Authors: Volker Kutscher
‘That’s why Alexej and I arranged this spectacle. We thought if everyone was concentrating on the cargo, no-one would be paying any attention to the wagons.’
‘Which is why Marlow had to order chemicals in Leningrad when he could have got them far cheaper along the Rhine…’
She smiled, and it looked as if she hadn’t done so for a long time.
‘The chemical company he ordered them from also used to be a Sorokin factory,’ she said. ‘It was all pretty obvious – but then it was supposed to be.’
A little later Rath was climbing the stairs back down to his flat. There were a thousand different thoughts milling around his head. But he knew what he had to do; he knew exactly what he had to do. He wanted to feel comfortable in his own skin again.
He fetched the keys to the caretaker’s flat from the shed. Lennartz had started to repaper the flat, but left the poky grey corner where he did his paperwork. Everything looked the same as always. Schäffner’s old typewriter was still there, it was part of the inventory. Rath sat down and took a few leaves of paper from the drawer. Then he wrote it all down, the whole story. From the perspective of the simple SA
Scharführer
Hermann Schäffner. With every letter that he typed he felt his heart grow lighter.
In the distance were the eight chimneys of Klingenberg power station and the great hall of Görlitzer station amidst the sea of houses that formed Kreuzberg. Finally Rath was able to savour the view. It was the same as before, only this time unaccompanied by feelings of dizziness, as a large balustrade prevented visitors to the rooftop restaurant from plunging onto Hermannplatz below.
The new Karstadt department store had opened today to an indescribable hullaballoo. Rath had requested a meeting with Weinert and the journalist had suggested the roof garden because he had business there anyway. The Karstadt building seemed suitable. Perhaps because the whole story had started here when this department store was still just a building site, a building site on whose scaffolding he had chased Franz Krajewski. Where Bruno Wolter had saved his life. DCI Bruno Wolter, whom the commissioner had posthumously decorated for his bravery a few days ago.
Hermannplatz had changed its appearance. The sand-coloured colossus dominated the square and seemed as out of place here as an Aztec pyramid. As two Aztec pyramids. This twin-towered example of modern gigantomania in Neukölln, of all places, where only weeks before the police and communists had been engaged in bloody street fighting! Rath doubted that the huge store would lend a touch of New York to the workers’ district. Nevertheless, the residents of Berlin had been awaiting its opening with feverish anticipation for weeks and loved the store from day one. The rooftop restaurant in particular, it seemed.
Rath had trouble finding Weinert in the crush, but in amongst the pushing and shoving the journalist had actually managed to get them a seat, and one with a prime view at that. Was it due to his press card? Perhaps he had just had coffee with Herr Karstadt himself.
The journalist had reserved the seat opposite with his coat. Weinert stood up to greet Rath and as he did so a brash type almost snatched away his chair. A stern glance sent him on his way again. The men sat down.
‘I’ve ordered you a coffee,’ Weinert said. ‘It takes forever for a waiter to come.’
Rath nodded. In the confusion of voices around them, it was hard to make oneself understood. It was scarcely believable that anyone was being served at all in the chaos. Still, the waiters were weaving their way through the crowds with trays raised like circus artists.
‘Nice quiet spot, this,’ Rath said.
Weinert laughed. ‘We’re less conspicuous here than we would be in an isolated clearing in the middle of a wood.’
‘That could be. Every sensible person is somewhere other than here today.’
A waiter placed two pots of coffee on the table, settled up and disappeared straight back into the crush.
‘You wanted to speak to me?’ Weinert asked. ‘Do you have something for me at last?’
Rath lit a cigarette before replying.
‘I do.’
Weinert looked surprised. ‘Really?’
‘It’s not what you think.’
‘Of course not. Birds of a feather flock together.’
‘You’ll just have to deal with the fact that you’re barking up the wrong tree. It’s a part of everyday police life.’
‘I’m not a policeman, I’m a journalist.’
‘With a little too much imagination.’
‘This weapons trafficking is real. Rifles and submachine guns with police and
Reichswehr
serial numbers are being used for
Stahlhelm
reserve duty training exercises. My informant isn’t just some crazy, you know.’
‘You’ve been getting on my nerves for weeks with this crap.’
‘Yeah, because you’re suddenly praising an officer to the skies who has more dirt on him than a Kashubian swineherd!’
‘DCI Wolter died in hospital as a result of injuries sustained in the execution of his duty.’
‘You sound like a prayer mill, do you know that? Wolter was a staunch
Stahlhelmer
, even Zörgiebel didn’t deny that. And he belonged to a network of old war comrades. I know that from Behnke.’
‘The
Stahlhelm
is a league of front soldiers. Lots of police officers served in the war.’
‘But not all of them train young people for a paramilitary organisation. So that one day the
Reichswehr
, when it’s big and strong enough again, can call on enough trained soldiers. The
Reichswehr
itself comprises almost only officers. The ordinary soldiers are being cultivated by the right-wing paramilitary groups like the
Stahlhelm
,
Scharnhorstbund
,
Wiking
and the rest of them. They’re all being fed by the
Reichswehr
and their financiers from the armament industry. The same goes for the Nazis with their SA.’
‘That’s a problem for the
Reichswehr
rather than the Prussian police.’
‘There are links to the police, or at least there were. I know it, I just can’t prove it. The police aren’t as democratic as the social democrats would have it.’
‘The police aren’t political. It’s their job to maintain law and order.’
Weinert shook his head. ‘Don’t tell me you still believe that.’
Rath blew a final cloud of smoke across the table and stubbed out his cigarette. During the last few weeks, he had told himself over and over again that Bruno Wolter had got the punishment he deserved. In truth, he had never believed it. The commissioner had made Wolter into a hero and the press had swallowed his story. A story that kept the
Stahlhelmers
who had been at the station that night in check. If they wanted to question the official police version of events, they’d have to damage the reputation of their own man, the hero Bruno Wolter. That it didn’t happen was down to Rudi Scheer, who might no longer have access to weapons in the Department of Building Regulations at Charlottenburg, but remained an important figure in the
Stahlhelm
. In the meantime Rath knew that, had Wolter survived, his fate would have been similar, demoted but not punished. The commissioner had never intended anything else. It meant a man like Major General Seegers went completely unchallenged. A total farce. Only, Rath couldn’t discuss it with Weinert.
Still, there were other ways.
Deal with official business first.
‘Do you know the Deutsche Bank Branch Office on Reichskanzlerplatz?’
Weinert nodded. ‘Pretty flash isn’t it?’
‘Rich customers. Big cash deposits. The
Nordpiraten
are hoping to pull a job there, a big one – like the job on Wittenbergplatz…’
‘Like the Brothers Sass?’
‘Only not as successful. My colleagues from C Division are going to catch them red-handed. If you position yourself in good time tonight with a few photographers, you’ll get some nice snaps.’
‘Not exactly the revelation to end all revelations.’ Weinert seemed only moderately enthusiastic.
‘A whole
Ringverein
is being taken out of circulation. There ought to be some spectacular photos. It’ll make your boss happy, believe me.’
‘
Your
boss too.’ Weinert’s index finger drew a headline in the air. ‘
Berlin’s police in fight against organised crime.
’ He stood up and stretched out a hand. ‘I have to go. Thanks for the tip-off Gereon.’
‘Wait!’
Weinert stopped in his tracks. Rath passed him a black file with the typed confession of a simple SA
Scharf
ü
hrer.
‘What’s that?’
‘No idea. Someone must have forgotten it. Perhaps there’s something interesting inside. About arms trafficking for instance.’
Weinert finally seemed to understand. His face lit up. ‘Do you think?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t be handing it in to lost property if I were you.’
‘If the information is correct.’
Rath shrugged his shoulders. ‘That’s for you to decide. You’re the journalist. I’m a police officer.’
Weinert waved the file. ‘If there’s anything I can do for you – let me know.’
Rath didn’t have to think long. ‘Do you need your car tomorrow?’
‘If you dare show your face again in Nürnberger Strasse, you can have it.’ Weinert laughed and turned round.
Rath gazed after the journalist until he had disappeared into the crowd. He stayed at the table and lit another cigarette. Sometimes you had to lie to reveal the truth. Weinert was all fired up for this story; he would write it, that much was certain.
Rath’s gaze wandered over the sea of houses. He still didn’t know what to make of this city, but in summer Berlin definitely had its charm. It was completely different from the winter. Perhaps it wasn’t so bad here after all.
Now he just had to persuade Charly to take a drive out to the country with him tomorrow. That was the trickiest part, but he would manage it somehow.
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