The Good German (Bestselling Backlist) Page 11

  “A Russian, you said.” He moved another pile.

  “Must have been. But who set it up? He’s operating all by himself? There have to be some other apples in that barrel. Chances are, he had friends. It’s a friendly kind of business.”

  “Friends in Public Safety?” Bernie said, looking up.

  “Somewhere. That’s the way it used to work in Chicago.”

  “That’s Chicago,” Bernie said, waving his hand.

  “And Berlin. It’s always the same, more or less. Here’s a big city with no police and a lot of money floating around. Put out that kind of cheese and the usual mice come out. And pretty soon somebody has to organize it, to make sure he gets a little more. It’s always the same. The only question is whether Patrick Tully was one of the mice or one of the rats who took a little more.”

  “Who?”

  “Patrick Tully. The victim.” Jake handed over the sheet to Bernie. “Twenty-three. Afraid of flying. So why come to Berlin? Who was he coming to see?”

  Bernie stared at the paper, then at Jake.

  “That’s the report,” Jake said. “Half of it, anyway. Maybe the other half can tell me.”

  “I can tell you,” Bernie said evenly, his body finally still. “He was coming to see me.”

  “What?” A word to fill time, too surprised to say anything else. For a second neither of them spoke. Bernie looked again at the sheet.

  “Yesterday,” he said quietly, thinking aloud. “That’s why I canceled you. He never showed. I told Mike to keep an eye out. That’s probably who he thought you were. Why he brought you here—we’re off-limits to press.”

  “Tully was coming to see you?” Jake said, still taking it in. “Want to tell me why?”

  “I have no idea.” He glanced up. “That isn’t a brush. I don’t know.”

  “You didn’t ask?”

  Bernie shrugged. “People come through from Frankfurt all the time. Somebody from PSD requests a meeting, what am I supposed to say? No? Half the time they’re just looking for an excuse to come to Berlin. Everybody wants to see it, but you’re supposed to have a reason for being here. So they liaise and fart around in meetings nobody has time for and then go home.”

  “With five thousand dollars.”

  “He didn’t get it from me, if that’s what you’re asking,” he said irritably. “He didn’t show, or do you want Mike to verify that?”

  “Keep your shirt on. I’m just trying to figure this out. You didn’t know him?”

  “Not from Adam. PSD out of Frankfurt, that’s all. Never worked with him on a case. I don’t even know if he was Special Branch. I suppose I could find out.” A crack in the door. Still a DA after all.

  “But what did you think he wanted? Just like that, out of the blue.”

  Bernie sat down, ruffling his hair again. “A face meeting with Frankfurt? Out of the blue? It could have been anything. Grief, usually. The last time it was Legal complaining about my methods,” he said, giving the word an edge. “They like to do that personally, bring you in line. Frankfurt thinks I’m a loose cannon. Not that I give a shit.”

  “Why a loose cannon?”

  Bernie smiled slightly. “I’ve been known to break a regulation. Once or twice.”

  “So break another one,” Jake said, looking at him.

  “Because you have a gut feeling? I don’t know you from Adam either.”

  “No. But somebody comes to see you, makes a stop along the way, and gets shot. Now two of us are interested.”

  Bernie met his eyes, then looked away. “You know, I didn’t come to Germany to catch crooked soldiers.”

  Jake nodded, not saying anything, waiting for Bernie to pop up again. Instead, he stopped squirming and leaned forward, like a negotiator at the Cecilienhof, finally down to business.

  “What do you want?”

  “The other sheet. There’s nothing here.” Jake pointed at the report. “Not even ballistics. There must be someone you could ask. Quietly, just nosing around.”

  Bernie nodded.

  “Then a call to Frankfurt. Naturally you’d be curious, someone doesn’t show. So who was he, what did he want? Scuttlebutt. There should be talk all over the place now, somebody comes back in a box. Oh, did you know him? What the hell happened?”

  “You trying to tell me how to do this?”

  “Any rumors,” Jake went on. “Maybe something valuable’s gone missing. Some liberated souvenirs. It’s a long shot, but you never know. And a picture would be nice.”

  “For publication?” Bernie said, wary.

  “No, for me. There must be one in his file there, if you can get hold of it without upsetting the horses. I’m not sure how, but maybe something will come to you.”

  “Maybe something will.”

  “Traveling orders. Who authorized the trip? What for? You’d want to know. He was coming to see you.”

  “Yes,” Bernie said, thoughtful again, then sprang up and began moving around the room, jiggling change in his pocket. “And what’s all this supposed to get you?”

  “Not much. It’s not much to ask, either. Just what you’d want to know if you’d never talked to me. If an appointment turned up dead.”

  “So what else?”

  “I need a partner. I can’t work this alone.”

  Bernie held up his hand. “Forget it.”

  “Not you. A name. Who covers the black market for Public Safety? Who’d know the snitches, the people out on the street? If Tully had something big to sell, who would he have gone to see? He sure as hell didn’t come to Berlin to stand on a corner. I need someone who knows the players.”

  “I can’t help you with that.”

  “Can’t?”

  “There isn’t anybody like that. Not that I’ve ever heard of. ‘Covers’ it. Like a beat? You’re still back in Chicago.”

  “You could ask,” Jake said, getting up now too, Bernie’s restlessness contagious.

  “No, I couldn’t. I’m in Public Safety. Technically. You don’t shit where you sleep. Not for long, anyway. Nobody else will either, once they know what you’re after. Tully was PSD too. You think he had friends. Where do you think he had them? I have things to do here, not play cops and robbers with my own department. You do that one alone.” He looked up with a hint of a smile. “We’ll see how good you are.”

  “But you’ll make the call. You’ll do that.”

  “Yeah, I’ll make the call,” he said, busying himself again with the folder pile. “I hate it when people don’t show up.” He stopped and looked directly at Jake, his eyes friendly. “I’ll call. Now how about clearing out of here and letting me get back to work.”

  Jake walked over to the card catalogues and fingered the brass pulls on the drawers. “Catching real criminals,” he said. “In here.”

  “That’s right, real criminals. Careful of the merchandise. That’s the most valuable thing in Berlin.”

  “I heard about the paper mill. Some break.”

  “Maybe God figured he owed us one. Finally,” he said, a gravelly voice.

  “Mind if I have a look? See what they’re like?” Jake said, pulling open a drawer before Bernie could answer. The Bs were near the back, a row of Brandts. Helga, Helmut, no Helene. He pulled his hand away, feeling relieved and ashamed at the same time. How could he have thought there would be? But how could you be sure who anyone was anymore? He remembered that first night, looking down on the old woman in the garden, wondering. What did you do? Were you one of them? The girls on Potsdamerstrasse, the bicycles going past KaDeWe, the woman in his old flat—everyone in Berlin had become a suspect. Who were you before? But Bernie knew. It was all here in black-and-white, typed on cards. His fingers flipped again. Perhaps he was a special case, the professor had said. Berthold. Dieter. There—Emil. Not a special case. But maybe a different Emil Brandt. He took out the card. No, his address. Her address. 1938. All the time Jake had known him. His eyes went down the card. A party decoration. For what? An SS appointment, in
1944. SS. Emil. A nice man who saw numbers in his head.

  He looked up to find Bernie standing next to him.

  “Your friend?”

  “No. Her husband. Christ.”

  “You didn’t know?”

  Jake shook his head. “It says he was decorated. It doesn’t say why.”

  “That would be in his party file. These are the registry cards. You want me to find out?” Chasing rats.

  Jake shook his head again. “Just where he is.”

  “You mean if she’s with him,” Bernie said, studying his face.

  “Yes. If she’s with him.” But he’d never imagined them together. Just Lena, opening the door, the surprised look in her eyes, throwing her arms around his neck. He put the card back and closed the drawer.

  “What was her name?”

  “Helene Brandt. She used to live in Pariserstrasse. I’ll write it down for you.” He went over to the desk for a piece of paper. “Can I give you a few others?” he said, writing. “I want to track down the old office staff. For a story. I know you’re busy—”

  Bernie spread his hands, a what-else-is-new gesture, then took the list. “I’ll put Mike on it. It’ll give him something to do. They’d have to be in Berlin, you know.”

  “Yes,” Jake said. “Let me know what Frankfurt says.”

  “Get going before I change my mind,” Bernie said, retreating behind the desk.

  “But you’ll make the call.”

  Bernie looked up. “You could get to be a real pain, you know that?”

  Jake went back up the stairs and through the quiet archive room. Records of everything, just lying here waiting, millions of due bills. Maybe Emil had been decorated as part of a group, a ceremony with families, applauded for their services to the state. Doing what? Teaching mathematics? Now filed away in one of these cabinets, to make another case for the prosecution.

  “Sign out, please.” The indifferent guard, chewing gum.

  Jake scribbled in the ledger, then stepped outside into the click of a photograph.

  “Well, look who’s here.” Liz was bent on one knee, shooting up at the doorway and the tall blond soldier who stood posing in front of it. Last night’s date. Jake stepped aside as she took another. The soldier pulled back his shoulders. Cool eyes, an illustrator’s jaw, the kind of Aryan looks Emil’s group would have liked.

  “Okay,” Liz said, finished. “Jake, meet Joe Shaeffer. Like the pen. Joe—”

  “I know who you are,” the soldier said, shaking hands. “Pleasure.” He turned to Liz. “Five minutes,” he said, then nodded stiffly at Jake and went inside.

  “Something for your personal collection?” Jake said, pointing to the camera.

  “It was.”

  “How was the jazz?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know. What’s it like inside? Anything interesting?”

  He thought of the files, every one a story, then realized she meant anything to photograph. “Like a library,” he said.

  “Great.” A grimace. “Still, some trophy, huh? You know they got it all in a paper mill,” she said, her voice as excited as the driver’s. Jake looked at her. The war had become a kind of scavenger hunt. Rockets at Nordhausen. Engineers at Zeiss. Now even pieces of paper, decorations and promotions. The magazine spread would show tall Joe opening a file.

  “Yeah, I heard,” he said, moving away. “Watch yourself in there. Lots of dark corners.”

  “Aren’t you funny.”

  He grinned and was about to start down the steps when he heard his name shouted inside. “Geismar!” A second shout, followed by Bernie in a mad dash, almost colliding with Liz, another piece of Gelferstrasse china. “Good. I caught you.”

  Jake smiled. “You know Liz? You share a bathroom.”

  Bernie barely managed a confused nod to her, then grabbed Jake’s arm. “I need to talk to you.” His face was flushed from the exertion of the run. “This list.”

  “That was fast,” Jake said easily, then saw Bernie’s eyes, holding him as firmly as the hand on his arm. “What?”

  “Come here,” Bernie said, moving them down the stairs, out of earshot. “Naumann,” he said, holding the list up. “Renate Naumann. How do you know her?”

  “Renate? She worked for me at Columbia. They all did.”

  “That’s the first I’ve heard of it.”

  Jake looked at him, bewildered. “Off the books. I used her as a stringer. She had a great eye.”

  Bernie made a face, as if Jake had told a bad joke, then looked away. “Great eye. Yes,” he said, his voice filled with disgust.

  “You know her?” Jake said, still puzzled.

  Bernie nodded.

  “I thought she’d be dead. You know where she is?”

  “She’s in jail.”

  Bernie looked around, then took Jake’s arm again and began walking out past the sentries. “I hate this fucking barbed wire. It gives me the willies.” When they reached the jeep, Bernie leaned against it, his energy finally spent.

  “What do you mean, jail?” Jake said.

  “Some friends you’ve got.” Bernie took out a cigarette. “She was a greifer. You know greifer?”

  “Grabber. Catcher. Of what?”

  “Jews.”

  “That’s impossible. She was—”

  “A Jew. I know. A Jew to catch Jews. They thought of everything. Even that.”

  “But she—” Jake started, but Bernie held up his hand.

  “You want to hear this?” He took a pull on his cigarette. “The first big roundup here was in ’forty-two. February. After that, any Jew in Berlin was illegal, underground. U-boats. There were still thousands, if you can imagine it. Some had a place—if a gentile was protecting them. The others, they had to move around. Place to place. During the day, you had to keep moving, so the neighbors wouldn’t suspect. Wouldn’t report you,” he said, almost spitting the word. “Berlin’s a big city. You could stay lost in the crowd, if you kept moving. Unless somebody knew you. A greifer.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “No? Ask the Jews she caught. A few survived. A few. Or we wouldn’t have caught her. That’s when I had to break a few regulations.” He looked up. “It was worth it. To catch her? Worth it.” He moved away from the jeep, pacing in a small circle. “How it worked? Some covered the railway stations. Renate liked the cafés. Usually Kranzler’s or the Trumpf, over by the Memorial Church. The big one in Olivaerplatz, the Heil. A drink, you watch the people. Sometimes a Jew you actually knew, from the old days. Sometimes someone you just suspected, so some talk, a little fishing, a hint you were a U-boat yourself. Then snap. A visit to the ladies’ room for the telephone. They usually took them on the street, so it wouldn’t cause a disturbance in the café. Finish your drink, they’re just rounding up some Jews. Everyone but Renate. The next day, another café. She had a great eye, you see,” he said, glancing back at Jake.

  “She said she could tell just by looking. Not even Streicher could do that—to him it was all cartoon noses. Renate was better than the Nazis, she didn’t need the star patches. Not with that eye. And, you know, people are foolish. So careful, day after day—can you imagine what that’s like?—and then the relief, a friendly face. If you can’t trust another Jew—A few even asked her out. A date, under those conditions. ‘Just let me powder my nose in the ladies’.” He flicked the cigarette into the street.

  “And then?” Jake said, helpless, wanting to know.

  “The collection point. A Gestapo building, so disturbances didn’t matter anymore. Lots of screaming there. They put them on the trucks. Then out to the trains for the trip east. The neighbors told us the noise was terrible. They’d keep their windows closed until the trucks left.”

  “Maybe she didn’t know,” Jake said quietly.

  “She lived there. With the other catchers. They kept them on a short leash. Maybe a reminder—‘You could be next.’ But she wasn’t. She saved herself.” He paused. “I saw the room where she lived. It�
��s on the courtyard. She could see them loading the trucks. So maybe she closed her window too.” He looked harder at Jake. “She knew.”

  The day seemed to have stopped around them, the empty street as still as the archives inside. Birdless trees. Sentries standing motionless in the sun.

  “That’s—” Jake sputtered, then stopped, like a candle without air.

  “The worst thing you ever heard?” Bernie prompted. “Stay in Germany. When you think you’ve heard the worst, there’s something more. Always something worse.”

  Loaded into trucks while she watched. “How many?” Jake said.

  “Does it matter?”

  Jake shook his head. A girl with bright eyes and curly hair. But who was anybody anymore?

  “Can I see her? Could you arrange that?”

  “If you want. I should tell you, you won’t be the first. Your buddies were all over this one. A Nazi? Old news. But a Jew? That they went for. Ach.” He waved his hand again, as if he were swatting the whole thing away like a gnat. “There’s a trial coming up. If you have the stomach for it.”

  “Does she admit it?”

  “There’s no question about this one,” Bernie said, looking at him. “We have witnesses.”

  “But if they forced her—”

  “She did it. That’s what matters, you know. She did it.” He took a breath. “The people she caught are dead. Nobody made excuses for them.”

  “No.”

  “So,” Bernie said, exhaling the word, case closed. “Not what you expected, is it?”

  “No.”

  “No,” Bernie said. “I’m sorry. It’s a lousy business, all of it. Stick to the black market.”

  “I’d still like to see her.”

  Bernie nodded. “Maybe she’ll tell you something. Why. I’ll never understand it.”

  “We weren’t here. We don’t know what it was like.”

  “I had family here,” Bernie snapped. “I know what it was like for them.”

  Jake looked back at the quiet villa, through the high barbed wire that gave Bernie the willies. “What’ll happen to her?”

  “Prison,” Bernie said flatly. “She’s a woman—they won’t hang her. Maybe it’s worse—she’ll have to live with it.”