Authors: Paul Grossman
As they lifted off, Willi’s head felt as if it were going to explode. Each floor only made it worse. Two long years he’d borne the guy’s insolence. His arrogance. His insults. His treachery. Those six Gypsies could be dead by the time the real
Kinderfresse
r got caught. Maybe there was a reason they wound up alone like this.
An imaginary whistle shrieked in his ears, the signal to attack.
“About those Gypsies.” His throat clenched as he pointed to the front page of Freksa’s paper, a photo showing the six accused lined up in prison stripes. “You’d better figure out a way to get the charges dropped, Freksa. Because I have no intention of letting you get away with it.”
Relieved to actually have done it, Willi nevertheless felt sweat pour down his back. This—as they called it in the war when you climbed from the trenches to storm the enemy—was going over the top. From now on everything Freksa had in his arsenal would come flying at him. But it was time to face the fire. And he couldn’t help thinking it was worth it too, just to see the expression on that big, square face—as if the organ-grinder’s monkey had stood up and sung “Das Lied von der Erde.”
Feigning a smile, Freksa offered an exaggerated could-a-guy-like-me-ever-do-something-wrong? look, the way he probably did with girls whose panties he was trying to get into—still, at the age of forty.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Kraus. Get away with what?”
“Let’s put it this way.” Willi feigned a similar look back. “Try to bring those Gypsies to trial, Freksa—just try. And you’ll find out.”
Perhaps it was stupid. Perhaps he should have gone to the Kommissar and told him everything first. As if that would have helped. Either way, Willi realized, war with Freksa was inevitable. At least now it had been declared.
At lunch, everybody acted as if nothing were wrong. But Willi couldn’t escape feeling like a condemned man eating his final meal. Horthstaler had warned him—warned him repeatedly—to keep away from the
Kinderfresser
case. Even so he’d barreled in anyway, all guns blazing. It was only a question of how severely the Kommissar would come down on him.
After they finished eating, Horthstaler wiped his pudgy lips and let the napkin drop. “I’m sorry to announce we must begin our weekly meeting with a most unpleasant matter. Apparently, one member of this unit seems to have come to the conclusion it’s permissible not merely to trespass on his colleague’s case, but to slander and threaten that colleague as well.”
Even though he knew it was coming, the bile surged in Willi’s throat. Four years in the army. Seven with the Berlin police. Never once had he been dressed down this way.
“Obviously”—Horthstaler’s eyes fixed on him with an expression of repulsion, as if Willi were an ant on the table—“a most serious breach of regulation.”
And never once had he spoken back to a superior. But—
“You’re not acquainted with the facts, Herr Kommissar,” he said with all the dignity he could muster. “Freksa’s case against the Gypsies is—”
“Slander!” Lieutenant Mueller jumped to his feet, balling his hands into fists.
Everyone in the unit rose with him.
“Sit down, for Christ’s sake. I’ll handle it,” Horthstaler barked at them furiously, then turned on Willi. “Kraus, your behavior is outrageous. I could not have been more explict about keeping your big nose out of this. But you have lived up to the creed of your race, so infamous for its meddlesome audacity.”
Willi had to battle like a gladiator not to be lured into this. “Kommissar, please hear me out. Children are still disappearing. Someone’s operating from inside the
Vie—
”
“Halt!” Horthstaler’s meaty fists balled as if he was ready to take a swing now too.
Willi could bring the Kommissar down in half a second, he knew, if it came to it; probably take them all. But he fought, fought to keep himself calm.
“As of now you have nothing more to say on this matter, Kraus, because you are on official disciplinary suspension.”
The phrase slammed like an iron ball into Willi’s brain.
What?
He grasped the table for support.
He knew it was going to be bad, but never this. Short of dismissal, no more severe punishment could be meted out to a German civil servant, a ball and chain that could never be removed. No more promotions. No more raises. Pension capped. Through a blur of nausea he could just make out Freksa’s vengeful face across the table.
You’re lucky you’re not getting worse
, the blue eyes seemed to spit at him
. But watch your back, Kraus. You’re on the list.
“Because your record’s unblemished until now”—Horthstaler’s thick lips opened and closed—“I’m only giving you two weeks’ suspension. But my leniency is predicated on you. If you manage to control yourself, you may return to work on the thirteenth. However, should I hear that these egregious slanders have in any way persisted…”
Fourteen
Only once before, when his father had died, had Willi seethed with such indignity. Then he was nine, and it felt as if his world had collapsed. Now he was thirty-four and his sense of self felt almost as badly assaulted. All his years of hard work had been indelibly tainted. And why? Because he’d opened his mouth.
At first he’d wanted to run to Dr. Weiss, protest his maltreatment, and reveal all about Freksa’s shameful conspiracy. But Weiss had already made himself understood on the matter of intervening on Willi’s behalf. Besides, this time Willi’d disobeyed his superior. There was no crying for help.
What he needed to have done, he thought, painfully chastising himself in the days that followed, was opted for stealth in the first place. Planted stories in the media the way he’d considered and carefully camouflaged the source. The risk may have seemed too high, complete destruction of his career if discovered. But what had a reckless frontal assault accomplished? Freksa was proceeding anyway, more determined than ever to invent enough evidence to convict the Gypsies. The innocent remained accused. The guilty hailed. The republic undermined.
And
Der Kinderfresser
still out there.
Plus, the humiliation was terrible. He was so embarrassed to have received the most severe of all disciplinary punishments, he felt like a kid who’d peed in his pants. He certainly didn’t dare tell Vicki. She might be sympathetic to his plight, but she’d be livid too, that he’d gone out of his way to involve himself in a case she viewed as potentially harmful to the family. Each morning he had to leave the apartment pouring all his energy into convincing a woman who noticed everything that nothing was wrong. Maybe in Venice next week, he kept reminding himself, things would look different.
He went to work every day. Not to the Police Presidium but to his perch above the peddlers’ market. Staring down through his binoculars at the unkempt men and barrels of putrid slop, however, he kept feeling fresh shock waves at the realization of what had happened. Disciplinary suspension! As long he remained in law enforcement, no matter how long his list of accomplishments, his record would bear this blackest of marks. He might as well have been branded.
Focusing his lenses on the kids in the market, he felt new sympathy for them. How listlessly they stood behind their slime-filled barrels, not even talking to one another, doing their work with mechanical dullness, dishing out whatever they were hawking, weighing, counting. Between customers they relaxed a little, sitting on crates, closing their eyes. But when the Ox came, they jumped, obviously terrified of him. Who wouldn’t be? For a kid he’d be like a bull elephant.
Willi was going to have to trail the beast again.
He wasn’t giving up.
Horthstaler couldn’t have given a clearer demonstration of how the reins of power got pulled in their department. But as badly bruised as Willi felt, he had every intention of charging on.
Right after his second honeymoon.
* * *
A week into his shameful punishment he and Vicki packed their bags for the previously planned trip. At the massive Anhalter Bahnhof, Berlin’s gateway to the south, with its great glass roof arching over the many bustling platforms, the kids were on hand to see them off with Aunt Ava, who was minding them for the week. How smart she looked in a soft-brimmed hat and new long skirt she’d vowed not to wear. The boys brought a big bouquet of daffodils in honor of their parents’ anniversary and sang the traditional “Hoch Sollen Sie Leben.” It was so sweet he and Vicki each had to use a handkerchief. When he hugged them good-bye, Willi couldn’t help thinking of all those kids who not only lived on the streets but were dying on them too now. The Shepherdess. The Gypsies. Everything had to be left behind for a week. He had no intention of letting conspirators, serial killers, or his own bad conscience ruin this trip for Vicki.
Ensconsed in a private compartment with soft, frosted lighting and leather banquettes, a blessed relief gradually crept over him, deepening the farther the train sped from Berlin. Especially once they ordered champagne. After several glasses he and Vicki slouched in each other’s arms, snug under a blanket of nostalgia, reviewing, as if photos, those wondrous days a decade ago, their wedding on the blossom-filled shores of the Schlachtensee, that first night at the Adlon, their week in Venice. All the hopes they’d had. The dreams and plans. As they stared out the window at the star-filled sky, everything, they agreed, had turned out even better than they could have imagined.
Two lucky people.
Venice the next day was glistening in sun-drenched color, and, despite the slump, every bit as packed with tourists as it had been in 1920. They checked into the Vittoria, the same hotel as on their honeymoon, a former monastery for barefoot friars, so happy to be back they practically danced up the staircase. Without bothering to unpack, they dove into the same king-size bed they’d begun their marriage in, falling into each other’s arms again with the vigor of newlyweds.
In some ways it was even better than their first honeymoon, a decade having rendered them imperceptibly calmer, more appreciative people, not only of each other but the world around them. The art. The architecture. Food. Everything seemed more wonderful the second time around. Heavenly as each day was, though, Willi found it almost impossible to keep his thoughts from making the unpleasant journey home. Even on a boat ride out to Burano one beautiful afternoon, as they sped across the green lagoon, he found himself pondering how exactly he was going to keep afloat in the shark-filled currents of Alexanderplatz, especially when his sole intention was going to be to shoot Freksa out of the water.
It’d require a real balancing act.
Later, as he and Vicki strolled the lido, she turned to him with glowing eyes.
“This is the best anniversary present you could have given me, Willi, honestly. The most thoughtful. The sweetest. Definitely the most romantic.”
“You’re not sorry you didn’t marry a Wertheim or a Tietz?” he asked her stupidly.
She pulled him near and kissed him deeply, right in front of the Hotel des Bains. But even lost in her wet lips, he flashed on how furious she’d be if she ever knew he’d involved himself in the
Kinderfresser
hunt. In ten years he’d never hidden anything of consequence from her, no affairs, no dalliances. Vicki, though, would consider this a breach of trust. What was it, then, that kept driving him to risk not only his career but his marriage on this goddamn case?
* * *
At the end of the week they felt bereft when they had to leave, as if they’d never see Venice again. In the train, they sat for hours staring out the window in silence. After they’d crossed the Austrian frontier, though, Vicki brushed aside her bangs and took his hand.
“All right now, Willi. Go on. Tell me.”
One glance and he knew the jig was up. All this time he thought he’d been fooling her, she’d been fooling him. A cold sweat broke out down his back. He had an urge to bolt out the window and hide in the distant forest, but she was scrutinizing him relentlessly, offering not even a chance of escape. So he coughed several times to clear his throat, checking one last time for any sign of reprieve, then submitted to confession.
As the train sped across precipitous valleys and into dark Alpine tunnels, he told her everything. About the boys and the bones and the Gypsies and Freksa. About his disciplinary suspension. And by the time they were approaching Munich, he could have offered testimony for Freud’s talking cure, he felt so much lighter. Vicki, though, as he’d feared, was furious. He didn’t think he’d ever seen her that angry.
“I can’t believe you did this.” Her whole upper lip was twitching. “I feel like I don’t even know you. How could you go behind my back like that and put the boys in danger?”
“They’ve never been in danger.”
“Oh, easy to say! Maybe even to convince yourself, Willi. But not me. Whoever this
Kinderfresser
is, he’s obviously a very sick individual. How the hell do you know he wouldn’t come after the person who’s coming after him? Or worse, after his kids? Or me?”
“Vicki…”
All the way to Nuremberg she refused to say another word, to even look at him. Finally, though, they had to have lunch, and in the dining car, gradually, her anger eased.
“I don’t know what drove you to do it, Willi. Really I don’t. But okay, it’s done. You received your punishment; I don’t want to make it worse. You’ve got to promise, though, keep away from that case. And that first thing tomorrow you’ll go directly to Dr. Weiss and tell him everything you told me, verbatim.”
“I can’t do that, Vicki.”
“You’ve
got
to.”
“I’d be finished in the department forever.”
Her dark eyes flared with more fury than a sirocco. “Then tell me, Willi, how do you plan to live with yourself if those Gypsies hang?”
Fifteen
Rain swept Alexanderplatz, coming down in silvery sheets, rushing over the Belgian cobblestones and webs of iron streetcar tracks, turning the new subway trenches into muddy canals. It pelted the beautiful art nouveau façade of the Tietz department store and shook the awning of Aschinger’s Restaurant, drenching everyone underneath, gripping the whole Alex, it seemed, in Sturm und Drang.