The Sleepwalkers (15 page)

“I’ll take a rain check.” He leaned and kissed her. “Like you said, there’s no need to rush.”

Outside, buttoning his coat against the damp, it didn’t take long to realize something was wrong. There weren’t any streetcars. Or buses. Crowds of agitated people clustered about, mumbling about a strike. No one knew whether the S-Bahn was running, so Willi continued up past the Kaiser Wilhelm Church, its mournful bells tolling the hour. At the Zoo Bahnhof, an extraordinary sight greeted his eyes.

The giant train station was empty. In front of it hundreds of Communists and Nazis, instead of tearing each other apart,
were marching on a picket line—together. Archenemies who had for years now drenched the cobblestones of Berlin with blood, they had forged a devil’s pact apparently, uniting for a six-hour shutdown of all public transport. Far left and far right joining forces to protest von Schleicher’s demand that all paramilitary organizations be disbanded. Unprecedented. Their aim: to cripple the capital. And what a job they were making of it. Seeing traffic hopelessly snarled in every direction, Willi came to the same conclusion apparently everybody else did: the only way to work was to walk.

Half of Berlin trudged through the Tiergarten. Men in black derbies and fur-collared coats, briefcases tucked under arms or, in the European custom, hands clasped behind the back. Rouge-cheeked secretaries hanging on to their purses, knowing very well that no matter how much they hurried, their bosses would have to be patient today. Many looked fearful. Or stunned. Not since the revolution of 1919 had public transport shut down. How easily the city could unravel. Everything one took for granted, in the wink of an eye, gone. Some made merry of it, singing traditional hiking songs or breaking into Christmas carols. And still more rode bicycles. Bicycles, bicycles. Where had they all come from? Clearly a lot of people knew about this strike, Willi thought. At least before he had.

Yesterday, he’d hiked these same park grounds with Paula, exactly as he’d promised her. They’d strolled the old hunting trails of the kaisers, sat by the streams, tossed pennies in the goldfish pond. How wonderful it was showing her white Bellevue Palace and the towering Victory Column, Berlin landmarks she’d never laid eyes on. She was like a tourist from some faraway place. What was she doing now? he wondered. Lounging in bed still? In the bathroom, freshening up?

It took him an hour to reach the far side of the Tiergarten. People were by then collapsing on benches, removing their shoes despite the cold, rubbing their feet. Emerging from the trees, the
great gray Reichstag building with its dedication, “To the German People,” appeared half-shrouded in mist. Squads of mounted police were already deploying around it, preparing for mass demonstrations. Or another revolution. A military putsch. The return of the kaiser.

God only knew these days.

Directly ahead rose the grand Brandenburg Gate, crowned by its gold goddess and chariot, quintessential symbol of Berlin. Paula had probably never seen it, either. As he passed underneath its giant colonnades, time itself seemed to collapse. Suddenly he was back in 1915, marching off to war. His mother and sister in the crowd waving handkerchiefs. And again in 1923. Another uniform, another brass band. A full police Detektiv this time, his wife and infant son to cheer him on. Every strand, every fiber in his memory, he realized, was wound up in this city.

Beyond the gate, in Pariser Platz, he joined the masses of cars and pedestrians flooding Unter den Linden, its famous rows of lime trees bare now, strung with countless Christmas lights. He passed the French and British embassies, the Adlon Hotel, the busy corner of cafés at Friedrich Strasse—Schon, Bauer, Kranzler, Victoria. Elegant ladies on terraces sat bundled up in overcoats and white gloves, sipping coffee, eating
Brötchen,
watching the chaos caused by the strike. An outrage. A scandal. The new government was a joke. With all his promises von Schleicher was only making matters worse.

Past the Palace of the Crown Prince. The great Schinkel Opera House. The Berlin Cathedral. The center of the city was outsize. Garish. Not nearly as beautiful as Paris or Rome. Or distinguished like London. Or as exciting as New York. But teeming. Alive. Home.

Across the city’s most elegant bridge, with its marble statues of Greek gods lining each side, loomed the baroque
Stadt Schloss
of the Hohenzollerns. For five hundred years the dynasty had ruled from this gargantuan brown palace, the absolute heart of
imperial Berlin. Then practically overnight they were deposed and exiled. Now it stood empty. Nobody sure what to do with it. What to do with Germany.

Block by block as he trudged the city, thoughts began flitting through his brain of the long march home in 1918, the defeated German army retracing the invasion route of 1914, northern France, the plains of Belgium, back across the Rhine. Town after town, city after city, had been nothing but blackened rubble. Back then Germany was spared. But what if, God forbid, there was another war? Now, with advanced airplanes, tanks, and more lethal artillery than anyone imagined fifteen years ago? A grotesque image filled his mind—all Berlin, all the grand avenues and crowded streets he’d just walked, the palaces and parks, the opera, the Reichstag, all the way up to the Kürfurstendamm—an endless sea of ruin.

It was too terrible to contemplate.

When he reached Alexanderplatz, his feet were throbbing. The huge square seemed empty without its streetcars and buses. Fortunately the strike was only due to last until one o’clock. At least he’d get a ride home . . . if not a seat.

Before going up to his office he stopped by the Alexander Haus to see his paper conservator. The good woman, not surprisingly, hadn’t made it in to work. He didn’t expect her to walk from God knew where. But it meant he couldn’t pick up his document until after Christmas. What could one do? He was famished. And chilled. The flashing red sign of the Café Rippa lured him inside.

Thoroughly enjoying a bowl of hot soup, he suddenly sensed a strange presence over his shoulder. He nearly dropped his spoon. Looming over him was Kai, the former Red Apache turned Nazi. For an instant Willi feared the worst. But seeing the kid clad again in a verdant wool poncho, his eyes darkened, the gold ring dangling from his ear, Willi breathed a sigh of relief. “Kai! Had any breakfast? Say, what happened to your new position?”

“Wasn’t for me.” The kid screwed up his chisled features as he joined Willi at the table, lighting a cigarette. “Uniform’s too ugly. Besides”—he exhaled, his smirk turning virtuous—“Roehm’s a pig. If I’m gonna put out for fat, old swine, I’d just as soon get paid.”

“I see,” Willi acknowledged the logic.

“Can you believe this strike?” Kai’s bright blue eyes were full of insurrection again. “On Christmas Eve? Screw the Nazis. And the Communists.”

Willi shared the sentiments.

“Kai, perhaps . . . we can be of help to each other again.”

It made the whole morning worth it, watching the kid’s face light up.

As he pulled off his hat as he stepped into the Police Presidium, the waxy smell of the vestibule automatically set Willi’s mind in gear. He decided that over the holiday he would take the files of Germany’s top orthopedic surgeons home and inspect them again with a fine-tooth comb. He’d read them a dozen times already. But other than for Meckel, there was nothing. Not one of the doctors had written about bone transplants. And not one was affiliated with the Nazis. But one, Rudolf Kreuzler, head of the orthopedic unit at Charité Hospital, had listed on his staff a junior surgeon named Oscar Schumann—same last name as his friend from the Black Stag Inn. But so what? Scores of Schumanns were in Berlin, and so far nothing he could find on this one linked him to Meckel or Spandau. In any case, just to play it safe, after the holiday he intended to visit the fellow. He also intended to pay a call to General von Schleicher and make certain the chancellor knew how his buddy Ernst Roehm had handled the Meckel case. Not that the man didn’t have enough to worry about, with the Nazis and the Communists ganging up on him.

No surprise to find Ruta’d made it in. The woman would walk through artillery fire to get to work. “How’s the hike, Inspektor?”
She was energetically grinding away at her coffee mill. For a second he thought she said
kike.

“Oh, fine, fine. A good walk never hurt anyone.”

“Certainly not. Look at your cheeks—all nice and ruddy. Makes you handsome. Which is excellent, because a pretty lady is waiting to see you. For more than an hour already.”

He took off his coat. “Same one as last time?”

“No, Herr Inspektor-Detektiv.” Ruta barely suppressed her mirth. “A different one. Not so sexy perhaps. But very pretty. Elegant.”

“Well. It must be my new cologne.”

“Nonsense. You’re a handsome man. A most eligible bachelor.”

He was surprised to find his old friend Sylvie, Fritz’s ex-wife, sitting by his desk, looking elegant indeed in a shimmering black suit and red lace veil over half her face. Once upon a time she and Vicki had been close as sisters.

“Willi.” She crushed out a cigarette. “Finally.”

“Don’t tell me you were just in the neighborhood.”

She laughed, crossing her long, slim legs.
“Au contraire.
I had to battle priests and old ladies to get a taxi.”

“What brings you by?”

Through the veil he saw a look of disappointment. For quite a few months now she’d been letting him know that as long as Vicki was gone and it was over with Fritz, well . . . Certainly she was more appropriate for him than Paula. Good family. Educated. Very pretty, as Ruta said. Gorgeous legs. But she wasn’t his type. Had never been.

So what could he do?

She lifted the veil. From her alligator purse she pulled out a newspaper carefully folded inside and slid it across the desk. Willi immediately recognized it.
Der Stürmer.
The most obscenely anti-Semitic of all the Nazi publications. Typical was the drawing on the front page of the fiendish-looking, hook-nosed Jew. Only this time, he realized—the caricature was of him. Right
above it, the headline screamed,
Jew Inspektor Kraus—Red Agent!!

“You know in a million years I’d never show you something like this,” Sylvie mumbled, redder than her veil. “But I think you need know. Go on. Read it.”

As if there was any more need to convince the public of the corruption of the Berlin Police . . . according to inside sources the department’s most celebrated Inspektor—Jew Willi Kraus—is being paid by the Soviet Union to bungle the case of missing Princess Magdelena, in order to disrupt harmonious relations between Germany and the Kingdom of Bulgaria. Reichs President Hindenburg is said to . . .

Willi pushed it aside. “What else do you expect them to print.”

“That’s not the point.” Her lean figure straightened. “You’re in their crosshairs now, Willi. Don’t you see . . . once they start, they never let up.”

“What would you have me do?”

Her cheeks paled. “If you had half a brain, you’d get out of this country. Until the mess blows over.”

“And if I had less than half?”

She shrugged hopelessly. “Then I have no advice. Only, if you should ever need it . . .” She slipped him a card with her address. “I’ll do whatever I can to help.”

His throat clenched unexpectedly. “Thank you.” He forced a smile. “That’s really kind, Sylvie. Let’s pray I never have to take you up on it. Now, how about a nice cup of coffee?”

Christmas Day was blessedly tranquil. Below Willi’s window the streetcars sparked and rattled again reassuringly. Midday he phoned his family. They were having a delightful time. Been to the Louvre. On a boat ride down the Seine. Tomorrow it was off
to Versailles. When he hung up, his throat ached from missing them so badly.

The whole day he lounged about in his pajamas, reading and rereading those damn dossiers. It was useless. He couldn’t concentrate. He kept looking at the photographs on the wall, his ancestors staring down at him. Sylvie was the third person this week who’d told him to get out of Germany. It was getting annoying. His family had been here what, since the time of Charlemagne? Why would anyone think he’d just pack up and run? And yet . . . he couldn’t keep himself from wondering if he ever really did have to leave . . . where would he go?

A hot bath, he told himself.

Stepping into the steamy tub, he tried to imagine poor Gina Mancuso entering the freezing water that day. The Havel was such a wide river, almost like a lake in parts. If she had been trying to escape, he considered, lying in suds up to his ears, there must have been something she was swimming toward, no? An island perhaps. Or another shore. Somewhere before the river widened. Within floating distance of Spandau.

He jumped from the tub.

Hoffnung said she’d died within twenty minutes of entering the water, just six or seven hours before they found her. Those currents were strong. But time itself limited the distance. Wrapping a towel around his middle, he went to find a map of Berlin.

Just as he’d got it spread on the table though, a furious knocking froze him.

“Kraus!
Aufmachen!”
a shout came from the hall.

It definitely wasn’t Santa Claus.

A delegation of Ernst Roehm’s “businessmen” maybe?

Leaping for his bathrobe, he grabbed a pistol and stood by the door, still dripping suds.

“Machst auf,
fool! It’s me. Fritz!”

“Mensch.
You half scared me to death.”

Willi unbolted the lock. Fritz was wearing a top hat and tuxedo with a long black cape over his shoulders, his arms full of champagne bottles.

“I knew you’d be holed up here.” Fritz barged in, his glassy eyes advertising the head start he had on things. “And I just couldn’t bear the thought of you spending the whole holiday—” He noticed the gun. “Willi—”

“It’s nothing.” Willi put it away.

Fritz dropped the bottles on the table and took off his hat. “Hell. Someone’s after you.”

“No one’s after me.”

“You’re lying.”

“Why would I lie to you, Fritz? I’m just on edge. Like everybody else.”