‘Hello, Gertrud Engeler,’ I say.
_ _ _
Gertrud is gone. When I wake up in a bed two men are standing in the doorway of the room. One has his hair slicked down – he wears rimless spectacles, a suit. He holds a briefcase in his right hand. The other wears a uniform I have never seen before. It looks like the Luftwaffe, only with purple epaulettes and gold braid at the collar patches, trousers wide at the thigh, and white pointed boots with a Cuban heel. Are they spurs, making that tinkling sound? Who does he think he is?
‘The Generalkommissar is expecting you,’ says the man in the suit.
‘Generalkommissar Kube?’ I say. ‘Expecting me?’
‘Yes. You are Oberleutnant der Polizei, Heinrich Hoffmann, are you not?’
‘Yes.’
‘A car is waiting outside for you.’
_ _ _
I ask what this is about on the way to Generalkommissar Kube’s residence in the centre of Minsk. We’re going to the Kubepalast – one of the few remaining baroque palaces from the Tsarist days not to have been bombed.
The man in the bizarre uniform twists round to face me:
‘My name is Grünfeldt. I am GK Kube’s adjutant.’
‘I see.’
‘And that’s Haber,’ he says with a nod at the besuited man behind the wheel.
‘And what would the Generalkommissar like to see me about?’
‘All in due time,’ Haber says. ‘Hand me my cigarettes, would you, Erwin? They’re in the glove compartment.’
Grünfeldt rummages around.
‘Are you sure they’re here?’
‘Yes. Positive.’
‘Well, I can’t find them.’
Nothing more is said for the remainder of the journey.
_ _ _
The Kubepalast, ten minutes later.
In front of the building: a ring of Wehrmacht and SS, barbed wire, machine-gun posts and concrete security blocks – an obstacle course up the broad driveway to the main entrance. They wave us through. The partisan war is near.
Haber and Grünfeldt lead me down a long corridor, an endless foyer of sofas, marble, solemn paintings and hunting trophies – stags, wild boar, great salmon glistening with varnish, half-foxes with paws protruding from the walls. Grünfeldt, the uniformed adjutant, swivels on his heel. We stop in front of a door that must be three metres tall. He knocks, and a bellowed order comes from inside: Enter!
And there he sits, in this enormous room, the Generalkommissar Kube, Weissruthenien’s German Tsar, with a napkin at his throat, knife and fork in hands, the table set for two. He throws out an arm and barks in falsetto:
‘Be seated!’
I sit down.
The Generalkommissar says nothing further, bent over his pie. He is one of the old warriors, all blood and honour, one of the vociferous few who enjoy Hitler’s confidence; he has plundered his Generalkommissariat, excels at finding slaves, but is protective of Jews, they say – a Jew lover. He bristles, and his trousers tighten, and yet he has the face of a boy, bright and fresh. He smells clean, of a beach in summer, is a non-smoker like the Führer, and a vegetarian. He offers me a piece of the pie; onion, it looks like. What does he want with me? My head hurts, I drink water poured from the jug and answer in monosyllables. I want to smoke. The table looms up, as if I were looking down the wrong end of a telescope, adjusting the lens. I feel sick.
‘A shame about Obergruppenführer Steiner,’ Kube says at last, dabbing the corners of his mouth with the napkin. ‘A shame indeed.’
‘Yes, Herr Generalkommissar,’ I say. ‘A shame.’
‘And his wife … the lovely Gisela …’
‘Yes. The lovely Gisela. A shame. Tragic.’
‘Don’t you want any pie?’
‘No, thank you, Herr Generalkommissar. I’m not at all hungry.’
‘It’s very good, I can tell you. Leek and sour cream.’
‘It looks delicious indeed, Herr Generalkommissar.’
He claps his small, white hands and immediately two young women enter, dressed in Bavarian costume, with thick hair, lederhosen and frilled blouses, displaying white bosoms, bare arms. They clear away the table. Kube rolls up his napkin and puts it through a napkin ring. The ring is of horn, mounted with silver bearing the engraving GK WEISSRUTHENIEN in Gothic lettering. He gets to his feet and goes over to the great stone fireplace.
A badger adorns the mantelpiece, mouth open, glistening with red varnish.
Kube’s uniform is too tight across the back.
‘A damned catastrophe,’ he says. ‘Damn it …’
‘Herr Generalkommissar?’
‘Steiner, of course.’
‘Of course. Indeed.’
‘A good man, Steiner. Did you know him?’
‘No, I’m afraid I never had the pleasure of meeting the Obergruppenführer.’
‘Still, it may well turn out for the best.’
‘I’m sorry, Herr Generalkommissar?’
He says nothing, but turns and looks at me, his round face, thin yellow hair.
‘I understand Manfred Schlosser has got you leading the inquiry. Why did he not consult me?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know, Herr Generalkommissar.’
‘Do you understand our project here in Weissruthenien?’
‘Project … Herr Generalkommissar …?’
‘The idea behind … what we’re doing here, our civilising mission?’
I look down at the table: a small flake of pastry, with some green leek. I dab it into my mouth with a finger. Kube seats himself again, folds his hands.
‘Do you?’
‘I think so, yes. Or … what exactly do you mean, Herr Generalkommissar?’
‘We cannot do without men like Steiner.’
‘No. It’s tragic.’
‘Hm. Yes, well. Tell me what you know.’
‘We’re proceeding from the hypothesis that the Obergruppenführer was killed by a partly Jewish band of partisans.’
‘Jewish. Why’s that?’
‘He was subjected to what we think is a Jewish … ritual …’
‘What the hell’s that supposed to mean?’
‘He was subjected to a ritual circumcision and died from loss of blood. The killing would seem to indicate a so-called crime of passion, in which the method employed is overdetermined and, well, exaggerated.’
Kube pushes away his napkin.
‘In that case I assume retaliation has been initiated?’
‘No. Only on a small scale.’
‘For what reason?’
‘Schlosser, Herr Generalkommissar. He wants to find the perpetrator first.’
‘You mean he wants you to investigate this as if it were an ordinary killing?’
‘Yes.’
‘As though this were an ordinary country.’
‘Yes.’
‘Hmm.’
I clear my throat, gathering my courage. The room is filled with the smell of vegetables, and madness.
‘Herr Generalkommissar, may I ask a question?’
‘Fire away.’
‘I think
