwald’s recent victims. Of course, having such a secretary, with fine Aryan features, was advisable, given Himmelwald’s clientele. But beyond that, Rolf wondered if this most recent spate of killings represented a desire to destroy that which all around him most valued. If Aryan blood was, as the propaganda said, precious, then what greater demonstration of power could there be than to spill it, to rob the world of it?
“Do you have an appointment, sir?” said the receptionist, in a voice that was perhaps the sweetest specimen of a Bavarian accent that Rolf had ever heard. Rolf reached into his jacket. His hand brushed against his pistol, in its shoulder holster, on its way to the inside pocket where he kept his badge. He took his badge out and showed it to the receptionist.
“I need to speak to the doctor urgently,” Rolf said.
The receptionist’s composure broke for a second, and she stumbled getting out of her chair. She composed herself with a couple of deep breaths and asked Rolf to wait a moment while she went back to tell the doctor he was here. Rolf put his badge away, his hand once again rubbing against the butt of his pistol. Doctors’ offices are frequently soundproofed, Rolf thought. If he shot Himmelwald, it was possible he’d be able to get out without any interference. He might even be able to pick up Klara and get across the border before anyone discovered Himmelwald’s body, particularly if there was a convenient closet that Rolf could stick him in without getting too much blood on himself.
The door behind the reception desk swung open, and in came the receptionist, her equanimity fully restored. “The doctor is finishing up with a patient right now, but if you’d like to follow me to his office, you can wait for him there.”
Rolf followed the receptionist through a labyrinthine series of corridors until they finally arrived at an office that would have been fit for the prime minister of a large and wealthy nation. The outside wall had seven windows set in it, each at least three meters tall and two meters wide, affording spectacular views of city rooftops. (And since the windows were northern exposure, there was almost no direct sunlight in the room, while everything outside was illuminated.
The wall behind the desk sported a lengthy bookshelf, interrupted by a portrait of Himmelwald with his parents. On the other wall hung photographs of Himmelwald with various notables: Goebbels, Göring, Von Ribbentrop, Streicher, Himmler, Ley, and dozens of others that Rolf didn’t know. There was even one of Himmelwald at the Haus Wachenfeld, prior to its renovation as the Berghof. Hitler and a young woman Rolf didn’t recognize stood with him, possibly a girlfriend of Himmelwald’s, if girlfriends he had. A camera dangled from her neck. On Himmelwald’s face was a pair of hexagonal, steel-rimmed glasses.
The receptionist asked Rolf if he wanted a cup of coffee or something. Rolf didn’t actually want anything except to extract Himmelwald’s confession, shoot him, and leave. But it occurred to him that there was something valuable in presenting a conventional social front, so he requested a cup of coffee, no sugar but plenty of cream, and let the receptionist get on with her job. She’d presumably tell the doctor that he couldn’t be under arrest or in danger, because the policeman asked for coffee and seemed at ease. Himmelwald would come in thinking that the police needed him to consult on a case or to supervise another torture session. At best he’d be friendly; at worst he’d be annoyed at this hiccup in his routine.
The receptionist returned with Rolf’s coffee, which was just as he’d requested it. Holding the steaming mug in his hands, he inspected the spines of Himmelwald’s books. A considerable number of them were books on anatomy and internal medicine, and in this similar to the books on Klara’s shelves at home.
Rolf heard the door open and turned around to look at Dieter Himmelwald, dressed this time in a lab coat with civvies underneath, and of course, wearing his octagonal eyeglasses. Rolf crossed the vast expanse of Dieter’s office to shake his hand, and it was only then that Rolf saw the Death’s Head ring on Dieter Himmelwald’s finger. Was it wise to wear such a ring as a physician, from a marketing point of view? Ordinarily, probably not, but times were strange. Still, it was for Rolf a visible reminder of who Dieter really was and what he tracked back to. Looking at Rolf closely, Himmelwald said, “The interrogation session. I remember you! How are you? I remember your looking a little green in the middle of things.”
Rolf let Himmelwald’s hand go. Himmelwald started walking toward his desk, leaving the door open. Rolf shut it. “I wasn’t familiar with the Gestapo’s methods.”
Himmelwald went behind his desk and sat. “Impressive, aren’t they? I’ve never seen a man who can’t be convinced to confess by them. And they never leave a mark or any other sign that would give anyone a bad feeling. What did you think of them, Kommissar?”
“Oh,” Rolf said, “I can say I was impressed. That’s an apt word. Just as I’m impressed with your office here.”
“Architecture is a passion of mine. I had wanted to pursue it when I was younger, but my mathematical skills were found to be somewhat wanting. Besides, the fashion of the time left me somewhat, well, out of fashion. Things are changing now, though. So, I’m intrigued to meet you, Kommissar, but am somewhat pressed for time.”
“I know. I saw your waiting room. I promise not to keep you too long. It’s hard to believe math wasn’t your subject, considering your choice of eyewear.”
“You can love something without being able to do it well, can’t you, Kommissar?” Himmelwald asked. “Please sit. I do have a few minutes.”
“Standing is my preference, Doctor. A few years ago, though, you preferred a different shape of eyewear, something more hexagonal.”
“Yes. I changed the frames a couple of years ago. My new optician found it too hard to get both the frames and the prescription right. You saw that picture of me with the Führer.”
“Actually, that’s not how I knew.”
Himmelwald raised an eyebrow. “Eh?”
“I met your previous optician, as part of a case I’ve been working on.”
“I see. May I ask if that’s why you’ve come to this meeting armed, Kommissar?”
“I’ll ask you a little trivia question. You remember the murder we executed Lazlo for, right?”
“I read about it in the newspapers.” Himmelwald's face registered about as much tension as it might have if Rolf had asked him about last night’s weather report.
“Did you know that it bears a striking similarity to murders committed in Lehel between 1926 and 1928?”
“I imagine many murders look alike. There are only so many ways to destroy a human being, or am I wrong?”
“In this case, you’re wrong. And do you know the interesting thing? The person witnesses describe as the likely murderer wore glasses just like the ones you’re wearing in that picture taken with Hitler, a picture that was probably taken within a few weeks of your release from a Dortmund asylum, an asylum you checked into as part of a deal made between your family and the KRIPO investigator who handled the case, Kommissar Epp. You went into that asylum about a week after the last known killing. And now a murderer, with the same method, leaves a body in the backyard of that same Kommissar Epp.”
“Did Kommissar Epp tell you this?” Himmelwald asked.
“No.”
“Because if he did, I should tell you that he bears an impossible to credit grudge against me and my family, even though for over a century we’ve provided jobs and industry to the people of this city. But what do you expect from a Communist?”
“I developed this information independently.”
“Then why aren’t you arresting me, Kommissar?”
“Because I intend to bleed you instead. Arresting you would be a tough proposition. I have the evidence, but you’re well connected, and it’s possible that the SS will try to bury this, which would make my life harder than it needs to be. My wife and I want to get out of Germany, but we need funds to do that. That’s where you’re going to come in.”
Himmelwald grinned, “I see. Blackmail is your suit. Pay you and you’ll keep your mouth shut about me?”
“Something like that,” Rolf said. “We all have needs. I need money. You need silence. I’m proposing a trade based on mutual interest. What else can you expect from a capitalist?”
“Let me see if I can guess at the nature of your evidence. You have the word of Kommissar Epp, some old files that have been purged, some Jews who claim to know me, and some receipts for eyeglasses. Have I got it right?”
“Who said the files have been purged?”
“Those were the terms of my family’s agreement with Epp. I’m sure you know that,” Himmelwald said.
“How do you know he kept his end of the bargain?”
“What makes you think I’m without friends in the police hierarchy?”
“He kept copies.”
Himmelwald rose from his chair, his face turned blood red and his eyes darkened from brown to black. “Copies of interviews with Jews who are now dead, scattered, or irrelevant to any court case. Kommissar Epp is a drunken degenerate communist who hates my family’s success, and with a single phone call I can make all of you disappear. My friendships rise to the highest levels of the party and security services. Unless you leave my office immediately and never even dream of coming back, you and your bitch wife will be in concentration camps, where I’ll see to it you both die in agony. So here’s the deal. Keep your filthy, Jew-loving mouth shut or I’ll kill you and everyone you care about! How’s that for blackmail, Kommissar?”
Rolf drew his pistol. “Not as good as this.” He took dead aim at Himmelwald, whose eyes widened.
“You dare to aim a gun at me? In my office, you dare to aim a gun at me?”
Rolf loved the surge of power he was feeling at this moment. It was greater than any intoxicant he’d ever imbibed. He felt omnipotent now. As far as Himmelwald was concerned, Rolf was God himself.
This was what Himmelwald must have felt every time he claimed a girl. Rolf quivered, but only slightly. He’d have no trouble pulling the trigger and ending Himmelwald here.
“Have you really thought this through, Kommissar? Do you think that you can get away with this? Even if you get across the border somehow, do you think the SS won’t devote its resources to catching you? Pull that trigger and you and your wife hang with piano wire.”
Rolf held his gun steady. The logic of the moment screamed at him to pull the trigger.
Himmelwald kept talking. “Are you a religious man, Kommissar?”
“No.”
“Me either. But I can tell that you are, nonetheless a basically good man. Aren’t you? You think of yourself as a good man, as good as circumstances allow you to be, anyway. That’s why I didn’t buy your blackmail story, Kommissar. You don’t strike me as corrupt. You just wanted a confession so that you could shoot me and still congratulate yourself on your morality, right? I’m right, right?”
Rolf shook his head.
“Yeah. I’m right.” Himmelwald’s face became a parody of compassion. “It must be so hard for you, weighing the morality of this action. Kill the murderer, and in doing so become responsible for three murders: his, yours and your wife’s; or let him go, knowing he’ll kill again. Just imagine if, as a consequence of killing me, you go free, but your wife is captured. Can you imagine what they’ll do to her in hopes of catching you? Wait, you don’t have to imagine it. You know. And even if she doesn’t betray you, she’ll betray herself, and off goes her head, along with the heads of as many other Jew-communist traitors as we can connect to your activities. And all those deaths because you wanted to feel moral about destroying me. Such vanity, Kommissar. Such vanity.”
Rolf cocked the gun.
“So you’re going ahead anyway, Kommissar? Interesting.” Himmelwald's eyes glittered. “In a way it’s all right. It’s just a few more bodies here and there. On our way to the new society the Führer promises, I have no doubt that we’ll have to manufacture many more corpses. Nazism represents the zenith of the aristocracy, in that, for the first time, the aristocracy, the heirs to the noblest of races, is becoming conscious that it can get along without the proletariat. Modern technology will finally free us of the need to coddle them or accept their demands for better treatment. If they live, they will be our slaves. If not, they will die, and all this nonsense about the equality and rights of man, the Jewish notions, which began with democracy and ended with bolshevism, will finally be gone. It will mean the deaths of a lot of superfluous people, but a world of death doesn’t frighten me. I see it as necessary. Do you? I don’t think so.” Himmelwald approached Rolf, coming within arm’s length. “Kommissar, I’ll need you to either shoot or let me get on with my day. I’ve got patients waiting.”
As Rolf lowered his pistol, the door behind him opened. He quickly stuck the gun back in its holster as the receptionist asked Doctor Himmelwald how much longer he’d be. Himmelwald asked Rolf, “Are we finished, Kommissar?”
Rolf nodded. The doctor said. “I’ll be along in a minute.” The receptionist left, and Himmelwald shut the door again. “Don’t feel bad, Kommissar. Your failure to shoot is evidence of a truly humane, enlightened soul. I’m sure you’ll be able to spend the rest of your life congratulating yourself for it. Besides, in the greater scheme of things, I’m a minor player. I kill only a few, and as a doctor I save more than I destroy. And in the end, does it really matter so much that those I claim stopped breathing on one day as opposed to another? In a hundred years, we’ll all be equal.” Smirking, Himmelwald tugged the door handle, “Now, don’t think it hasn’t been entertaining seeing you again, Kommissar. Take care.”
Himmelwald left the office. After a few minutes, how many Rolf was unsure, he left as well. It took some time to wind his way through the maze of hallways back to the waiting room.
Rolf returned to the main hallway of the seventh floor feeling as if he’d been drained bloodless. He suddenly found himself wishing that he’d not been captured during the war, that he’d had an opportunity to endure the war’s violent mass slaughter instead of enduring the kind treatment of his British captors. Maybe if he’d lived through that, he’d have found the strength to shoot. Germany had no shortage of men with such strength. Why couldn’t Rolf be one of them?
Rolf’s thoughts, dizzy from what had just happened, lighted on the notion of giving himself another chance. He crossed the hall to an empty office and, with a quick shove from his shoulder, forced the door open. Leaving the door ajar, Rolf crouched inside, watching Himmelwald’s office door as patients entered and exited.
All day Rolf hunkered there, shivering from hunger and bloated with accumulating shit, but unwilling to move and miss his chance. The sun sank. The hallway lights dimmed, and evening’s shadows advanced. The yellow glow shining through the doorway glass from Himmelwald’s office went dark. Rolf swallowed hard. Sweating, and giddily nauseated, he pulled out his gun, cocked it, and aimed. Every square inch of his body seemed too eager to report in, to intaglio its experience upon Rolf’s memory.
As the door opened, and the silhouette of a head appeared in its glazing, Rolf fired two shots. The reports resounded in the empty office. Glass shattered. A woman screamed. The door slammed shut. Rolf saw neither body nor blood. There should have been some blood both on the door and spreading under it. Guilt and terror washed over Rolf in successive waves when he realized that he’d nearly blown apart Himmelwald’s receptionist. Rolf shoved his gun back in its holster, taking care not to eject the shells from the cylinder, and walked slowly and calmly down the hallway toward the elevator. As he passed Himmelwald’s office door, he heard the Herr Doctor’s chirpy little flunky frantically summoning the police.
Rolf was outside and halfway down the block when three police cars converged on the front entrance and cops, weapons drawn, stormed into Schloss Himmelwald. Rolf’s ribs, head, and heart ached. He caught a tram for home, wife, and morphine.
When Rolf came through the front door, he found Klara sitting in the uncomfortable chair, an open book on her lap. Her muscles seemed to slacken as she looked Rolf over. Whatever she saw, it was something she wanted to see. Klara put her book on the end table, got up, sat Rolf down on a comfortable chair and went to the kitchen to collect the drugs Rolf needed.
Rolf rolled up his sleeve. When Klara returned with her black bag open and her needle out, he said, “Do you have anything to say to me about this?”
The corners of Klara’s mouth twitched. “No. He is alive, then, is he?”
Rolf’s eyes filled with water, and before he knew it he’d wrapped his arms around Klara’s waist, pressed his head against the small of her back, and bawled so hard he felt himself emptying all over her. When his parents had died, Rolf had held it in. When he’d heard about his school friends at Verdun or the Russian front, his face was a Gobi desert. Now he cried from a pain so deep and so strong he thought it would crack his chest open, and let every hurt he’d ever held spill over Klara’s flower print dress and cascade onto the floor. Not that Rolf cared. At this moment, Rolf wanted the world to drown.
As he held his wife tight, he heard through his sobs that she was whispering something. It was just on the edge of his hearing, and in a language he didn't understand, but the way Klara whispered this to him broke parts in Rolf that he hadn’t guessed were there. She turned around and petted his hair as he abandoned himself to tears. His hands gripped the fabric of her dress so tight that his nails dug into his palms. If he’d been told that when a man runs out of tears he dies, he couldn’t have found the will to stop.
Finally, as dawn approached, Rolf let Klara go, falling backward until his head hit the chair’s back. Klara slid the needle into Rolf’s arm. The morphine loosened his chest and banished the ache in his ribs. He looked up at Klara, who was pale and grayer and lost-looking. She needed to go to bed, but Rolf needed her to hear this from him:
“Now we can go.”