MONDAY, MAY 15, 1944–TUESDAY, MAY 16, 1944
Inge Friedrichsen had occupied a small attic room. Mrs. Korber stood in the doorway while Oppenheimer inspected the room. He could sense the landlady watching his every move. As the resolute woman clearly had no intention of leaving his side, he thought he might as well question her in the process.
“Who lived in this room originally?”
“My nephew,” Mrs. Korber answered. “Theo. He’s at the front right now, and I thought he wouldn’t mind if I rented out his room until the ultimate victory.”
Oppenheimer noticed the matter-of-fact way in which Mrs. Korber used the phrase ultimate victory. There was no irony in the way she said it. She seemed to believe in it like a law of nature. Oppenheimer had anticipated something like this when he’d spotted a small altar in a corner of the living room, with an artfully bound copy of Mein Kampf lying in front of a replica painting showing Adolf Hitler in a shining suit of armor, of all things. Despite it all, Oppenheimer doubted that Mrs. Korber had ever actually read Hitler’s book. Even among his most zealous followers, there were very few who voluntarily did that. Similar to a dusty family Bible, the work was more of a devotional object used to show your disposition than reading material that you perused to uplift yourself.
Oppenheimer let his gaze roam across Inge Friedrichsen’s room, which was dominated by the pitch of the roof. Although there was a window in the dormer, the daylight was not enough to illuminate the room.
“May I?” Oppenheimer asked and switched on the light. A bare bulb drove away the shadows. The room contained nothing more than a bed, a huge wardrobe, a chair, and a bedside table. Almost nothing showed that a woman had lived here. Everything was utilitarian; the only decorative items were two framed photographs on the wall. One depicted a young man in uniform. The second showed the same young man among his friends, raising his glass to the camera.
“Your nephew?” Oppenheimer asked and pointed toward the pictures.
Mrs. Korber nodded. “The boy is going to the aeronautical college. He needed frontline experience to apply.”
“Where did Ms. Friedrichsen keep her things?”
“I allowed her to use the right-hand side of the cupboard and the bedside table.”
Oppenheimer opened the cupboard and looked at the contents. It was not much, only two pairs of shoes, three blouses, which Ms. Friedrichsen had evidently altered, and a heavy winter coat, which she had clearly bought before the spinning-material directive came into force.
“How long had she been living here?”
Mrs. Korber thought for a moment. “It must be about ten months now. She moved in last July, I think.”
“Where did she come from? Did she have any friends or relatives in Berlin?”
“I don’t think she had any relatives here. At least she never spoke of them. She came from somewhere near Hannover. She always went out in the evenings, although I kept telling her that it wasn’t suitable behavior for an unmarried woman. Well, that’s what happens.”
“When did she leave the house on Friday?” Oppenheimer sat down on the bed and looked through the bedside table.
“Early in the morning. She didn’t come back here again. She often did that at the weekends, said that she was with a girlfriend. A likely story…”
“So you didn’t see Ms. Friedrichsen again after that?”
“Only when she was already dead.”
Oppenheimer looked at Mrs. Korber sharply, but then he remembered the morgue assistant’s report. “You mean when you identified your tenant?”
Mrs. Korber swallowed hard and nodded.
“Where did Ms. Friedrichsen work?”
“She worked for a liquor retailer, as far as I know. Ücker or something like that.”
“Ücker? Never heard of them. Well, my colleagues will find that out.”
Vogler’s people had already searched Inge Friedrichsen’s flat on Saturday. However, Oppenheimer wanted to check for himself to make sure that nothing had been overlooked. There was an empty water bowl on the bedside table, and next to it, an alarm clock. In the drawer, he found a playbill like the ones that had been available in cinemas everywhere until recently. He flicked listlessly through the pages. At the front was an ad for Immensee, featuring Carl Raddatz and Kristina Söderbaum, who was nicknamed “the Reich Floater” because she often embodied tragic heroines who all found a watery death in the end. Next in line was the ad for I Entrust You with My Wife, with the hugely popular actor Heinz Rühmann in the lead role, Melody of a Great City with Werner Hinz and Hilde Krahl, and then many more that Oppenheimer didn’t bother looking at.
Although most of the films were just a few months old, the photographs looked like archaeological findings from a bygone era, which had been lively and happy and had nothing to do with reality. In between the images of beautiful, happy people, Oppenheimer came across a picture folder. When he opened it, he was looking at Inge Friedrichsen’s face.
Sometimes it was a shock to see photos of people whom one had only seen as a corpse. Through the pictures, the anonymous dead changed into real people and could no longer be perceived as an abstract problem. It was only now that Oppenheimer was able to understand the complete extent of the tragedy of this case.
Inge Friedrichsen didn’t pay attention to the camera but was smiling down at a baby that seemed to be just a few days old. Her gaze shone with pride and disbelief at the miracle she cradled in her arms. Oppenheimer had seen this gaze several times in his life. It was unmistakable. Lisa had had it during the first few days following the birth of their daughter. Inge Friedrichsen had to be the mother of this baby.
“Where is the child?” Oppenheimer asked.
Mrs. Korber didn’t seem to understand. “What do you mean?” she stammered.
“Ms. Friedrichsen’s child. Where is it?”
“I say!” she called out indignantly. “She was not married! She can’t have a child. At least, I know nothing about it. If she had told me about such a thing, I would never have let her live here! This is a reputable house!”
Oppenheimer saw Inge Friedrichsen in a new light. From now on, she was a woman with a story—and a secret.
Hoffmann was already waiting for Oppenheimer when he emerged from Mrs. Korber’s house. As soon as Hoffmann saw him, he swung himself onto his motorbike, ready for another nightmarish journey through the obstacle course that had once been the streets of Berlin. Oppenheimer mustered the sidecar without enthusiasm and thought for a moment. It was only lunchtime, but without the address of the ominous liquor retailer where Inge Friedrichsen had worked, he couldn’t do much right now. He also had an urgent job to do that the SS shouldn’t find out about.
“Thank you. I won’t need you anymore today,” he said to Hoffmann. Magnanimously, he added, “Enjoy the rest of your day. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Hoffmann stared at him through his motorbike goggles without saying a word, raised two fingers to his leather cap in a farewell gesture, and started his engine. You weren’t expecting that now, were you? Oppenheimer thought when he saw his driver disappear. He was sure that Hoffmann or one of his colleagues would be back shortly to observe him. So time was of the essence. He had to get to Big Eddie and talk to him; otherwise, his plan was worthless.
Ten years ago, when he’d still been with the force, he would have known immediately where to find the little thug. Oppenheimer sincerely hoped the Berlin underworld had not changed since then.
Hurrying through Pankow in the direction of the borough Prenzlauer Berg, he realized to his relief that it wasn’t hard to find his way, even though the streets looked different due to the gaping holes and the bombed houses.
The small corner pub he wanted to pay a visit to was still there. As usual, the lunchtime rush was on. Oppenheimer saw many new faces among the guests, but Corpulent Carl still staunchly manned the bar. And yet, time had not failed to leave its mark on him either. His impressive twirled whiskers had disappeared; instead, his face was now embellished by the narrow mustache that Reich Chancellor Hitler, in his sideline job as a fashion icon, had made popular throughout the entire German nation. The big paunch the landlord used to carry with him had also disappeared. Maybe the fact that he had halved his body weight was down to rationing, but the hollow cheeks made Oppenheimer think he might have some stomach-related issues. Carl was in the process of polishing a beer glass and looking around the room. When he saw Oppenheimer, he paused.
“What can I get you, Inspector?” he asked when Oppenheimer approached the bar. Carl had intentionally raised his voice. As if by command, several of his guests left the premises when they heard the word inspector.
“I need to talk to Eddie.”
“Eddie? Never heard the name in my life.”
It was the same old game. In the company Carl and Eddie kept, you only gave a policeman a direct answer if it could not be avoided. Oppenheimer didn’t know why, but today, he took perfidious delight in this verbal grandstanding.
“Don’t make out you’re even dumber than you are,” he snapped back. “I know he’s a regular here. Tell me where he is, or I’ll come back with a police battalion and take the place apart.”
The threat didn’t seem to bother Carl in the slightest. However, he had satisfied the etiquette of the underworld sufficiently by not obeying a policeman without putting up some resistance and now didn’t bother messing around anymore. In his broad Berlin dialect, he said, “Ah, you mean E-Edward, Inspector? Yes, I think I have seen him here today. But I’ve no idea if he’s still here.” Suddenly, he shouted over Oppenheimer’s shoulder across the room, “Hey, Paul, can you take a look and see if E-Edward is around?”
A pasty-faced beanpole with a flatcap got up and stared at him uncomprehendingly. “Which Edward?” he asked in surprise.
“Come on, get to it, you silly bugger!” Carl commanded.
Paul took a hearty sip from his glass and disappeared behind a heavy curtain.
“I’ll take a look myself,” Oppenheimer said. Having been announced in this way, he entered the smoke-filled room behind the curtain. Four men were sitting at a table, holding playing cards. The man called Paul stood next to them, looking lost.
“Eddie?” Oppenheimer called into the room. A bull-necked man raised his head and looked at him with expressionless eyes.
“What do you want from me?” the brawny man drawled. “If you’ve finally come to pay my rent, you can leave the dough at the bar.”
“A couple were attacked and robbed in the Grunewald Park last night,” Oppenheimer lied. “I want to talk to you about it.”
“What’s that got to do with me? Nah, it’s not me you’re looking for. I’m a reformed sinner, so to speak. I don’t do no dodgy stuff anymore.”
“I’d like to convince myself of that.”
“Up yours!” Eddie answered grumpily and turned back to his card game.
But before he could pick up his cards again, Oppenheimer had grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and pulled him out of the chair with a routine movement. When he stumbled over toward the back entrance, Eddie protested loudly, “It ain’t legal what you’re doing, Inspector! Not legal!”
Within a few seconds, Oppenheimer was out in the backyard with his prisoner and pulled him down the first cellar steps they came across.
“Well, look who it is, old Oppenheimer,” Eddie said in a familiar tone once he had rearranged his collar and sat down comfortably on the steps. “And I thought they’d strung you up a long time ago.”
Oppenheimer remained standing so that he could keep an eye on the courtyard. “So far, I’ve been able to prevent that,” he said curtly.
Eddie pulled out his handkerchief to wipe his gleaming forehead. Oppenheimer had occasionally deployed him as an informer in the past. They had always got on well, although this fact must not be made public. Eddie had never screwed him around. If it concerned a case that violated his particular type of hoodlum honor, he had no qualms about ratting on his colleagues. “If it’s information you’re wanting, I’ve got to tell you that I’m sort of in retirement.”
“Well, you don’t forget how to ride a bike either, do you?” Oppenheimer retorted. Eddie grinned. “I’m no longer with the police force,” Oppenheimer added. “I’m here in a private capacity, so to speak.”
Eddie looked at him with interest. “Go on, then.”
“I need a hideout.”
Eddie understood immediately. “Is someone chasing you?”
“It’s probably best if I tell you straight—the SS is tailing me. I have to get them off my heels occasionally.”
“Phew.” Eddie frowned. “That won’t be easy, boss. It’s best not to tangle with the SS. You got a few pennies going spare?”
Oppenheimer pulled out his cigarette case and showed the cigarettes he’d gotten from Hilde. “Four a week. That’s all I can do.”
Lost in thought, Eddie looked up at the sky, which from this perspective was just a blue square above their heads.
“Hmm, that’s fair, actually, but what with the SS, it’s going to be hard to find something. Unless…” Eddie thought for a moment. “We do have a room over in Moabit. We sometimes use it to store things. It’s empty the rest of the time.”
“I’d come at short notice. No chance of telling you in advance.”
“Understood. As soon as it’s settled, you’ll get the key and the address. I’m sure it will work, but I need to know where I can find you, Inspector.”
Oppenheimer tore a page from his notebook and wrote down his address. “I owe you one,” he said on leaving.
“I’ll hold you to that,” Eddie said.
Oppenheimer had no doubt that he would.
The warehouse of liquor retailer Höcker & Sons was filled with stacks of sealed crates. Inside these, carefully packaged in wood shavings, was highly coveted produce. Oppenheimer wondered how many liters of high-proof alcohol might be stored here. Surely it would be possible to knock out an entire army company for several days with this amount. But there were no hard-drinking soldiers in the warehouse; the only one stomping through the labeled rows of shelves was a storeroom manager named Häffgen.
He was a forced teetotaller ever since the doctors had ordered him to give up alcohol. Doubtlessly, this fact had facilitated the owner Gerd Höcker’s decision to give Häffgen the responsible job of warehouse manager. Not a single drop was allowed to leave the warehouse without Häffgen’s authorization. Judging by the suspicious way he mustered Vogler and Oppenheimer during their tour of the company, he guarded what was entrusted to him as if it were straight from the Nibelung treasure.
That morning, Vogler had informed Oppenheimer that Inge Friedrichsen had worked here. The company was small. Höcker employed eight people; besides Häffgen, there were four drivers, two apprentices who stacked the crates, and a secretary. According to Höcker, he had employed Inge Friedrichsen as an additional secretary last July. Ms. Friedrichsen was always punctual, carried out her duties conscientiously, and was also a member of the NSDAP, which in his eyes confirmed her trustworthiness. Before that, she had worked in Klosterheide, a tiny village about sixty kilometers north of Berlin. Oppenheimer wondered who might have needed a secretary in such a remote location.
After Höcker himself had given them a guided tour of the company and passed on the most important information, Vogler and Oppenheimer decided to talk to the staff, and Vogler withdrew to a separate room to do this.
When the SS man had left the room, Höcker looked uncertainly at Oppenheimer.
“Oppenheimer,” he mumbled, “I used to know an Oppenheimer. We were in the same regiment, back in the war.”
Oppenheimer suddenly remembered where he had seen Höcker’s thickset figure before. He recalled the bad jokes Höcker had told to keep his comrades entertained. “It’s a small world, Gerd,” he replied.
“Goodness, Richard,” Höcker said, clearly delighted, and squeezed Oppenheimer’s hand with his large paw. When they had been in the military together, they had not been very close, although they had not avoided each other either. But Höcker did not seem inclined to let this small trifle impact the nostalgic memories of their mutual war service. Content with having found an old comrade, he gossiped about their drunken sergeant major and inquired after other comrades whose names Oppenheimer had never heard. Finally, Höcker asked quietly, “I didn’t want to mention it while Vogler was here, but as far as I know, you’re a Jew, aren’t you? How come you’re working for the SS now?”
“I converted.” It was the first lie that popped into his head. He didn’t feel like giving a long explanation of why he was involved with the case. Oppenheimer knew that a conversion to Christianity would not have fundamentally changed his delicate situation. The Bergmanns also had to live with Oppenheimer in the Jewish House, although they had both converted and had been christened as Catholics. At least they hadn’t evacuated the Bergmanns as so-called Jewish Christians yet. But Höcker was satisfied by Oppenheimer’s banal reply.
“Very sensible, Richard, very sensible. No point in messing up your life by being a showcase Jew, right? Just so you don’t misunderstand me, I’ve nothing against Jews in general. But there is no doubt that a Jew cannot be a German. And all these stories that are told about Jews, there must be some truth in it, right? Although, just between us, I’ve a feeling that the führer is exaggerating his Jew policies just a bit. After all, there are exceptions, like you. But no one wants to hear of it.”
Oppenheimer was in serious doubt whether he should feel honored or not.
Höcker took a cigar from a box on an imposing office desk. “Would you like one?”
Oppenheimer nodded and pocketed two cigars. He would have taken them from his archenemy. His heart bled as he watched Höcker bite off the tip of the cigar with his teeth and then light it. “Do you need a light?”
“No, thanks,” Oppenheimer said. “I’ll keep it for later.”
“Ah, right. Nice. Anything else you want? Gin, whiskey, maybe a glass of wine?”
“Many thanks, but I think I’d best make a start on the interviews.”
“Of course. Work can’t wait. Right. I’ll be off, then. Please feel free to use my office. Can I call anyone for you?”
“Who worked with Ms. Friedrichsen?”
“Hmm, that would be Ms. Behringer.” Full of pride, he added, “My main secretary.”
“Then I would like to speak to her.”
“Right away,” Höcker said and pranced out of the room. Given his stocky figure, this was a ridiculous sight.
When Oppenheimer saw Ms. Behringer, he immediately realized why Höcker had employed her. While secretaries like Ms. Friedrichsen needed a knowledge of spelling and good references to get a job, Ms. Behringer was one of those employees that bosses liked to adorn themselves with. Despite that, Oppenheimer did not find her at all vulgar. She was dressed simply but effectively. As if she had foreseen the tragic occasion, she was wearing a black trouser suit. The only colors on her were her chestnut-brown hair and the red lipstick, which shone into Oppenheimer’s face like the rear light of a car.
Initially, he would have assumed a rivalry between the two women, but after just a few minutes, he had to revise his prejudice. Ms. Behringer had heard of Inge Friedrichsen’s death that morning and was clearly devastated. During the interview, Oppenheimer concluded that she was an intelligent and vibrant young woman. Going by what she was saying, Inge Friedrichsen had shared these characteristics. The two of them had gotten on so well that they spent a lot of their free time together too.
“We went out together on Friday night, but then she suddenly disappeared.”
“What time did you meet?”
“She came around to my place straight after work to freshen up. Then we went to Bahnhof Zoo. We met Günter there. He had a friend with him—Hans-Georg, I think his name was.”
“Who is Günter?”
After Ms. Behringer had hemmed and hawed for a while, it turned out that she was secretly engaged to Günter. No one in the office except Inge Friedrichsen knew about it. Oppenheimer made a note of Günter’s address.
“What were you planning to do that evening?”
“We went for a drink. There is not much else to do now since the dance prohibition. We wanted to go to the cabaret later on, the Berolina club near Alexanderplatz. But then we lost track of time, and the show at the Berolina had already started at five thirty. Inge wanted to go to the cinema. To the evening showing.”
“Did she watch a lot of films?”
“Yes, all the time. But that weekend, every place was showing Heinrich George’s most recent film. The Defense Has the Last Word or something like that. The only other film on was in the Titania Palast out in Steglitz. Something with Hans Moser. That’s the one she wanted to see. But I couldn’t be bothered to drive out to Steglitz, and I don’t like Austrian films anyway. So Inge set off by herself.”
“No one accompanied her?”
Ms. Behringer’s lips quivered at this question. Finally, she took a deep breath and said, “I know, we should have. But Günter wanted to stay with me, and I fear Hans-Georg wasn’t quite sober anymore. I’m guessing I could have prevented it all. Sometimes it seems as if one always makes the wrong decisions.”
“What time did she head off?”
“Around five thirty. The film was due to start at seven thirty. Did she suffer a great deal?”
Oppenheimer decided it was pointless to burden Ms. Behringer with the truth. “No, she was dead immediately. She didn’t feel a thing.”
“Thank God. At least that.”
Asked about the work atmosphere at Höcker & Sons, Ms. Behringer didn’t hold back. “Just between us, she was happy not to have to deal with the old goat,” she said, referring to her employer. “Luckily, I can cope with my bosses chasing after me and know how to defuse the situation. I don’t know how Inge would have reacted to it.” Once more, her eyes filled with tears.
“Was Mr. Höcker propositioning her?”
“No. I’m absolutely sure about that. She would have told me. And anyway, she wasn’t one of those, if you get my meaning.”
“Was she engaged?”
“I think she had a fiancé at the front. She never told me his name.”
“And what about when she went out? Did she ever flirt with anyone?”
Ms. Behringer shook her head emphatically. “Never. At least not when I was present.”
“So there was no one else in the city whom she had any sort of closer connection to?”
“She had no relatives here, and she never mentioned any friends.”
He wasn’t going to get anywhere by continuing with this line of questioning. Oppenheimer changed the subject. “Where did she work before?”
“I don’t know exactly,” Ms. Behringer faltered. Then she burst out, “In any case, Inge was a very good person.”
Oppenheimer pricked up his ears. He wondered what this outburst had to do with his question. “Now, now, I did not question that at all, young lady,” he appeased her. “I didn’t mean to insinuate anything, but I must find out what happened. Any small detail could be relevant.”
Oppenheimer sensed that Ms. Behringer was hiding something from him. He decided to go full attack.
“Where is the child?”
“What do you mean?” she asked, shocked.
In reply, he pulled out the photograph of Inge Friedrichsen with the infant.
At the sight, Ms. Behringer clapped her hands in front of her face and began to sob. “I—don’t—don’t—know,” she gasped between her fingers. “She didn’t want to tell me. She just said that he was being taken care of.”
They had reached the critical moment. Oppenheimer sensed that Ms. Behringer would now tell him everything. “Let’s start from the beginning, shall we?” he suggested in a calm voice.
Everyone had heard rumors of the Nazis’ breeding program at one time or another. The organization that was responsible for it was called Lebensborn; it was a registered association, controlled by no one less than Heinrich Himmler, which implied that the project was prioritized within the party apparatus. The association owned a handful of buildings, which were scattered all over the country, away from the big cities. Nobody really knew what went on night after night behind the seclusion of the thick walls, dedicated to the belief in the führer and in the will for Aryan blood to be everlasting.
It was Lebensborn’s declared aim to strengthen the Aryan race and to produce children with the purest blood possible. As there was very little public information on this project, there were massive rumors and speculations about the ways and means this was carried out. For a long time, there had been rumors of Himmler ordering the SS and the police to produce children of good blood with German women. If necessary, this should also take place without regard for convention or morals, as in his opinion, the end justified the means. Most people associated some sort of posh brothel with the term Lebensborn, where veritable sex orgies were celebrated with Hitler’s blessing. According to the rumors, SS breeding studs were said to service very young girls with blond plaits to make the dream of the superiority of the Nordic race come true.
These were also the images Oppenheimer conjured up when Ms. Behringer first mentioned Lebensborn. For a few seconds, he found it difficult to reconcile the photo of the beaming Inge Friedrichsen with his notion of unbridled Nazi orgies.
“You said Lebensborn?” Oppenheimer asked, to make sure he hadn’t misheard.
“Yes, they have a home out in Klosterheide. Inge was a secretary there.”
“And what was her … job?” Oppenheimer asked hesitantly.
“Not what you’re thinking of.” Ms. Behringer rolled her eyes. “She did the paperwork. Certificates, forms, things like that.”
“And what’s that got to do with the child?”
“Inge came to Lebensborn when she was pregnant with Horst.”
“Her son is called Horst?”
“Yes, that’s right. She was pregnant and not married. She didn’t have much choice but to go to Lebensborn. There she could have her child without anyone finding out. First, she was in a place called Haus Friesland, somewhere near Bremen. She didn’t have a job and didn’t want to go back to her parents, because they weren’t allowed to know about Horst. And so she made some inquiries with the Lebensborn association as to whether there might be a job for her.”
“And then she was given a job as a secretary with Lebensborn?”
“Yes, she was sent straight to Klosterheide. There is a house with a day nursery attached to it. So she was able to be with her son. But after a while, the work became too repetitive, I’m not sure. Maybe she didn’t want to work there anymore because Lebensborn had such a bad reputation. Maybe she just wanted to be in a city. In any case, she looked for something here in Berlin, and Horst was put in a Lebensborn home. That’s how she ended up with us.”
“Did she ever talk about the father of her child? Do you know his name?”
“I just know that he came from her hometown.”
“The fiancé from the front that you mentioned?”
“Yes.” Ms. Behringer suddenly looked at him guiltily. Abashed, she added, “Only the bit about her being engaged wasn’t true. Sorry. He dumped her when she got pregnant. He was called up shortly afterward.”
These were the only useful bits of information that Oppenheimer was able to glean that day. The other people he talked to were largely clueless. The workers in the warehouse had only rarely caught a glimpse of Ms. Friedrichsen. She had occasionally stepped out of the office to collect delivery bills from Mr. Häffgen or to hand him an urgent order. It was only through persistent questioning that Oppenheimer managed to discover a rumor that Inge Friedrichsen had something to do with Lebensborn. It seemed that subsequently, one of the warehousemen called Bertram Mertens had started making explicit proposals, according to Ms. Behringer, without success.
There was one unanswered question left. Oppenheimer was only able to ask it when Höcker knocked on the door and peered into the room. “Sorry, I don’t want to rush you, but I need to get at some of my papers.”
“Come in. I’m done here. I have one more question. Who else owns the company? I’m assuming your sons?”
“There are three owners. I actually have only one son, Karl. The place is called Höcker & Sons because it sounds better that way.”
“And where was he when Ms. Friedrichsen disappeared?”
“I’m guessing he was in Italy.”
“He is stationed there?”
Höcker sighed meaningfully. “Yes, indeed, Italy of all places. The Americans launched an offensive down there on Friday. Well, at least he’ll get some field experience from it. Character-building stuff. We’re perfect examples of that, aren’t we?” He laughed, then growing serious again, he leaned over to Oppenheimer. “I’m not really sure about the boy. But you’ve probably come across it before too, Richard. At first, he didn’t want to join the army—imagine that! But then I told him, Karl, you can’t cop out when the Fatherland and your führer are calling. It’s your duty as a good and proper German! Well, yes, and when I threatened to disinherit him, he finally signed up. Young people these days…” He shook his head in resignation.
“You mentioned three owners,” Oppenheimer reminded him.
“Oh yes, of course. Yes, the third owner of our company is the SS.”
Shocked, Oppenheimer asked, “How did that happen?”
“Didn’t you know? We used to deal in mineral waters and lemonades. A few years ago, they became a partner. Of course, the SS use a different name. They have a few of their own springs and later took over some others. Niederselters, Apollinaris—you wouldn’t believe all the pies they’ve got their fingers in. They control three-quarters of the mineral water market now, can you imagine. Well, yes, ever since then, we’re supplied almost directly by the party. However, I realized that the profit margin is higher with alcoholic beverages, which is why I founded a new company and changed our product range. It wasn’t a problem, I just had to discuss a couple of things with my counterparts in the Economic Administration Department, and then we were off. It’s just a bit difficult to get hold of a halfway decent beer. I can organize anything you like. Whiskey, scotch, sherry, even Bordeaux or champagne, large amounts, whatever you want. The SS can organize anything. There is a huge warehouse in the occupied territories. But beer? You’d think so—no chance! But honestly, what do French people know about beer? They still have to work on that.” Höcker smiled broadly.
Later, Vogler and Oppenheimer sat down together in Zehlendorf to exchange information.
“Did you interview Bertram Mertens?” Oppenheimer asked.
“Mertens? Just a moment.” Vogler checked his papers. “Yes, Bertram Mertens. Apparently, he asked Ms. Friedrichsen to go out with him a couple of months ago. She turned him down. He couldn’t say much more. He claimed he was at the Wannsee at the time in question. Went for a walk around the lake. It’s going to be hard to prove it.”
“We haven’t checked Ms. Friedrichsen’s background properly yet.”
“What are you thinking, specifically?”
“Well, firstly, it would be interesting to know who the father of her son is. An illegitimate child can certainly be a motive for murder.”
Vogler looked at him in surprise. “She had a child?”
Oppenheimer handed him the photograph. “Here. Your colleagues must have overlooked it. She worked in a Lebensborn home called Kurmark. It is possible that our killer also came from there. It’s not too far to Berlin. Doable by train. I think it makes sense to extend our investigation to Klosterheide. Her former colleagues’ alibis also have to be checked.”
“Hmm, she worked at Lebensborn.” Vogler frowned. “Interesting, the things you managed to dig up, Oppenheimer. This means that the number of potential suspects has suddenly increased.”
“I’m afraid so, yes. That’s the way these things work. We can’t afford to ignore anything. When shall we go and visit the home?” Oppenheimer gave Vogler a challenging look.