The Butchers of Berlin (22 page)

The second pig’s squealing was silenced with a blow more violent than the first, provoking a final angry scream of pain.

The adjoining hall room was full of steam from an enormous vat of boiling water that had been prepared. A figure came at them out of the mist, a stunted man in a dirty apron. A thick fringe and
unlined face made him appear boyish.

‘Here’s Sepp,’ said Baumgarten. ‘Tell these gentlemen about Metzler.’

‘The Jew. What he was doing here is anybody’s guess. He turned up with a chit, that’s all I know, saying he had been transferred.’

‘Whose chit?’

Baumgarten said, ‘The railway’s.’

‘Whose chit specifically?’ asked Morgen.

‘The Gestapo representative in the railway office for the marshalling yards.’

Morgen asked why Baumgarten hadn’t told them before. Because he had only just remembered, Baumgarten said insincerely.

The first dead pig joined them, dimly visible, hanging by its heels, waiting to be lowered into the vat.

Sepp had a strange way of staring with his mouth open.

Morgen said to Baumgarten, ‘Come on, you can do better. Reason for the transfer?’

‘Generally, it was said he’d behaved like an idiot and fallen out with someone. In actual terms, it wasn’t necessary to know.’

‘Why not?’

‘We figured he wouldn’t be around long.’

Morgen asked for the name of the Gestapo representative at the railway office.

‘Webel,’ said Baumgarten after some thought.

‘Weber,’ said Sepp.

‘Either way, don’t stand too close.’

Baumgarten waved his hand to indicate the state of the man’s breath.

It was as hot as a Turkish bath in the room. Schlegel felt the sweat soaking into his clothes.

He asked what the old man’s job had involved. Scraping the epidermis, Sepp said, pointing to the vat into which the animal was immersed to soften the skin before it was cleaned with a
combination of a wooden paddle and a scraper.

‘Can you say anything about him?’ asked Schlegel.

‘There’s steam here most of the time. You don’t see the others.’

Sepp struck Schlegel as simple. He walked away. It was like being in a real fog, except hot. Voices became muffled. He could see nothing. He supposed somewhere in the vicinity butchers had then
worked on the carcasses. Baumgarten had explained the job in his grisly, pedantic manner in that endless tunnel: decapitation, cutting off hooves, severance of tail, splitting of the animal,
followed by general butchery into larger sections, prior to further cuts, usually made by the purchasing retailer. Schlegel regretted the meatballs.

He turned round to see a figure creeping up on him out of the mist. It was Haager, the executioner, stun gun in hand, aimed at him. Haager quickly laughed, raised the gun and fired into the air.
The fixed bolt shot out of the barrel and remained there like an obscene metal finger. He laughed again, raucously, and said, ‘I wanted to show you this.’

He proffered the gun. ‘You develop a funny sense of humour working here.’

If the man had intended to scare him he had succeeded. Yet the way he proudly showed off his gun was docile, demure even.

Haager followed him back to where the others were standing.

Schlegel asked, ‘Do you know any more about what happened to the Jewish butchers?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Sepp. ‘Shipped straight out. Put in a wagon and sent east.’

‘What? Last Saturday morning?’ asked Schlegel, astonished. Had Baumgarten known?

Baumgarten replied it was a big place and no one had told him. He was obviously lying. Schlegel asked Sepp what time this had happened.

‘First thing. Before first thing. It was still dark.’

‘How do you know?’

‘We were asked to form an armed escort.’

‘Who’s we?’

‘Me and some Hitler Youth.’

‘Who asked?’

‘Two men I have never seen before.’

‘Officials?’

‘Obviously.’

‘Plain clothes or uniform?’

‘Plain.’

Schlegel asked for a description. No one he recognised.

Sepp wasn’t even sure whether the butchers were taken away as part of the official roundup. They were told they were being transferred as the result of a shortage of proper butchers where
they were bound.

The usual big camp, said Sepp when Morgen asked.

‘Where are the changing rooms here?’ Schlegel asked.

In the back, Baumgarten said.

‘Did Metzler have a locker?’

‘Ask Sepp,’ said Baumgarten. Sepp didn’t know.

‘Show us,’ said Morgen.

The two men took them into a large tiled area with a row of lockers. Through an archway two naked men padded around after using showers hot enough to steam, a luxury these days.

Sepp said, ‘Metzler as a Jew would have been forbidden to use the showers. Jews stink as it is, even when they wash.’

Locker number sixteen opened with the key Schlegel had.

Metzler’s work overall, cap and apron, gauntlets and rubber boots were still there, along with a stack of newspapers and an empty sack.

Sepp and Baumgarten stared in suspicion as Morgen chucked everything in the sack.

They telephoned from Baumgarten’s hut to speak to Weber, the Gestapo official responsible for Metzler’s transfer. He had gone home early, ill, so they called him there. Weber came to
the telephone sounding perfectly well, but faded when Morgen said who he was.

Yes, he told Morgen between bouts of artificial coughing, he recalled Metzler, but had no memory of having anything to do with his transfer to the slaughterhouse, apart from being surprised to
find him gone because a lot of strings had been pulled to get him a job at the rail depot in the first place.

‘Would that be Gersten?’

The man affected vagueness. Pressed, he thought it had something to do with Metzler having an old army pal in the police force.

After speaking to Weber, Morgen insisted on looking around. He couldn’t decide whether Metzler’s transfer to the pig room was punishment or deliberate. Why
hadn’t he been sent to work with the other Jews?

Because he wasn’t a butcher, Schlegel suggested. Morgen conceded the point.

‘Usually they herd the Jews together, yet Metzler was a unique case.’

Weber and the depot clerk had both told them Metzler was the only Jew working there.

As usual, no one seemed to be around, until they heard distant yelling from one of the buildings. Morgen moved ahead to investigate. Schlegel thought him like a tramp in his shabby coat,
carrying Metzler’s sack over his shoulder.

The din came from a glass-roofed shed much higher than its surroundings. A lobby and double doors took them into a huge hall, stripped of features. The roof was smashed and water formed in large
pools. At the far end, Schlegel saw the back of a crowd in a huddle. The raucous shouting sounded like some sort of contest.

Whatever was going on seemed typical of the latent threat of the place.

Brawny lads with closed-off, ecstatic faces focused on the violent spectacle, their shouts and cheers primitive and guttural. They wore shorts and singlets and their sweat suggested strenuous
exercise. Some fingered their genitals in excitement at the sight of two tall youths hitting each other without gloves. One’s eye was swelling and the other had a bloody nose.

Some of the boys started to stare at them suspiciously. The man refereeing noticed too. He was an athletic type with a closed face, a boxer’s nose, cropped hair and he wore a tracksuit.
Schlegel had seen the look before: always mean and very hostile.

The youth with the upper hand unleashed a flurry of punches to the head of his opponent, and Schlegel found he could not help but be excited. At least the spectacle was human, however primitive,
compared to what they had just seen. The lad punched was hit so hard Schlegel thought his head might come off. The light went out of his eyes and his legs turned rubbery. Morgen watched impassive,
smoking, as the boy hit the deck, to be counted out by the referee, who then walked over and demanded to know what Schlegel was doing. The crowd closed in, anticipating its next thrill. The herd
mentality was different from anything he had come across before; boys who had grown up with nothing but war. He was aware of Morgen watching to see how he acted under pressure. He showed his badge
to the tracksuited man and said they were conducting an inquiry. The man asked if it involved them.

The man stood, threatening, staring Schlegel down.

Morgen said loud enough for all to hear, ‘Here is the little man in control of his space, with his little wolf pack.’

‘Excuse me?’ said the man, turning on Morgen.

The next thing, he was down on the floor, clutching between his legs and whimpering. Whatever trick Morgen had performed, it was done too fast for Schlegel to comprehend and hadn’t even
involved dropping Metzler’s sack.

The crowd goggled. One or two bristled. Morgen waved them away.

‘Disperse.’

He held up his badge and the recently baying unit grew surly. Morgen singled out the winning boy whose celebration had been spoiled.

He said quietly, ‘Stand to attention when you talk to me.’

The boy slowly did as he was told, doing his best to put on a front.

‘What have we here? Another young man with a prominent Adam’s apple and obedient, if insolent eyes, in thrall to male camaraderie and the competitive edge? Had I been the other lad I
would have punched you in the throat. Do you have anything to say?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Then to the victor the spoils.’

He threw him Metzler’s sack and told him to follow.

Morgen walked ahead. The young man remained undecided. Schlegel watched his humiliation take hold as tears pricked his eyes. Morgen stopped and beckoned. The crowd watched, morose.

They made an unlikely trio as they returned to the car. What Morgen was up to Schlegel had no idea. Had the attack on the tracksuited man been specific, or akin to his own accumulated
frustration? The fury with which the boy had gone about his business was as shocking as the sight of the last of the blood being pumped out of the sow’s failing heart.

Morgen ordered the boy to put the sack in the boot. He inspected him again and asked his greatest wish.

To die for the Fatherland.

Of course, said Morgen, producing his pistol.

‘We can take care of that now.’

Schlegel said, ‘You can’t do that!’

For a second Morgen seemed barely in control – then the moment passed and the gun was back in his pocket. He became genial, telling the boy he would have a black eye tomorrow.

Schlegel was certain had he not been there Morgen would have pulled the trigger.

Nebe had them all in for his forty-eight-hour deadline meeting. The tension was palpable because word had got out about cancelling leave and introducing consecutive twelve-hour
shifts.

Nebe marched in looking brisk, followed by Stoffel, trying not to look smug.

‘Well, gentlemen, what do you have for me on the subject of our Jewish maniac?’

Stoffel stood up and said there was in fact another murder to consider.

‘Another murder!’ exclaimed Nebe, sounding rehearsed.

To judge from the winks and nudges, half the room was in the know. Stoffel grew sombre as he announced a murder they had overlooked.

‘On 31 January, a woman was found strangled in woods near Köpenick.’

The location was significant. It was near where the body had been found in Treptower Park. The attack was of a sexual nature.

‘Am I supposed to warn Dr Goebbels a Jewish maniac is working the length and breadth of the city?’ asked Nebe.

Stoffel said the victim, like others, showed signs of postmortem sexual abuse. He looked pleased with himself.

‘Though why anyone should want to fuck around with her, dead or alive, is beyond me.’

Nebe cracked up. Stoffel as unofficial court jester was allowed to be as crude as he liked. At one of the drunken parties, Stoffel had taken delight in poking Schlegel, who was forced to take it
in good humour, showing which parts of the body could be hit without leaving a mark. ‘There, bruising. There, no bruising. The kidneys are always good.’

‘The old cunt was sixty-three and her purse was missing.’

Nebe said, ‘But Jews aren’t allowed to drive and those still with us are being worked too hard to take time off to murder. What are you telling us?’

Morgen interrupted to ask Stoffel if he intended to link the three killings: the woman in the woods, the dead man with money in his mouth and the most recent female victim.

Stoffel recited, ‘Strangulation. Strangulation. Strangulation. Money left at two scenes and taken from the other. In all three cases gender parts interfered with.’

Morgen said, ‘I thought the Abbas case was considered of no consequence.’

‘We were told not to waste time on a Yid, but if the case gets solved as part of another investigation that’s different.’

He made a tick in the air with his finger.

‘How much money was stolen from this woman?’ Morgen asked.

‘A mark.’

‘One mark!’

‘That’s how much she had when she left the house.’

‘You’re building a case on one mark! Do we ask if the mark was forged?’

‘Gentlemen!’ interrupted Nebe. ‘We are here to put our heads together, not bang them!’

Stoffel, refusing to be outdone, pointed out that the notorious Dusseldorf Vampire had changed weapons and methods all the time.

Morgen looked incredulous. ‘Is all this because homicide is nostalgic for the golden age of Weimar murder?’

Stoffel said the case reminded him of Ogorzow, homicide’s biggest case of the last years, with at least eight women bludgeoned, raped and murdered. It had become part of his legend and
endless repertoire.

‘It’s a psychological game of cat and mouse. We don’t just beat it out of them. The way we turned Ogorzow we could have charged tickets, it was that good.’

Morgen added, ‘Are we throwing in the flayed corpses for good measure?’

‘When it comes to dealing with the sickness of human imagination there are no limits. Kürten, the Dusseldorf Vampire, asked the prison psychiatrist if after the guillotine had removed
his head whether he would still be able to hear, at least for a moment, the sound of his own blood gushing from his neck. Imagine a mind capable of coming up with something like that, let alone his
answer when told he probably would: “That would be the pleasure to end all pleasures.” ’