The Ice Queen: A Novel (12 page)

“That’s enough of that,” Bodenstein said, interrupting her. “You really have no sense of humor.”

“You don’t, either.”

The car phone buzzed. It was Ostermann, who told them that the permission for the autopsy on Schneider’s body had been received. He also had interesting news from the forensics lab in Wiesbaden. Their colleagues from the National Criminal Police, in their zeal to hush things up, had actually forgotten about the evidence that had been sent to the lab for analysis.

“The cell phone that was found in the flower bed next to Goldberg’s front door belongs to a Robert Watkowiak,” said Ostermann. “He’s on the books, with mug shots and fingerprints and everything. An old acquaintance whose ambition seems to be to break every paragraph in the criminal law books. He’s been missing a homicide in his collection. Otherwise, he’s got everything on his rap sheet: burglary, assault and battery, robbery, repeated violations of the narcotics laws, driving without a license, having his license suspended several times for DUI, attempted rape, and so on.”

“Then have him brought down to the station,” said Bodenstein.

“It’s not that easy. He’s had no permanent address since he got out of the joint six months ago.”

“And his last address? What was that?”

“That’s where it gets interesting,” said Ostermann. “He’s still listed as living at Mühlenhof with the Kaltensee family.”

“Are you kidding me?” Pia was stunned.

“Maybe because he was an illegitimate child of old Kaltensee,” Ostermann replied, elucidating the situation.

Pia glanced at Bodenstein. Could it be a coincidence that the name Kaltensee had turned up again? Her cell played its ringtone. Pia didn’t recognize the number on the display, but she took the call.

“Hello, Pia, it’s me,” said her friend Miriam. “Am I interrupting anything?”

“Nope, you’re not,” said Pia. “What’s up?”

“Did you already know on Saturday night that Goldberg was dead?”

“Yes,” Pia said. “But I couldn’t say anything to you.”

“Oh God. Who would shoot an old man like him?”

“That’s a good question, and we don’t have the answer yet,” Pia replied. “Unfortunately, they’ve taken us off the case. Goldberg’s son showed up the next day with reinforcements from the American consulate and the Interior Ministry and took his father’s body away. We were pretty surprised about that.”

“Ah well, it’s probably because you’re not familiar with our burial rites,” said Miriam after a brief pause. “Sal, Goldberg’s son, is an Orthodox Jew. According to Jewish ritual, the deceased has to be buried the same day if at all possible.”

“Aha.” Pia looked at Bodenstein, who had finished talking with Ostermann, and put her finger to her lips. “So was he buried right away?”

“Yes. First thing on Monday. At the Jewish cemetery in Frankfurt. Anyway, after they sit shiva for seven days, an official funeral service will be held.”

“
Shiva?
” Pia asked, clueless. She knew the word only from the name of a Hindu god.

“
Shiva
is Hebrew and means ‘seven,’” Miriam explained. “Shiva is the seven-day period of mourning that follows a burial. Sal Goldberg and his family will be staying in Frankfurt for that.”

Suddenly, Pia had a brilliant idea.

“Where are you now?” she asked her friend.

“At home,” said Miriam. “Why?”

“Would you have time to meet me? I have to tell you something.”

*   *   *

Elard Kaltensee stood at the window on the second floor of his mother’s big house and watched his brother’s car come rushing through the gate and stop at the front door. With a bitter smile, he turned away from the window. Vera had put everything in motion to keep the situation in check, because things were heating up, and Elard himself was not entirely innocent. Of course, he didn’t know the meaning of those numbers, but he suspected that his mother did know. She had skillfully avoided further questions from the police with her utterly atypical crying fit; it was her way of immediately taking the reins in her own hands. The Kripo officers had barely left before Vera had called Siegbert, who had, naturally, dropped everything to come to his mama’s rescue. Elard took off his shoes and hung his jacket on the clothes rack.

Why had the policewoman, Dr. Kirchhoff’s wife, given him such an odd look? With a sigh, he sat down on the edge of the bed, buried his face in his hands, and tried to remember every detail of the conversation. Had he said anything wrong or acted suspiciously? Did the detective suspect him? And if so, why? He felt terrible. Another car drove up and parked. Naturally, Vera had also sent for Jutta. Now it wouldn’t be long before they called him downstairs to a family meeting. He realized now that he’d been incautious and had made a big mistake. The thought of what could happen if they found out sent a stabbing pain into his chest. But it was no use to hide. He had to go on living as usual and act as if he were completely clueless. He gave a start when his cell suddenly rang much too loudly. To his surprise, it was Katharina Ehrmann, Jutta’s best friend.

“Hello, Elard,” said Katharina, sounding upbeat. “How are things?”

“Katharina!” said Elard more nonchalantly than he felt. “I haven’t heard from you in ages. To what do I owe the honor of your call?”

He’d always been very fond of Katharina, occasionally running into her at cultural events in Frankfurt or at other social functions.

“I guess I’ll just have to be blunt,” she said. “I need your help. Could we meet somewhere?”

The urgent undertone in her voice exacerbated the sense of foreboding he had inside.

“It’s a little awkward at the moment,” Elard replied evasively. “We’re in the middle of a family crisis.”

“Old Goldberg was shot. I heard about it.”

“Oh yes?” Elard wondered how she could have heard, since the murder of Uncle Jossi had been successfully kept out of the papers. But maybe Jutta had told her about it.

“Perhaps you know that Thomas is writing a book about your mother,” Katharina went on. Elard didn’t say a word to that, but the foreboding increased. Naturally, he knew about this crackpot book idea, which had already caused plenty of anger within the family ranks. He would have preferred simply to end the call, but that wouldn’t do any good. Katharina Ehrmann was known for her persistence. She would never leave him alone until she got what she wanted.

“I’m sure you’ve heard what Siegbert did about it.”

“Yes, I have. Why are you interested?”

“Because the book is coming out from my publishing house.”

This news left Elard momentarily speechless.

“Does Jutta know this?” he asked at last.

Katharina laughed loudly. “No idea, but I can’t worry about that. For me it’s all about business. A biography of your mother is worth millions. At any rate, we want to publish the book in time for the book fair in October, but we’re still missing some background info. I assume you could help us out with that.”

Elard froze. His mouth suddenly went dry as dust, and his hands were sweating.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he replied in a hoarse voice. How could Katharina know about it? From Ritter? And if he had told her, who else had he told? Damn, if he’d known what all the repercussions would be, he would have kept out of the whole business.

“You know exactly what I mean.” Katharina’s voice turned a few degrees cooler. “Come on now, Elard. Nobody is going to find out that you helped us. At least think about it. You can call me anytime.”

“I’ve got to go.” He disconnected without saying good-bye. His heart was racing and he felt sick to his stomach. He made a great effort to gather his thoughts. Ritter must have told Katharina everything, although he had sworn up and down to keep his mouth shut. He heard footsteps in the hall outside the door, the brisk clacking of high heels that only Jutta wore. It was too late to escape the house unnoticed. Years too late.

*   *   *

Pia and Miriam met in a bistro on Schillerstrasse that had been touted as the latest hot spot on the Frankfurt foodie scene since it opened two months ago. She ordered the specialty of the house: a fat-free grilled burger made with meat from contented cows raised in the Rhön hills. Miriam could barely contain her curiosity, so Pia got right to the point.

“Listen, Miri. Everything we talk about now is strictly confidential. You really can’t mention it to anybody, or I’ll be in the biggest trouble of the century.”

“I won’t say a word, cross my heart. Promise.”

“Good.” Pia leaned forward and lowered her voice. “How well did you know Goldberg?”

“I met him a few times. As far back as I can remember, he always came to visit us whenever he was in Frankfurt,” Miriam went on after thinking it over. “Oma was very close with Sarah, his wife, and through her also with him. Have you got any idea who murdered him?”

“No,” Pia admitted. “But it’s not our case anymore. And to be honest, I don’t think that it had anything to do with Jewish burial rites when Goldberg’s son showed up with the American general consul and people from the NCP, the CIA, and the Interior Ministry in tow.”

“The CIA? NCP? You can’t be serious!” exclaimed Miriam.

“It’s true. They took the investigation out of our hands. And we also suspect that we know the real reason for that. Goldberg had a pretty murky past, and there’s no way his son or his friends would want that secret to come out.”

“So tell me,” Miriam said, pressing her. “What sort of secret? I heard that he had made some questionable deals in the past, but that’s true for lots of people. Did he shoot Kennedy or something?”

“No,” said Pia, shaking her head. “He was a member of the SS.”

Miriam stared at her and then broke into incredulous laughter.

“Don’t joke about stuff like that,” she said. “Now tell me the truth.”

“That
is
the truth. During the autopsy, they discovered a blood-group tattoo on his upper left arm that was worn only by members of the SS. There is absolutely no doubt.”

The laughter vanished from Miriam’s face.

“The tattoo is a fact,” Pia said soberly. “At some point, he apparently tried to have it removed. But in the deep layer of the skin, it was clearly visible, blood group AB. That was his blood type.”

“Okay, but that just can’t be. Honestly, Pia!” Miriam shook her head. “Oma has known him for sixty years; everyone here knows him. He donated a ton of money to Jewish institutions and did a lot for reconciliation between Germans and Jews. It can’t be possible that he was ever a
Nazi.
”

“And what if it’s true?” Pia argued. “What if he really wasn’t the person he was pretending to be?”

Miriam stared at her in silence and chewed on her lower lip.

“You can help me,” Pia went on. “At the institute where you work, you must have access to records and documents about the Jewish population in East Prussia. You could find out more about his past.”

She looked at her friend and could definitely see the wheels turning in her mind. The possibility that a man like David Goldberg could have had such an incredible secret and managed to preserve it for decades was so monstrous that Miriam first had to get used to the idea.

“This morning, the body of a man by the name of Herrmann Schneider was discovered,” Pia said softly. “He was murdered in his house, exactly like Goldberg, shot in the back of the head. He was past eighty and lived alone. His workroom in the basement looks like Hitler’s office in the Reich Chancellery, with a swastika flag and a personally signed picture of the Führer—very creepy, I have to tell you. And we found out that this Schneider was a friend of Vera Kaltensee, just like Goldberg.”

“Vera Kaltensee?” Miriam’s eyes went wide. “I know all about her! She has supported the Center Against Displacement for years. Everybody knows how much she hated Hitler and the Third Reich. She won’t stand for anyone accusing her of making friends with former Nazis.”

“We don’t want to do that, either,” Pia said, trying to calm her down. “No one is claiming that she knew anything about Goldberg’s or Schneider’s past. But the three did know one another very well for a long time.”

“Insanity,” muttered Miriam. “Total insanity!”

“Next to both bodies we found a number that the murderer wrote with the blood of the victims. One one six four five,” Pia continued. “We don’t know what it means, but it proves that Goldberg and Schneider were shot by one and the same person. Somehow I have a feeling that the motive for the murders can be found in the past of the two men. That’s why I wanted to ask you for help.”

Miriam didn’t shift her gaze from Pia’s face. Her eyes were gleaming with excitement, and her cheeks were flushed.

“It could be a date,” she said after a while. “The sixteenth of January, 1945.”

Pia felt the adrenaline shoot through her body, and she straightened up with a start. Of course! Why hadn’t they thought of that themselves? Member number, account or telephone number, all of it nonsense! But what could have happened on January 16, 1945? And where? And how was it connected to Schneider and Goldberg? But above all: Who might have known about it?

“How can we find out more about this?” asked Pia. “Goldberg came from East Prussia, just like Vera Kaltensee; Schneider was from the Ruhr. Maybe there are still archives that could give us a lead.”

Miriam nodded. “There must be. The most important archive for East Prussia is the Secret State Archives in Berlin, and many old German documents can be found in online databases. There’s also Registry Office Number One in Berlin, where all the registry documents that could be saved from East Prussia are stored, especially about the Jewish population, because in 1939, a rather detailed census was taken.”

“Okay, that might really be important,” Pia said, enthused over the idea. “How do you get in to see it?”

“It should be no problem for the police,” Miriam told her. Then it occurred to Pia that there was indeed a problem.

“But officially we’re not allowed to investigate Goldberg’s murder,” she said, sounding disappointed. “And I can’t really ask my boss at the moment to give me permission to go to Berlin.”

“I could do it,” Miriam suggested. “I don’t have much to do right now. The project I’ve been working on for the past few months is over.”