The Butchers of Berlin (29 page)

‘When was this?’

‘I suppose from about last April through September.’

‘For about six months until five or six months ago.’

‘That sounds about right.’

‘This was to offer people able to pay a choice of which camp they went to?’

‘I see what you’re thinking.’

‘Go on.’

‘Why bother to honour the obligation when they’re in no position to ask for their money back?’

‘You said it.’

Gersten scorched his finger, snapped the lighter shut, winced and laughed.

‘That’ll teach me. I think one has to deal straight at a certain point and not cheat.’

Morgen looked at Gersten blandly and closed his notebook. Thinking the interview over, Gersten started to get up, blowing on his finger.

‘I haven’t finished,’ said Morgen. ‘We are told the whole operation was much bigger than you acknowledge.’

Gersten gave an earnest look to say he didn’t know what Morgen was talking about.

‘Money was being paid to smuggle people out while you looked the other way.’

Gersten snorted. ‘That old chestnut! If I’d been given a mark for every time I have heard that story. I am sorry, it’s mischief on the part of your informers.’

‘They were forging the money to pay for that. In other words, Metzler was conning you.’

‘Who’s telling you this? It’s a trick to set us against each other. Of course the Jews want to believe that some get-out or a fairy-tale ending exists. It’s a nightmare
trying to sort out transportation as it is. Now you are saying there are other trains!’

‘Goods trains move all over Europe. I am sure many carry contraband. Human traffic would be an extension of that.’

Gersten frowned. ‘On second thoughts, I think I may have been responsible for the forged money, without knowing it.’

‘Cards on the table time?’ asked Morgen ironically.

‘Ha-ha!’ said Gersten. ‘Metzler complained the Jews had no money and I said – as a joke – tell them to forge it, not thinking he would take me at my word. It comes
back to me now. Anyway, he told me although they had excellent document forgers there was no one of sufficient expertise to fake money. That was the end of the matter, as far as I was concerned,
but from what you are saying Metzler went ahead. I admit it has been nagging at the back of my mind. That’s what I must have been hinting at the last time we talked when I wondered if Metzler
hadn’t played me for a fool.’

Schlegel wondered how good Gersten was on the accordion. Listening to him play them was like watching the improvisations of an accomplished musician.

‘And stealing the money?’

‘I heard they fell out among themselves.’ Gersten paused. ‘Metzler was very good and wasted in many ways. Most of them you can read like an open book, but he was different and
I admit I spent much of my time trying to double-guess him.’

Gersten stood, looking no more ruffled than if he had been strolling in the park.

‘I hear Stoffel has pulled the cat out of the bag and Lampe’s endless confession is being referred to as the crowning glory of his career.’

‘What else did you hear?’

‘Lampe is about to be given a grand tour of the sites of unsolved murders all over the country and will sign off on each and every one. I have to say, from what I’ve heard, the man
gives sadism and necrophilia a bad name. Not the sharpest knife in the drawer. All made up, wouldn’t you say?’

Morgen changed the subject. ‘I think my colleague has a question about Fräulein Todermann.’

Gersten’s slight recoil, tilting back on his heels, reminded Schlegel of a boxer riding a punch.

‘We would like to speak to her.’

Gersten produced his chapstick.

‘Fräulein Todermann is engaged in confidential work.’

‘Ten minutes.’

‘She is not available. Later, perhaps. I will tell you when. I don’t mean to be difficult.’

Schlegel wanted to take issue but Morgen said, ‘Have it your way.’

As they left the building, Morgen said, ‘I have an idea about Fräulein Todermann.’

It took all morning for Sybil’s papers to be put in order. Later Gersten appeared and issued her a laminated pass, using the photograph taken by Abbas, and a certificate
of passage. The card carried the Gestapo stamp and stated:
Fräulein Todermann is permitted to take measures in Jewish matters. The authorities are asked to support her in this.

Sybil was hard-pushed not to weep with shame.

‘This is a standard card. Normally you would have to check a quota of fifteen addresses a day. As agreed, you will concentrate your search entirely on this one man. Now what clothes do you
have?’

Only what she was standing in.

He took her to a room that had more than any shop. She should select three wardrobes.

‘Help yourself to silk underwear. I like the feel of silk next to skin. It’s a small luxury we will permit you. Call it our secret. The rest should be modest and unostentatious
without being threadbare or dowdy. I recommend practical shoes because you will be doing a lot of walking.’

She knew he would stay and watch. He insisted on inspecting everything down to her choice of underwear.

She understood she had to make a show of getting undressed, revealing everything while retaining a becoming modesty. She calculated the man was too full of himself to do anything more than
observe, for the moment.

He confirmed as much, saying he liked to watch. Feminine beauty was the great single wonder of the world.

‘How can so few parts result in such infinite variety?’

He grew philosophical contemplating Sybil’s body, wondering at what point beauty ceased to become beauty, not that she had anything to worry about. Most women had ugly feet but hers he
could gaze at all day.

‘A shame about the chilblains. We’ll give you something for those.’

He confessed that he always found a woman dressing after sex almost unbearable for its erotic tension. The act became the repository for what had gone on before.

‘Try the stockings with the corset and garter belt next, not that you need a corset, but let’s see it anyway. You are lucky you haven’t ballooned like so many women on this
atrocious diet we now have. Perhaps as a treat you could come out with me one evening. I could take you to a restaurant where we can still get a good meal, as unbelievable as that
sounds.’

Gersten kept it light and hid his threat. He seemed to possess too much irony for that, making out the whole show of her dressing and undressing was a foible for his decadent amusement. Because
she didn’t feel afraid, Sybil started to feel safe with the man, which was exactly what he wanted. She considered him extremely dangerous.

She presented herself wearing a suit with a tighter skirt than normal.

‘When does the cat show its claws?’

Gersten was puzzled.

‘What am I supposed to do when I find this man?’

‘That’s up to you.’

‘Am I supposed to seduce him?’

‘Up to you, dear.’

He tilted back in his chair, legs straight out, feet crossed, jacket undone, hands in trouser pockets. Sybil saw he had an erection.

‘It’s good if there is a tension between us. Try on something else.’

As she undressed again, he said, ‘You have nice areolae,’ as if inspecting a broodmare.

He preferred a green coat to a blue one and helped her select a suitcase.

‘Take a leather one.’

They could have been a couple shopping.

‘Have you had many lovers?’ he asked idly.

She could see he didn’t want her to be a whore so told the truth, which was not many. She omitted Lore.

Schlegel and Morgen watched as a backward, clumsy man in shackles, surrounded by a dozen armed policemen, led them a merry dance. Lampe was having the time of his life: the
nonentity whose every word was now hung on. They accompanied Stoffel and Lampe to the murder sites of Abbas and the still-unidentified woman where Lampe gave accounts that were full of holes and
yet eerily accurate. When challenged by Schlegel or Morgen he accused them of trying to take his story away.

Any mention of Russian being heard on the night of the Abbas murder was attributed to the neighbouring woman’s fantasy. Using a uniformed policeman, Lampe demonstrated how easily capable
he was of carrying a body on his own.

‘A strong brute,’ said Stoffel in approval.

For the location of the murder – as opposed to where he had dumped the body – he never came up with a satisfactory answer and resorted to one of his black states of forgetting,
wrestling with himself and banging his forehead with his handcuffed hands.

He denied meeting the woman in the dancehall until Morgen said they had witnesses, then he backtracked and asked to be taken there.

‘Yes, it could have been here,’ became, ‘I can see myself standing outside now I am here,’ then, ‘Yes, I remember now.’

Morgen said
sotto voce
to Schlegel he was sure Lampe hadn’t been in on either night, but no one was going to stop the canary singing. Feeble-minded and fitted up was his verdict and
Schlegel found it impossible not to agree.

Stoffel’s professional stance, that he was compiling a lexicon to decipher the dark text of Lampe’s murderous mind, made it all the more dispiriting. Only occasionally did he have to
raise his voice when Lampe threatened to make a nonsense of everything by trying to retract his confessions.

They ended up at Guenstiger’s, a small printing press which leased space in the huge AEG Montagehalle complex in Gesundbrunnen, north of where Schlegel lived. This being
a Saturday afternoon, the place was closed and they had to get the watchman out.

This, Lampe proudly announced, was where he and an army pal, with the helpful name of Mueller, carried out a robbery the year before. Mueller’s current whereabouts were unknown to
Lampe.

In a twist Schlegel could only admire, Abbas was turned from chance acquaintance into a long-term pal of Mueller. Abbas, furthermore, generously shared his knowledge of a considerable sum of
forged money being produced and stored there. As no one would dare report the theft of illegal money they decided to break in.

Stoffel said he had expected Schlegel and Morgen to be more grateful. He had solved the case of the counterfeit money for them.

‘He stole it and left it on the bodies of his victims.’

‘It doesn’t explain Metzler having it,’ said Morgen.

‘Come on, man, Abbas was bent. Whatever the Jews were up to stopped when the Austrians came. The money was lying around. Abbas knew about it and he and his two cronies took
advantage.’

Stoffel prodded Schlegel in the chest. ‘Enough of the long face. Live on easy street for a change.’

Back at headquarters Schlegel and Morgen checked the crime sheet for the Guenstiger break-in. A small amount of cash was reported stolen. The incident was described as a
routine robbery. The paperwork was scrappy and barely literate.

The October date coincided with the arrival of the Austrians; at least that part of the story stood up.

Morgen said, ‘I had three names for the possible forger, remember. The third was a fellow called Plotkin whom I discounted because he was dead.’

‘Jumped off a roof.’

‘More precisely, off the roof of Guenstiger’s the same day the robbery was reported.’

‘And if Plotkin was responsible for producing the money . . .’

‘He either threw himself off because he was scared of the consequences or a third party assisted, when it found the money gone and suspected him of having a hand.’

Morgen sat back. ‘Nebe can be very pleased with Stoffel’s efforts. Everything is answered in one go. It would be headline news if such matters could be reported. Stoffel will retire
promoted and Nebe will probably get a push up the ladder too. There still remains one big problem.’

‘Which is that?’

‘Someone may yet take the basic facts and distort them to their own ends. I now suspect Lazarenko could be right. There may be a dimension of internal feuding. It’s why I think we
should go to this party of Gersten’s, though I personally cannot stand the accordion, outside the context of Texas border music, which I doubt will be entertaining us this evening.’

The barracks was so crowded it was almost impossible to move. With all the smoke the upper half of the room was invisible. Whatever they were drinking was raw, extremely
powerful and quickly induced double vision. One reeling couple delivered slow-motion punches as they tried to hit each other as the result of a row. People lay passed out. Maudlin ballads that
could have made a dog cry gave way to raucous foot-stompers.

Isolated islands within the room were dedicated to intense games of cards where the players ignored everything around them. One man near Schlegel, unable to stand, keeled over and forced enough
space to lie down, where he lay drumming his heels. Morgen made no concessions to the music while appearing to regard the surroundings with intense fascination.

Such wild revelry and colossal drunkenness, even by the standard of office leaving parties, was unlike anything Schlegel had seen before. The top of Gersten’s head bobbed in time to the
music. The fiddler scraped away so fast he expected to see sparks. The room was like a pressure cooker about to explode. And all on the junction of Ostseestrasse and Goethe, in one of those huge
compounds of temporary barracks that had sprung in the last years. No one paid Schlegel any attention, being too caught up with getting plastered or winning and losing hypothetical fortunes in
cards. It was the Russians’ one night off and they had the whole of the next day to recover. A contingent of German workers seemed to have found their way there too – money was being
taken on the door – for the obvious reason that Russian music was more full-blooded and raucous than the usual oom-pah-pah. When the band embarked on a Polonaise the audience, lurching and
crashing around, refused to let it end, applauding for encores as soon as the music showed signs of flagging. It was far too noisy to speak. From time to time one of the card tables came to blows
and the fights resembled violent dancing.