Authors: Paul Grossman
Willi turned from the window on the sixth floor of the Police Presidium and fell into his chair. Since his return to work several days ago, everyone had basically ignored him: business as usual. Except for the unit secretary, Frau Garber—Ruta. She had made a concerted effort to ask how his travels had gone.
“Imagine … a second honeymoon,” she’d sighed, pouring him coffee from her cart. “To Venice.”
Didn’t she know he’d been on disciplinary suspension too?
“You have real heart, Herr Sergeant. That’s what makes you stand out around here.”
Of course she knew. She was showing support. He was so touched he remembered he’d brought her a souvenir. “Oh, by the way,” he’d said, handing her a little canvas bag filled with beans. “For you.”
“Italian roast! Herr Sergeant … you’re an angel.”
Leaning back in his chair now, though, listening to the fury of the storm, Willi didn’t exactly feel like one. Unless angels could be gripped by uncertainty.
This whole week had thundered Sturm und Drang.
First day back he’d had to force his legs to take him over to Administration, each footstep down the long granite hallways seeming to echo an accusation. He’d never turned in a fellow officer before. But he’d reconciled himself to Vicki’s argument: what
did
honor and reputation matter when innocent lives were at risk?
Dr. Weiss looked glad as always to see him, although slightly worn-out too. The personal attacks against him in the Nazi press were relentless, Willi knew, causing real distress for the deputy police president. It wasn’t the greatest time for one of the few Jewish officers in the building to come schnorring for a favor. Nevertheless.
“That’s quite a story.” Weiss’s sharp eyes flashed behind his wire glasses when Willi’d finished. Examining the drain maps and other evidence before him, Weiss rubbed his temples. “My God, these people take wickedness to new dimensions, Willi. I knew they’ve been trying to infiltrate Kripo, but I’d no idea they’d gotten this far.
Verdammt!
” He slammed the desktop. “Goebbels, in this building.”
Weiss picked up a pencil. “Thing is, what to do about it now?” He drummed the desk. “Not such a simple matter. Politics, politics.” He started doodling. “Give me a few days. I’ll get back to you.” Willi saw he was making a swastika. “This time you did the right thing, coming to me.” Weiss circled it and dropped the pencil. “Oh, and Willi.” Weiss stopped him from leaving. “Don’t worry about the suspension. I’ll make sure it comes off your record, sons of bitches.”
Walking the same long halls back to Homicide, Willi’s whole body had pulsed with a mixture of satisfaction and misgiving.
Mostly satisfaction.
Weiss moved faster than expected.
Late the next morning Freksa had appeared in Willi’s office doorway, lurching like an attack dog. “You really think you fixed things, don’t you?” His thin lips snarled. “A real Jew conspiracy.”
Willi took a deep breath as satisfaction spread through his chest. “Funny word out of your mouth, Freksa. A man with no qualms about framing six men and letting a mass murderer go free.”
Freksa’s square jaw trembled with rage. “I do as I’m told, Jew boy. Just like I’ve got to now that your hook-nosed friend’s threatened to throw the book at me. But I’m warning you, the day of reckoning’s near.”
Willi’d said nothing.
In truth, though, Freksa’d gotten off easy. Too easy, Willi thought—although he understood the logic as Dr. Weiss described it. Given the state of things, the deputy president had explained by phone, public exposure of such terrible deeds on the part of Germany’s most famous detective would be far too destructive. Along with the army, the police were one of the few stable cornerstones of the republic these days, and it couldn’t afford such a devastating blow. Freksa merely had to clean up the mess he’d made and suffer the humiliation of having been caught. Willi got scant pleasure at his comeuppance—until the next day, when headlines screamed
EVIDENCE FOUND INCONCLUSIVE—ALL SIX GYPSIES FREED!
Vicki was so proud she gave Willi one of her special foot massages that night.
“There now, don’t you feel better? You did the right thing, darling. Let’s put the whole thing behind us.”
Willi wasn’t fool enough to imagine his troubles with Freksa were over, but the next day’s drama had nothing to do with the Nazi. Stepping out for the bottle of milk left each morning at their door, he’d heard strange sounds on the landing above. Tiptoeing up, he’d found his neighbor Winkelmann sitting there on the steps, bawling like a baby.
“Otto.” He’d sat next to him. “My goodness. There, there.”
“I’ve lost it all,” Winkelmann bleated, gasping for air. “Everything.”
“Now,
Mensch
. A terrible thing’s happened; it’s true. But you’ll weather it. Just like we’ve weathered so much already. Vicki and I will do whatever we can to—”
The crying stopped and Otto’s eyes flared with sudden rage. “You don’t understand, Kraus. You’ve got it made. I thought I had a chance in life. That store was my baby.” His voice broke. Tears streamed down his face. “I did everything I could to nurture it.”
Willi put an arm around his shoulder. “Of course you did. You can’t blame yourself. It’s wretched all around. This slump’s becoming a real depression, they say.”
“We have a bit stashed aside, but then what? You see all the families getting evicted, standing on the sidewalk with everything they own? I can’t let that happen, Willi. I’m so ashamed.”
Willi’s throat closed with pity. He didn’t know what else to say.
* * *
The tempest seemed to pick up by the minute, rain pounding the windowpane like a constant drumroll. Willi was glad at least not to be on the rooftop above the peddlers’ market, where he’d spent most of the week. With the first real heat of the season, the stench, even five floors up, had practically asphyxiated him. He’d no desire to be around there in July. Unfortunately, all his efforts to find the Ox’s base of operation remained unrewarded. He’d only managed to trail the guy once—to a beer garden in Kreuzberg. After that, he’d totally vanished, which was odd because the Ox was always at the market.
More than once Willi’s thoughts grasped at other possibilities—Helga, the High Priestess Helga, or Kai, the street boy, for instance—wondering what he would do if they should pop up with sudden news about the Shepherdess. He wasn’t certain, considering the promise he’d made to his wife. Yet on his way to work yesterday, out of the blue it struck him: it wasn’t just Helga who knew the Shepherdess but her ex-husband, the Reverend Braunschweig—that Bible passage from Ephesians. Of course. Overcome at the prospect of even a morsel of new information, he’d jumped off the tram at Spandauer Strasse and hurried down the block without compunction, only realizing as he reached the chapel that he was breaking his word to Vicki after not even a week.
Perhaps the news the church cleaning lady offered was all for the best, then, he tried to console himself. “Three months at a dry-out clinic in Baden-Baden.” She shook her head sadly. “Church made him go. It’s his only hope now, I’m afraid.”
Willi’d taken it with mixed emotions, but what else could one do except wish the poor fellow luck?
Then to top things off, this morning, amid all the wild wind and rain—the note. Hand-delivered with coffee.
“Everyone’s addicted to Italian roast now.” Ruta’d winked as she poured him a cup. “You’ll have to return to Venice soon, for more.”
Wouldn’t that be nice.
“And”—she’d reached into her apron, pulling out an envelope—“Herr Freksa wishes me to give you this. An invitation of some sort, to a very fine restaurant, I suppose.”
Willi looked at her, astonished both at the envelope and to realize the unit secretary knew everything about what had happened between him and Freksa. Had she just taken sides? Backing from his office with her cart, he saw her give him the slyest grin.
His heart raced when he’d torn open the envelope. The note did not ask him out to a fine restaurant. But it was an invitation, all right. One of the odder ones he’d ever received:
Can you meet me in the center span of the Oberbaum Bridge, please, at noon?
Now, staring at the envelope on his desk, listening to the howling wind and rain beating on the glass, Willi felt pelted by uncertainty. Should he go? Should he not? If only he had backup. The very sight of Freksa’s handwriting made his shoulders stiff. Like when he had had to pick his way through a minefield, he felt his every move had to be calibrated. Tilting the chair back on its hind legs he cast his eyes skyward trying to think, when all at once he realized.
He’d tilted too far back.
When he was a kid, his mother always warned him: “Four chair legs on the ground, Willi!” And though he’d slipped once in a while, he’d never had a real problem. Until now.
Now he knew he was flipping backward. He saw his whole family—Vicki, Erich, Stefan, even his sister—staring in horror as he hit the floor. Neck broken. Paralyzed for— He jumped against gravity, grabbing the desk, managing to gain a hold of the edge and balance on his feet as the chair crashed behind with a bang.
Standing there dazed, he took a deep breath, then picked up the chair
. I should have listened to you, Mom
. He sighed, sitting again, four chair legs on the ground. Now think, for God’s sake. Think, think! Why would Freksa want to meet on the river? He massaged his temples, staring at the sheets of rain waving across Alexanderplatz. Might a gang of brownshirts be lying in wait to avenge Freksa’s humiliation? It didn’t make sense. The Oberbaum was one of the busiest bridges in Berlin. Even the U-Bahn crossed it. It would hardly be the place for an ambush. Although the railings weren’t high. Freksa’s note, though, was so damn polite. Pleading almost.
Willi looked at his watch.
* * *
Not its most beautiful but certainly the most famous of the city’s Spree River crossings, the Oberbaum Bridge almost succeeded in appearing medieval—although it was barely thirty years old. Its Gothic brickwork studded with knightly crests and two tall, fortresslike towers made it a favorite with locals and tourists alike, as did the splendid views it offered of the heart of the German capital. Coming off the steps from the Stralauer Tor U-Bahn station, Willi yanked his hat against the storm and set out. A poor day to hike the bridge. Even under the covered walkway that ran along one side of the span, windswept rain sprayed his face. Cars and trucks splashed from the road. The U-Bahn roared overhead. And with each new step uncertainty mounted about what the hell he was heading toward. Obviously Freksa had something to tell him and didn’t want anyone knowing it. But couldn’t they have met in a museum or something?
Intentionally, he arrived several minutes late. At center span, though, no Freksa. He pulled his collar tight and looked around. The normal panorama, the whole center of Berlin from Treptow to Tiergarten, domes and spires and the great gray river snaking through it, was completely obliterated by clouds. He felt hemmed in, uneasy suddenly. Had Freksa backed out? Was all this some kind of sophomoric hoax? What were those heavy boots approaching from behind? He snapped around just in time to see a detachment of Italian tourists marching by, bundled against the storm.
Through sheets of silvery rain he spotted a figure on the open-aired walkway across the road, leaned against a banister. He was tall and thin like Freksa, wearing the same style trench coat and fedora. But why was he standing there in the rain? After some time Willi realized it was Freksa and shouted at him. But even though Freksa saw him, he just stood there. Getting good and angry now, Willi waited for a break in the traffic, dodging oncoming trucks, not even bothering to say anything once he got to Freksa because the minute he saw him he knew the man was in some kind of altered state.
“Hello,” Freksa muttered drily, as if they’d run into each other on a corner.
Willi felt shocked by his demeanor. Normally, Freksa was a relatively handsome guy who projected such Olympian certainty it lent him a godlike aura. Now, though, he looked like a toppled statue with its patina cracked off, the marble underneath cold and dead, the thin, pale lips pulled apart. “Good you came.” Empty eyes seemed to look right through Willi. “You’re a better man than I. Although, I never had the advantages you people have.”
Willi stepped back. Freksa may have been down, but not enough to keep from taking potshots. Just what advantages did he suppose Willi’d had? His father’d dropped dead when Willi was nine. His mother had to work selling underwear at Wertheim’s. They never starved, but they sure as hell never summered in Deauville.
And was it really necessary to stand in the rain when shelter was right across the road? Freksa’s disconnection, though, was so extreme any reaction other than pity seemed beside the point.
“I was on my own when I was twelve,” he was mumbling like an automaton with half its wires blown. Gaze too wide. Voice, monotone.
It took a second, then Willi began to recognize it. He’d seen this before, many times, in the trenches after the dust of a bombardment settled, nervous systems short-circuited or completely melted down. Shell-shock. Not the most severe kind that left a man twitching like a broken toy the rest of his life. But the type that flung men into a dissociated dream-daze for hours or days or even months, then faded, leaving them seemingly normal … with a ticking bomb beneath the surface. It didn’t take much to imagine what had set off Freksa’s. His fall from grace had been swift and hard. Plus, what must Dr. Goebbels have said when he found out the Gypsies had to be freed?
“I was one of the lucky ones.” Freksa was laughing now, seeming to see his youthful fortune sauntering toward him. “Landed a real fine job at the Kaiserhof. Stripes up the trousers. Rows of brass buttons.
Bellboy First-Class Freksa at your service!
” He saluted with two fingers. The salute dropped. “Christ, what they did in the back room if those buttons didn’t shine.”
Rain was coming down in buckets. Willi couldn’t take much more.
“Is that why you dragged me out in the middle of a typhoon, Freksa, to tell me about your bellboy outfit?” Willi tried to snap him out of it. “We’ve got a monster on the loose!”