Show Business is Murder

“Why do you wince?” The detective went on. “You did your part. Lured the dirty Jew into a trap. Softened him up with your favors. Made him weak and defenseless. He was no match for them.”

“No. You are wrong.” Her hands flew to her face.

“How much did they give you to set him up?” She turned away. “How much, Fraulein?” She shook her head. “You are aware that I can make your life most unpleasant. A charge of lewd behavior or accessory to murder will not sit well. Even in Berlin.”

“You do not understand, Inspektor. If I tell you, I sign my death warrant.”

“And if you do not, you go to jail.” He circled a chair, letting the weight of his words sink in. “But you see, Ilse, you have another problem. You see, these men-these Brown Shirts-they will never believe you did not confess. So when you leave jail, as you eventually will, they will find you.”

She stared at him, her eyes vacant and dull. “So I am fickt. No matter what I do.”

He shrugged. She pulled her robe tight and started to pace. He waited. It wasn’t long.

“They wanted to know what Friedrich was doing at the University.”

“And what did you tell them?”

“The truth. I did not know. We did not talk about his work. We had-other matters to discuss.”

He folded his arms.

“They didn’t believe me either. They-they forced me to service them. One at a time. Like dogs in heat.” She spat on the floor. “They said they would kill me if they found out I lied.”

He studied her. Not just a whore. A pathetic, used-up whore. “And so they killed him because he was a rich, powerful Jew.”

“No. They did not like him, but they did not kill him.”

“How do you know?”

Her sad eyes burned with a curious light. “They did not come until the night after he died.”

“The night after?” The inspector stiffened. “You are lying, Fraulein. The manager said-”

She snorted. “He will say whatever you want him to.”

“Perhaps you are mistaken. The stage lights are harsh and blinding. Perhaps they were there. But you didn’t see them. They hid at the back of the theater until he left your room.”

Her eyes tracked him up and down. “No. I told you. They came the night after. Demanding to know if he was the Jew who worked at the University.”

The detective leaned his hands on the back of the chair.

“Please, Herr Inspektor. I beg you. Do not tell them I told you. They will surely kill me.” She covered her face with her hands.

ILSE NEVER CAME back to Der Flammen. For weeks the detective sifted through the reports of bodies that washed up from the river, or were found in the alleys, but none matched her description. He went back to the woman Ilse had stayed with, the cabaret manager, even the urchin he found on the street, but no one knew where she was.

He read up on uranium at the library, then, late one afternoon, met with a Berlin physicist. Afterwards, he took a walk. An icy wind slicing through him, he trudged down the Nollendorfplatz, ignoring a come-on from a young boy with eyes as heavily kohled as a woman’s. On the Kurfurstendamm he gazed at a church as if its gothic spires might tell him what to do. And on his wintry hike, he thought about the professor, his wife, his colleagues. The Brown Shirts and what they were doing. His own job, his family, his country. By morning he had made his decision.

He arrested the Brown Shirts and prepared to bring them to trial. Of course, there were heated denials. Even some threats on his life. His case, nonetheless, was solid: he had the manager’s story and Ilse’s friend’s. He also had the casings from the Luger, which everyone knew was their weapon of choice. He ignored Ilse’s claim that they came to Der Flammen the night after. She was a whore; she had fled. Dead or alive, her word would be suspect at best.

By the time it came to trial a year later, though, everything had changed. Hitler was in power, and the Brown Shirts were acquitted. The next day the detective told his wife to pack. They would go to Switzerland or Holland. Perhaps, if they were lucky, New York.

A LIGHT DUSTING of snow coated the streets. Hobbling on a cane, the former detective let his grandchildren drag him towards the skating rink. It had opened in Thirty-six, just after they came to New York. Now, twenty years later, it was a family tradition. Every December, he and his wife brought the children, and now the grandchildren, into the city to take in the tree, the glow of lights, the holiday glitter.

The children chattered excitedly, their cheeks red from the cold. They watched the skaters circle the ice, dipping and gliding to the music. His attention was drawn to a tall, graceful girl, whose helmet of bright hair gleamed as she twirled.

Shadows chased the sun away, and dusk settled over the rink. The skaters cut sharp silhouettes against the pale ice. But it wasn’t until the lights snapped on that he noticed the group at the next table. A tiny woman wrapped in a fur coat, her hair pulled back in a bun, surrounded by children and two adults.

“Oma.” A little girl squealed in delight. “You must taste the chocolate. Like Lindt’s, but hot.”

“You taste it for me.”

Steam rose from the cup. The little girl sipped and smacked her lips. Chocolate rimmed her mouth. Her smile revealing a deeply lined face, the old woman brushed her hand across the girl’s hair. Then, as if aware she was being watched, she turned toward the detective.

The old man blinked. He knew this small, birdlike woman. The steady gaze. The clear blue eyes that, after a moment’s appraisal, deepened in recognition as well.

“Herr Inspektor.” Her voice was serene and pleasant. “How delightful to see you again.”

His forehead wrinkled. “Madame, I apologize, but-”

“I am Frau Hesse, Herr Inspektor.” She smiled. “Wife of Friedrich Hesse.”

Her name burrowed into his memory, and the long ago case sprang into his mind. He rose and slowly made his way to her table.

“It is good to see you on this side of the ocean.” Her smile made it seem she’d been expecting him.

“We came from Holland.”

She nodded. “I came after the trial.”

He remembered the trial. He leaned his hand on his cane. “My one regret was that I did not bring them to justice, Frau Hesse. In failing them, I failed you. And your family.”

She looked at him for a long moment. “No. You did everything you could.” The thin smile on her face made him frown. This woman had the ability to surprise him, he remembered. Anticipate him. Say the unexpected.

“You see, Herr Inspektor, justice was served. The men who were tried, they were not guilty. They did not kill my husband.”

He chose his words with care. “Madame, please do not spare my feelings. We are both too old for that.”

“Deanna, take the children. I will follow.”

The young woman collected the children and walked them to the ice. She tapped the chair next to her. The detective sank into it.

“Do you remember what my husband was working on at the University?”

“Radiation, was it not?”

“Not quite,” she said, the teacher correcting a student. “Radioactive elements. Subatomic elements that could be isolated in uranium.” Her expression softened. “What neither I nor my colleagues told you was how far his work had taken him.”

The detective held up his hand. “No Madame. You are mistaken. It was not radioactive isotopes-uranium or otherwise. It was simple radiation.”

“Inspektor, do not presume to tell me about my work. I was a physicist, too, if you recall.”

“Yes, Frau Hesse. I remember. It was radiation. Not the other.”

She frowned, the lines at the side of her mouth tightening. “Perhaps you should tell me what it is you remember.”

He cleared his throat. “What I remember is that a group of Nazi thugs ambushed your husband. He was set up