Moabit Market was on the corner of Bremerstrasse and Arminius Strasse. A large red-brick building, about the same size as a warehouse, it was where the working class of Moabit – which means everyone who lived in the area – bought their cheese, fish, cooked meats and other fresh provisions. There were even one or two places where you could stand and drink a quick beer and eat a sausage. The place was always busy and there were at least six ways in and out of the place. It’s not somewhere that you just wander round. Most people are in a hurry, with little time to stand and stare at things they cannot afford; and anyway, there is none of those sort of goods in Moabit. So my clothes and unhurried demeanour marked me out from the rest.
We knew that Liza Ganz had disappeared from there because that was where a fishmonger had found a shopping bag which Liza’s mother later identified as belonging to her.
Apart from that, nobody saw a damn thing. In Moabit, people don’t pay you much attention unless you’re a policeman looking for a missing girl, and even then it’s just curiosity.
In the afternoon I was summoned to Gestapo headquarters on Prinz Albrecht Strasse.
Glancing up as I passed through the main door, I saw a statue sitting on a truck-tyre of a scroll, working at a piece of embroidery. Flying over her head were two cherubs, one scratching his head and the other wearing a generally puzzled, sort of expression. My guess was that they were wondering why the Gestapo should have chosen that particular building to set up shop. On the face of it, the art school formerly occupying number eight Prinz Albrecht Strasse and the Gestapo, who were currently resident there, didn’t seem to have much in common beyond the rather obvious joke that everyone made about framing things. But that particular day I was more puzzled as to why Heydrich should have summoned me there, instead of to the Prinz Albrecht Palais on nearby Wilhelmstrasse. I didn’t doubt that he had a reason. Heydrich had a reason for doing everything, and I felt sure that I would dislike this one just as much as all the others I’d ever heard.
Beyond the main door you went through a security check, and walking on again you found yourself at the foot of a staircase that was as big as an aqueduct. At the top of the flight you were in a vaulted waiting hall, with three arched windows that were of locomotive proportions. Beneath each window was a wooden bench of the kind you see in church and it was there that I waited, as instructed.
Between each window, on plinths, sat busts of Hitler and Goering. I wondered a bit at Himmler leaving Fat Hermann’s head there, knowing how much they hated each other. Maybe Himmler just admired it as a piece of sculpture. And then maybe his wife was the Chief Rabbi’s daughter.
After nearly an hour Heydrich finally emerged from the two double doors facing me. He was carrying a briefcase and shooed away his S S adjutant when he caught sight of me.
‘Kommissar Gunther,’ he said, appearing to find some amusement at the sound of my rank in his own ears. He ushered me forwards along the gallery. ‘I thought we could walk in the garden once again, like the last time. Do you mind accompanying me back to the Wilhelmstrasse?’
We went through an arched doorway and down another massive set of stairs to the notorious south wing, where what had once been sculptors’ workshops were now Gestapo prison cells. I had good reason to remember these, having once been briefly detained there myself, and I was quite relieved when we emerged through a door and stood in the open air once again. You never knew with Heydrich.
He paused there for a moment, glancing at his Rolex. I started to say something, but he raised his forefinger and, almost conspiratorially, pressed his finger to his thin lips. We stood and waited, but for what I had no idea.
A minute or so later a volley of shots rang out, echoing away across the gardens. Then another; and another. Heydrich checked his watch again, nodded and smiled.
‘Shall we?’ he said, striding on to the gravel pathway.
‘Was that for my benefit?’ I said, knowing full well that it was.
‘The firing squad?’ He chuckled. ‘No, no, Kommissar Gunther. You imagine too much. And anyway, I hardly think that you of all people require an object lesson in power. It’s just that I am particular about punctuality. With kings this is said to be a virtue, but with a policeman this is merely the hallmark of administrative efficiency. After all, if the Fuhrer can make the trains run on time, the least I ought to be able to do is make sure that a few priests are liquidated at the proper appointed hour.’
So it was an object lesson after all, I thought. Heydrich’s way of letting me know that he was aware of my disagreement with SturmbannFuhrer Roth from 4B1.
‘Whatever happened to being shot at dawn?’
‘The neighbours complained.’
‘You did say priests, didn’t you?’
‘The Catholic Church is no less of an international conspiracy than Bolshevism or Judaism, Gunther. Martin Luther led one Reformation, the Fuhrer will lead another. He will abolish Roman authority over German Catholics, whether the priests permit him or not. But that is another matter, and one best left to those who are well versed in its implementation.
‘No, I wanted to tell you about the problem I have, which is that I am under a certain amount of pressure from Goebbels and his Muratti hacks that this case you are working on be given publicity. I’m not sure how much longer I can stave them off.’
‘When I was given this case, General,’ I said, lighting a cigarette, ‘I was against a ban on publicity. Now I’m convinced that publicity is exactly what our killer has been after all along.’
‘Yes, Nebe said you were working on the theory that this might be some sort of conspiracy engineered by Streicher and his Jew-baiting pals to bring down a pogrom on the heads of the capital’s Jewish community.’
‘It sounds fantastic, General, only if you don’t know Streicher.’
He stopped, and thrusting his hands deep inside his trouser pockets, he shook his head.
‘There is nothing about that Bavarian pig that could possibly surprise me.’ He kicked at a pigeon with the toe of his boot, and missed. ‘But I want to hear more.’
‘A girl has identified a photograph of Streicher as possibly the man who tried to pick her up outside a school from which another girl disappeared last week. She thinks that the man might have had a Bavarian accent. The desk sergeant who took an anonymous call tipping us off where exactly to find the body of another missing girl said that the caller had a Bavarian accent.
‘Then there’s motive. Last month the people of Nuremberg burnt down the city’s synagogue. But here in Berlin there are only ever a few broken windows and assaults at the very worst. Streicher would love to see the Jews in Berlin getting some of what they’ve had in Nuremberg.
‘What is more,
Heydrich accelerated ahead of me, his arms stiff at his sides as if he were riding in the Vienna Riding School, and then turned to face me. He was smiling enthusiastically.
‘I know one person who would be delighted to see Streicher’s downfall. That stupid bastard has been making speeches all but accusing the prime minister of being impotent. Goering is furious about it. But you don’t really have enough yet, do you?’
‘No, sir. For a start my witness is Jewish.’ Heydrich groaned. ‘And of course the rest is largely theoretical.’
‘Nevertheless, I like your theory, Gunther. I like it very much.’
‘I’d like to remind the general that it took me six months to catch Gormann the Strangler. I haven’t yet spent a month on this case.’
‘We don’t have six months, I’m afraid. Look here, get me a shred of evidence and I can keep Goebbels off my back. But I need something soon, Gunther. You’ve got another month, six weeks at the outside. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Well, what do you need from me?’
‘Round the clock Gestapo surveillance of Julius Streicher,’ I said. ‘A full undercover investigation of all his business activities and known associates.’
