SATURDAY, MAY 27, 1944–SUNDAY, MAY 28, 1944
When he had taken Vogler to the municipal hospital on Landsberger Allee, Oppenheimer felt an element of restlessness. He didn’t want to be idle, so he’d cajoled the Hauptsturmführer into letting him have the car over the bank holiday. This meant he would be mobile without needing Hoffmann. If a traffic policeman or a party loyalist stopped him, which was unlikely given the SS registration number, he should give Vogler as reference. Oppenheimer knew that he couldn’t fill the car up anywhere. Petrol was scarce; private individuals had no chance. But the tank was still half-full, which would have to suffice for the next few days.
Oppenheimer had become painfully aware of the fact that he lacked driving experience. So he drove a little more slowly and hoped he wouldn’t cause an accident. He was already on his way to Zehlendorf when he changed his plans and drove to the Jewish House. Lisa hadn’t seen him for two days and would be worried. But when he got home, she wasn’t there. He stood in the kitchen, unsure what to do. Then he tore a piece of paper from his notebook and left a short message that he was fine and would be back in three hours. That was enough time to at least inspect the site where the second victim had been found in Kreuzberg.
The stone giant’s right hand was clenched to a fist and rested on his thigh, while his left hand was pressed to his chest. He stared down at the ground from his pedestal, his gaze fixed on the exact spot where the mortal remains of Julie Dufour had been found nearly fifteen weeks ago. It almost seemed to Oppenheimer that the grim expression the shadows bestowed upon the statue’s face was a comment on this barbaric act, but the inscription on the pedestal clarified that the giant was in mourning for those who had fallen in the First World War. In former times, grass had probably grown at his feet; now carrots sprouted there. The food supplies for the city’s inhabitants were so low that every little space of green had been appropriated to grow vegetables, and here, too, green carrot leaves sprouted from the ground. One could no longer imagine a dead woman had been lying here just a few months ago.
A drunken orchestra musician had lurched across the square in the early hours of the morning and had stumbled across Ms. Dufour’s body. He had hurriedly tottered over to the nearest house and woken the residents from their sleep. It took a while for the drunken man to make himself understood. However, after two others had ascertained that he was telling the truth and there was actually a horribly mutilated woman lying there, they called the police.
Oppenheimer had read the protocol carefully. The intoxicated man had not seen any perpetrator. The officers investigating at the time had specifically asked him whether he had noticed a suspicious vehicle in the vicinity. But the alcohol had blurred the man’s mind to such an extent that he was worthless as a witness.
As Oppenheimer stood in front of the monument and looked at the surrounding rows of houses, he noticed some similarities to the crime site in Oberschöneweide. Once more, the view of the body was obstructed by a dense growth of trees. It had doubtlessly been easy to park the car nearby and carry the dead woman the few meters to the site without being observed. The stone monument concealed the murderer’s activities to the north, while the south gave a view of the wide Baerwaldstraße. Although the murderer had deposited the body right in the middle of Berlin, the danger of being caught at this precise spot was relatively low. It was the perfect place to get rid of a body. Oppenheimer wondered if it was a coincidence that there was a war memorial here, too, but when he thought back to the other two sites, he discarded this hypothesis. The murderer had presented the bodies beneath a monument in Oberschöneweide and in Marienfelde. There were many of them in the city and the surrounding area. The perpetrator could have easily chosen those that corresponded to his intentions. This also meant that he planned ahead to a certain degree. He did not carry out his acts on impulse, like Großmann had done. So it was just as likely he had also purposefully selected his victims. But where were the similarities between the three women? Oppenheimer was once again faced by the question that had bothered him all week.
It was already getting dark. Oppenheimer felt himself growing tired, and he had used up all his Pervitin tablets. He could really have done with an energy boost right now. Finally, he shook his head. No, it was time to go home. He had to look after Lisa.
When Oppenheimer returned to the Jewish House, Lisa still wasn’t there. He just about managed to stumble into his room and take off his coat before he fell onto the bed, instantly asleep.
He was woken by sobs. Oppenheimer felt arms encircle him. He saw Lisa’s face through a kind of fog and explained drowsily that he’d been buried alive. But before he could explain it any further, he fell back into a deep, dreamless sleep. When hunger finally drove him out of bed, the sun was shining through the window. Lisa was asleep next to him. He kissed her on the cheek. A careful kiss, so as not to wake her. Then he got up and trotted into the kitchen. He found some cooked carrots in a pot. Involuntarily, he thought of Julie Dufour’s body lying on a bed of carrot leaves. But his appetite was in no way impaired by such thoughts. He felt movement behind him, then Lisa hugged him.
All Oppenheimer could do was swallow and place his hands on hers. “Nothing happened,” he said. “Did I miss anything?”
Lisa pulled herself together and answered with a halting voice, “Not much. Old Schlesinger replaced the windowpane. You told me yesterday that you were buried alive. Where were you?”
At first, Oppenheimer just wanted to explain in a few words what had happened. But the explanation turned out longer than planned, as he felt that after all these days of worrying, Lisa had the right to know what the investigation was about. So far, he’d avoided giving her any details because the matter was so delicate and also top secret. In the early years of their marriage, it had been a big problem that he wanted to protect Lisa from all the things he experienced on a daily basis. But Oppenheimer had soon noticed that their relationship was burdened by this secrecy. And so over time, they had started speaking about the unpleasant events he had on his mind.
Lisa reacted well to the news that Oppenheimer was chasing a madman. He guessed that over the years of living with him, she had come to accept that whether she liked it or not, she would have to share her husband with criminals and hoodlums. But now she shook her head. “You should stop this. You’re taking unnecessary risks.”
“I have no choice,” he answered. “The SS has me over a barrel. As long as I fulfill their expectations, we’re safe. Maybe we can use it to our advantage.”
“Don’t they have anyone else for the job?”
“Most of my colleagues are at the front or have died.”
“Those aren’t your colleagues anymore. You are no longer in service.”
“You know what I mean. I have to go to see Hilde in a moment to talk about the investigation. Then I’ll be right back. Do you want to come to Marienfelde with me tomorrow?” Maybe it was unromantic to take your beloved to visit a place where a body had been found, but after the mortal fear he’d experienced in the cellar of the villa, he wanted Lisa near him.
“The sacrificial lamb has sympathy for its slaughterer. Did you ever hear such a thing?” That was typical of Hilde. Oppenheimer had mentioned his suspicion that Vogler might differ from other National Socialists. In the hours they had been buried together, he believed he had encountered a different Vogler, someone who might even carry the potential for good in him. In a certain way that Oppenheimer couldn’t quite define, he sensed that since the hours they’d spent together in the cellar, there was a new connection between them.
Of course, Hilde didn’t want to hear of it. Oppenheimer almost regretted having mentioned it.
“No, arse-face stays arse-face,” she said and downed another schnapps. “Be careful that he doesn’t influence you. That’s the typical pattern. First gain trust, then manipulate.”
“What is there to manipulate?” Oppenheimer made a dismissive gesture. “The facts speak for themselves in an investigation.”
“And what if he wants to get you to investigate in a certain direction?”
“What good will that do him? He is just as interested in catching the murderer as I am.”
“Vogler is an opportunist, like everyone in the party. He will only do what is most advantageous for him. In a secret investigation, everything is also a matter of politics.”
“You’re seeing ghosts. The case has only been classified as secret because this Reithermann guy has connections. There is nothing else to it.”
“I hope you’re right. Unfortunately, recently my fears have had the tendency of turning into reality.”
“Tell me instead what you think of my conclusion that the deeds were planned a long way in advance.”
“It all sounds logical so far. You haven’t been to Marienfelde yet?”
“Unfortunately not. I am going there first thing tomorrow.”
“I would be surprised if anything were different. The fact that no one saw the murderer suggests that he probably knew what he was doing. Did you notice anything else?”
“Hmm … the women’s bodies were all found beneath monuments. They must have something in common.”
“The First World War,” Hilde finalized his train of thought. “It keeps popping up. Our killer arranges the women beneath the monuments like before a sacrificial altar. Maybe revenge is a motive. But what for? His victims weren’t born yet when the First World War broke out. And yet I wouldn’t be surprised if the perpetrator had something to do with that era.”
“That could only mean that he himself was in the army. If that is correct, he’d have to be older than forty.”
“Yes,” said Hilde, staring into space.
Oppenheimer changed the record. In hindsight, he regretted not having taken the records from the cellar. He had no idea when he’d next get the chance to listen to pieces from The Threepenny Opera. Instead, he pulled the next-best record from his collection and put it on.
“Well, that’s something, at least,” Hilde said. “We finally know a bit more about our killer. Of course, the question is why he started killing women now. He’s not that young anymore. I’m guessing that it was a lengthy process until our murderer became the beast who carried out these deeds.”
“We definitely need to check whether there were similar cases in the past,” Oppenheimer said. “But I fear we won’t find much.”
“There must have been previous indications of the murderer’s sadistic urges. Often these things are simply not put in the right context.”
“I know. I would really like to know what’s going on in his head.”
Hilde snorted derisively. “We’ll never find out. If Vogler manages to get his hands on him, then the doctors will be content with measuring his head. I ask myself why everyone is so obsessed with deducing the character of a person from his appearance.”
“And I would like to know what the results would look like if one measured the heads of our Nazi elite.”
Hilde grinned at the thought. “It will turn out that Rudolf Hess hurried to England because he has a skull like Frankenstein’s monster.”
Oppenheimer laughed out loud. The fact that Hess, Hitler’s deputy, had flown to Scotland in a Messerschmitt during a cloak-and-dagger operation three years ago had caught Goebbels’s propaganda machinery unprepared. They couldn’t understand why a senior Nazi official would want to pay a visit to the enemy. The population had speculated zealously what might lie behind the operation. There were even presumptions that he wanted to initiate a separate peace with England. Press and radio, caught completely off guard by Hitler’s crown prince, published hasty reactions. To limit the damage, they finally announced that Hess was suffering from delusions. But fewer people than the party leaders expected had actually believed this absurd excuse.
Oppenheimer happily quoted a joke that had done the rounds on the quiet. “A song’s been passing through the land: We’re fighting against Eng-e-land. But when someone actually boards a plane, he is then declared insane.”
For a moment, Hilde’s laughter drowned out Handel’s Water Music, which spilled from the loudspeakers. Oppenheimer finally saw a favorable moment to address the tricky subject. He tried to make it sound as casual as possible when he asked, “By the way, would it be possible to get another prescription for Pervitin?”
Hilde grew serious. “Again? You had one about three months ago. Have you used it up already?”
“Just as a precaution.” Oppenheimer played it down. He didn’t want Hilde to know that he had also gotten some pills from Dr. Klein.
“You know what I told you,” Hilde reminded him. “Make sure you don’t take too many. Amphetamines are highly addictive, don’t forget that. But why do you think you need a prescription for the stuff now? I personally find it completely irresponsible that it was ever sold over the counter.”
“I thought it might be a good idea to stock up.” Oppenheimer was beating around the bush. “Who knows what lies ahead? Lisa is not coping well with the situation, and…” He stopped speaking when he heard a strange noise. “Wait a minute. What was that? Something in your treatment room.”
They both listened. Oppenheimer lifted the tone arm from the record. Hilde got up and opened the door to her small surgery. In the silence, they could hear that there was someone outside the entrance. A pained groan. Then timid knocking.
Hilde hesitantly went toward the gate. Oppenheimer prepared for the worst and considered running through the small flat to make his getaway through the front door. There was no other means of escape, as the windowsills were piled up with books. But if Vogler’s people had followed him here, then there was no point in fleeing anyway. He had specifically not taken the car Vogler had lent him; it would have been too conspicuous. Had he been careless in spite of everything because he had relied on his ruse with the clothes swap in the Beusselkiez?
Hilde held the door handle but didn’t dare move. “Who’s there?” she asked.
The reply was a pain-filled howl that sounded like a wounded animal. Oppenheimer and Hilde looked at each other in surprise. They realized that this was definitely not someone from the SD or the Gestapo. Outside, a body fell to the floor with a muffled thump. Hilde tore open the door.
A huddled figure lay on the doorstep. At first, Oppenheimer could only see long black hair. When she bent over to pick the person up from the floor, he realized that it was a young woman. She pressed her hands onto her abdomen. Her dress was soaked with blood.