Authors: Paul Grossman
A sausage, he’d been enlightened this week, was more than it appeared. In a single casing, a company such as Strohmeyer might combine not only different grades of meat, but meat from different kinds of animals and even from different slaughterhouses. They also used what were known as trimmings—fatty edges sliced from better cuts—as well as other hard-to-use animal parts, such as stomachs, throats, blood, in combination with higher-grade meat to compose their sausage innards. A fifty-fifty meat-to-filler ratio, according to the industry trade journal
Meat and Meat By-Products,
saved a company as much as 25 percent. What neither the journal nor Strohmeyer mentioned, but a 1927 Ministry of Public Health report had, was that these low-grade fillers came from animal parts more likely than others to have contact with bacteria’s main source: shit.
After long, crowded train journeys across Europe, pigs, sheep, goats, cattle, arrived in Berlin smeared with feces. The giant central stock and slaughter yards, the
Central-Viehof,
required all slaughterers to thoroughly hose down carcasses before sending them to cutting floors. But this, Willi’d learned, was hardly foolproof. Feces got through. And sometimes, inadvertently, workers spread it from the hide onto the meat itself, especially trimmings sliced from outer surfaces, such as Strohmeyer used. Trimmers removed whatever feces they spotted, but, according to a report by the Amalgamated Meat Workers’ Union, with a half carcass rolling down the hook lines every five seconds, oversights occurred. The tripe rooms, where intestines were gutted, were also rife with contamination.
Strohmeyer purchased fillers—trimmings, fat, blood—as well as casing intestines large and small from at least a dozen suppliers at the
Viehof
. He relied on them to test their products for bacteria and did his own testing only after the ingredients were ground together. Technically this conformed to a turn-of-the-century Ministry of Public Health guideline suggesting but not ordering sausage processors to test ingredients
before
grinding. “Optimally, every production lot should be sampled and tested before leaving the supplier and again before use at the receiver,” the guideline urged. But the problem, Willi’d learned, was that many slaughterers would not sell to grinders who insisted on such strict testing, and so the grinders let things slide. According to its own safety program, in 1910 Strohmeyer had obligated itself to obtain certificates from all suppliers showing no bacteria had been found in any purchased lots. But Strohmeyer did not follow its own policy. It obtained no safety certificates whatsoever for the entire decade of the 1920s. Willi’d checked. Every single file in the company records. Not a single certificate since 1919.
“Are we perfect?” Strohmeyer asked. “No. But what we have done is to show continual improvement.”
Criminal negligence, more likely, Willi thought.
“Nor will we stand still. As soon as we get back to production, Strohmeyer A.G. will take only the most aggressive measures to ensure our products’ safety. But, as I have urged the Ministry of Public Health, all efforts must be redoubled to track this pestilence back to the slaughterhouses.
They
are the source.”
Everyone loved to point a finger.
True, Willi thought, no signs of
Listeria
had shown up here at Strohmeyer. Not that the company’s own testing was anything other than random. Plenty of batches got through untested. But government inspectors had pounced all over this plant the minute
Listeria
had been traced to sausages, and their findings were also negative. Willi now understood, though, why these things took time—because
Listeria
was so damned resilient. Some scientists postulated that under high-stress conditions these bacteria could actually reduce themselves to a dormant state. Test results could only be conclusive over time. “You must keep testing, testing, testing,” Frau Doktor Riegler had said the first time they’d met. According to her, the
Listeria
would almost certainly show up here because it had almost certainly passed through. In nine out of ten cases—the doctor’s cheek twitched as she told him—the tainted sausages could be traced directly to Strohmeyer Wurst A.G. Which did not, however, mean the infection began there.
The route these things traveled was up to scientists to determine. Willi was simply on the trail of gut feelings. After listening to the
Wurst
King these many hours, his had pretty much congealed: Strohmeyer was as willing to add filler to the truth as he was to his sausages.
Time had come to poke at the marrow.
“To trim costs”—he gave the man only the slightest glance—“might your company ever go outside the market and purchase from, say—an unlicensed peddler?”
One of Strohmeyer’s eyebrows dropped, his voice darkening from the enormity of his dismay. “Herr Sergeant-Detektive. This is a family business. Since 1892.”
“Yes, of course.” Willi held up a hand. “I ask only out of duty.”
* * *
Outside it had turned overcast, as if it was going to rain. Or snow. Willi buttoned his coat and looked across the street. Motor trucks and horse-drawn wagons crowded in front of the block-long sheds comprising halls Two and Three of the wholesale meat markets, where Strohmeyer and his competitors purchased their better cuts. To the right, farther south, connected by a tunnel under busy Landsberger Allee, a skyline of smokestacks rose across the horizon. A vast city within a city, kilometers in every direction. Berlin’s great Central Stockyards, the
Viehof,
with its countless acres of rail yards, feedlots, sales halls, and slaughterhouses. Soon enough he’d have to take his investigation in there. But not today. Today he was going home and helping the boys with their schoolwork, maybe read to them awhile, take a bath.
Make love to his wife.
Inhaling, he pulled up the collar around his neck. Beyond the
Viehof,
barely half a kilometer to the south, was the construction pit where the burlap sack had washed up. Freksa’d better hurry up and find the bastard who’d filled that bag, he thought, recalling the library report on Total Depravity. Anyone who’d kill five kids would sure as hell kill more.
He turned into the November wind. Reaching the avenue, truck after truck roared passed. A news vendor cried out, “Court upholds sausage ban—two more die!” Unconsciously he quickened his pace. Halfway to the elevated station, though, the hair practically leapt from his neck. What a stink. Its source, clearly, to his left, a long, dark sunken lane between warehouses, packed with people and pushcarts. So there it was … a peddlers’ market. He checked his watch. Not even certain what he was looking for, he entered the stench-filled alley.
In all his years in Berlin he’d been in few more unsavory places than this putrid passage. A visible miasma hung in the air, a dark, steamy mist rising from scores of tubs and barrels brimming with God knew what. Nothing indicated what the reeking contents of these containers were; Willi could only surmise. Those slimy mounds, long and rubbery, some kind of intestines. The barrels brimming with purple liquid … blood. Those crates, overflowing with hairy pink things, ears. And what looked like a pile of glass marbles next to it, eyeballs; whose, he had no idea. Everything was of dubious freshness at best, gotten for a steal, sometimes literally, across the road at the
Viehof
. As doubtful as the products were, the people looked even worse. Instinctively he reached in his pocket and touched his wallet. The shifty-looking customers were uniformly ill clad, ill smelling. The vendors appeared on the edge of total decrepitude: missing teeth, fingers, arms, legs.
So many children too.
A boy behind an open vat made Willi’s throat dry up. He wasn’t much older than Erich, ten at most. Why wasn’t he at school? Willi’d never considered his own childhood idyllic, his father having died when Willi was nine. But compared to this … my God, how lucky he’d been. Erich and Stefan too. He longed to hold them suddenly. This child, dressed in filthy rags, looked around with dark eyes, hoping for a stroke of luck, it seemed, to sell out his stock so he could escape this miserable damp. But one glance at Willi and he slammed the vat closed, assuming a blank expression, as if he were deaf and blind. How out of place I must look, it occurred to Willi, in this gray serge suit and overcoat Vicki got last year in London. Then too, his peripheral vision took in the waves of interest spreading around him—none of these vendors was legal.
A sudden tightening seized his gut. Right behind the boy … that burlap sack. Clearly stamped across its side:
SCHNITZLER AND SON
.
He tried smiling. “You don’t want to tell me what you’ve got there, son?”
The kid pretended not to hear him.
“But how can I buy if I don’t know what you’re selling?” Willi acted as if his feelings were hurt.
The answer from the gaunt, little face was too perceptive for comfort: “If you was here to buy, you wouldn’t have to ask, sir.”
Willi swallowed. He considered breaking out his badge and forcing the issue, but a harsh voice suddenly rose behind him, much too close.
“What’re you harassing the kid for?”
Slowly he turned to find himself nose to nose with a massive creature several dimensions larger than himself, and a long, sharp knife flashing at his gut. A cold sweat broke under Willi’s suit. It would not have been impossible to disarm the beast, perhaps. During the war he’d been in one of the most elite forward units, behind enemy lines, received the best training in martial arts, and had to use it. But from the corner of his well-trained eye Willi noticed other flashing blades in the crowd. Naturally it was his own fault—for having entered a place like this alone. On the other hand, if he had an assistant, as regulations called for … but they never seemed to find anyone willing to work with him, they claimed.
“Me, harassing? Not at all. I’m a visitor from Hamburg.” He mustered every atom of affability he could. “A businessman.” He tipped his hat twice. Last thing he wanted was for Stefan and Erich to grow up as he had: fatherless. “Have you ever been to Hamburg?” He smiled, picturing himself all sliced up in one of these barrels. “Wonderful market we have there. Not so great as Berlin’s, of course. Here everything is so much bigger. I certainly didn’t mean to disturb anyone.” He flicked a five-mark piece in the air, which the boy instantly caught. “Buy a nice warm soup for yourself and your friend.”
Backing off, relieved to still have his guts in one piece, he grabbed a look at the brute with the knife. My God. The size of an ox. And as powerful looking. Thickest set of arms Willi’d ever seen. Sometimes, he thought, reaching the street and letting out a sigh of relief, it really did pay to just pay.
Five
’Round and ’round the glass doors spun—but still no Fritz. Not that he ever arrived on time. But for a man who couldn’t live without trying to pay you back for what you’d done in the past—such as saving his life three or four times—you’d think he’d try. Willi checked his watch. What the hell. What’s the rush? He took a deep breath and looked around the glittering Café Josty. The only thing on the schedule today was … nothing.
It’d been nearly a month since his visit to the sausage factory, and inspectors were still scouring suppliers over at the
Viehof
. Testing, testing—but so far,
nichts
. At Willi’s urging they’d raided the peddlers’ market on Landsberger Allee, tested everything, then shut the place down. No signs of
Listeria
anywhere. But no new deaths, either. And the number of cases, dwindling. Perhaps the whole thing was just going to peter out.
He thanked the waiter as his second pot of coffee arrived. At least he’d spoken up to Horthstaler. Told him about the close shave with the peddlers, that it might have been averted if he’d had backup—as he was supposed to. “I didn’t know you felt so strongly about it, Kraus; I’ll make an extra effort to find someone.” The Kommissar had smiled warmly. A small twist of his pudgy lips, though, suggested Willi not hold his breath.
He was tired of waiting. Tired of bacteria, and Dr. Riegler, and how her little kitty cat at home missed her favorite sausages. Sick of the whole damn case. He glanced at the pressed-tin ceiling. Half the time he found his mind wandering back to that bag of bones. Sometimes late at night he lay awake wondering, what would motivate someone to make those designs? A pagan rite? An occult sacrament? There was no shortage of bizarre fixations in Berlin. But then again, that Bible. He’d gone so far as to consult his cousin at the Institute for Psychoanalysis.
“The organized manner of these designs,” Kurt said, fascinated, “suggests a highly compulsive personality, driven toward perfection. This kind of compulsion to arrange, to make order, is often fueled by the need to ward off a terrifying inner chaos. I’d say you had one very disturbed individual on your hands, in case you hadn’t realized.”
The problem, of course, was that it wasn’t on Willi’s hands.
Though he couldn’t seem to wash himself of it, either.
Deep-black coffee spewed from the silver spout as he poured another cup.
Absurdly overpriced, but every so often, he glanced around the legendary café, this place was worth it—if only for the spectacle. As he sipped the brew, its bitter sweetness lingered on his lips. Josty on Potsdamer Platz was
the
spot to meet in the wildly beating heart of this metropolis. Being a true Berliner he found it hard not to feel a little sinful pride at being so at home here.
In summer, the place to be was the terrace. Ensconced in a gentle birch grove, you had a bird’s-eye view of Europe’s busiest intersection. Now that the first winter chills had set in, the upstairs provided an even more feathered perch. This afternoon, the gold leaf–walled room was packed with people nestled in newspapers or chatting over many-layered
Baumkuchen,
the king of cakes. How swank Vicki would say everyone looked, Willi thought, noting the stylishness, the plumage everywhere: men with wide lapels, colorful neckties, and jeweled studs, oiled hair parted sharply to the side. Women with long strings of pearls, boyish hairdos, and short dresses with sheer stockings showing off their legs.