SATURDAY, JUNE 24, 1944–SUNDAY, JUNE 25, 1944
“Still here, this late?” the man asked. Then he added guilelessly, “Probably had a briefing meeting, right?” Oppenheimer stood lost in the corridor and watched the huge man absentmindedly rub his knuckles.
Oppenheimer was surprised. The man spoke as if he thought he was a colleague. Could it really be that he didn’t smell a rat? Oppenheimer pulled himself together. He had to reply. “Yes, all this bloody paperwork,” he answered vaguely. He hoped the man wouldn’t notice that his voice was shaking. “All has to be done by the morning. No idea where the secretary is. I had to type it all up myself.”
“Do you mean Iris? Fräulein Haferkamp? Right little corker, that one. Marvelously equipped too.” The man began to grin at the thought. “But careful. Married, unfortunately. And to make matters worse, happily. Someone should do us the favor of sending her old man to the front, right? Well, as you said, she’s not there. I think she’s gone to a funeral. Unavoidable these days. What a waste of human material.”
Oppenheimer decided to make use of the situation. He frowned and glared at the man. “What are you trying to say? Are you criticizing the führer’s methods?” It seemed that in this case, attack was the best form of defense. The man’s eyes widened with fear for a second. It was extremely dangerous if someone questioned your adherence to party principles. Almost any good German national could be cornered this way. Pleased, Oppenheimer noticed that members of the SD were no exception. The man opposite him clumsily fumbled around for a handkerchief and wiped his brow.
“What? No, no, my dear colleague, I—of course not,” he stammered. “Of course, I completely support our führer, 100 percent!” As if he couldn’t think of any other arguments, he suddenly shouted, “Heil Hitler!” and raised his arm in the German greeting.
Oppenheimer imitated Vogler, clicked his heels together, ramrod straight, and reciprocated the greeting. To his horror, he realized that the files he’d hidden beneath his coat were slipping. The other man must not see this. If he guessed that Oppenheimer was smuggling files out of the building, the game would be up. He desperately pressed the files against his body. To distract from this, he slapped the man jovially on the shoulder.
“Don’t get the wrong idea, my dear colleague. I didn’t mean to criticize. I understand some of your thinking. However, you have to be careful with such statements nowadays, they can easily be interpreted as undermining military morale. With all due respect, you do need to be a little more careful who you share these thoughts with.”
The man breathed a sigh of relief. “Yes, I quite understand. Quite so. Quite so. My name is Holm, by the way, Peter Holm.”
“Richard,” Oppenheimer replied. And after a brief pause, he added, “Richard … Opel.”
When the man called Holm stopped short, Oppenheimer realized what a stupid choice he’d made.
“Opel? Oh, like the car manufacturer? Related?”
“Unfortunately, not.”
While they shook hands, Oppenheimer had to be careful that the files didn’t slip. Holm put on his coat and headed off. Oppenheimer decided it would be less conspicuous if he accompanied him.
“Ah, right. Are you also heading home?”
Oppenheimer’s mind raced. He was standing here in his coat, so he couldn’t really say no.
“Yes, I must make a move so that I can get at least a couple of hours’ sleep,” he lied.
Holm stretched and reached for his shoulder. “I think I’m getting old. I had a difficult client today. I’m out of practice. It didn’t used to bother me. Could interrogate people for hours on end.”
Oppenheimer’s companion was still nowhere to be seen. He joined Holm to turn right. They headed straight toward the large entranceway and approached the door. Oppenheimer could see a uniformed officer, a weapon over his shoulder, guarding the exit. He was painfully aware that he couldn’t simply leave Holm without some excuse. He had said he was going home, so his companion would assume that they were leaving together. Even a brief hesitation would immediately be conspicuous. But it was too risky to simply stride through the main entrance; no, it was absolute madness when one had furtively climbed into the building shortly beforehand. On the other hand, Oppenheimer had company now. He was with someone who seemed to be in the building a lot, who would not be suspected of smuggling an intruder out right in front of a guard.
Mechanically, Oppenheimer carried on walking. He had no choice; he had to stake everything on one card. Either he would manage to escape in this way or not at all.
He heard a voice. Someone at his side said something. It must have been Holm. Oppenheimer hadn’t heard what he’d said because he was concentrating on the guard. “Sorry?”
“Your wife—is she also in the country?”
“No, she’s here. Close by.”
“Ah, I understand. I sometimes quite like having Margarete off my back. But it’s not a long-term solution. And the children. I do worry about them when they’re gone.”
“I understand. That’s the way it is with children.”
The guard looked at them briefly. Then he looked past them again.
“Good-bye,” Holm said on his way out to the guard.
When the heavy door closed behind them, Oppenheimer breathed a sigh of relief. He crossed the garden by Holm’s side and eventually exited from the front gate into the street. He’d made it. He had escaped. Oppenheimer had not considered it possible that it could be that easy. He could see Lüttke’s car at the next corner.
“Do you want to come for a drink?” Holm asked.
“Another time. My wife is waiting.”
“See you soon, then.”
“Indeed,” Oppenheimer said, relieved. He turned away hastily. Too hastily, as suddenly the two files slipped out from under his coat and landed directly in front of Holm’s feet on the pavement.
Oppenheimer felt his heart stop. He’d betrayed himself. Bauer and Lüttke were too far away to be able to help. They also weren’t counting on him coming out of the front gate.
“Whoops!” Holm said and bent down with a groan. He picked up the files and looked at them curiously. “What have we got here, then?” He was unable to read the labels on the file in the darkness. Holm looked at Oppenheimer attentively. “Are they yours?”
“I—I took them with me,” Oppenheimer stuttered.
Holm looked doubtfully at the files. He seemed to be considering what to think of this. Then a grin spread across his face as he thought he understood. “Homework, what? Good for you.”
He handed the file to Oppenheimer, who tried not to appear too frantic as he took them back. “Many thanks. Yes, work, work.”
Holm chuckled. “Carry on, my diligent chap. Heil Hitler!” With these words, he turned around and a few seconds later had disappeared into the darkness.
The glow of his lighter would have to do. Although they were outside the city now, Oppenheimer didn’t dare to switch on the flashlight because of the blackout order.
Bauer and Lüttke had not been particularly happy about him having taken the two files, but Oppenheimer had talked his way out of it by saying that after having run into the man named Holm, he wouldn’t have been able to get rid of them unobtrusively. Now, he and Hilde at least had the opportunity to scan the files during the drive and find out who their perpetrator was. They put their heads together over the papers. They had quickly decided how to divide their tasks. While Hilde went through Lutzow’s medical report, Oppenheimer browsed through the two men’s files, looking for consistencies. After only a couple of minutes, he came across something.
“Here it is.” Oppenheimer could barely contain his excitement. “The connection between Ziegler and Lutzow. Here are copies of the registration entries. They lived in the same block of flats in Köpenick for several months, three and a half years ago.”
“That means they know each other.”
“It’s likely, but we can’t prove it. We’d have to ask former residents. If I were still with the crime squad, I’d also go through the files there to see if there were any unsolved murder cases in the Köpenick area at the time. Maybe other women fell victim to them.”
“Bullshit. You’re always too cautious, Richard. Common sense tells us that they met there.”
Oppenheimer couldn’t prevent himself from smiling. “Common sense? Wow! From you of all people? Normally, you base everything on facts!”
“Look, Lutzow definitely fits the age profile that we have. If we assume that the two of them worked together, this also explains the differing injuries the victims had. It’s been bothering me the entire time. I couldn’t explain it properly, but now it makes sense.”
Oppenheimer interrupted her before Hilde could continue. “Wait a moment. You’re already three steps ahead.”
Hilde took a deep breath. With all the forbearance she could muster, she began to explain her train of thought. “It’s quite simple. Let’s assume that Ziegler was just an assistant. Let’s say he just wanted to satisfy his sadistic impulses. In that case, the recordings are probably a sort of souvenir—a trophy, if you will. The recordings show the victims begging for mercy while nails are being hammered into their ears. That is connected to Ziegler.”
Oppenheimer nodded. “Right, that could be the case. What about the mutilated genitals?”
“I was just getting to that. It has to be connected to the second perpetrator, to Lutzow. Judging by the letters, he hates women. His motivation is to put the so-called prostitutes out of action. Which is exactly what he does. He doesn’t only kill them but also steals their genitals so that they can no longer be a danger. In any case, it has to be Lutzow who wrote the letters; Ziegler is simply too stupid. Lutzow dressed up his deeds ideologically, he wants public recognition, and he goes as far as displaying the corpses in public. He is definitely the driving force behind these murders.”
“Well, here is a document that shows Lutzow was at the front during the last war. So there is a connection to that time, that much is true. It seems he didn’t get any sort of award, but there aren’t any indications that he was dishonorably discharged either.”
Hilde cast a brief glance at the piece of paper and then pointed to it. “Lutzow’s abnormal behavior must somehow be connected to this period of time. Otherwise, it makes no sense that he presented the women in front of the First World War monuments.”
“So you mean that he had some sort of experience with women during this time that shaped his thinking?”
A cynical smile played around Hilde’s lips as she waved the medical report in front of his face. “Do you know when this was dated? In 1920. Lutzow was treated for syphilis during this time. Did you read it?”
Oppenheimer shook his head in surprise. “What does Lutzow’s former illness have to do with it?”
“He experienced exactly what he describes in his letters. He contracted syphilis from a woman, and years later, he blusters on about how the German man’s body is damaged by prostitutes. This speaks for itself. He probably saw some sort of connection to his own wartime experiences. Maybe he visited a brothel for the first time at the front, possibly even had his first sexual experience altogether. This wouldn’t be unusual. He is young, lives among soldiers, feels grown-up and paints the town red.”
Oppenheimer frowned. “That’s quite a few ifs and buts.”
“It doesn’t matter as long as it’s the truth. All that matters is whether Lutzow believes it. He must have construed some connection, and this experience later shapes all his actions. And the crazy thing is that we might have been spared all of this.”
“You mean Hitler’s amnesty? Billhardt mentioned it. It must be mentioned farther on.” Oppenheimer started to thumb through the file, but Hilde interrupted him.
“Not Hitler. I mean the doctors Lutzow consulted back then. They definitely didn’t treat him correctly. Do you know the symptoms of syphilis when it is not completely cured?” Hilde didn’t wait for Oppenheimer’s answer. “Sometimes the nerve tissue in the spinal cord or brain slowly degrades. Personality changes, hallucinations, delusions of grandeur, the full range. These are exactly the symptoms that can be deduced from our murderer’s letters. Lutzow was not insane when he sought treatment. This only happened because the doctors mistreated him, these stupid idiots.”
After this observation, Hilde sighed deeply and looked outside where the moonlight was shining onto the flat fields. Lüttke had decided to take the southern route around the city. It was the shortest way to the murderer’s hiding place. But Oppenheimer barely knew where they were right now.
“Lutzow might have become a bastard,” Hilde mumbled, “but he is also a pretty interesting case. If only I’d gotten my hands on this file earlier. What happened to him after the war?”
Oppenheimer briefly looked at the papers. “Well, for the first few years, there is no trace of him. The medical report that you have is the only document from this time. The rest sounds like the usual party career. The court files paint a pretty good picture of what he was getting up to. He was a war veteran, but he’s not able to get established. I’m guessing that he didn’t feel accepted by society, like so many returning German soldiers. In any case, he kept the wolf from the door by working as an unskilled laborer, took every job he could find. He even worked at a butcher’s once, which would fit in with the precise cuts found on the victims. But he didn’t stay for long anywhere. Then, in the mid-1920s, he signed up with the SA storm troops.”
Hilde snorted derisively. “Of course. The perfect refuge for the chronically disadvantaged. So Lutzow haunted the streets with his Nazi activists. Doesn’t surprise me.”
“Well, here it’s paraphrased as political activities. But now things are getting interesting. At the time, Lutzow lived in Charlottenburg. The SA people have a meeting place there, the restaurant Zur Altstadt in Hebbelstraße. Once they’d set up camp there, they turned the place into their ‘Storm Joint.’ The owners apparently tolerated it, although their regulars seem to have been more communist than socialist. There was also some sort of dungeon for locking up political prisoners.”
Hilde’s features had hardened during Oppenheimer’s description. “You don’t need to explain that to me.”
When she sensed Oppenheimer’s questioning gaze, she added, “I had a patient at the time. He was unlucky enough to get taken to such a place. They beat him with burning torches, and when he got thirsty, they gave him wood preservative to drink. It’s almost unimaginable. When they finally let him out, all I could do was send him to hospital. He lay in a bath of boracic acid for a week, suffering terribly, before he died. Considering that there are probably dozens of such hideouts here, it makes you wonder how many more Lutzows are running around Berlin.”
Oppenheimer stared ahead glumly. After clearing his throat, he said, “Well, nobody is likely to be able to answer that question. In any case, the authorities didn’t become aware of Lutzow until he attacked the unionist’s wife in Moabit. That was in September 1932. These files were originally put together for the murder case. The judge considered Lutzow’s behavior to be a malicious attack and sentenced him to death.”
“And then Hitler came to power just a few months later.”
“Exactly. Lutzow got lucky. His murder was seen as a politically motivated attack, and the sentence was never carried out. They let him go without further ado. But a short while later, Lutzow’s career within the party falters. When the power struggle within the various camps of the NSDAP flared up, he seems to have remained loyal to the SA.”
Hilde considered this. “In that case, he was pretty stupid. If he really only wanted to climb the career ladder, then he would have joined the SS no later than the Night of the Long Knives, when Röhm and the entire SA leadership were massacred.”
“Well, I can understand it,” Oppenheimer replied. “He was probably of the opinion that he and his SA comrades had been doing all the donkeywork. The street fights had laid the foundation for Hitler’s rise to power. But the führer’s gratitude failed to materialize, and the competitors from the SS gained ever more influence.”
Hilde shook her head. “Hang on; don’t forget that it was the SS who were primarily responsible for the SA being scrapped. Röhm was stupid enough to pick a fight with the Reichswehr. That egotistical idiot dreamed of having the entire military dancing to his tune.”
“Of course I know that,” Oppenheimer protested. “Maybe Lutzow hoped for the same. In any case, the SA had no chance of asserting themselves. Hitler deemed the brown-shirted rabble that had brought him to power too unrefined. He was Reich Chancellor now and trying to appear respectable. It was just inconvenient that Röhm of all people was heading up the SA in this situation. Röhm saw his own people as the spearhead of the new ideology and played the part of the revolutionary, while Hitler primarily wanted to secure his power. When Röhm refused to be fobbed off and became too recalcitrant, he basically signed his own death warrant. Now imagine what Lutzow thought in this situation. The way was cleared for the SS; the SA officially continued to exist but no longer held any power. Now all Lutzow and his comrades were good for was making up the numbers during parades.”
Hilde’s eyes narrowed as she spun this idea on. “Initially, Lutzow would certainly have felt alienated. He saw that National Socialism was going in a direction that didn’t suit him. This could have been the trigger for him to begin distancing himself from the party line.”
“But there is one important point to all of this.” Oppenheimer raised his index finger. “He does not question the foundation of this ideology. He just wants his own form of National Socialism.”
“But his attitude is getting ever more bizarre.” Hilde was clearly agitated. She seemed to have come across something. “Not even the politics of a madman like Hitler can keep up with this. Of course, Lutzow’s latent hatred of women plays an important role once again. When he discovered he had syphilis, he started to demonize the women he considered to be whores. Regardless of how exactly his definition runs, he classifies them as unclean and is afraid of renewed infection. It all comes to a head with the murder of the unionist’s wife. At the latest since that deed, his hatred of women becomes intertwined with the National Socialist ideology.”
Oppenheimer considered Hilde’s comments. “After that, Lutzow cobbled together his own ideology from these elements. And we are now dealing with the result. You’re right, Hilde, it would fit.”
“Bother!” Lüttke swore. Oppenheimer and Hilde were flung to the side. From the corner of his eye, Oppenheimer was just able to see that they had avoided a pile of rubble in the middle of the road at the very last moment. A sure sign that they were approaching the outskirts of the city again.
Hilde also focused on their surroundings again. Her gaze fixed on the city map, and she scratched her chin thoughtfully. “Lutzow chose a strange hiding place.”
Oppenheimer looked at the map too. He’d been to the Müggelsee countless times. The Bismarckwarte lay on the southern side between Köpenick and Müggelheim. It was a popular destination, as the building also had a viewing platform that provided a fabulous view of Berlin. The view was so impressive that there was a second platform on the same hill, as well as a tavern in the forest and, a little farther on, the idyllic Teufelsee. Almost everyone who lived in Berlin had taken a weekend trip there once. And while the day-trippers happily splashed around in the water or wandered across the hills, they had no idea that an indescribable horror was taking place just a few hundred meters away from them.
“You mean it’s strange that Lutzow chose a place that is heaving with people at the weekends?” Oppenheimer asked. “Yes, it does increase the danger of being discovered.”
“No, I don’t mean that. The hiding place is very close to the Bismarckwarte. Doesn’t that tower make you think of the place the bodies were found?”
At first, Oppenheimer was puzzled as to what Hilde meant. But when he recalled the image of the Bismarckwarte, he understood her reference. The huge tower structure with the large entrance gate was similar to the water tower in Steglitz. With its blunt top crowned by a mighty fire bowl, the Bismarckwarte could almost pass as a vastly enlarged version of the monuments in front of which the murderer had placed his victims.
“Fair enough,” Oppenheimer finally said. “There may be certain similarities, but in contrast to the other sites, I don’t see a direct connection to the First World War. The Bismarckwarte was built around the turn of the century. It might just be a coincidence.”
“That may be right,” Hilde admitted, “but Lutzow had an affinity for phallic symbols. And what does he do? He finds a safe house in the direct vicinity of the biggest stone willy to be found far and wide.”
Oppenheimer continued to be skeptical, but he saw no point in digging his heels in.
“It doesn’t matter anyway,” he conceded. “The main thing is that we’ve figured it out.”
The car stopped, and Lüttke said, “Right. We’re here.”
Covertly, Oppenheimer watched Hilde assessing the surroundings. To her surprise, she realized they were outside a subway station.
“Hey, what’s going on?” Hilde protested. “We’re not in Adlerhof yet. This is wrong.”
“We’re in the right place,” Oppenheimer replied calmly. To enforce his instructions, he looked Hilde straight in the eye. “You’re getting out here.”
Hilde was speechless for a moment. Then she said in a shrill voice, “I damn well won’t! You’ve taken me this far, so it doesn’t make any difference now. I want to see the matter through!”
“Hilde, it might get dangerous. The trains are still running. Take the next one to the city center. We’ll meet at your place later.”
“Men!” she said in bewilderment. “Will you stop with the whole gallantry thing!”
“You don’t understand; I’m worried about Lisa!”
Hilde paused when she heard Lisa’s name.
Oppenheimer continued, tried to explain. “If something happens to me, someone has to take care of her. Hilde, it’s the last thing I’m going to ask of you. Promise me you’ll take care of Lisa?”
When Oppenheimer saw that Hilde’s features relaxed, he knew that she understood. But he also knew that she wouldn’t simply agree with him. Finally, she shrugged and said with a feigned sigh, “It would be better if I came along, but if you insist.”
Oppenheimer had to smile. “Come on, then. Out with you.”
Hilde seemed reluctant as she opened the door. Once she was on the pavement, she looked back and nodded toward the files lying on the seat next to Oppenheimer. “What about those? Do you need them?”
“What do you want with them?”
“Well, they’re of huge value to research. This case could be useful for solving future sex crimes.”
Oppenheimer considered for a moment. Then he handed her the files. “It’s probably better this way. Just in case someone surprises us, then at least there is no proof that we broke into the SD building.”
Oppenheimer felt there was nothing more to be said. The moment had come to say good-bye. Hilde had also realized it. She gave him a long look and whispered in his ear, “Take care of yourself.” Then she added a little more loudly, “And give Lutzow a hefty kick in the balls from me.”
“You can count on that,” Oppenheimer added grimly and closed the door.
He stared out of the back window until Hilde disappeared into the night. Shortly afterward, they were already driving through the dark streets of Köpenick. Just a few more kilometers, and they arrived at the Müggelsee. Suddenly, it occurred to Oppenheimer that they would soon be approaching the place where he’d searched for Traudel Herrmann a week ago. They’d been so damn close; they had missed the murderer’s hiding place by just a few kilometers. Oppenheimer couldn’t suppress a quiet curse at the realization.
A few minutes later, the water reflected the light of the moon, which was just bright enough to lend the surface a hazy sheen. They were in the forest area around the Müggelsee.
Bauer turned to the back. “Where exactly are we going now?”
Oppenheimer switched on the flashlight and handed it to them, together with the section of the city map. It was the only document from the files that he’d kept. “Simply turn right into the entrance. We have to head up the Müggelberg. It’s more or less in between the viewing platform and the Bismarckwarte. Lutzow has had some sort of business out here for the last few years. He grows mushrooms or something like that. Anyhow, there has to be a house or a hut that belongs to him.”
Bauer frowned. “He grows mushrooms?”
“It’s very practical nowadays,” Lüttke said. “I also thought about doing it. Much simpler than vegetables. They’re guaranteed to grow, just need moisture. Unfortunately, I don’t have enough space at home.”
Bauer stared at his colleague as if he seriously doubted his mental faculties. “Mushrooms,” he mumbled, shaking his head.
Somewhere up there, a huge lion was lying sprawled across the main entrance. It was the only sculpture that had been mounted on the façade of the Bismarckwarte. Feeling tense, Oppenheimer looked up the hill and wondered whether the lion could be seen from here in daylight. But the tip of the Bismarckwarte was lost in the blackness of the night sky.
They’d had to turn around again on the Müggelheim dam and only then had discovered the narrow forest path. The access to Lutzow’s building was a little-frequented track for agricultural vehicles that led straight to the Müggelberg. When Lüttke finally stopped the car, they were in front of a wooden fence that shielded the property from uninvited visitors. In the bright light of the headlights, they had made out a small sign with the name of the owner next to the gate. Oppenheimer was now standing in front of it, very nervous. Lüttke had already switched the lights off again, but the few seconds had sufficed to etch the writing on the sign into Oppenheimer’s memory.
Lutzow.
He pushed the gate. Of course, it was locked. There was no building to be seen. Oppenheimer wondered whether the hideout still even existed. Maybe it had already been destroyed and Lutzow had found new quarters somewhere else. A deep silence emanated from the dark forest. It seemed inconceivable that this was a place where gruesome torture had taken place, but on closer examination, it was precisely this that made the site suspicious to Oppenheimer. It was too peaceful here. Too normal.
Initially, he didn’t dare to take even one step onto the property. His instinct told him that there would be a trap waiting for him. On the other hand, it was also conceivable that they would not find anybody. That Lutzow hadn’t kidnapped another victim, because he was worried about Kalle’s disappearance. He was probably long gone. Oppenheimer took a deep breath and prepared himself mentally to find this out.
Lüttke joined him. “Take this,” he said and pressed a gun into Oppenheimer’s hand. “A loan, until this is all over. Do you want the flashlight too?”
“I’d better not. It might give me away. I’ll try to creep in under cover of darkness. If he’s in his hiding place, I might get lucky and be able to overpower him. Wait five minutes, and then follow me with the light. As backup.”
Bauer had also gotten out of the car and nodded briefly.
“Good luck.”
Oppenheimer climbed over the fence and tried to follow the trail he’d briefly made out in the beam of the flashlight. Unfortunately, the moon was hidden by the treetops. Oppenheimer peered into the darkness. If Lutzow had been waiting for him and would attack now, he was completely at his mercy. Well, not completely. Oppenheimer released the gun’s safety catch.
Suddenly, he sensed a bump on the ground beneath his foot. Luckily, he’d withstood the urge to put on the good pair of shoes that Hilde had given him. The tatty soles of his shoes were coming in useful now, as he was easily able to feel any unevenness in the ground. Oppenheimer stopped and bent down. Yes, there were tracks made by a heavy vehicle. Excellent. Now Oppenheimer had something to help him find his orientation. The tire tracks would lead him to the hideout. He carefully set off again to follow them.
The path curved, and Oppenheimer discovered light between the trees. There it was, a small storage hut—Lutzow’s hideout. A few steps on, he discovered that the light was coming from a lamp hung over the entrance. Because of the air raid provisions, the glass was blue.
Just a few meters farther on, and he was able to make out an object. Oppenheimer gasped when he realized what it was, right there next to the entrance. It was a delivery van with a tarpaulin cover. Ziegler’s van, he thought. This could only mean that Lutzow was here and that he’d kidnapped a further victim.
Instinctively, Oppenheimer stopped and looked around. He waited a few seconds, but no one came. No sudden attack in the darkness, no murderer assaulting him.
Nervously, Oppenheimer put his left hand in his coat pocket, all the while keeping an eye on his surroundings. He pulled out a Pervitin pill, put it in his mouth, chewed, and swallowed.
He considered why Lutzow had left the light on. But then he remembered that the light couldn’t be seen from the path anyway, so Lutzow was not running any risk by leaving it on. He appeared to feel safe in his hideout. Too safe? Did he never expect that someone might show up and force their way in?
Normally, Oppenheimer would have circled the building first to find a back entrance. But there was probably a woman begging for help inside the building at this very moment. He had no choice. He had to get inside. Immediately.
Oppenheimer braced himself and approached the door. He gently placed one foot in front of the other, trying all the while not to make any noise. He pushed the door handle down. In contrast to the gate, the door was not locked.
A fusty smell hit him, and he gasped. Carefully, he peered through the narrow crack of the door, but he wasn’t able to recognize much in the darkness behind.
He pulled himself together and quickly entered the room, his weapon at the ready. Only the blue light of the outside lamp lit up the inside of the storage hut.
He could just about make out some outlines. He needed a moment to understand. Those were basins for growing mushrooms, about waist-high, huddling together in the constant shade. Oppenheimer realized with apprehension that there were lots of nooks and crannies, perfect hiding places. And yet there didn’t seem to be anyone here. There was no trace of Lutzow and his victim. Close by, Oppenheimer spotted a black square in the ground. That opening had to lead down to the cellar. He quickly considered the options. It was highly likely that Lutzow was hiding down there. Oppenheimer had to take the risk and descend. Silently, he approached the opening in the ground. He had just bent down to feel around for stairs when he heard something.
Desperate whimpering.
Oppenheimer was startled. He sensed that the muffled sound had not come from the cellar. This meant that the victim had to be here on the ground floor. Could there be another room? He looked around searchingly, but the light above the entrance didn’t reach far enough.
At that moment, Oppenheimer wondered where Lüttke and Bauer had gotten to. Would it not make more sense to wait for them in order to join forces and then attack?
Fear threatened to befuddle Oppenheimer’s mind. He suddenly felt uncertain; his thoughts revolved around the single question of what might be awaiting him in the darkness. This could only mean the Pervitin hadn’t taken effect. Now, when he needed it most.
A creaking noise. Oppenheimer whirled around with his weapon raised. He stood still. Waiting for the attack. It failed to happen. False alarm. There was no one behind him. No one wanted to attack him.
Oppenheimer took a deep breath and tried to calm down. Until he felt the effects of the Pervitin, he must not allow himself to be misled by the demons that imagination projected into the darkness. His heart thumped. He had to hold on to something. Shakily, he felt around.
His fingertips touched something firm. He gently stroked across the surface. A wall. Eventually, he risked feeling his way along it.
He crept forward centimeter by centimeter. Hasty movements increased the danger of making a noise that would give him away.
To make matters worse, Oppenheimer realized that the ground was quite uneven. He shuffled alongside the mushroom basins, but there was no way of telling what distance he had already covered.
Oppenheimer flinched. His fingertips brushed something. On closer inspection, it turned out to be another wall that stood at a right angle to the first one. Oppenheimer carefully followed the second wall.
He crept on until he saw something on the ground in front of him. At first, it seemed nothing more than a light pattern, but when he looked closer, he saw that it was the relief of the wooden planks. The ends of the roughly timbered planks protruded upward. Taking this in, Oppenheimer made an important discovery. The strange form of the splintered wood chippings cast long shadows. This could only mean that the light source was also at ground level.
When Oppenheimer bent down, he saw a strip of light just a few centimeters away. He was standing directly in front of a closed door. The light was coming from an adjacent room. So he had been right. If Lutzow had a new victim, then she had to be behind this door.
Oppenheimer held his breath and pressed himself against the wall, his weapon at the ready. Now he could clearly hear something moving in the room. Then he heard a rustling and a woman’s suffocated cry. Lutzow had indeed kidnapped another victim. Oppenheimer realized this woman was still alive.
From his many years of experience as a police inspector, he knew that in this situation, there was only one thing to do. He had to try to get Lutzow away from his victim by whatever means.
Oppenheimer prepared himself for a frontal attack. He took a deep breath, and when he felt he was ready, he took a run-up.
When the lock burst out of the frame, he jumped into the room, his weapon ready.
The gleam of the naked bulb blinded Oppenheimer. Before he was even able to recognize anything, he thought there was some movement on the right-hand side of the room.
The sound of hasty steps. When Oppenheimer pointed his gun in the direction of the noise, he froze in mid-movement.
A woman was sitting bound and gagged on a chair in the far corner of the room. She offered a pathetic sight. She was still wearing her evening dress, ready for a ball. But her long brown hair was tousled. Tears had left traces of mascara on her pale cheeks. Her body was slumped, and she seemed to have surrendered to her fate.
But as soon as Oppenheimer entered her field of vision, life returned to the woman. Her head jerked up in shock, and she began to scream desperately through her gag. She tugged on her fetters, twisted her body on the chair.
Where the hell was Lutzow?
Oppenheimer turned around, cast a quick glance to the corner behind him. No. The room was still empty. He was alone with the victim.
The situation was clear to Oppenheimer. Lüttke and Bauer would show up any minute. They should take care of Lutzow. He instinctively wanted to help the woman; he couldn’t leave her in this hell. But he realized too late that this reaction, precisely, had led him into a trap.
When Oppenheimer ran toward the woman, he initially didn’t notice the muffled sound of the collapsing wooden beams. What happened next made no sense. Oppenheimer ran and ran.
This place seemed to be bewitched. Lutzow must have found a way to outwit nature here in his realm. The faster Oppenheimer ran, the greater the distance to the bound woman became.
With a deafening noise, the room changed shape. The image of the panic-stricken, screaming woman grew smaller and smaller until she finally disappeared from Oppenheimer’s view. At the same time, he felt the pistol slipping from his grasp. Instead of the wall, the roof beams towered above him. He was thrown onto his back, the air pressed from his lungs, then it was over.
Silence.
Dazed, Oppenheimer rolled onto his side and took a deep breath. He grimaced when he felt a stabbing pain in his back.
He looked around, searching. He had no idea where he was. There were wooden beams everywhere he looked. The dust in the air got caught in his lungs. Oppenheimer had to cough.
The boards slipped twice when he tried to get up, but finally he managed to find direction in the confusion.
As well as he could, Oppenheimer sat up and squinted upward. It was only now that he realized what had happened. It seemed that Lutzow had notched the floor’s supporting pillars. Oppenheimer’s weight had been enough to bring everything down. Now he was in a cellar room. Water was running down from above, possibly from the mushroom basin. But maybe the collapsing wooden floor had also damaged a water pipe. Oppenheimer bent down to pick up his gun.
A shot fell outside. Oppenheimer froze. A second shot, a third, then everything went quiet. Something must have happened out there. He stretched upward but couldn’t see anything.
Oppenheimer tried to find a way out but realized that it was hopeless to try to climb up the slippery wooden planks. Before he could come up with a solution, heavy steps sounded above. Men were moving through the building, entered the room the woman was in.
Oppenheimer breathed a sigh of relief. That had to be Lüttke and Bauer! They’d clearly caught Lutzow.
Oppenheimer called out, “I’m here! Down here!”
But there was no answer. Impatiently, he pushed the loose boards aside to explore the cellar room he’d crashed into. There had to be an exit here somewhere. Then he heard more steps. They seemed to be coming from next door. Oppenheimer followed the noise, and indeed, he came across a door behind which voices could be heard.
Then he was once again enveloped by a leaden silence.
Oppenheimer pulled at the door handle—the door was locked. He aimed his gun at the lock and fired. As his aim was terrible, he needed two more shots before he was able to open the door.
Across the room, there was another door, wide open. Cool air blew toward Oppenheimer. But everything was quiet. He could not detect a single movement.
To his left, stairs led up toward the light. That was where he’d seen the kidnapped woman. Carefully, he approached the stairs and started to go up. He had to find out what had happened to the victim.
When he arrived at the top, he stopped in surprise. There was nobody to be seen. Oppenheimer almost wanted to believe that a bad trick had been played upon his senses. But no, there were telltale details. It was clear that something had happened here in the last few minutes. The chair the woman had been sitting on had toppled over. Severed rope lay all around it. So it was true. Lüttke and Bauer had already freed the victim. Oppenheimer could finally breathe easily.
But then the doubts began.
He wondered why the men from the resistance hadn’t shown their faces when he’d called. Could this mean that Lutzow had gotten away after all?
Or had he somehow managed to trick Lüttke and Bauer? Were there other accomplices? The trap Oppenheimer had walked into showed that the man had prepared for all eventualities. His opponent might be mad, but he definitely wasn’t stupid. Oppenheimer realized that he needed to get out of here quickly to clarify the situation. Unfortunately, the rear half of the room no longer had a floor. It was not possible to get around the chasm to reach the door that Oppenheimer had come in through. He remembered hearing steps in the cellar. He’d felt a draft down there, so there had to be an exit.
When Oppenheimer was about to turn around to go down the steps, he heard a voice.
“We caught Lutzow. He was trying to run.”
Oppenheimer froze. He hadn’t expected to hear this voice here of all places. He knew it all too well. And he was right. When Oppenheimer turned around, he was facing Vogler.