SATURDAY, JUNE 10, 1944–MONDAY, JUNE 12, 1944
The rain just wouldn’t stop. For Oppenheimer, last week’s summer days were just a distant memory. He hated to admit that his mood was so dependent on something as trivial as the weather. Rain quickly made him feel melancholy, in particular when it was pouring for several days on end. His mood wasn’t really helped by the Mosquito air strike last night. At least this was an indication that the German Luftwaffe no longer had much left to beat back the attackers. Air raids during full moons used to be very rare because the chance of being seen was much higher. By now, the Royal Air Force didn’t seem to care about such strategies.
Oppenheimer still had quite a way to go. If, after leaving the subway station Schlesisches Tor, he walked along the Spree River, he’d eventually reach Billhardt’s flat near Treptower Park. When it had become apparent that the bad weather would be around for a while, Oppenheimer had decided to seek out his old colleague this Saturday already. He didn’t feel much like squeezing into the damp allotment shed the next day to have a confidential conversation.
Stupidly, he hadn’t thought of getting a second umbrella to confuse his pursuer. He only realized this when he’d already gotten changed in the small flat in the Beusselkiez. He couldn’t take his umbrella to Billhardt; otherwise, his cover would be blown immediately. So he had no other choice than to brave the elements, protected solely by his hat. After just a few minutes, the water had poured from the brim of his hat into the back of his collar. As he stepped around the huge puddles, he kept thinking about how much he hated all this water.
Since the news of the landings of the Allied forces in Normandy on June 6, there had been only very few public announcements. On the day of the invasion, there had actually been new editions of the daily newspapers. INVASION BEGINS: IMMEDIATE RETALIATION was the headline in the Berliner Börsen-Zeitung, adding: WE FIGHT FOR EUROPE. The reports on the battles were essentially made up of the obligatory triumphant propaganda, which, given the seriousness of the situation, had simply been worded a little more subtly.
Just a few weeks ago, Hitler had boasted of his capacity to retaliate against an enemy attack within nine hours, but since the day of the invasion, there had not been much mention of this promise. Oppenheimer had even flicked through the Völkischer Beobachter to get some new information, but the in-house NSDAP broadsheet simply blustered about an insidious attack on Europe and spread the rumor that Stalin had forced Moscow’s vassals to attack against their better knowledge. The next day, there were reports of heavy enemy losses.
After the initial shock, it became relatively quiet in the city. However, Oppenheimer didn’t see many party emblems on the lapels of passersby anymore. Occasionally, he heard someone muttering about a retaliation attack the führer had surely arranged. Vogler and the radio operator looked quite anxious over the next few days, which Oppenheimer saw as a good omen for the Allied forces. But the weather was bad in Normandy as well, which was good news for the Wehrmacht, as the conditions meant that the enemy air force’s deployment was restricted. As far as Oppenheimer could assess, the British and the Americans were currently not moving forward.
Like the Allied forces, Oppenheimer had not managed to advance much in the investigation in the past few days. But at least he’d managed to convince Hauptsturmführer Vogler to take the initiative and warn all members of the SS that their female companions and employees might be at risk from a murderer. Oppenheimer wanted to warn all the brothels in the city, but Vogler was adamant in his refusal, as the investigation was supposed to be confidential.
Normally, one would get countless leads from such warnings, but SS members had a far lower urge to communicate than the rest of the population. Maybe they simply felt too safe to take the warning seriously. They’d only had one measly tip-off so far, which had turned out to be entirely made up, as the missing woman had spent the night drunk with some man. Once Vogler’s men had clarified the situation, it resulted in the usual jealous drama. Oppenheimer found this episode anything but amusing, as he was painfully aware that they were not getting anywhere.
He rang the doorbell, and Billhardt opened. “I just got back from my shift,” he said.
“What are you doing these days?” Oppenheimer asked.
“You’ll never guess. I’ve just come from the train station—on official business. I had to seek out illegal fruit salesmen and confiscate their goods.”
Oppenheimer looked at the bulging food basket that was standing in the hallway. Surely Billhardt had been bribed by the traders. “Hmm, I understand,” he mumbled. “What do you think about the invasion? Do you think the Atlantic Wall will hold?”
Billhardt didn’t react. He led Oppenheimer into the living room.
Even before they sat down, Billhardt announced that he had indeed found the police file. Savoring the suspense with glee, he poured Oppenheimer a glass of wine.
“Turns out, I was right. The whole thing happened in September 1932. There were a lot of cases like that back then. Ideological reasons and so on. A unionist, who was also a Communist Party member, was attacked by a few SA men in his flat. They put him in the hospital, but he escaped with a few broken bones because neighbors hurried to assist him.” Billhardt paused for effect. “His wife wasn’t so lucky.”
“Let me guess,” Oppenheimer said. “She was attacked with a knife?”
Billhardt nodded. “Exactly. One of the SA men attacked the unionist’s wife with a knife. At least that is what her husband later said. The perpetrator fell upon her in a blind rage and didn’t stop even when the neighbors arrived to put an end to the matter. It seems he created a bloodbath. The witnesses reported that the man seemed to have worked himself into a frenzy. He wasn’t aware of what was going on around him. It took three strong men to bring him back to his senses. He was sentenced to death.”
“And what was so special about this event that you still remember it?”
“The SA man”—Billhardt hesitated—“he stabbed the woman in her pelvic area. The doctors couldn’t save her.”
Oppenheimer listened attentively. “Interesting. That could actually fit with our perpetrator. But you said he was sentenced to death?”
Billhardt grimaced. “Depends on how you look at it. He was let go.”
Oppenheimer almost choked on his wine. “What?” he asked incredulously.
“He only spent six months inside. He got really lucky. While he was waiting for his execution, there was an amnesty. That was in March 1933, just after the seizure of power. The amnesty applied to all offenses that had taken place in connection with the national elevation. You hear? All offenses. Immediately, as soon as Hitler came to power, he ensured that his old co-combatants were officially given a clean slate. No matter what was on their record. He made sure their sentences were not carried out. They all got out of prison. Even our murderer went scot-free.”
Oppenheimer was speechless for a moment. “Bloody hell,” he finally said. “They had him, and then they let him go.”
“Careful. Don’t fixate on it. I know what you’re thinking, but you haven’t gotten any evidence that he’s the perpetrator you’re after now. There are no other indications in his file. He never popped up again. No further offenses. Apparently, he’s been living the life of a respectable citizen since then.”
“I need to access the file.”
Billhardt flinched. “You know that’s impossible. You’re no longer a police officer.”
“Then give me a copy, something. At least give me his name.”
Billhardt shook his head. “No, I can’t. I’ve already told you more than I should have. If this gets out, I’m done for. You know I’m no backstabber, but I have to consider my own safety. I told you when all of this took place. That will suffice. The Hauptsturmführer you work for will get you the necessary information.”
Oppenheimer thought for a moment. “I don’t want to speak to him about it until I have some specific suspicions. I already put my foot in it when I suspected an SS bigwig. And this Brownshirt would be one of his own men once again.”
“I really can’t help you anymore,” Billhardt insisted, but Oppenheimer could see from his expression that he was struggling with the decision.
The all clear had finally come at three in the morning. Half-asleep, Oppenheimer had shuffled upstairs from the cellar to his bed, dropped onto the mattress, and gone straight back to sleep. When he woke up, it was already midday. He heard Lisa in the kitchen. Still sleepy, he rolled over onto his back and looked out the window into the gray sky. It was Sunday, but his mind did not allow him to rest. While he got dressed, he thought of the SA man Billhardt had talked about. Maybe he really should turn to Vogler to get hold of the files. A small white lie would suffice. He could claim to have heard about the case while he was still with the force.
When Oppenheimer went into the kitchen, Lisa was at the stove. The kettle was boiling. There was food on the table. To his surprise, he saw valuable items, such as chocolate, coffee, and tinned meat. His reflex was to immediately open one of the bars of chocolate. As the sweet taste spread inside his mouth, he couldn’t resist a contented smile.
He put a second piece of this unexpected gift in his mouth and only then asked, “Where did you get this?”
“From Dr. Klein,” Lisa answered. Her voice sounded oddly muted. “He handed everything out in the house this morning.”
“I thought he must have a secret stash. What are we celebrating? Did the invasion advance?”
Lisa banged the kettle down hard on the stove and looked at her husband reproachfully. “You really don’t have a clue what’s going on around you, do you?”
Oppenheimer noticed a moist gleam in her eyes but didn’t understand her reaction. “What did I do wrong?”
“You’re so involved with your investigation that you’ve forgotten about everyone else.”
Oppenheimer felt misunderstood. “Please tell me what’s going on!”
“Dr. Klein got his evacuation papers the day before yesterday. Now that his wife passed away, he is no longer classified as privileged. He hoped he would be sent to Theresienstadt, but they want to take him to Poland because he’s not sixty yet. They’re fetching him tomorrow. So he gave away all his things today. I have a feeling he’s going to take Veronal. I don’t think the Gestapo will find him alive when they come for him.”
The taste of the chocolate seemed to change in Oppenheimer’s mouth. Shocked, he swallowed the rest. Then he raised his eyes to the ceiling. Somewhere up there, Dr. Klein was just swallowing a lethal dose of sleeping pills. Oppenheimer felt the urge to do something. He wanted to put an end to this madness. But what could he do? As much as it went against his instincts, he had to accept that it might be better not to intervene. Dr. Klein would spare himself further abuse, wouldn’t have to dig his own grave before he was shot or gassed or whatever other atrocities the National Socialists might come up with. The only option he had to demonstrate his freedom, to not capitulate in the face of this extermination machinery, to not resign himself to his fate that the wretch whom the people called führer intended for him, was suicide.
The air in the room had suddenly gone thick and stale. Oppenheimer opened one of the windows and looked out onto the rain-drenched street. He no longer felt like eating chocolate.
The cemetery caretaker swore. He hadn’t switched on his flashlight, although it was pitch-black all around him. He could find his way around the cemetery in the dark. If he was unlucky, then one of these hoodlums would still be lurking around here somewhere, and in that case, he didn’t fancy attracting their attention. He considered himself quite fit for sixty-seven. Should anyone cross his path, he would try to sneak up and overpower him. At the thought of this, the caretaker gripped his hoe even tighter. It was good to have it with him, just in case.
After the all clear came through, he had just gotten comfortable in bed when he had been called out again. He would have noticed early in the morning, when he opened up, that the gate to the cemetery was ajar and that the chain had been cut. But now he’d been obliged to go out into the pouring rain to fulfill his duties. He’d seen Ms. Becker in the neighborhood several times before. He thought she was a silly goose, although she had a nice bum, you had to hand it to her. Out of sheer spite, he’d sent her to the nearest police station to report the break-in right away. Her expression when he said that he had to secure the grounds until the police arrived was simply priceless. Well, yes, one had to have one’s revenge. He would have preferred to be in bed now. Maybe even with Ms. Becker.
It was nearly impossible to search the entire cemetery in the darkness. The grounds were almost half a square kilometer. And the damp air was unpleasantly clammy, which was why the caretaker decided to go down only the wide path to the water tower. He told himself that then he would’ve done his duty well enough. He secretly hoped Ms. Becker hadn’t gone to the police after all, so he could get some more sleep for a couple of hours. The intruder couldn’t really do much here anyway. Maybe steal some flowers. Was there even a black market for that? Otherwise, the most you could do here was desecrate a grave. Not worth mentioning. And this was what they chased him out of bed for. The caretaker shook his head moodily as he walked along the crunching gravel. He could just about make out the huge tower ahead of him at the end of the path. When the sun shone, the cylindrical building’s red bricks outshone the entire cemetery. But during these early hours, the colors were hidden in the black night sky.
The caretaker reached the end of the path and the bottom of the tower and was about to turn back, but suddenly, he froze. There was something there. Had he really heard a rustle? Or was his mind playing tricks on him? He listened carefully, but he couldn’t hear anything apart from the large flags flapping above his head. It had probably just been a startled bird. Or could someone be hiding out here after all?
The caretaker raised his hoe, his muscles tensed, and he prepared himself for an attack. He would show this villain that an old man like him was not a defenseless victim. He slowly began to circle around the tower, moving forward with extreme caution. He tried to be as quiet as possible, but the damned gravel crunched with his every step.
He didn’t have to go far to discover the body. The caretaker was just passing the memorial hall at the base of the tower when his foot encountered an obstacle right outside the main entrance. He stopped in alarm. Something he couldn’t quite make out was lying in front of him in the darkness. That thing hadn’t been lying here yesterday.
The caretaker knew how easy it would be to ambush him here. He was fully exposed. He suppressed his first instinct to examine whatever lay by his feet. First, he had to check that the coast was clear.
Nothing moved. No telltale light in the bushes. Nor was there anything coming from the portico of the memorial hall. No shadows waiting behind a pillar, no unusual sounds penetrating his ear. It was just him and the dark something or other on the ground in front of him.
Once he’d made sure there was no one in the vicinity, he focused his attention back on the dark object. If he wanted to be able to see anything, he had no choice but to switch on the flashlight. He adjusted the beam of light down toward the ground and saw what was lying in front of him. He’d seen similar things at the front, but all his war experience could not have prepared him for this human body that had been grotesquely mutilated by crude violence. The caretaker quickly switched the flashlight back off and just about managed to suppress his urge to vomit. Despite his hoe, he felt defenseless.
Oppenheimer had not been able to sleep all night. This time, it wasn’t the air raid that got him out of bed. Lisa had gone straight back to sleep when they returned to their flat, but Oppenheimer tossed and turned. The thought of Dr. Klein preyed on his mind. He felt a bitterness inside that he couldn’t shake off. He lay in bed and couldn’t do much more than stare into the darkness.
Suddenly, a muffled sound. Steps. Someone was in the stairwell, coming up to their floor. A few seconds later, the kitchen door opened. Steps approached their room. Was it the Gestapo? Another search? Oppenheimer held his breath. Then someone knocked on the door.
“Oppenheimer?” a voice asked.
Hesitantly, Oppenheimer pulled on his trousers and opened the door. Hoffmann was standing in the brightly lit kitchen. “Mission,” he said curtly. Oppenheimer knew what that meant.
“Hell and damnation!” he mumbled. The perpetrator had struck again. He’d killed another victim. In moments like these, Oppenheimer hated his job.
The rain had ceased when Vogler arrived outside the entrance to the Bergstraße cemetery at daybreak. His face took on an extremely unhealthy color in this light, but Oppenheimer was certain that he probably didn’t look much better either. “We have a witness!” Vogler said with a broad grin.
Oppenheimer’s eyes widened in excitement. “What did he see?”
“She. I’ve sent two of my officers to the police station. The witness will be held there so we can interview her straightaway. As far as I understood from the cemetery caretaker, she saw someone fiddling around at the gate just before the body was found.”
Vogler then explained that the cemetery’s northern portal consisted of a large iron gate, flanked by two smaller gates. The caretaker usually locked the main gate with a chain. The intruder had cut through one of the chain links, probably with a bolt cutter.
Vogler led Oppenheimer along the wide path straight across the cemetery grounds. Splendid gravestones that had been built shortly after the turn of the century were positioned alongside more recent plain stones, but their contours were still blurred in the shadowless twilight of dawn. The flat-roofed structure they were walking toward seemed rather bulky compared to the brick water tower construction that rose up above it. Oppenheimer vaguely remembered that this tower had never fulfilled its original purpose as a water reservoir. The NSDAP had found better usage for this representative and simultaneously pointless building—namely, a memorial for the fallen of the First World War and the National Socialist movement.
A sudden flashbulb explosion from the direction of the memorial hall. Doubtlessly the police photographer was in the process of securing the evidence.
“Up there?” Oppenheimer asked, quickening his steps. Vogler seemed surprised by Oppenheimer’s sudden agility.
“Right outside the main portal,” he said and hurried after Oppenheimer. Oppenheimer rushed past an SS man guarding the site, a gun on his shoulder. When he turned around the corner of the portico, he saw the tarpaulin. The photographer was just placing it back over the body. Only a few red curls could be seen poking out of the tarpaulin. The body was near the main stairs that led to the entrance of the building.
The same pattern, Oppenheimer thought. Once again, the body was lying in front of a sort of sacrificial altar, only this one rose up about forty meters above the ground. Before he lifted the tarpaulin, his heart began to pound.
He was presented with a gruesome sight. The woman’s pelvic area had been positioned to face the monument, her legs spread. The injuries seemed to be identical with the first three victims. Similar to the other sites, there was little blood. There was no doubt that this was the same perpetrator. And yet Oppenheimer’s first impression had deceived him. The pattern was not identical. Something was missing this time.
“What does this mean?” Oppenheimer asked in bewilderment.
“He cut her arms off,” Vogler explained. “We’re already searching the area to see if they are lying here somewhere.”
“No arms?” Oppenheimer thought out loud. Only now did he take in anything besides the injuries. The woman lying on the ground in front of him was dressed entirely in black. The rain had almost washed away her makeup. As if by magic, the woman’s face did not show the unimaginable torments that she must have gone through.
Oppenheimer stayed crouched next to her. Anger rose inside him. Anger and despair. She could still be alive if he hadn’t failed so dismally. He had wasted the last weeks. The murderer had made him a culprit. He remained an enigma to Oppenheimer. Each time he believed that he could make some sense of the facts, something happened and threw everything overboard.
“Has anyone been reported missing?” Oppenheimer asked.
Vogler, leaning against one of the pillars, shook his head. “Not yet.”
Oppenheimer got up, went to the top of the stairs, and looked at the grassy area that stretched out below him. “Right, well, the lady doesn’t seem to have anything with her that might identify her. So we’ll have to find out ourselves. She looks well cared for; I don’t think she works the streets. She is wearing expensive jewelry, and as far as I can tell, she uses perfume. This is too classy. I think you should send someone to the brothels with her picture. If there was some sort of SS connection, we’ll soon find out. I doubt no one will miss her. Right, now where is the witness?”
“I believe she’s at the police station.”
“Then I’ll go and question her myself. She’s probably the best thing we have right now.”
Elfriede Becker looked at Oppenheimer with red-rimmed eyes. She’d been in the police station for four hours now, sitting on a wooden bench, exhausted, with her jacket rolled up as a neck support. “I don’t want to complain, but your colleagues have already questioned me. I spent half the night in the bunker, and I have to go to work soon.”
“It won’t take long,” Oppenheimer reassured her and sat down next to her. “So you were on your way home and saw the suspect? In Bergstraße, right by the entrance?”
Ms. Becker adjusted her glasses, pulled the jacket from behind her head, and folded it carefully. Her movements were mechanical. “I don’t know if it was the perpetrator. Before I got to the gate, I saw a figure there.”
“How far away were you?” Oppenheimer automatically moved closer, observing her. Ms. Becker was too tired to notice his behavior.
Her head lowered, she answered, “Maybe fifteen meters. I thought it was odd that the man ran away.”
“What did he look like?”
Ms. Becker let out an annoyed groan and leaned back. “I’m afraid I can’t say. I couldn’t make out much because of the blackout. It was light only for a brief moment because the moon came out from behind a cloud. The light quickly disappeared again, and then I just heard steps. He probably crossed the road or disappeared behind the trees, I don’t know. Anyway, by the time I got to the gate, he was gone.”
“But you did see him during this brief moment, correct?”
“Well, seeing is going too far, but yes, I was able to get a brief glimpse of him.”
“What can you say about his appearance?”
“Normal height, maybe five foot seven. Long coat. No hat.”
“If he wasn’t wearing a hat, what color was his hair?”
Ms. Becker looked at him uncertainly. “I would say light. I can’t really remember.”
“Light? Do you mean his hair was white?”
“No, it was shiny. Like Jean Harlow in the American films.”
Oppenheimer tried to square the image of the peroxide blonde with the suspected perpetrator but couldn’t quite picture it. Ms. Becker must have caught Oppenheimer’s incredulous gaze. Apologetically, she added, “I think I might be rather tired. I just couldn’t see any more than that.”
Oppenheimer had learned through experience that every witness can be influenced. Many of them started doubting their own powers of observation after being repeatedly questioned and simply just confirmed what they had been told. He realized that they had almost reached that critical moment.
“We’re done,” he said. “Many thanks for your efforts.”
Without saying good-bye, Ms. Becker grumpily pulled on her jacket and left the police station.