The dishevelled church in the Berlin-Wedding District, part of the French sector, stood defiantly among the chaos of crumbling buildings and rubble surrounding it. Bill squinted into the wind and emerging twilight of the crisp winter morning as he made his way towards its formidable entrance. The stone pillars that guarded the door were peppered with bullet wounds and seemed to be straining under the weight of the grey tiled roof they had unwillingly held up for more than two hundred years. Bill pushed the giant oak door and was surprised to find it unlocked.
He looked down the wide aisle toward the altar. Some of the pews had been uprooted, probably for firewood. Their absence made the left side of the church into a sinister toothless grin. The right side was almost entirely bereft of seating altogether. A sizeable ornate crucifix stood on top of the Roman-inspired white altar. Christ was staring down at Bill with a disapproving scowl. Bill didn’t hold it against him. He had been forced to witness his church being stripped of its benches and valuables and had been unable to intervene. Neither the Nazis nor divine intervention had been able to stop the Russians from ransacking the historic city.
There was a small makeshift replacement confessional booth to the right of the altar and a small doorway beyond that. Bill didn’t know what he was looking for here, but he hoped he’d know if he found it. The floor was surprisingly clean. Most of the windows were missing at least some of their glass, and the light wind whistled from various gaps in the boarding that replaced them.
Bill checked again the card he had found in Misselwitz’s apartment. One of many, all neatly kept in the writing desk drawer:
You have a friend at St.Bernhardt Church. All sins cleansed. Escape in the arms of our Lord.
A large balding man appeared from the small doorway and announced his presence.
“Good morning, my son. I’m afraid it’s a little early for me, but please make yourself comfortable, and I will be out presently.”
“I don’t wish to intrude, but my name is Bill Fuchs, and I was told you may be able to help me with the whereabouts of someone I wish to speak to.” Bill couldn’t help but wonder about the kind of donations the church received to enable the priest to maintain his ample bulk in the present climate and with such food and fuel shortages.
“I see. Of course, please just allow me a few minutes to make myself presentable.”
Bill wandered over to the altar and saw various remnants of fixings visible in the stonework where ornate trim used to be held in place. In the days following Berlin’s capitulation, the Russians had taken everything that wasn’t screwed down, and as it now appeared, most that was. The Nazis, too, had persecuted the Catholic church and stolen many of its treasures and much of its land. But, unlike the Jewish synagogues, most of the churches still stood and had been reoccupied shortly after liberation. Many priests had returned to their flock after living in hiding or from places like Dachau concentration camp.
Bill made himself as comfortable as he could in the cold church. He had uncharacteristically kept his hat and leather gloves on, through fear of succumbing to hyperthermia in the freezing building. A short while later, the fat priest came back out. He wore a black shirt, his dog collar visible, and an oversized brown woolly pullover with large patches on the elbows. His trousers looked well-worn, but he had a pair of almost brand-new brown Oxford-style shoes. They were well made, probably in London.
“How may I assist you, Mr …?”
“Fuchs.”
“Of course, Mr Fuchs. Sorry, it’s been a long week.”
Bill could smell his odour and the Schnapps on his breath.
“I am looking for a man by the name of Ernst Witzer, as I believe he witnessed a car crash recently, and I am seeking further clarification of the events,” Bill lied.
“Hmm, I would like to help you, Mr Fuchs, but alas, I have not seen him for a long while. He indeed used to come here from time to time for confession and the like, but I have not encountered him for many weeks. Do you work for the police?”
Bill wondered why he hadn’t asked why he would think to look for him here? Instead, he seemed more concerned if Bill was law enforcement.
“No, nothing like that. I am a correspondent for the BBC, and I am just researching the story and have some follow-up questions.”
“I’m afraid I cannot help you, and if you’ll excuse me, I must prepare the church for the day.”
Bill could tell he was getting a little nervous and evasive. Finally, he added, “If you do happen to see him, could you please ask him to contact me? Here is my card. He may reach me at the BBC in Berlin, extension thirty-eight. It’s all on the card. Many thanks, Father.”
As he turned away, Bill could make out the unmistakable slight bulge in the small of his back that could only be made by the shape of an automatic pistol.