‘It was soap, not cologne?’
‘No, definitely soap. That hard, brown soap you can buy everywhere. We use the same soap. Everybody does.’
‘Did he say anything?’
‘He was talking – muttering, more like it – but I couldn’t understand anything he said.’
‘Could you make out any words?’
‘No. It was gibberish to me.’
‘Could it have been a foreign language?’
‘No. It was German, except it didn’t make any sense.’
‘Do you remember any phrases or even just words?’
She thought for a moment. ‘No. Nothing. It made no sense. I wish I could. Oh, God!’
‘That’s fine, Frau Raczynski. I know this is hard. But we might just hit on something that makes a difference.’ Bergemann paused. ‘Can we go on?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m all right.’
‘Did he ever say your name?’
‘Really, Detective …’ said Horst.
‘Wait. He may have,’ said Erna, surprised then frightened at the thought.
‘You think so, but can’t be sure?’ said Bergemann.
‘Yes … No.’ She closed her eyes as though she were listening. ‘I can hear his voice, a soft voice. He was kind of screaming and whispering at the same time, if you know what I mean?’
‘I do,’ said Bergemann. ‘Was it a voice you recognized, a voice you had ever heard before, or heard since?’
‘No, I don’t think so. But if he spoke my name? How …?’
‘Can you remember how he said your name? Was it a greeting, a threat?’
‘I can’t say what it was. I can’t be sure. I may just have imagined I heard my name. I couldn’t understand anything he was saying. He was angry, raging.’
‘Is my wife in danger?’ said Horst.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Bergemann. ‘It’s been over a year. If he meant to attack her again, he would have already tried. I think he has more to fear from you, Frau Raczynski, than you do from him.’
Erna thought about that.
‘The pitch of his voice,’ said Bergemann, ‘was it high or low?’
‘It was high, quite high.’
‘Did he curse, or call you bad names?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe.’
Horst’s recollection of the killer was that he was youngish, he guessed late twenties, early thirties. He didn’t seem to Horst to be strong, so much as furious. Horst was not very big, but he said he thought he could have overpowered the killer, given the opportunity.
‘Did he actually try to stab you, or did you just get in the way of the knife?’
‘I think I got in the way of the knife,’ said Horst. ‘He actually seemed shocked and frightened that he had stabbed me. That’s when he ran off. He was a very fast runner. I knew I could never catch him.’
Bergemann spoke with the Raczynskis for nearly an hour. Which direction had the man fled, what was the night like, the weather, what had Erna been wearing, what was she carrying, what was Horst wearing? Everything he could think to ask, he asked.
Bergemann looked through his notes. ‘One last thing, Frau Raczynski. You were an amateur actor, weren’t you?’
‘That was years ago. But yes, I was.’
‘It’s just an idea, but do you think you could … I understand if you don’t want to do this … but do you think you could imitate his voice? Just to give me the sound of his voice as you heard it?’
‘Oh, God!’ she said.
‘Really, Detective!’ said Horst yet again. ‘You’re asking her to mimic the man that tried to kill her. Can you imagine what that—?’
Erna suddenly jumped up from her chair. Her eyes were wide with fury, her mouth was contorted with rage, the veins in her neck bulged, her fists were clenched in front of her. She made a slashing motion in Bergemann’s direction as she screamed, ‘You filthy bitch! You slut, you goddamned whore!’ It was not Erna’s voice, it was the killer’s voice, a high growl, hoarse and venomous, and filled with hatred.
Both Bergemann and Horst stared at her in astonishment.
‘It was like that,’ she said, sitting back down.
Briennerstraße 20
The Berlin Olympics were a smashing success, many were saying the greatest Olympics ever. Hitler had overseen the construction of new facilities, including a stadium that seated more than 100,000 spectators along with other halls and arenas for a multitude of sports. The facilities were superb, and the German athletes were triumphant, winning more gold medals than any other country, including the United States. Tens of thousands of visitors had come from around the world to marvel at Germany’s miraculous rebirth, to partake of its thriving culture and booming economy. One could imagine – and many did – that the world was entering a period of peace and prosperity.
Hitler basked in the Olympic glow for months. And yet now his great propaganda triumph was being tainted by the exploits of a lone, sick serial killer. It was no wonder that he was furious. The Führer ranted at anyone and everyone. How could one pathetic murderer outwit the entire Gestapo, the SS, all the police in Germany? His underlings scrambled to keep a lid on the story. Everyone was sworn to secrecy. Joseph Goebbels, the Propaganda Minister, forbade newspapers from printing a word about it.
Still, rumors sprang up and grew wilder with each retelling. Every effort to suppress the lurid details and damp down speculation inspired new rumors and intensified the fear. Before long the papers had to publish the facts of the case, as terrible as they might have been, in order to keep rumors and conspiracy theories that were even worse from taking over. The Völkischer Beobachter wrote:
‘That such criminality should have been allowed to run rampant for more than three years is an unforgivable betrayal of the Führer’s vision for our great German Reich. It is moreover a grave betrayal of the purity and sanctity of German womanhood. The perpetrator of these eight brutal murders must be brought to justice. Unspeakable crimes such as these sully our noble German blood, and blaspheme against the essence of our German existence. These crimes are so grotesque, so counter to everything that is good and pure in the
