The Man from Berlin (27 page)

‘And you thought it was his room I wanted to see?' Ewald nodded. ‘Who was it making trouble?'

‘It was an SS Standartenführer. You understand… people like that can make life impossible for someone like me.' Reinhardt nodded, but said nothing. The old man sighed. ‘His name is Stolić. He comes here quite often when he is in town and invariably causes trouble.'

‘What kind of trouble?'

‘Oh, his kind never need much of an excuse. He drank a lot with dinner, and more afterwards. One of the other officers was playing the piano, and he argued about that. Then he got into a fight with a Croatian Army officer. One of the other colonels managed to calm him down, but then Stolić got upset again, and the colonel told me to call the Feldgendarmerie.'

‘Who told
you?'

‘Colonel Ascher. The Feldgendarmerie arrived quite quickly but were not happy about taking on a Standartenführer, so they themselves called for more help. Meanwhile, Stolić got into another fight. I don't remember what it was about. He was very drunk. Out of control. Then a Feldgendarmerie officer arrived, and he calmed things down. That was the last I heard of
it.'

‘Do you know what time the Feldgendarmerie officer came?'

‘Perhaps… around midnight. No. Closer to one in the morning.'

‘The officer. Did you recognise
him?'

Ewald nodded. ‘Yes. It was Major Becker.'

Reinhardt looked at him. Ewald held his eyes, and then they shifted. ‘There's more, isn't there? Why did you want me to see his room?'

Ewald sighed. ‘The next morning, the maid who cleaned Stolić's room… He was still in it. Asleep. She said…' Ewald looked up at Reinhardt. ‘She said… on the floor. On the floor… there was a knife. It was covered in blood.'

25

I
want to go to that church. The
one down at Marijin Dvor,' said Reinhardt, as the houses began to thicken on the approach to ­Sarajevo.

‘St. Joseph's,' Claussen replied. ‘Finished just before the war,' he continued.

‘What makes you so familiar with Sarajevo's churches?' asked Reinhardt.

‘I attend mass,' replied Claussen. ‘Every Sunday I
can.'

Reinhardt said nothing, only thinking how far he had drifted from the religion of his youth. Church every Sunday, singing in the choir, altar service. Light through stained-glass windows. The comfort of simple truths that just seemed to unravel as you got older.

Claussen stopped the car in front of the church. The façade was all square, white stone, a rectangular steeple with a clock at the top pushing up one side. He looked up at it, thinking. He did not have all that much to go on, but the way the killer had arranged Vukić's body would not leave him alone. He picked up the file. ‘I'm going in to see if I can speak to someone. You're welcome to stay with the car. Or go in, say a prayer. Light a candle.'

If Claussen appreciated the irony in Reinhardt's tone, he gave no sign of it, but he did follow Reinhardt up the steps to the tall wooden door. Inside, the church was like all churches in Reinhardt's experience. Gloom pierced by the light from high windows, the smell of incense and beeswax, the sense of voices far away but just around the corner. Claussen stepped quietly away as they came in, moving over to a bank of votive candles.

Apart from a couple of old women kneeling over to one side, and another running a mop over the tiles under one of the Stations of the Cross, the church was empty. The red light of the host drew his eye, and he sat down on one of the front benches. The wood creaked warmly under him, soft and honeyed, awakening a whole different stream of memories. He kept his eyes on the host, letting it keep his gaze until he felt them begin to close, and tried to remember when places like this stopped being places of solace for
him.

He opened them to the sound of whispered footsteps. A priest turned along the front row of benches, genuflecting to the altar as he crossed the aisle. He looked down at Reinhardt, looking like every priest one imagines. Portly, balding, grey hair cut close around the sides of his head.

‘Can I help you, my son?' the priest asked in German, glancing at the file on Reinhardt's
lap.

Reinhardt stood up. ‘Perhaps, Father. I am investigating the murder of a young Catholic girl.'

The priest tilted his head backwards in a sign of understanding. ‘Ah,' he said. He gestured at the bench for them both to sit. ‘You are investigating poor Marija's death, no?' His German was good, an accent riding along behind his native Bosnian
one.

‘That's right, Father. How did you know?'

The priest smiled, sadly, it seemed. ‘This is a small enough town, my son.' He looked at Reinhardt's insignia. ‘Captain?' he asked. Rein­hardt nodded. ‘Word gets around easily enough. Marija was very well known to all. She was a parishioner.'

‘Did she usually attend mass here?'

The priest shook his head, and his mouth firmed a little. ‘Not regularly. Without wanting to speak ill of the dead, and without wanting to take anything from her achievements, I must say that Marija's behaviour left something to be desired, Captain.'

‘You know your ranks, Father.'

‘Oh, only sometimes. I've been known to mix my sergeants with my colonels on occasion,' the priest replied.

‘Father…
?'

‘Father Petar,' he said.

‘What time is the first mass on Sunday?'

‘At seven o'clock.'

‘Is there another service?'

‘Yes. At
ten.'

‘Did you serve either of the masses?'

‘I was there, yes. At both of them.'

‘Father, did you notice if there were any Germans in the congre­gation?'

‘We get a lot of German soldiers in here. Many, these past few days. From the barracks just up the road. Praying, for success mostly.'

‘Success in what?'

‘The coming offensive, of course. Against the Partisans. The archbishop gave a most rousing sermon on it just this Sunday.'

Reinhardt had met Archbishop Šarić once and, as an intelligence officer, read translations of his newspaper articles. The man was a rabid Ustaša, a committed fascist. He had also read some of the tawdry poetry the man produced, paeans of praise to Pavelić and his ilk, venomous tracts against Jews and Serbs. The way it had been explained to him, Šarić was one of the instigators behind the mass conversions to Catholicism that were often forced on the Serbs by the Ustaše. Just before they were hacked to death and dumped in mass graves.

Petar brushed down the front of his cassock, then stood up. ‘If you will excuse me, Captain? I have things to see
to.'

Reinhardt wanted to get out of there before he became maudlin, or said something and regretted it. Not that he would be sorry for what he said. He would be sorry to have lost control of himself and said it. That, as Carolin would say, he would dare to express an opinion outside a police case. But he had not yet got what he came
for.

The two of them walked down the aisle to the entrance. ‘Your German is very good, Father.'

‘Thank you, Captain. I spent some years studying for the priesthood in Bavaria. A most pleasant time.' There was a moment of silence, the church drinking up their words. ‘And will you be taking part in the coming attack, Captain?'

Reinhardt shook his head. ‘No. Nothing quite so rewarding for
me.'

‘Perhaps not anymore,' Petar said. He motioned at Reinhardt's Iron Cross. ‘But once it
was.'

‘Thank you, Father. You have been most helpful.' Reinhardt paused, looking back into the church. There really was nothing here anymore for him. Such a long road he had walked from the days of the boy he was, the boy he was brought up to be. Of the comfort he had once taken in the rote and ritual of the church, war, the years he had spent policing the filth and squalor of Berlin, and of watching his wife pulled away from him, had driven a wedge between then and now. ‘You must excuse me, Father,' he said, with a smile meant as self-deprecating. ‘God and I have drifted quite far apart, but I like to think we were once close enough.' He opened the big door and stepped outside into bright sunlight.

Petar followed him out. ‘God is never far from you, my son. You only have to reach out to him wherever you are. But it is funny how often I hear such similar things from your fellow soldiers.'

‘Who said what to you, Father?' Claussen was standing just outside, his hands clasped loosely behind his back.

‘That many of you feel that you have drifted too far from our Lord.' Petar paused, looking down at the flagstones that lined the church's entrance. ‘I talked not long ago, Sunday in fact, and again yesterday, with an officer who felt like that. A very erudite man who had a very Catholic upbringing. A most remarkable knowledge of the Bible. We talked of much. He seemed… troubled. Borne down by a great weight.'

‘Well, if he was heading for the front, I suppose that's only to be expected before battle.'

‘Yes, indeed. Doing God's work is never easy on mortal men.' Reinhardt had heard this kind of speech in the trenches. Us against them.
God with us.
Except here, it had taken on a measure of virulence he had never known. ‘No, it was not fear of battle. It was something else. Some inner demon he needed to exorcise. A fear that there was no way back for him. For those like him. We spoke much of forgiveness, and absolution. I offered him confession, but he refused.'

‘Perhaps he knew its limits.' Petar frowned at him. ‘The limits of forgiveness,' Reinhardt repeated. ‘What some of us have seen, and heard, and done, here in this country, will remain with us as long as we live.'

The priest smiled, but something seemed to shift behind his face, and for a moment Reinhardt caught a glimpse of someone else – ­
something
else – behind his eyes. ‘I am sure it must be difficult, my son. But what you do is for a great cause. The Serbs. The Jews. Communism. These are most terrible afflictions. They must be swept away by men of courage and iron conviction. What you do in that cause, you will be forgiven.'

‘Father. There is perhaps one way you can help
me.'

‘Tell
me.'

‘Father, please think about this. Did you notice if any of the Germans who came to mass on Sunday, or since, acted strange?'

‘Strange, Captain?'

‘Nervous. Withdrawn. Panicked. Perhaps someone acting un­towards. Someone who seemed distressed. Or perhaps a new face…
?'

Petar frowned, shook his head. ‘I am not sure what you are getting at, Captain.'

‘May I tell you something in confidence? Yes? I have a reason to believe Marija was killed by a German soldier. And I have reason to believe that soldier may well have come here. Perhaps to confess. Perhaps to seek solace in prayer. Of course, the confessional is sacrosanct. But, perhaps, did you notice anything in church that Sunday?'

The priest's eyes had gone flat at Reinhardt's words. ‘What are you alleging, Captain?'

‘Nothing, Father. I am following up a line of inquiry. A feeling. Marija's murder was horrible but her killer arranged her body as if she were at rest, afterwards. It seemed to me an act of remorse. And that such a man might seek… solace… in a place like this.'

‘I had read the Partisans were to blame for Marija's death.'

‘Perhaps,' said Reinhardt, noncommittally. ‘But for instance, I would be more interested in hearing about that soldier you talked with.'

‘No, Captain. You will not get that from me. I know what you Nazis have done to men of the faith. You will not hound that man for it, nor for his doubts.' Reinhardt made to speak, but Petar cut him off. ‘Enough, Captain. I feel you have misled me. That you manoeuvred me into speaking of such things.'

It sounded so much like what Stolić had said in the officers' mess that Reinhardt blinked. ‘I am sorry you think that, Father.'

Petar nodded, his eyes considering. ‘Well, even if I cannot applaud your line of reasoning, there are enemies all around, Captain. Where we least expect them. And even if you have, as you say, drifted far from your faith, go with my blessing.'

He touched Reinhardt on the shoulder. It felt like something caustic, and something seemed to come apart then, deep inside. Reinhardt was not sure what it was, only that something small, but something important, broke. Snapped. ‘You know, this medal,' he said, jerking his thumb at his Iron Cross. ‘I got it taking a British redoubt at Amiens, in France. 1918. I attacked it, and then I defended it. I lost nearly all my men. At the end, there were just a few of us standing. Three, in fact. We all got the Iron Cross. One of them was a Jew. His name was Isidor Rosen.'

He lit an Atikah and blew smoke at the sky, feeling Claussen's eyes heavy on him. Isidor Rosen. Big and bluff. A shock of red hair. A real prankster who fought like the devil, who used to joke he liked fighting the English because at least with them he knew where the enemy was, and whom Reinhardt had tried to save after the war, using Becker's illegal network. ‘After the war, Isidor became a fireman. He died, trapped in a burning house, while his fellow firemen just stood around outside. A house someone set fire to deliberately, in order to kill him. I know that, you see, because I conducted the investigation into his death.

‘Do you wonder what I mean by all this? I wonder myself, actually. A few things I know. The last war was easier than this one. Just us against them. And the Jews? Funny thing about Jews is,' he said, inhaling deeply, ‘there's really nothing mysterious about them, once you've seen one blown in two, his guts mixed up with any other German's. Or a Tommy's. I hear a lot of people say they're all around. Behind all this, manipulating us.' He shrugged with his mouth. ‘Could be the conspiracies are right. Or could be people will believe anything they want. But I know that in 1918 I knew where to find a lot of them, and that was in the trenches with me.' He looked hard into the priest's eyes, searching for the utter conviction that drove the man. Searching, so he could do what? Crush
it?

As fast as it came, whatever drove him was gone. Perhaps what was broken inside had mended. Perhaps he had needed to say what he had just said. But whatever it was Reinhardt fancied looked out from the priest's eyes was still there. Nothing he said or did would ever drive what motivated the priest away.

So he turned and left, motioning to Claussen, a sudden lift in his step. The lift lasted as long as it took his knee to twinge painfully as he took the steps down to the square too fast. As he got into the
kübelwagen
he looked back. The priest was still standing by the door looking down at him. ‘Back to the barracks, Sergeant.' Reinhardt resisted the urge to wave a cheery goodbye as Claussen drove away from the church.

‘You heard all that?' he asked Claussen, hooking his arm over the door and staring up at the hills. He looked over at the sergeant. ‘Well?'

‘I heard, sir,' replied Claussen, flicking his eyes up at the mirror.

‘And?'

‘And what,
sir?'

‘What do you think, Sergeant? Was I unkind to a priest? Did I say anything that shocked
you?'

‘I'm sure I don't know,
sir.'

‘I'm sure you do, Claussen,' snapped Reinhardt. ‘You were in the last lot. You were a copper. In Dusseldorf, weren't you? We're not so different.' Down in the river, boys were playing on the rocks again. One of them watched him go by. Reinhardt waved, but the boy did not wave back.

Claussen was silent a moment, his lower lip moving as he chewed it. ‘I can't say I was shocked, sir,' he said, finally. ‘I heard what you said, about Jews and the trenches. I can't say I ever had much use for a Jew, sir, but they were there right with us then.' Claussen swung the car up to the main entrance to the barracks. A soldier swung the striped barrier pole up, and Claussen drove through, the tyres thumping on the cobbles of the courtyard, and parked. He turned the engine off and sat looking down, then turned to Reinhardt. ‘After the war, in Dusseldorf, there were a couple on the force. I got friendly with one of them. Walked a beat with him. Got drunk with him. In and out of scraps. Played football together. Went to his house. A couple of Passovers, things like that. Funny thing, though,' he said, a small, tight smile on his face. ‘He would never come to mine. For Christmas, or Easter. Still,' he continued, after a moment. ‘He was a good copper. He was kicked off the force in thirty-four, I think. He took on whatever work he could find, managed to get his family out, but he didn't make it. He got beaten half to death by a group of SS one night. He was brought into the police station where I was watch sergeant. Died in the cells from his injuries.' Claussen paused, looking emptily out across the parking area. ‘I suppose that was it for me, really.'