FRIDAY, JUNE 23, 1944
Although Billhardt was in his own sweet home, he felt anything but comfortable in the presence of his unexpected guest. Reluctantly, he thought of how, in a sudden moment of obedience, he’d written that bloody letter. When he’d passed it round at police headquarters, he’d never expected someone would come by and see him about it the next day. And even less so that the someone would be an SS Hauptsturmführer. Billhardt swore quietly to himself. That’s what you got for doing your civic duty.
Despite the awkward situation, he tried to keep calm. And in actual fact, his thoughts were clear as rarely before. He was in a bit of a dilemma. He had to find a way to play down his role. It must not become known that it had been he who had made Oppenheimer aware of Lutzow.
The SS man who’d introduced himself as Vogler seemed to be in a hurry. He’d refused to sit down, simply stood in front of the window and fixed Billhardt with a challenging look.
Billhardt said vaguely, “The day before yesterday, he came to see me in the afternoon. Inspector Oppenheimer. I mean the former inspector, of course. It was just as I described it.”
“I want to hear it from you,” Vogler demanded.
“He’d already paid me a visit the week before. Initially, I didn’t know there was a purpose to his visit. I thought he just wanted to get back in touch with an old colleague. Then he came out with it the day before yesterday. He wanted to get his hands on an old file. I was meant to procure it for him, but of course, I sent him away and told him that I couldn’t do something like that.”
“Which investigation was this?”
“It involved a member of the SA. His name is Johannes Lutzow. He was arrested in September 1932 because he attacked a Bolshevist in the man’s flat. It seems Lutzow created a right bloodbath. The victim’s wife sustained bad knife injuries.”
“Were there injuries to her genital area?”
Billhardt couldn’t hide his surprise. Angry with himself, he immediately lowered his gaze again. He mustn’t show any emotion. That could be dangerous. It was better not to admit the details that Oppenheimer had given him on the current investigation. “Maybe. I believe I heard there were injuries of that sort. It was an unusual case that quickly spread around police headquarters. Lutzow was sentenced to death, but he was let off the following year. The führer’s amnesty, you remember. It seems that Oppenheimer had also heard of the case at the time. He was still in service then. And now that he’s involved in this new investigation, he remembered the old case and wanted me to get hold of the old file. Just like that. Of course, I refused.”
“Did Oppenheimer give you further details of what he is currently working on?”
Billhardt shook his head vigorously. “He didn’t want to tell me anything. He just mentioned something about female corpses. But I didn’t press him. Then out of the blue, Oppenheimer asked about the Lutzow investigation. At first, I didn’t know what to think of it, but then it seemed suspicious, and I considered it my duty to report it.”
“But he must have at least given you my name; otherwise, you wouldn’t have been able to write me this letter.”
“I must have picked it up.” Billhardt looked guiltily at Vogler. “But I know nothing more about the case that he is working on right now. I swear an oath to the führer on that, Hauptsturmführer Vogler.”
Vogler frowned and paced up and down with his head lowered. “Does anyone else know about it?”
“I went directly to my superior.”
Vogler stopped and looked at Billhardt. Doubt was reflected in his gaze. Billhardt tried with all his might to control his eyes. He knew that he mustn’t look away if he wanted to convince Vogler of his story. Finally, the Hauptsturmführer said, “Very good. You acted perfectly correctly, Billhardt.” To reinforce this, he approached Billhardt and patted him on the shoulder. “If only everyone were as vigilant as you are. You see, I have a very particular task. The case is still classified as top secret. Whether the results of the search are made public or not has not yet been decided. It is also not for me to decide. My instructions are to ensure that all possible connections between the murder case and our party are not made public. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Billhardt nodded. He had understood only too well.
“There is more to this case than meets the eye. Enemies of the state may be at work. They have an interest in damaging the party. They’re probably fabricating evidence so it appears that the perpetrator comes from our own ranks. Even a hint or a rumor could severely damage national uprising, especially in times like this. You do understand that you must keep this matter in the strictest confidence?”
“Of course,” Billhardt replied automatically. “My lips are sealed.” He breathed a sigh of relief. Fortunately, the Hauptsturmführer had confirmed that he had done the right thing. Therefore, nothing would happen to him. And yet he felt a certain restlessness that had come over him several times in the last few hours. Could his behavior be considered a betrayal of Oppenheimer? He placated his conscience by telling himself that it hadn’t been anything personal. He had only done what a good German had to do. It was that simple. Billhardt told himself that there was no point in thinking about it any further.
Although Oppenheimer was lucky and the telephone line was working, he was unable to reach Vogler in Zehlendorf. The radio operator who was manning the desk in the cellar of the small house had assured him that he would inform the Hauptsturmführer immediately and that backup was on its way.
Restlessly, Oppenheimer paced up and down in the dark entrance, his gaze fixed on the building opposite. He had set off for Köpenick immediately. Although he couldn’t do much without Vogler, he wanted to play it safe and observe Ziegler’s house so that the man couldn’t get away. Not now, not after all the effort it had cost him to finally find a connection between the murder victims. Hoffmann was somewhere around the back of the building, guarding the back exits. Now all they could do was wait until Vogler arrived with his men.
In situations like this, time stretched out unbearably. An eternity passed until he finally spotted Vogler’s Daimler. The vehicle stopped a dozen meters away. Three men in civilian clothes got out of the car with Vogler. Oppenheimer stepped out of the building’s entrance and approached the group.
“His name is Karl Ziegler,” Oppenheimer whispered. “He’s a tenant with the owner of the garage, Mr. Braun. It is possible that Ziegler knew the victims.”
Vogler inhaled loudly. “Well, let’s get to it, then.”
They crossed the street. The entrance to the garage was open. Before they reached it, a gentleman came toward them. He was in his early sixties. “Can I help you?” he asked as he cleaned his oily fingers on a cloth and took in Vogler’s uniform.
“Mr. Braun, I presume?” Vogler inquired.
“Yes.”
“We’re here to speak to your tenant, Mr. Ziegler.”
“You want to speak to Karl? No idea where he is. Haven’t seen him since yesterday.”
Oppenheimer stepped in. “Could you show us his flat?”
There wasn’t much to see. Ziegler’s accommodations were little more than a wooden hut behind the garage, just a few meters away from an old privy, consisting of two rooms, an anteroom where some shabby clothing hung, and the actual living room, which was just large enough to house a bed, an old cast-iron stove, and a table. Oppenheimer was glad that Vogler’s men had waited outside. It would have been a squeeze if they’d all made their way into the room together.
“It looks like a pigsty in here,” Oppenheimer said and pushed his hat back on his head. Ziegler had few possessions; the showpiece was the gramophone that was enthroned on its own stool. Several records in their paper sleeves were arranged next to it in an orderly manner. But Ziegler didn’t seem to pay much attention to the rest of his belongings. Clothes strewn everywhere, old newspapers, in between cheap tat that looked like it had been won at a funfair. Ziegler did not take care of his things. Oppenheimer picked up a pair of shoes from the corner of the room. After a brief inspection, he showed Vogler the soles. “Just like the print found at the Olympic stadium.”
“Has Karl been up to something?” Mr. Braun asked curiously from the door. They turned around.
Vogler cleared his throat. “No, it’s just a routine matter. We think Mr. Ziegler might have been a witness to a traffic accident, and we have a few questions for him.”
The look on Mr. Braun’s face showed that he didn’t believe a word of Vogler’s white lie. But he didn’t ask any more questions. Instead, it was Oppenheimer’s turn to pose a few questions. “How long has Mr. Ziegler worked for you?”
“Let me think now. It’ll be four years in August. Karl is not the brightest spark. He can just about read, but only when he really concentrates. But he can repair machines, yes, he can. He’s not too stupid for that. I wouldn’t have believed it until I saw it.”
“So he works in the garage and delivers for Höcker as a sideline?”
“Insofar as anything comes from them. I used to do it myself, but lifting all those crates has become too much for me. But Karl can do it.”
“Is he gone a lot?”
“He’s usually gone at the weekends. He gets restless by Friday afternoon and leaves as soon as he can. Sometimes heads off on Thursdays already. No idea where he goes. He’s always back on Mondays. You can set your watch by him.”
Oppenheimer looked around once more and thought for a moment.
“Where is the delivery van that Mr. Ziegler uses to deliver to Höcker & Sons?”
“He took it with him, just like every weekend.”
Oppenheimer hesitated. It seemed that Braun gave his employees a lot of leeway. “You mean he drives around with your delivery van?”
“No, you don’t get it. The van’s his. Karl claims he put the whole thing together himself. Using individual parts from the scrapyard. Think he used to live in it, too, before he came to me.”
Braun led Oppenheimer to the shed where Ziegler usually parked his van. Oppenheimer crouched down and examined the ground. It had been damp yesterday. The soil had had enough time to soak up the rainwater, a good prerequisite for getting a tire print. And Oppenheimer did indeed discover a clear print not far from the shed in between clumps of grass.
“This profile is a bit smudged,” he said to Vogler. “At the Olympic stadium, the van had driven directly across the damp clay, which then dried. This print here is much harder to read. It probably couldn’t be used in court, but the similarities are enough for me.” Oppenheimer stood up and turned to Vogler. “I would say it’s the same tire. Send out a search party for Ziegler. We need to catch him as quickly as possible. He’s a prime suspect.”
Vogler’s men were already searching Ziegler’s accommodations. “If you find an address, on a piece of paper or wherever, or maybe a street map, a sketch, or anything like that, please tell me,” Oppenheimer instructed. “We are looking to establish the gentleman’s whereabouts. Any little thing might help.”
The men stopped rummaging. One of them glanced in Vogler’s direction. When he nodded almost imperceptibly, they continued with their work. The men’s hesitation once again reminded Oppenheimer that he had no official authority here. He was barely able to stop himself from joining the men in their search, but the hostile attitude of those around him made him reconsider. After just a few minutes of poking around, they had actually managed to worsen the disarray in Ziegler’s room. The men worked almost soundlessly as they cut open the mattress with precise, rehearsed movements, raised the planks on the floor, and sounded out the walls for cavities that might contain something. Their faces reflected no hunting fever; they emotionlessly carried out their tasks. There was no doubt that these men were experts.
Oppenheimer stood in the backyard, indecisive, looking around. Church bells rang in the distance. His pocket watch showed a quarter to five. Soon it would be time to pick Lisa up from work. He realized that he still had no idea of where they would be housed after Goebbels had forbidden them to continue living in the Jewish House.
He turned around and knocked on the doorframe of Ziegler’s hut. “Position someone in Ziegler’s place just in case he comes back,” he said to Vogler. “I need to head off to pick up my wife. Do you know where we are supposed to stay?”
Vogler looked at him blankly. Then he remembered the problem with Oppenheimer’s housing. “Yes, of course. We’ve found a solution. But we had to improvise a little bit.”
As it was inconceivable for a second person to be transported in the sidecar of Hoffmann’s motorbike, they took a detour via Zehlendorf to exchange their vehicle for a car. When Hoffmann turned into the street, Lisa was already waiting outside the black iron fence of the factory building, looking expectantly down the street. Hoffmann came to a halt right next to her with screeching brakes. Lisa stopped short at first, until she spotted her husband in the back of the car. Oppenheimer got out with a smile and held the car door open for her. “In you get. We have our own chauffeur.”
Lisa’s colleagues, who were leaving the factory behind her, hesitated at the unfamiliar sight. When Lisa became aware of their quiet whispers, she quickly got in the car.
“We celebrated for hours in the factory today because we had no raw material,” Lisa said. “And? What’s happening? Where are they putting us up?”
“Nothing dramatic,” Oppenheimer replied. “It’s actually quite comfortable there.”
He saw that Lisa had more questions, but she made do with the reply. Oppenheimer wouldn’t have said anything anyway, as he wanted to surprise her.
The sky had been cloudy and gray all day, and now the treetops were enveloped in fog. Hoffmann, an old-school gentleman, opened the car door for Lisa. She got out in a daze, wide-eyed. She wasn’t looking where she was going but stared incredulously at her surroundings. The almost autumnal weather reinforced the impression of stepping into a magical world. Lisa breathed in the smell of the forest and felt far away. “It’s beautiful here.”
Oppenheimer could understand Lisa’s surprise. He thought of his own reaction when he’d first come to the colony. By now, these surroundings were increasingly becoming part of his daily routine and progressively losing their magic. Lisa turned to him, a question in her eyes. “But…”
He simply said, “Zehlendorf.”
She immediately understood. “You mean we are being housed in the Kameradschaftssiedlung?”
“Out of the frying pan and into the fire. It seems that’s all they have available right now. But you’ll like it, despite the neighborhood.” He winked at her. “It’s over there,” he said and pointed toward the little house.
Although he didn’t really have the heart to destroy Lisa’s illusions, he thought it best to warn her gently. “Remember, it’s probably just for a week. I doubt they’ll let us live here after that. Even if we do manage to catch the perpetrator by then.”
“Then I’ll consider it a holiday,” Lisa said, looking at him.
“Yes, let’s have a holiday,” Oppenheimer said. With a sigh, the entire weight of the last weeks was lifted from his shoulders. He took Lisa’s hand and led her toward the front door.
Oppenheimer almost stumbled across their three suitcases in the hallway, which someone had placed there, when footsteps could be heard stumbling up from the cellar. The radio operator’s neatly drawn parting came into view. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get a chance to take the suitcases upstairs yet,” he said, clamping one of the pieces of luggage under his arm and picking up the other two by the handle. “There are two bedrooms upstairs.” Then he carried everything up.
Lisa smiled, surprised that they even had their own porter here. “It’s been a while since someone carried our suitcases for us.”
Oppenheimer smiled. “And the best thing about it is we don’t even need to tip.”
There was a bathroom and two bedrooms on the upper floor. The radio operator zealously offered to unpack their suitcases, but that was too much attentiveness for Lisa. She had always wanted to have a house of her own, but Oppenheimer had never been able to put aside enough money to afford one. When he saw his wife in the new surroundings, he realized that this house came pretty close to Lisa’s ideal home.
She surveyed the bedrooms. The second room was larger and had a double bed. Even the beds were made up. “Let’s see what the mattress is like,” Oppenheimer said, slipped out of his shoes, and lay down on the bed. His back had bitterly missed such comforts over the last few years. The beds in the Jewish Houses were not nearly as soft, and recently, they’d spent most of their nights on the hard cellar floor because of the air raids. He was just about to stretch out when he saw Lisa’s expression shift.
“That ruins everything,” she said and placed her hands on her hips. But she wasn’t looking at Oppenheimer; rather, she focused on a spot somewhere above him. He followed her gaze and discovered a framed picture hanging directly above the headboard. Curious, he inspected the glass frame, but from his position he could see little more than the bright reflection of the window. He sat up, expecting to see an image of a saint, only to see Reich Leader SS Heinrich Himmler staring at him through his spectacles.
Oppenheimer was deeply shocked. “Enough is enough,” he snorted. Was Himmler’s picture hanging there to encourage his subordinates to procreate for the Fatherland? Oppenheimer doubted whether this strategy was very promising. “We really have gone from the frying pan into the fire,” he said and turned the image of the so-called Reich Heini to face the wall.
“Better tell me now,” Lisa said. “Are there any other pictures of party barons in the house?”
“That’s nothing. We’ve got the full chamber of horrors here,” Oppenheimer fibbed. “A picture of our special friend Goebbels is hanging above the radio. And then there is one more of Göring stuffed in his uniform like a sausage. Where do you think that one’s hanging?”
“Let me guess, in the larder?”
Oppenheimer became aware of an unusual sound coming from Lisa’s throat. She was laughing.
Vogler wasn’t going to be stopped by the secretary this time. He briskly strode down the corridors, the police file on Lutzow clamped under his arm. He was finally confident enough. He’d gathered everything together to extract himself from the entire affair and to satisfy the party leaders. Actually solving the case was purely a matter of form now. The time had come to make sure that everything else went according to his plans. His competitor Graeter must not be given the opportunity to pass the solution off as his own success. To give his career the urgently needed push, Vogler had to impress Oberführer Schröder, that much was clear.
Vogler saw an opportunity to be given a new, more important task after having solved this murder case. And the chances were actually good, as the war had entered a decisive phase these past few days. Everyone knew that a struggle for victory or defeat was taking place in the west. Sepp Dietrich, Oberstgruppenführer of the Armed SS and head of Hitler’s Leibstandarte, had made a complete fool of himself two weeks ago when he’d tried to score a propaganda coup by reinterpreting the failed attempt to drive enemy soldiers into the sea as the result of brilliant warfare. The British and American forces were initially meant to be sucked in—his own terminology—so that they could then be wiped out in a blitz move by the German forces. Like most people, Vogler considered the Oberstgruppenführer to be an idiot. However, he was a dangerous idiot you didn’t want to get on the wrong side of. If Dietrich considered it a particular success to have as many enemy troops as possible on the continent, then he might soon be right. Cherbourg was about to fall. Vogler knew that this would be a severe setback for the Wehrmacht High Command, as Cherbourg was a harbor town, and the enemy would then get the opportunity to support their invasion with deep-sea vessels. Heavy materials, tanks, the entire supplies for the military alliance would no longer be a problem. Vogler strode through Schröder’s anteroom, paying no attention to the flustered, gasping secretary. He briefly knocked on the heavy oak door as a matter of form. When he entered without waiting for a reply, he saw that Schröder was not alone. Another man was sitting in the room, in conversation with him. With a sour expression, Oberführer Schröder took note that someone had the audacity to disturb him. Graeter flinched when he looked around in surprise and recognized Vogler. The Hauptsturmführer stopped in the doorway, his chin thrust forward proudly. His theatrical heel-clicking echoed from the wooden paneling. “Hauptsturmführer Vogler!” he called into the room and saluted. He’d realized years ago that simulating overly officious submissiveness was the best method to legitimize disrespectful behavior toward superiors. He did not respect Schröder as a person, only his power as an SS Oberführer. That was an important distinction to him.
At first, Schröder was perplexed. But he rallied quickly. “Bloody hell, Vogler, what do you think you’re doing? Have you taken leave of your senses?” His bald head almost glowed with agitation. “If there isn’t a damn good reason for you bursting in, then there will be repercussions!”
Vogler observed the two men. It was just as he’d thought. Graeter had ambitions to take over the investigation from the start. Everyone knew he had connections. Of course it had been he who had informed Schröder of the fact that there was a Jew on Vogler’s team. Graeter had done all he could to put obstacles in his way. Maybe he’d even ensured his summons to Goebbels. Was it just a coincidence that he was in the same room, or was it fate? In any case, it would be all the more satisfying for Vogler to see the noose draw more tightly around his adversary’s neck.
“There has been an important development in the Dufour case,” Vogler said. “I considered it my duty to inform you immediately. We have a strong suspect. The case should be solved within a few hours.” The news caused all color to drain from Graeter’s face. Schröder, too, stared at him from his cyclops eye and slowly got up. “I hope that is true.”
“The manhunt for the suspect is already in full swing. I demand that all teams involved in this matter be put under my command so that this criminal can be apprehended as quickly as possible.”
Schröder paced the room, thinking. He had lost all interest in Graeter. However, Vogler knew that his sense of authority prevented him from simply fulfilling a Hauptsturmführer’s every wish. “I will consider the matter. As soon as I’ve come to a decision, I will let you know. Anything else?”
From the corner of his eye, Vogler saw how Graeter had sunk down in his chair. Served him right. The time had come to savor his triumph. He knew that his next move would deeply humiliate Graeter.
“I have one other, extremely important task that needs to be dealt with.”
Surprised, Schröder looked up. “Speak.”
“There is a second suspect in the murder series. I set great value on solving this internally. This is the only way we can ensure absolute secrecy.”
Schröder grew serious. “Why the caution? Are we dealing with a second Ogorzow?”
“It is not likely, but we can’t rule it out. The man’s name is Lutzow, a member of the SA, who got in trouble with the law a while back. Here is his police file.” He handed Schröder the file. “I need all information we can get hold of. It would be best if we arrested him immediately. Better safe than sorry. But we have to proceed with extreme caution. There must be no leaks. This task can only be given to an extremely reliable man. I would like to nominate Hauptsturmführer Graeter.”
With contentment, he noted the shocked expression on his adversary’s face, who had immediately realized that Vogler’s praise was poisoned. The seemingly important task that he was to be given was highly unrewarding. Graeter had to investigate a party member, which was an extremely delicate task. If he didn’t find anything, the matter would come to nothing, and if it turned out that there was some dirt on Lutzow, then only a handful of people would find out. In any case, Vogler would get all the recognition because he had found the murderer.
Schröder shifted his weight from the front to the back of his feet and considered Vogler’s suggestion. Finally, he nodded. “I share your assessment of the situation. Graeter, as of now, you will report to Hauptsturmführer Vogler. You must inform him immediately of any findings.” Then he looked at Vogler. “And you, dear Hauptsturmführer, now carry the ultimate responsibility for the investigation being successfully completed. I don’t care how you do it! I hope you’ve understood.”
Schröder’s conditions certainly met with Vogler’s gambler’s mentality. It was all or nothing now. He saluted. “At your command, Oberführer!”
Hilde needed a moment to digest the news. Then she burst out laughing. Her laughter caused the telephone receiver to shake. “In the Kameradschaftssiedlung? Holy shit!” was all Oppenheimer could make out between her gasps. After an early dinner in their new accommodations, he had taken Lisa to the nearest pub to call Hilde with the latest news.
Slowly, she calmed down again. “That really is a smart move by arse-face. How long has Joseph given you?”
“Till the end of the week. But as I said, we already have a potential candidate.”
“I still don’t like the sound of it. It’s too dangerous. I’ll inform Dot and Anton and get them to start the operation. You know what I mean. Best you don’t even unpack.”
“Hilde, the matter hasn’t been solved by a long shot,” Oppenheimer protested weakly.
“That’s rubbish. Save your bacon!”
Despite the foggy weather, it was still light enough to show Lisa the Kameradschaftssiedlung. The seasons seemed to have gotten confused, for although it was mid-June, the air was as crisp as in autumn. The forest was visible only as outlines that got lost in the fog. Wrapped tightly in their coats, they dived into the soft twilight.
With Lisa’s arm tucked under his, Oppenheimer wandered past a street named Dienstweg. Path of duty, succinctly Prussian. “Nice,” was Lisa’s comment on the street sign.
“A bit farther down there is a street called Im Kinderland,” Oppenheimer explained. An ironic smile played around his lips. “I don’t know whether there is any significance to the fact that it’s a dead end. I haven’t seen any children around here.”
Lisa shook her head. “These people are mad.” She reflected for a moment. “Still, it’s very beautiful here. If only we could stay. I’m finally getting some peace.” She stopped and took a deep breath with her eyes closed. Then she looked back at her husband. “But it can’t be forever, right?”
“They won’t let us stay here. Only privileged SS people are allowed to. I am sure the party bigwigs are queuing up to accommodate their families here. But at least we’ve earned ourselves a few days in this idyll.”
“And then…”
“Hilde is already working on it,” Oppenheimer whispered. “We can count on her. If anyone can get us out of here in one piece, then it’s she.”
“I know we can count on her. But it’s still better not to think what will happen later.”
“There is no point in grieving about things in advance. Now we’re here, and that’s wonderful.”
They embraced and stood there as if time no longer existed. Oppenheimer felt taken back to the phase in his life when he’d met Lisa and everything about her had been new and exciting. He thought of the nape of her neck, of her long hair that seemed to flow down like water when she bent over him, of her feeling of shame when they’d first made love naked. He felt an unexpected knot in his stomach. He felt like a silly schoolboy, and yet he couldn’t withstand the urge to kiss Lisa. When he leaned forward, she initially looked at him in surprise, but then she understood and with a generous smile allowed him to proceed.
Oppenheimer tried to memorize every little detail of this moment, to capture it for the difficult times that without a doubt lay before them.