Goldstein

119

The announcement that grated through the loudspeaker sounded every bit as miserable as Rath felt.

‘Attention please, the fast train from Hannover will shortly be arriving at platform 3. Please mind the platform!’

He stood with Kirie in the queue, waiting to buy a platform ticket. They had already checked in Charly’s luggage but, even so, her nervousness was driving him mad. He had accompanied her to the station as a matter of course… but something told him it was a bad idea, and not just because he hated goodbyes.

‘Come on,’ she said, for at least the twenty-third time, ‘or we’ll miss the train.’

He rolled his eyes, but the gesture was only seen by the man at the counter, who assumed it was directed at him.

‘Hold your horses! I’ll be with you soon.’ First he had to supply tickets to a family of five.

Rath winked at Charly and waved the ticket as if he had won first prize in the lottery, but she seemed to have left her sense of humour at home. Perhaps she had stowed it in one of the three suitcases that were making the long journey with her.

They made for platform two where the train to Paris (via Magdeburg, Hannover, Cologne and Brussels) was scheduled to depart in twenty minutes. Kirie pulled on her lead excitedly, sensing, as usual, that something wasn’t quite right.

Potsdamer Bahnhof was where Rath had begun his own fateful journey, arriving in the crisp cold of March 1929. It was where he had received and taken leave of his few visitors since then; and it was where, in a station locker, he had deposited evidence that no one must ever find.

Yet never before had he felt so out of place.

They walked along the platform, hoping to avoid the crowds. Charly looked at her watch. ‘Where has Professor Heymann got to?’

‘The train doesn’t leave for fourteen minutes. It hasn’t even arrived yet.’

She wasn’t listening, but rummaging in her handbag, looking for her passport for the umpteenth time.

‘In the side pocket,’ he said. ‘Next to the ticket.’

He couldn’t bear it any longer, and didn’t know how he would manage the next quarter of an hour until her professor showed up. He had to take his leave now while they were still alone and a private, intimate goodbye was still halfway possible.

‘Kirie and I had better go. We don’t want everyone to find out that… you know.’

Charly nodded wistfully. She leaned down and ruffled Kirie’s black fur. ‘Well, my darling, look after this one for me,’ she said. ‘I’m glad he’s still got you at least.’

She stood up straight and looked at Rath. He could hardly bear her gaze. ‘Let’s keep it brief,’ he said. ‘I hate long goodbyes.’

She nodded.

He took her in his arms. ‘I love you,’ he whispered in her ear, as a shrill whistle sounded from the platform opposite. He wondered if he had ever told her before, remembering an old saying: that love disappears as soon as you give it a name. You should never talk about love, simply live it. He could no longer remember which clever person laid claim to it, but all of a sudden it seemed horribly plausible.

‘What did you say?’ Charly asked, looking at him through eyes which seemed strangely different. The whole situation felt unreal.

‘Nothing important,’ he said, giving her a quick peck on the cheek. She hadn’t heard, perhaps that was a good sign. ‘So!’ he adopted a confident smile. ‘Safe trip. I’ll call you tomorrow in the hotel.’

She nodded, but looked straight through him, as if she hadn’t processed what he said. ‘Oh, look, there’s Guido,’ she said and waved over Rath’s shoulder. ‘How nice of him.’

Guido, the grinning man? Rath looked around. Him as well! Time to leave, before her friend Greta showed up too.

He embraced her so tight it was as if, for a fraction of a second, he never wanted to let go, and kissed her. She didn’t reciprocate, probably because Guido was already close by. Rath looked at her for a final time, her face, her eyes, and turned around. He couldn’t bear it, couldn’t bear to stand here with Guido to wave her off. Greta, too, had always despised him. Charly must see that! He had pictured their goodbye differently. He didn’t know how, exactly, just differently. The lump in his throat grew larger.

He met Guido with a mumbled greeting, and proceeded towards the milling mass in the station concourse, not wanting to turn around in case he triggered some catastrophe, like Orpheus or Lot’s wife.

Passing through the platform barriers he gave in and, though he didn’t turn into a pillar of salt, and Charly didn’t glide off, never to be seen again, part of him felt as if they had parted for good. She didn’t even gaze after him. Instead she chatted animatedly with Guido, who gave her a friendly hug and handed her a package, a book most likely, for the long journey. All of which reminded Gereon that he hadn’t got her anything. Whatever, he had no idea about books, and you didn’t give someone flowers at a train station…

He could no longer stand and watch.

‘Come on, Kirie,’ he said, jostling his way through the mass of people without really noticing them.

In the initial weeks following Charly’s abduction he had felt close to her like never before. At the same time, her imminent departure had cast a cloud over everything. She would be in Paris for six months, and they hadn’t even discussed seeing each other in that time. He didn’t know what to make of it, only that he would have wished it otherwise.

Already he missed her, and debated whether he shouldn’t wave her goodbye after all, but soon the thought of Guido, of Greta and Professor Heymann, and whoever else might show up, quashed the impulse. You arsehole! he thought, stop being so goddamn sentimental.

He drove back to Luisenufer and took a stroll with Kirie through the park, before going up to his flat. Inside, he didn’t know what to do. It wasn’t quiet enough to listen to music. He telephoned Gräf, but he wasn’t home. Weinert had sent his apologies again. He seemed to be at a different reception every night, moving in circles to which Rath would never gain access. Since his return, Weinert’s interest in police matters had noticeably waned.

Rath felt left out and, for a moment, considered stumping up for a distance call to his friend Paul, if only to hear that familiar, sing-song Cologne accent. Stupid idea, he thought, and placed the receiver back on the cradle.

He sat at the kitchen table and stared at the bottle of cognac. It stared back, but he remained steadfast. Not a drop! Instead he lit a cigarette. Kirie looked at him, her head tilted to one side.

‘We’re just going to have to get used to being on our own again,’ he told her.

The telephone rang. It was Gennat.

‘What’s happened?’

‘It’s Tornow,’ Buddha said.

‘Has he finally talked?’

Sebastian Tornow had been in hospital for eight weeks, but hadn’t spilled. On one occasion even Rath had tried, but all he received were hate-filled looks. His organisation had collapsed around him, but still he remained silent, as if protecting someone. Legally speaking, what he had told Rath on the gasometer was worthless.

‘That would be a thing,’ Gennat said. ‘No. I’m afraid we won’t have the chance to make him talk any time soon.’

‘What’s happened? Has he…’

In the first few days Sebastian Tornow had almost died of blood poisoning.

‘No, he’s alive, I’m afraid.’ It was rare to hear a sentence like that from Ernst Gennat’s lips. ‘It looks as if he’s escaped. He must have had help.’

‘How is that possible? Wasn’t he being guarded?’

‘He was in a hospital, not a cell.’

‘Isn’t he helpless with just one arm?’

‘The sister tells me he’s become quite skilful at getting things done.’

‘How did he make it past the guards?’

‘He didn’t have to. The two men have vanished as well.’

‘From Die Weisse Hand?’

‘That’s what we suspect.’

‘Now what?’

‘We’ve put out an appeal. No leads so far. We suspect that he means to go abroad, and are monitoring all border checkpoints. The alternative is…’ Gennat hesitated.

‘The alternative is that he’s after me. Is that what you were about to say?’

‘He has reason enough to want revenge.’

‘Luckily I’ve got company tonight, that I don’t think he’d dare go near.’

‘Sounds like you’re having dinner with Hindenburg.’

‘Even better,’ Rath said. ‘I have to say goodbye to someone.’

‘I can guess who you mean.’

‘On Dr Weiss’s orders. Besides, Abraham Goldstein isn’t as bad as his reputation suggests. So long as he doesn’t shoot you.’

‘Then make sure you don’t get shot. And see to it that the man actually catches his train. He’s been here long enough.’

‘Twelve weeks to be exact, but only one at the state’s cost. He’s made a real effort to support the local tourism industry.’

‘Maybe you should too,’ Gennat said. ‘I hope we’ll know more about Tornow’s whereabouts by next week.’

‘Gladly, if the Free State of Prussia is footing the bill.’

‘I doubt it will stretch to a suite in the Adlon. Or the Excelsior for that matter.’

‘Shame. A room’s just become free there.’

Rath took Gennat up on his suggestion. He packed a few things and some cash, dropped the dog off with the Lennartzes, and headed west. He’d had enough of the Excelsior for now.

The hotels in Charlottenburg weren’t the cheapest but he could lay out a little extra from his own pocket. The Savoy in Fasanenstrasse was one of the most modern hotels in the city, and was located beside Kantstrasse and the Ku’damm. He took a single room for two nights and went upstairs to freshen up. When he emerged from the shower he felt rejuvenated. Perhaps not like a new man, exactly, but it was better than waking from a bad dream. In fact, it felt something like his arrival in Berlin, when he had also spent the first few nights in a hotel. Now, as then, he was alone. Perhaps he would throw himself into the city’s nightlife, since neither Weinert nor Gräf had any time for him.

From his window he looked straight onto Delphi, a dance hall in Kantstrasse which he had previously visited on duty. There were other places too. He was spoilt for choice. He opened the window, breathed in the Charlottenburg air and suddenly felt completely free.

Dusk was falling as he stepped onto the street. A number of people had gathered outside the synagogue. It seemed to be some sort of Jewish feast day, though he hadn’t any idea which.

Café Reimann wasn’t known as a dance hall, but there was a band playing, and Abraham Goldstein held court as if he owned the place. He stood up when he saw Rath and stretched out a hand.

‘Glad you could make it,’ he said. ‘It’s not the most fashionable place for our farewell gathering, but it’s become a real favourite of mine.’

‘I’m more interested in seeing you safely on your way.’

There were others at Goldstein’s table: to his left, Marion Bosetzky, former nude dancer and chambermaid, now gangster’s moll. She gave a brief nod of acknowledgement.

Goldstein gestured towards the man sitting opposite him. ‘Allow me to introduce Mister Salomon Epstein, an old friend from Brooklyn. We’re going home together.’

Rath shook the man’s hand. He looked like a scientist, thin as a rake with glasses and thinning hair.

‘Were you here on business or as a tourist?’ he asked.

‘He doesn’t understand,’ Goldstein said. ‘His parents didn’t speak German in front of him, not even Yiddish. They wanted to make a good American out of him. That’s why we’re sitting here, while inside they’re inside celebrating Rosh Hashanah.’ He pointed towards the synagogue.

‘Rosh hash what?’

‘Jewish New Year.’

‘Happy New Year! We can celebrate your departure instead. For a while, I was afraid you might apply for German citizenship.’

‘I almost did,’ Goldstein said, ‘but dear Marion here will apply for US citizenship instead.’ He laughed and winked at her. ‘Do you know what, Detective? This city of yours is pretty damn crazy. Still, I’ll be glad to leave it behind. You too, right Sally?’

Salomon Epstein, the man with the glasses, gave a wise smile when he heard his name.

‘It’s Sally you have to thank for getting rid of me,’ Goldstein said in English, patting the man’s hand. ‘He’s come to take me home.’

‘You’re welcome,’ Epstein mumbled in his unexpectedly deep bass.

‘Anyway, it’s nice to see you, Inspector,’ Goldstein grinned. ‘I wouldn’t have thought we’d end up as friends.’

‘Friends is taking it too far. I’m here on duty. To make absolutely sure you disappear.’

‘There was I thinking you had a higher opinion of me.’

‘Let’s not misunderstand each other. I’m extremely grateful for your help a couple of months back, allowing yourself to be arrested like that.’

‘I had your word you’d get me off, and for some reason I believed you. It worked out in the end.’

‘I think it was the second part of our agreement that did it.’

‘My new business relationship? You’ll understand if I don’t divulge individual details, but it is lucrative, you’re right in that sense. Above all, because I won’t be pulling chestnuts out of the fire for other people any longer. Say hello to Herr Marlow for me.’

‘I will.’ Rath lit a cigarette. ‘In spite of everything, I’ll be relieved when there are several million cubic kilometres of water between us.’

‘Let’s drink to that.’ Goldstein filled a line of champagne glasses in front of him. ‘Our ship sets sail tomorrow morning.’

Rath lifted his glass. ‘Here’s to making your train, and the steamer tomorrow.’

The men drank. Marion just sipped. When the music came to an end, noise on the streets broke through. Loud cries. Men chanting something. Rath was surprised. The Communists didn’t normally march in this area.

But they weren’t Communists.

A troop of brownshirts marched past the windows, shouting something Rath couldn’t make out. ‘What was that you said? A crazy city? Just when you think it can’t get any worse with these idiots…’ he pointed towards the brownshirts outside. ‘…they go and surprise you all over again.’

There was a sudden, deafening crash as a chair was thrown through the window. The glass shattered into a thousand pieces, as a cold wind blew through the room and the chanting became louder still. Wir ha-ben Hun-ger! Wir wol-len Ar-beit! We are hungry! We want work! The door flew open and half a dozen brownshirts looked around aggressively. They couldn’t have been more than twenty years old.

‘Are you from the Glaziers’ Guild?’ Goldstein asked.

An old man near the entrance was knocked over along with his chair. A terrified waiter dropped his tray, there was a clatter and all was still. Everyone in the room stared at the intruders. A chair was thrown across the room. People ducked. A woman was struck on the head and fell to the ground, holding her hands over her bleeding face. The brownshirts bellowed with laughter.

Goldstein stood up with Rath and everyone else at their table. ‘In this town the street gangs wear uniforms,’ he said to Sally, planting himself in front of them.

‘How about you lot scram and notify your insurance company so that they can start repairing the damage?’

The shouting stopped, and the brownshirt who had thrown the chair squared up to Goldstein. He was a thin, dark-haired man who looked like a Tunisian carpet dealer’s apprentice. ‘Don’t get involved, friend. This is none of your business! It’s the Jews we’re after!’

‘What if I happen to be one?’

‘You don’t look like one.’

‘You don’t look Aryan, and your queer Führer definitely not. Is it true what people say? That you lot are a bunch of queers?’

Goldstein was ready. He blocked the man’s punch and dealt him a right hook to the chin, knocking him to the floor. He pulled the Remington from his pocket. ‘Stay where you are,’ he shouted, ‘and put your hands up.’

The first two brownshirts obeyed, the three behind likewise. All five stared anxiously at the barrel of the gun.

‘Let’s get out of here,’ Goldstein whispered to Rath, ‘there are more of them outside, a whole army. We can’t fight them all.’

Rath pulled Sally Epstein and Marion Bosetzky behind him, while Goldstein kept the brownshirts in check. Amazing how an automatic weapon concentrated the mind. But as they reached the rear exit a second windowpane shattered and two shots rang out. It had started again. The inside of Café Reimann was done for. Rath just hoped most patrons would escape in one piece.

Running through a series of rear courtyards leading to Knesebeckstrasse, he knew his hopes would be dashed. There were brownshirts everywhere, as well as a number in Young Stahlhelm uniform. Hundreds of them; everywhere chanting and shouting, accompanied by the sound of smashing glass.

Deutsch-land erwa-che! Ju-da verrek-ke! Germany awake! Die Jew!

Together with Goldstein, Marion and Sally Epstein, Rath made his way to the taxi rank on the Ku’damm. Strangely, they were left to themselves. Perhaps Goldstein looked too Aryan and Marion too blonde. On the Ku’damm, real-life hunting scenes were playing out in front of them. Innocent passersby fled crazed SA hooligans, who pursued them and beat them with long sticks until they lay on the ground bleeding. The uniformed thugs didn’t even shy away from beating women and old men.

Marion fell behind to fix one of her shoes. Rath heard her cry out and looked back to see an SA man grab her by the hair and raise his stick. Goldstein reached for his weapon as someone said: ‘Let her go, man,’ almost horrified. ‘She’s blonde!’

With that they were on the lookout for new victims. Rath wondered how many blond Jews and black-haired Teutons were walking the streets. Hopefully a lot.

‘Kill the Jews!’ Social envy and racial hatred: a toxic combination.

Goldstein remained astonishingly calm.

‘Don’t you take this sort of thing personally?’ Rath asked.

‘Very much. I hope your police arrive soon to lock these cry-babies up.’

‘I’m a police officer too.’

‘You think if you show your identification they’ll toddle off?’

‘I was thinking more of my Walther,’ Rath said.

‘If you pull out your gun, it’ll be a bloodbath.’

‘My colleagues will be here soon,’ Rath said, more to reassure himself. ‘That will put an end to it.’

Two uniformed officers were already there, but weren’t about to step in. They observed the goings-on cautiously, behaving as if they had mistakenly wandered into the Schlesische Viertel and were at the mercy of Communists and criminal gangs. Only, this wasn’t East Berlin, it was the Ku’damm, and scenes like this were unprecedented.

It shocked Rath to see this elegant, middle-class neighbourhood morph into a riot scene. Other pedestrians were shocked too, not believing their eyes until the toe of a brown boot caught them, or a fist landed in their face, until they had a bloodied nose or broken ribs.

The taxi rank was deserted. Either the taxi drivers had decided to protect their precious vehicles, or they were all gone, hired by fleeing pedestrians. They had to keep going. Marion took off her high heels and ran in stockinged feet next to Goldstein.

Then Rath saw something that gave the lie to later reports of a spontaneous uprising led by young unemployed men. This wasn’t a disaffected populace, not even a mob of brownshirts running wild. They were advancing systematically, giving each other signals, whistling and waving. The commanders were directing them like troops in battle.

The general’s vehicle looked unreal in the middle of it all, a chauferred open car being driven down the Ku’damm. In the back sat a man wearing a Navy cap with gold braid trimming like an admiral, and a brownshirt who looked like his aide-de-camp. The man with the Navy cap kept asking for the vehicle to stop, waving over a Scharführer here, a Gruppenführer there, and distributing orders.

Rath made a mental note of the number plate before hurrying after Goldstein and his friends, shepherding them inside the U-Bahn. He hoped it wouldn’t prove to be a trap, and was relieved to see no brownshirts below ground. Everything seemed normal. If it hadn’t been for the harried faces of fellow passengers, he might have thought what was happening above was a bad dream.

He decided to take his leave from Goldstein at the station. He would be flouting his duty, of course, but he could hardly believe the Yank would willingly stay in this madhouse. Goldstein’s night train left in an hour and a half. ‘I need to take care of this,’ he said.

‘You do that,’ Goldstein agreed. ‘You’re hosting the Olympic Games in a few years. I hope you have that lot under control by then.’

‘We will. This won’t happen again in a hurry, I promise you.’

He wished the three a safe trip and waited until the train disappeared before looking for the nearest telephone booth. He asked to be put through to Alex and requested back-up.

‘You aren’t the first,’ the watch sergeant said. ‘It’s on its way.’

‘Well, it isn’t here!’ Rath shouted into the receiver. ‘We’re losing control of the streets to this brown rabble. Isn’t it bad enough that we’ve no say in Communist areas? Now, get a move on.’

He hung up. There was a knock on the glass pane. Two brownshirts stood tapping coins against the booth and grinning. Rath put them in their early twenties, but one was as spotty as a sixteen-year-old. He opened the door. ‘What’s the big idea?’

‘You’re a Jew’s sow too, are you?’ Spots said, while the other carried on grinning. ‘Called your Isidor, did you, so he’d send the good old German police out to help?!’

‘No need.’ Rath showed his identification, drew his Walther and released the safety catch. ‘You two brown arseholes will have nothing against accompanying me to the nearest station?’

They threw their hands in the air.

‘You can’t speak to us like that,’ Spots said. He seemed to know his rights; probably a law student.

‘Wrong.’ Rath waved his gun, hurrying them on. ‘It’s you who can’t speak to me like that. Insulting a public official is a punishable offence in Prussia. Insulting a couple of arseholes is not.’

Spots and his friend kept shtum as they trotted down the Ku’damm towards the 133rd precinct in Joachimsthaler Strasse.

Rath had anticipated an evening drinking a few civilised cognacs at the bar in Kakadu, missing Charly but, at the same time, listening to the new houseband, which was supposed to have a very good drummer. Instead, he found himself escorting these two idiots to the nearest police station. At least they had resigned themselves silently to their fate.

Later, he emerged from the station and lit a cigarette. On the Ku’damm everything was quiet again, the shouting replaced by the sounds of the city’s nightlife. On the other side of the road the neon of the Kakadu-Bar beamed into the night. He looked at his watch. The Nazis hadn’t completely ruined his evening. He could still drink his cognac.

The red-gold saloon was full to bursting. In here, the mob felt like a bad dream. Only the black eye and slightly dirty suit of the man next to him at the bar reminded him what had happened. The man smiled at his female companion as if all was forgotten. The barman, too, was friendly as ever. Rath ordered his cognac and tried not to think of Charly, concentrating instead on the music and, yes, the new drummer was very good.

He drank hoping, when the time came, to fall pleasantly inebriated into his hotel bed. Meanwhile, the atmosphere in Kakadu was as riotous as ever, and he felt happy to be among these people who just wanted to drink, dance, listen to music and have fun. He wasn’t interested in what was happening outside. Still, Abraham Goldstein was right about one thing: Berlin was a crazy city, and it was getting crazier and crazier.