Hitler's Angel Read online

  The bedroom is dark. He still makes his bed military fashion, the corners precise, the blanket smooth and untouched. The room shows an obsessive neatness not reflected in the front room. His clothes hang in his closet, shirts arranged by sleeve length, suitcoats by age. The colours are all the same: blacks and whites. Only his First World War uniform tucked in the very back adds colour to the wardrobe. His police uniform and his undercover clothes are in the footlocker behind the shoes. He avoids it and instead pulls out a box of mildewing cardboard. He has not opened it in years, and he resists the urge to sit on his haunches and look through the memories.

  Instead, he reaches inside and removes a cigar box sealed with brittle, yellow tape. He tucks the box under his arm and returns to the living room.

  She is picking the edges off a pastry, avoiding the frosting and eating only the cake. She is studying her hands, but he caught the nervous glance she shot at the bedroom just before he came back. He returns to his chair, sets the box on his lap and slits the tape with his thumbnail. The lid flops open, flimsy with age. A pile of letters, still in their envelopes, line one side. He reaches to the bottom of the pile, to the only letter not in an envelope. The paper is still crinkled. The ink has faded, but Gürtner’s signature is clear. He puts the box on the floor and hands the letter to her.

  ‘My God.’ Her hands shake as she takes the letter from him. ‘My God.’

  She stares at it for a moment, rereading it, realising (probably) that he can quote it from memory. This has been only a story to her until this moment. Now, though, she knows. She knows he tells her the truth. He can see it in her eyes, in her shaking hands. She looks at him over the paper’s edge.

  ‘May I take this with me?’ she asks.

  ‘No,’ he says, unwilling, even forty years later to part with evidence. ‘But you may photograph it here.’

  She nods and, after a moment, hands the paper back to him. He folds it carefully and returns it to the bottom of the cigar box. She scribbles in her notebook, then adds a series of exclamation points. It irritates him that she writes her notes in English. If she wrote in German, he could read it upside down.

  ‘Is there more in the box?’ she asks.

  He resists the urge to pick it up and clutch it to his chest. He had thought that speaking of this would be easy, like singing during an all-night drinking session. He did not expect this protectiveness, this odd, almost unclean feeling as he reveals his secrets. He cannot breach the past all at once. He must let it unfold, as much for himself as for her.

  ‘There is more,’ he says.

  She waits. He stares at her. She has small lines around her eyes, a bit of facial hair beneath her chin. Finally she glances down at the box, and then at him.

  ‘You do not have your recorder on,’ he says.

  She flushes and presses the play button. He grips the arms of his chair as he sinks back into his memories.

  SEVEN

  For a moment, Fritz hesitated outside the Chief Inspector’s office. The Chief Inspector wanted him to go immediately to Austria, but that presented Fritz with a dilemma. If the Kripo did not conduct an official investigation, then no one would interview the witnesses. By the time Fritz returned from Austria, the witnesses would have time to change their stories, to disappear, or to refuse him.

  He had to speak to them now. They had already spoken to each other, he was already sure of that, but he wanted one quick impression, some idea of what he was really up against, before he followed a corpse to Vienna.

  The witnesses were waiting at separate desks, far enough apart that they could not speak to each other, but they could still see each other. The older woman’s face was lined with tears. The matron sat ramrod straight in her chair, watching each movement in the precinct. And there was much to watch. Detectives flowed from desk to desk, carrying papers, discussing cases. The room was large and draughty. Fritz hated working here, often taking folders to a nearby café to study. As many as twenty detectives could be working in the room at the same time. The conversations alone were deafening.

  Henrich was seated behind one of the metal desks, studying an empty folder. He stood at attention when Fritz entered the room, a secret joke between them which dated back to the previous case. Fritz hated to be an authority, hated any signs of authority, so Henrich chose each moment he could to play on that hatred.

  Fritz signalled Henrich to come closer, and backed into the hallway for some privacy. ‘It is a suicide,’ Fritz said. ‘The case is closed.’

  ‘But we haven’t even seen the body yet,’ Henrich said. ‘How can there be no investigation?’

  ‘I didn’t say that,’ Fritz said. ‘Occasionally, I will need your help. Off-duty. And no one else’s.’

  Then he paused and ran a hand through his short-cropped hair. What he was going to ask next was not proper, but Henrich’s answer would be critical to the case.

  ‘Forgive me,’ Fritz said, ‘but if you belong to NSDAP, I need to know now.’

  Henrich blinked as if the question shocked him. ‘I have no party affiliations,’ he said. ‘You know that. We’ve discussed –’

  ‘I know nothing. And someone leaves the NSDAP propaganda in this office, just like someone else leaves the Communist literature. I am merely making certain that it is not you. It matters only in that if you do have any affiliations at all, you will not need to spend your spare time with me.’

  ‘And miss the warmth of your friendship?’ Henrich smiled. ‘I have no party cards. You may check my wallet, my apartment, or my leisure activities. You will find that I live in beer halls only because I cannot cook.’

  Fritz nodded, more relieved than he cared to mention. Even so, he would have another detective double-check Henrich’s statements. The secretive nature of this case had already infected Fritz’s blood.

  ‘I need to speak with the witnesses,’ Fritz said. ‘Alone. Bring me the older woman first, and then the housekeeper. I will be rather quick, as I have other business this afternoon. So watch. When I signal for the next, be ready. And, when they leave, do let them know that I will be needing to speak to them again.’

  He did not wait for Henrich to answer. Instead he went down the hall to one of the interrogation rooms. The older offices had been remodelled into the rooms. They were little larger than walk-in closets, with none of the charm. A single unprotected light bulb hung above a sturdy metal table. The chairs were made of painted wood, and the windows had been boarded over long before. He took the first available room, pleased that it had been cleaned since the last time he used it. The single bulb illuminated the table but left shadows in the corners, shadows he paced away. He leaned against the boarded window while he waited for his first witness.

  After a moment, Henrich opened the door. The stout woman entered. She walked with a slouch, her back already pushing up into a dowager’s hump. Despite the warmth of the day she wore a homemade sweater over a cotton dress, and high button shoes that dated from before the war. Tears had left deep shadows under her eyes.

  Fritz stepped forward and extended a chair for her. Henrich closed the door and disappeared down the hall.

  ‘I am Detective Inspector Stecher,’ Fritz said.

  ‘Marlena Reichert,’ the woman said, as she slipped into the chair. She did not meet his gaze.

  ‘I have a few questions for you, Frau Reichert,’ Fritz said. ‘I understand that it has been a trying day.’

  The woman nodded. Her dark hair was curled, and threaded with grey. She clutched a large bag to her chest.

  ‘Do you work for Herr Hitler?’

  ‘I help in the kitchen,’ she said. ‘And with other chores. Frau Winter is the housekeeper.’

  ‘Where do you live, ma’am?’

  ‘In the apartment,’ she said softly. ‘I share a room with my mother.’

  ‘And is your mother here?’

  ‘No,’ Frau Reichert said. ‘She is still in her room. She does not want to come out. It is a house of death, she says, and she say
s she will not leave the room until I find her somewhere else to stay.’

  ‘A house of death?’ Fritz asked.

  ‘My mother,’ Frau Reichert said softly, ‘she is old.’

  He pulled out the other chair, and sat on its flat seat. He did not need to intimidate this witness. She was upset enough as it is. ‘Tell me what happened this morning.’

  She clutched her bag tighter. ‘My mother and I overslept. When I got up, Geli was not out of bed. I got worried, and I tried the door to her room. It was locked. She did not answer my knocks, so I finally called Herr Schwarz. He came with Herr Amman, and together they broke down the door.’

  Zehrt had mentioned Schwarz. Fritz made a mental note of both names and watched her as she spoke. Her hands twisted the handle of her bag, over and over, bending and scarring the leather.

  ‘Then what happened?’ he prompted.

  ‘She was – at the foot of her sofa, in her blue nightdress, still holding the gun. The wound was tiny in the front, but the blood –’ Tears filled the woman’s eyes.

  ‘You were close to Geli?’ Fritz asked, watching the tears, remembering the woman’s deep grief in the apartment.

  ‘No,’ the woman said. ‘No.’

  Her response surprised him. He had thought she was in mourning. He would come back to this. ‘What position was she in?’

  Frau Reichert opened the clasp of her bag and retrieved a wadded handkerchief. She wiped at her eyes. ‘She was on her back, her eyes open. She looked so surprised.’

  ‘Was it her gun?’

  Frau Reichert shook her head. ‘It was one of Herr Hitler’s. He kept a collection in his room.’

  ‘Where is the gun now?’

  She shrugged. ‘I do not know. I did not go back to her room after they took her away.’

  ‘Did you hear anything? A gunshot? Any shouting?’

  ‘Not in the night.’

  ‘In the morning?’

  ‘No,’ Frau Reichert said.

  ‘Was there a note?’

  Frau Reichert shrugged. ‘I did not go into the room. The men went in.’

  ‘What made you call Herr Schwarz? Didn’t you have a key?’

  She glanced up at him, quickly, then down again. ‘I – I was worried,’ she said.

  ‘But you didn’t care for Geli.’

  ‘She is – was – trouble.’ Frau Reichert opened her handbag and put the damp handkerchief back inside. Then she whispered, ‘God forgive me.’

  ‘Trouble?’ Fritz asked.

  ‘Herr Hitler did not permit her to go out. Munich is dangerous, he says, and he is right. And she would not listen to him. She said she had no one after the bird died.’

  ‘Bird?’

  ‘Hansi. Her canary. She wouldn’t let us bury it.’

  ‘When did the bird die?’

  Frau Reichert snapped her bag closed. ‘Not long ago.’

  ‘Why do you think Geli died?’ He waited for the answer. He purposely did not mention suicide.

  Frau Reichert stared at her hands. ‘She was willful. Capricious. She never listened.’

  ‘She killed herself because she never listened?’ Fritz asked.

  Frau Reichert lifted her head. The tears had formed again. Her lower lip trembled.

  ‘I didn’t hear anything,’ she said, and he realised that from the way she spoke, she was not referring to the gunshot. Something had happened. Something else was going on, and she was trying, in her inefficient way, to hide it.

  The trip to Vienna might not be wasted after all.

  ‘What happened after you found the body?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Frau Reichert said.

  ‘You don’t know what you did?’

  ‘I went and told my mother. She heard nothing either.’

  ‘When did you come out of your room?’

  ‘When Frau Winter arrived with the constable.’

  ‘Frau Winter lives on site as well?’

  ‘No. She went home last night.’

  ‘Who called her?’

  Frau Reichert shrugged. ‘I was with my mother.’

  Fritz bit back his frustration. The woman was terrified, but he did not know if she was terrified of him. She was old enough to remember some of the excesses after the war, but not everyone viewed the police with fear.

  ‘Where was Herr Hitler this morning?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Frau Reichert said. ‘He was to give a speech, but I don’t know where. Not Bavaria. They don’t let him speak in Bavaria. The restrictions are unfair, he says.’

  ‘Where can he speak?’

  ‘He spoke in Berlin.’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t know much about his business.’

  ‘When did he leave?’ Fritz asked.

  ‘Yesterday. Afternoon. After lunch.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  ‘Did he have lunch with Geli?’

  ‘Spaghetti,’ Frau Reichert said. ‘Geli said she was sick of spaghetti. But he loves it, you know.’

  ‘When did she say she was sick of spaghetti?’

  ‘Yesterday.’ Frau Reichert’s voice had lowered. She wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand.

  ‘Were they fighting?’

  ‘She wanted to go to Vienna. Ungrateful girl. She has everything right there.’

  He noted the shift to present tense. Frau Reichert had said those words before. ‘Is that what they fought about?’

  ‘He didn’t want her to go. He had called her back from the last trip. But she was yelling at him.’

  ‘Did you hear what they said?’

  Frau Reichert shook her head. ‘Not after I served the spaghetti. They yelled all through lunch.’

  ‘Then?’

  ‘He left. And she went into her room. I know because she slammed the door so hard the walls shook.’

  She could hear a slammed door but not a gunshot. Fritz said nothing about that. ‘And then what happened?’

  ‘Nothing. I did not see her.’ Frau Reichert swallowed and looked at Fritz. ‘Until this morning.’

  A tear ran down the side of her face and remained under her chin. She did not wipe it away.

  ‘Why are you crying?’ he asked softly.

  The tears fell hard now. She bit her lower lip, then opened her bag and removed the crumpled handkerchief again. ‘I don’t know,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t know.’

  EIGHT

  F ritz takes a breath. ‘I need a cigarette,’ he says. He is out. He is hoping she will offer to buy him a pack, although he refuses to ask.

  She looks at her watch. It is round and gold with tiny roman numerals on its face. A slender hand ticks away each second. He cannot read the watch upside down either. ‘We should probably have lunch.’

  ‘There is a deli down the block.’ He does not offer to buy them lunch. He wants her to bring the food back. He wants her to leave him alone for a few minutes.

  She grabs her bag, stands. ‘I’ll buy.’

  He does not rise. ‘I would like cold roast pork on salt rye. And a pack of cigarettes. Tell them the cigarettes are for me. They keep a carton for me under the counter.’

  She opens her mouth, closes it, and smiles. The smile does not reach her eyes. ‘I thought perhaps we could talk.’

  ‘My dear,’ he says, ‘I have been talking.’

  ‘No, I mean, about me.’

  He looks at her, really looks at her, in a way he hasn’t wanted to. Her pantsuit is umber polyester, her bag plastic. She has worn the same white platform shoes every day since he met her. She is not part of the workers, the opportunists who have come here for the Olympics. Such a travesty that will be. They have ruined his city, rebuilt it with their ugly designs, and they think that such an event can erase the bloodstains of the past.

  Just as Hitler thought in 1936.

  But this woman, this Annie, she is not one of them. Despite her inadequate history, her poor education, she is here to discover things. To dig up the past. The Olympics made a trip t
o Munich affordable, she said to him on the telephone when she arrived. She is on sabbatical, she has told him that, but she probably came to Munich alone, studies alone, spends her time alone. Her grant is probably small, and her income from her teaching position smaller. After she leaves him, she returns to the apartment the university provides for her and studies in the silence, away from her friends, her family, her world.

  He sighs, then pulls his wallet from the drawer of the end table. He hands it to her without counting the bills. He knows how much money is in it, knows how much lunch will cost.

  ‘I am an old man,’ he says softly, knowing it is an ersatz excuse. ‘I need a moment to rest.’

  Her smile remains, but the edges of her eyes pinch. He has hurt her.

  ‘Please,’ he says, ‘buy whatever you like.’

  ‘I should pay. You’re helping me.’

  He lets the words hang in the air for a moment. He is not sure who is helping whom. Then he smiles and waves her away. ‘You bought breakfast.’

  She nods, turns, but not before her smile fades. She looks older today. She lets herself out, and he waits until he can no longer hear her footsteps on the stairs. Then he gets up, like a sleepwalker, and returns to his bedroom.

  He has left the cardboard box in the middle of the floor. He crouches, and reaches inside. The cardboard squeaks as the back of his hands rub against the sides. His fingers brush mounting board, and even before he has a chance to think, the photograph is in his hands.

  It is the wrong photograph. This one he has forgotten. It hits him like a fist in the belly. He stares at the posed photograph, taken of his family just before he left. His younger self stands straight and sombre, his uniform loose, its collar starched, the gold buttons looking white in the black-and-white print. His hat is tucked under his left arm, his chin is jutted forward. He has a young, hopeful look that disappeared in the trenches. None of his later photographs ever seemed so bright-eyed.

  But it is not his younger self that hurts him. Nor is it Gisela. She is even more beautiful than he remembered, her brown hair piled on top of her head, her smile soft and serene. She wore no make-up in those days, and her black dress, although simple, accentuates the fullness of her figure in ways the cabaret clothes she favoured in the Twenties never did.