Fritz’s fists clenched so hard, his short-cropped nails dug into his palms. But he kept his face impassive. He didn’t want the sergeant to see his frustration.
Adolf Hitler was a national figure with terrifying connections. His party, the National Socialist German Workers Party, had grown in popularity during the last few years. Its representation in the Reichstag had grown from 12 to 107 seats just the year before, and there was talk on the streets of Munich that Hitler himself would run for Chancellor in 1932. No wonder the Chief Inspector had looked at Fritz so oddly when he mentioned Prinzregentenplaz; just the week before they had been discussing how a man could go from being an impoverished enemy of the state to an influential politician who lived in one of Munich’s most coveted neighborhoods.
‘They say he is backed by the Kaiser’s son, August Wilhelm.’
Fritz blinked, as much with surprise as a refocus on his concentration. The sergeant was making small talk.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Fritz said. ‘We are a democracy now.’
The sergeant sputtered. ‘And who would believe it? Last week –’
‘You spoke to the housekeeper?’ Fritz would not discuss politics. Not now. Not ever. Especially not with a member of the Schupo, whose politics could run with anything from the NSDAP to the Communists.
The sergeant straightened. ‘Briefly.’
‘When I came in?’
‘No. I was speaking to another servant.’
Fritz tilted his head back slightly. He was behind in this investigation. He had been behind from the moment he entered the building.
‘Where is the body?’ Fritz’s tone was getting sharper. He hoped it would mask the fear he felt like a thrum beneath his skin. This was the case. This one would defeat him. This one would prove that Munich’s wünderkind was a man after all.
Unless he grabbed control now.
‘I don’t know where the body is,’ the sergeant said. His eyes were shining. He wiped his hands on his uniform. ‘I’m just a street officer, sir. I have never had criminal training –’
‘Surely you’re smart enough to know that one cannot have a murder without a body.’ Fritz took a deep breath to calm himself. Yelling at the sergeant would do him no good. ‘Did you ask what happened to the body?’
‘The housekeeper called one of Hitler’s men to open this door. Apparently it was locked. When he saw the body, he took it.’
‘And do we know who this man is?’
The sergeant looked down. ‘You’ll need to talk with the housekeeper, sir.’
‘I will do that. You’re dismissed, sergeant.’
The sergeant nodded, then backed out of the room. Fritz did not watch him go. Instead he unclenched his fists and let his hands drop at his side. He was viewing a staged scene. The body was missing. Yet the household had been in such turmoil they summoned a constable, the lowest rank in Schupo, off the street, instead of calling for help from the Kripo. Deliberate? He didn’t know. But he didn’t like the situation.
Still, he would get his people to work the room, the entire apartment. He would interview the witnesses. He would need someone to guard them so that they couldn’t change any story they had. Because his first priority was finding that body before it disappeared for good.
A click snaps him back to the present. The room is dark except for the light filtering in from the street lights outside the window. The girl’s face is a ghostly reflection of itself. She smiles apologetically. ‘My tape has ended.’
He nods, then waves her away.
She stands hesitantly. ‘Would you like some light?’
He shakes his head. These memories belong in the darkness.
‘Maybe we could go for some dinner?’ Her voice trails off. She doesn’t want to. She clearly feels sorry for him.
‘I will see you tomorrow, precisely at eight. Bring coffee and pastries. I like plenty of frosting.’ He makes his tone light.
‘Will… will you be all right?’
He sighs. She will not leave him until he proves that he is fine. She seems to think the memories have disturbed him. Or that he is an old and frail man.
He is not frail.
He snaps on the light beside his chair, blinking at the sudden brightness. ‘I have been alone most of my life. Another night will not hurt me.’
She glances around the room as if she has not seen it before. And it does look different in the artificial light. The framed photographs on the walls do not cover the water stains and peeling wallpaper. The light catches the specks of dirt on the picture glass, specks that obscure each photograph. He has seen them all a hundred times. He no longer needs to look, but she seems to.
‘At eight,’ he says. ‘Frosting.’
‘Yes, right.’ She runs a hand through her long brown hair, then grabs her bag and slings it over her shoulder. It lands with a thump against her back as she leans over to get her recorder. She makes a slight, almost inaudible grunt as she lifts it.
‘Tomorrow,’ she says, backing toward the door. Has he misread her? Does he look frightening in the dark? An athletic old man with a fierce face? Is that why she continues to watch him instead of turning her back on him? She puts her hand behind her and turns the knob. As she lets herself out, she calls, ‘Good night.’
He does not reply. The door closes with a click. He drinks the last sip out of his beer glass – an ancient stein he stole from the Cafe Heck on a dare – then sets it down. The apartment is too quiet. The American has left him with his ghosts.
Before he even thinks, he is across the room, picking up the receiver on the phone bolted to the kitchen wall. His index finger barely fits in the dial’s holes. He listens as the rotor turns, reflecting the size of each number he dials, but as he reaches the last one, he stops.
The last time he called, it cost him half a month’s rent for a scrawny blonde who did not know how to apply false eyelashes, and who wore pantyhose instead of silk stockings. When he complained, he was told that the girls met his fantasy out of courtesy because he was a long-time customer, but silk stockings were expensive, and no one really remembered what the 1920s were like, now, did they?
He hangs up the receiver and leans against the plastic countertop. If he is honest with himself, he knows it is not the pantyhose that distracted him. It is the ancient look in the girl’s eyes, a look he does not remember in Gisela’s. When he was younger, he could ignore the look or pretend it was not there. But he sees everything now, in his old age, as clearly as if it were blown in on the Föhn. And if he is really honest with himself, he will remember that by the time she left in January of 1923, Gisela’s eyes had no look at all. They were dead to everything but her own fear.
The dishes in the sink have the faint odour of soured milk. He needs to eat something, but he does not want to eat alone. Nor does he want more conversation. The past tightens his throat, churns his stomach. He will go to the beer hall down the block, eat sausage and sauerkraut, and drink until he cannot feel anymore.