‘Weissbecker. And yours?’
We chink.
‘Staal. Viktor Staal. Zarah’s already accepted …’
_ _ _
She stands, draws her hands down over the small of her back, smoothing her grey skirt, twisting herself into place.
‘There was something else,’ I say, rising to join her.
‘Yes?’
I take the note with the coded message from the pocket of my uniform jacket and hand it to her.
‘Will you send this for me?’
‘What is it?’
She hesitates, suspicious.
‘For the Kripo in Hamburg? You’re not going to get me into trouble, are you?’
‘It’s best you know nothing about it.’
I lean forward, cup my hand to her ear and whisper:
‘Zarah has a problem, a women’s matter. You know … hush-hush.’
I put an index finger to my lips.
‘Hush-hush?’
‘Hush-hush.’
We stand there for a moment, next to each other. I can smell her perfume. I want to kiss her again. She draws away from me and puts the note in her pocket.
‘Has the whole world gone mad?’ she says.
‘Yes,’ I say.
_ _ _
He is a big man. Hauptsturmführer Kindler, my ticket to Hamburg, the size of zu Gutenberg, my superior who is on leave in Stuttgart, at the manor house on the Neckar, with its pollarded poplars, the old baron to be put in the ground, eaten away by bone cancer, or is he still on his deathbed? I have forgotten.
He is a 56.
His police uniform hangs in his cupboard, behind the desk, three offices down.
Frezl smokes a long, pink cigarette as I walk along the corridor, inhaling in a concentrated sort of way, as though he has never done it before. Is that make-up on his eyelashes?
I pat the pockets of the uniform. Nothing untoward. Or rather: a photograph of a girl, ten or twelve years old, in a grey skirt, ankle socks and patent leather shoes, feet splayed out. She curls in front of the camera, a scatter of teeth and freckles. In the background a vast lawn, and a horsewoman in a jacket in the distance.
I fold the uniform up, put it in the bag with the StG 44 and toss the cap on top.
It would fit an oil drum. And zu Gutenberg is a Hauptmann d.P.
But it will be dark.
_ _ _
Kindler bursts in through the door a few minutes later, open leather coat, heavy boots, throws himself down in my chair, arms wide, bellowing:
‘So what the hell am I here for …?’
‘Because of this,’ I say, and shove the folder containing the Feigl report across the desk to him.
‘And what might that be?’
Kindler snatches up the folder, leans back, opens it and narrows his eyes. Is he short-sighted, too vain to wear spectacles?
He starts laughing.
‘I knew it! It was Breker … the bastard … Was that all?’
‘Yes. I thought you might want to know.’
‘Indeed!’
He rises, sways slightly, a tower of flesh, a rumbling roll of laughter.
‘I thought you were too scared, when it never came.’
‘I was on another case. Goga, you know …’
He lifts a paw and wipes his nose.
‘Lunch on me! Say where!’
_ _ _
The mess, later.
‘Nobody touches my Jews …’
He jabs a finger at me, then swipes the air with his great mitt. Small, thick-bottomed schnapps glasses litter the table, a battery of yellow shots, he picks one up and hurls it down his throat, the waiter pours a dozen at a time, appears again with the bottle, scatters the alcohol over the glasses, soaking the table in spirits, a fuming swamp of booze. Kindler leans forward, piggish eyes swimming, a thick curtain of smoke in the iris, copper-coloured spots. He runs a finger inside his collar and loosens his tie.
‘I’m telling you … fucking … whores … Ha!’
They cannot touch me as long as I am protected by Kindler.
Nobody touches Kindler. They are not going to gun down a Hauptsturmführer in the middle of town, for God’s sake.
Saliva dribbles from his mouth, his head is on the table.
He sweeps the glasses to the floor.
He falls asleep.
When I collect my jacket from the cloakroom, one arm around Kindler’s shoulder, there is an envelope sticking out of the pocket. I slide a finger inside and tear it open. Kindler supports himself with both hands on the counter, devouring the cloakroom girl with his eyes, jaw hanging open.
It is from Greta. On the last page: Approved.
A seat on the train to Hamburg tomorrow morning at five.
Greta …
There is a reply too from my colleague, Kripo, in Hamburg.
I put them in my bag. Now I have all the documents.
All I need to do is get through the next four hours until the train leaves.
I pick up the bag with the uniform and the StG 44 in it and put it under my arm.
‘We’ll go and have some more,’ I say, patting Kindler on the back. ‘And let’s find some whores …’
Kindler sighs.
‘I forgot my …’ He belches. ‘Left my tablets at the office … dicky heart.’
The sky is a scream of crimson as we emerge from the establishment. The Mercedes pulls away from the kerb and crawls along behind.
_ _ _
Between the road and the pond, a couple of hundred metres beyond the station, a grainy terrain vague, amid the rumble of the drinking houses, the squealing whores, the needle snatched from a gramophone record, dance music, they must be playing musical chairs or strip poker, or the floor is made of lava.
A man roars.
A musty shed at the pond’s edge. The girl is sixteen, seventeen perhaps. Her mother or aunt, a small, tightly packaged woman, receives us. She withdraws, and we are left on our own: bed, table, cupboard, samovar.
Kindler is huffing and blowing. His enormous frame fills the place.
‘Do you speak German?’ I ask the girl.
She nods and looks at the floor.
‘Bonk, bonk … A bit of …’
‘Hey!’ Kindler belches, staggers, lurches towards me. ‘You!’
The girl looks up. Her face is pale, hair jet black, freckles dotted about her mouth.
‘Heads or tails?’
He fumbles in the pockets of his leather coat. He finds 50 pfennig, turns it between his fingers, the coin held up in front
