The Man from Berlin (8 page)

There was a photograph with the letter, and Reinhardt had to look carefully to recognise his son. Friedrich was burned away, whittled down, looking ten years older than he actually was. Reinhardt read and reread the letter, trying to find perhaps some hidden meaning. Some indication that what Friedrich had experienced might have opened his eyes, if only just a little, to what the Nazis had done to him. To them, as a family. But the faith was still there. Even after all he had seen and done and suffered.

Even if Reinhardt had wanted to write back, he could not have. Friedrich's letter arrived at the beginning of December, just over a week after the Red Army coiled itself around the city. He spoke only to Brauer of Friedrich's letter. Christmas leave in Berlin, hunched over glasses of beer, heads close together, Brauer had listened to Reinhardt in silence.

‘Do you think we're different this time?' Brauer had asked. ‘You and
me?'

‘How?'

‘That we haven't burned away enough to get through this.'

Reinhardt had nodded slowly. ‘It's different. We're different. This isn't our
war.'

‘Not our war,' he whispered, pushing his pack of cigarettes around the table, knowing it was only with Brauer he could say things like that, and even then… Stalingrad had fallen. The Sixth was wiped out, they said. Only a few survivors. He tossed a handful of
kuna
on the table for the coffee. He had to get moving or face another evening that would end with him at the bottom of a bottle, or staring down the barrel of his pistol.

9

T
he Ragusa was in the heart of the Austrian city, sandwiched ­between Kvaternik and King Aleksander Streets. The roads all ran at right angles to each other, and the buildings were much alike, heavy carved stone façades rising three or four floors, doorways flanked by columns or statues, all so different from the serpentine jumble of the Ottoman city. At the club's entrance, Reinhardt stared up at a brightly lit sign:
Ragusa
written in gold on blue, thick red stripes above and below the lettering. He looked at the cars parked in front of the club. A couple of army staff cars, but most of the vehicles were private, including one impressive-looking Maybach. ‘Claussen, you stay out here with the car, please. Hueber, you're with me.' He pushed open the doors and strode into a short hallway with what looked like fishing nets hung on the walls, with shells and other nautical paraphernalia wound into the strands, along with a big painting of a coastal city, thick stone walls wrapped around a crowded port. The hall ended in a tall set of opaque glass doors. The strains of what sounded like a Gypsy orchestra became suddenly louder as he opened those and stepped into the club proper.

A lectern stood just inside the entrance, a book open on its ­surface. Reinhardt paused a couple of steps in and looked around. The place smelled strongly of alcohol, cigarettes, and roasted meat. It was dimly lit, what lighting there was glowing through clouds of smoke or reflecting back off pictures arranged haphazardly around the walls, a mix of photographs of revellers and imitation prints of coastal scenes and cities. More fishing nets were draped across the walls. The overall colour was a heavy red, on the tablecloths and wallpaper. Round tables were spread across a surface split into two levels, the farther level lower than where Reinhardt stood. Down there was the stage, with a group of four musicians in traditional costume playing on what looked like fiddles, a clarinet, and a small handheld drum. Most of the tables were taken by men in uniforms, but some men wore civilian clothes. A few women were scattered around the tables, flecks of colour in a sea of black and field grey. Waiters moved to and fro, wearing brightly coloured waistcoats with white shirts and black trousers.

A man in a tuxedo slid smoothly behind the lectern. His hair was black and shiny, brushed straight back and held with some sort of pomade. Reinhardt could smell it. ‘Yes, sir? May I help you?' The maître d' spoke perfect German, offering Reinhardt a reserved smile as he took in his uniform.

Reinhardt glanced at him, then around the bar again. ‘I'd like some information, please.'

The maître d' put his head slightly to one side, the smile tightening somewhat. He managed to flick his gaze up and down Reinhardt without losing eye contact, taking in the captain's field uniform and the wear and tear on his boots. ‘Information, sir?' He took his time looking over Hueber in his corporal's tunic, who flushed under the maître d's gaze, which was unfortunate as it turned his acne an even darker shade of red. ‘What kind of information could that be?' From the accent he was Bavarian, thought Reinhardt.

‘Information,' repeated Reinhardt. He fixed the maître d' with his eyes as he took Hendel's photo from his pocket. He put it on the lectern. ‘Have you seen this man before? An army lieutenant.'

The maître d' leaned over the photograph for a moment, then back up. He looked at Reinhardt, and Reinhardt could see him pondering whether he had the weight to ask what this was all about. A maître d' in a place like this? Popular, frequented by all kinds of officers… He might just feel confident enough to do it. Overimportant maître d's had been an occupational hazard back in Berlin. Especially once the Nazis had begun to colonise all the best restaurants and hotels, turning everywhere black and brown with their uniforms, and leaving men like this maître d' out at the front, pretending the barbarians had not taken over and everything was normal.

‘Yes,' said the maître d', finally. ‘He is a frequent guest here. But not tonight. I'm sorry,' he said, handing the photograph back.

Reinhardt left him with his hand out, the photograph in it. He looked around the club again. ‘He won't be coming back. He's dead,' he said, turning back to look at the maître d' as he spoke. The man blinked, the hand with the photograph drawing back, and down. He looked at it again, then up at Reinhardt.

‘I am… sorry to hear that,' he said. He proffered the photograph again, wishing to be rid of
it.

‘Murdered, in fact,' said Reinhardt. ‘What is your name?'

The maître d' looked back at him. ‘Name…
?'

‘Your name,' said Reinhardt, moving closer to him, still ignoring the photograph. ‘I am conducting the inquiries into his murder.' He said nothing about his unit, his function, letting the maître d' draw his own conclusions.

‘Dietmar Stern.'

‘You have worked here long?'

Stern nodded, tentatively. ‘Nearly one year,
now.'

‘You say Lieutenant Hendel was a frequent visitor?'

Stern nodded, again, the photograph hanging forgotten in his hand. ‘Every few nights.'

‘Alone? With friends?'

‘He would often come with friends, yes. Excuse me, one moment,' said Stern, as a man in a grey suit and burgundy tie came in. The maître d' put the photograph down, took the man's hat, and escorted him to a table. Reinhardt stepped up to the lectern, picking up the photo and looking down over the list of bookings and reservations. Stern came back over, saying nothing as Reinhardt scanned the book, then stepped back.

‘When was the last time he was here?'

Stern ran a finger down one of the pages, turning back one. He tapped an entry. ‘Thursday night.'

‘This last Thursday?' Stern nodded. ‘Was he with anyone?' There was a burst of applause from the patrons as the band ended one song and started another.

‘The entry does not say, sir,' said Stern.

‘Do you know Marija Vukić?' asked Reinhardt.

‘Of course I did. She was a regular guest here. It is terrible, what happened to
her.'

‘Did Hendel know
her?'

Stern nodded, frowning. ‘He did. I believe they met here quite frequently.'

‘When would have been the last time?' asked Reinhardt, motioning at the ledger. ‘Check, please.'

Stern looked back to his book, then back up at Reinhardt. ‘Also Thursday. But she was with someone else.'

‘Who?'

‘A General Paul Verhein.'

The name meant nothing to Reinhardt. Sarajevo was full of generals these days. ‘Is there anything that comes to mind about Hendel?' he asked. ‘Anything at all. How he behaved. How often he came. Who he talked
to.'

Stern shook his head. ‘I'm afraid I would not really know, sir. You might ask Dragan, the barman.'

Reinhardt held Stern's eyes a moment longer. ‘Down there?' He turned to Hueber, motioning him to follow.

‘Sir,' Stern said, softly. ‘Your cap, if I may.' He did not offer to take Hueber's forage cap, but the corporal took it off and folded it into one of his tunic pockets.

Reinhardt threaded a path through the tables, past German and Italian officers, Ustaše, men in suits and women in dresses that were probably fashionable a few years ago, before the war. Reinhardt flicked his eyes from German officer to German officer, hoping not to make eye contact with any of them. Some looked up at him as he passed. Most turned away; those that looked longer had eyes more for Hueber than for Reinhardt. A corporal in a club like this was not usual and would eventually cause comment.

He walked past the last table and into a space in front of the bar, with the band playing to his left in front of a long mirror that gave a poor illusion of space and light. He felt terribly exposed, imagining all those who might be watching him from the smoke-shrouded gloom behind him. A couple of men, an Ustaša in his black uniform and a man in a suit, stood at the bar, shoulder to shoulder in conversation. A barman in white shirt and black waistcoat stood to one side, polishing a glass with a cloth. Reinhardt walked to the far end of the bar, motioning to him to join
him.

‘What may I offer you for drink?' asked the barman, eyebrows raised and head tilting back slightly as he spoke. His German was thick and accented.

Continuing the place's nautical theme, the bar was decked out with fishing paraphernalia. Reinhardt scanned past nets and seashells and a ship's lantern and sepia-toned prints of coastal towns along the limited display of bottles behind the barman, and noticed a bottle of red standing open, with what looked like a Mostar label. ‘Give me a glass of that.'

The barman poured with an exaggerated care, filling the wineglass almost to the brim, then placing it in front of Reinhardt. He made to move away, but Reinhardt raised his hand, slightly. ‘One moment,' he said, as he raised the glass to his lips. The wine was cold, the way they drank it here. Despite that, it was still heady and thick, lying heavy on the tongue.

‘Is all right?' the barman asked.

Reinhardt turned his lips in between his teeth and squeezed the tip of his tongue. ‘Fine,' he nodded. It was diabolical. Reinhardt took another sip. ‘Mr Stern said we should talk to you, Dragan.' The barman looked back at him expressionlessly, flicked his eyes at Hueber, then picked up his cloth and began drying a glass.

‘About?'

‘About a lieutenant. Called Hendel. Do you know
him?'

Dragan nodded. ‘I know him. He come often here.' He ran his cloth around the glass with a practiced move and put it away in a rack over his head, taking another from just below the counter.

‘When was he last here?'

The barman wiped and dried the glass, his eyes turned inward and somewhere else in a ploy that, to the policeman in Reinhardt, was transparently one to gain time. Dragan could not know what this was about, but he was surely not wanting to get in the middle of whatever was making a German Army captain ask questions about a lieutenant's whereabouts. ‘Maybe I think last week?'

‘A day?' replied Reinhardt.

Dragan stayed expressionless as he cleaned his glass, his eyes elsewhere, then focused back on Reinhardt. ‘Thursday?' he said, at last.

‘You remember anything special about
him?'

‘Special? Sorry, my German. Not so good.'

‘Hueber, please,' said Reinhardt, half turning away from the bar and motioning the corporal forward. ‘Ask him what he remembers in particular, if anything, about Lieutenant Hendel.'

Dragan frowned at him as he spoke to Hueber, and then his frown deepened as Hueber began talking in Serbo-Croat. The barman's eyes flicked back and forth between the two of them, then settled on Reinhardt as he began to talk back. Hueber held up a hand after a moment.

‘Sir, he said Lieutenant Hendel was in here twice, sometimes three times a week. He usually drank at the bar. He liked the ladies. He did not cause any trouble.'

‘Does he know who Marija Vukić
is?'

‘I know. Of course, I know,' said Dragan, stepping forward as if to push Hueber out of the conversation. ‘She is here many, many times.'

‘Did you ever see the two of them together?'

Dragan nodded. ‘Yes. Two, maybe three times.'

‘What do you remember?'

Dragan opened his mouth to speak, then paused. He looked between the two of them again, and then, as if deciding that Hueber was the lesser of two evils, began to talk to the corporal. The Ustaša at the bar peered over his companion's shoulder at them, making the other man turn and look as well. Reinhardt looked back at them expressionlessly until the civilian turned away, and the Ustaša shrugged, and they went back to their drinks and conversation.

‘Sir,' said Hueber, again. ‘He says that Vukić was a frequent guest here. She was usually here with guests, and their parties were always quite wild. A lot of drinking, and singing. He remembers her with Hendel because the times they were together were unlike any of her other visits. She came alone, and they talked alone. The barman says he thinks that Hendel was interested in her but she was not interested in him. He was…' He broke off for a second, asked something in Serbo-Croat to which Dragan replied. Hueber nodded, and resumed. ‘He was not her type.'

‘What was her type?' asked Reinhardt, guessing the answer.

‘Officers. Older ones. With gold on the shoulders,' said Dragan, not needing Hueber to translate that
one.

‘Anything else?'

‘Yes, sir,' replied Hueber. ‘The barman remembers that while they were talking, others would come up to greet her. She was courteous, but she did not allow others to join them. Some of the men were annoyed with that. He knows because they came to the bar to complain. Afterwards, when she was finished talking with Hendel, she came to the bar, and she would laugh and joke with those men, and then ­everything was fine.

‘There was just one time when there was trouble. There was an officer who always tried to talk to Vukić. She did not like him. When she did not like someone, it was very clear, but this officer was persistent. The last time Dragan saw Vukić and Lieutenant Hendel together, this officer tried to join them. She told him to go away, and he was insulting to her, and apparently he tried to pull rank on the lieutenant. It did not work, and he came to the bar angry, talking with friends and asking what he did not have that a mere lieutenant did. He tried to cause trouble for Lieutenant Hendel, but his friends persuaded him out of it, and Vukić threatened to make his life a misery if he persisted in his attentions. This was on Thursday, last week.'

‘Yes,' said Dragan. ‘Then Vukić, she go in back room with Hendel. To be private.'

‘Back room?'

‘Is private room. She go there sometimes.'

‘Does he know who the officer
was?'

Hueber looked desperately uncomfortable. ‘Only that he is SS.' At the mention of that, Dragan looked hard at Reinhardt, as if imparting to him how much this information could cost
him.