‘Tomas,’ said Heinz, lowering his voice, suddenly aware that they were in a busy restaurant where their conversation could be overheard. ‘Keep your voice down. Remember where you are. People might misunderstand what you’re saying.’
Tomas looked around, and sure enough, the couple at the next table were looking at them. He smiled at them; they didn’t smile back. Both Tomas and Heinz agreed they should talk about other things while they ate. ‘They have a very good roast chicken here,’ said Heinz, so they both ordered chicken and dumplings and beer.
‘You know, Tomas, I’ve been with the Führer for a long time,’ said Heinz, as they walked home. ‘I believe in his vision for Germany.’
‘I know, Papa.’
‘And what about you, Tomas?’
‘I don’t believe in that vision.’
‘You don’t believe in one German people?’
‘Does that include Jewish people?’
‘No, of course not,’ said Heinz.
‘Why not?’ said Tomas.
‘They are an alien culture with different and alien ways,’ said Heinz. ‘You know that. They have polluted our culture with their ways, and our blood with their blood.’
‘You’re just parroting Hitler, Papa. What about …?’
‘I’m not parroting anyone,’ said Heinz, growing angry. ‘Damn it, show some respect. These are my own beliefs.’
‘Show respect? OK. What about old Tante Jolesch?’ said Tomas. ‘Did she pollute our blood, our culture?’
Heinz hadn’t thought about Jolesch for a long time. The old Jew from Prague everyone called Tante Jolesch had lived upstairs when Heinz and Renate had still been married and Tomas was a small boy. Jolesch had been a wonderful neighbor, taking care of little Tomas so Heinz and Renate could enjoy a night out once in a while. She had also cooked delicious meals for them. She would just show up at the door with casseroles, soups, desserts whenever the spirit moved her. When both Heinz and Renate had been sick with the flu during the big epidemic, Jolesch had moved in and taken care of them until they were better. Heinz had wept when Jolesch had died.
‘What about the old Jew Jolesch?’ Tomas said again.
‘What about her?’ said Heinz, truly angry now.
They walked the rest of the way home in silence. When they got there, Heinz went into his apartment and slammed the door.
‘Goodbye, Papa,’ said Tomas, speaking to the closed door.
The Ninth Victim
A young woman’s body, mutilated in the usual way, was found not far from one of the late-night streetcar lines. She had been returning home from an assignation with her boss. The snow was crimson all around where she lay. How could one person have so much blood?
It turned out, however, that the blood was not all hers. When the police moved her body onto the stretcher, they found a small knife. She had apparently carried it to defend herself and, before she perished, she had wounded the killer, maybe seriously. He had not cleaned his knife in the usual manner. Instead, a large piece of fabric had been torn from her dress, possibly as an improvised bandage. The killer had run off, leaving a trail of blood in the snow along with his footprints. He had been running, not staggering, so the wound was likely not mortal. Not immediately anyway.
A streetcar conductor remembered a wounded man getting into his car at exactly three o’clock in the morning. He knew it was three because the nearby church bell was sounding the hour just as the man got on the streetcar. ‘I always listen for the three o’clock bells. That way I know we’re on schedule.’ The wounded man’s right sleeves had been slashed open. He had a bandage of some sort tied around the wound, but it was still bleeding. It had dripped on the floor. A freak accident, the man had said. A lot of blood, he said, but no serious damage.
‘Can I help?’ said the conductor. ‘Don’t worry,’ said the man. ‘I’ll be fine.’ He had smiled, but you could tell he was in pain. ‘Thanks for your concern,’ he had said when he got off the streetcar.
‘Where did he get off?’ said Detlev Lettauer, the detective interviewing him.
‘Why are you asking me all these questions again?’ said the conductor.
‘What do you mean again?’ said Lettauer.
‘Well, another detective interviewed me yesterday, and he asked the same questions. And then some. I told him everything I know.’
‘Another detective? What was this detective’s name?’
‘I didn’t get it,’ said the conductor.
‘Did he show you his credentials?’
‘Well, he said he was a detective. Who else would be asking that kind of questions?’
Detective Lettauer asked for a description.
‘About your height,’ said the driver. ‘Glasses, a mustache. Is this connected with those murders?’
‘What more can you tell me about the other detective?’ said Lettauer. ‘Where did he interview you?’
‘I was just starting my shift,’ said the driver. ‘Yesterday afternoon, the day after they found her. Five o’clock.’
‘You mean he met you here, at the streetcar yard?’
‘No. He just got on the streetcar.’
‘Where?’
‘Julius-Hemdstraße. First stop out of the yard.’
‘How far did he go?’
‘I think he got off at Dreiheiligenplatz.’
‘Did you see which direction he went?’
‘He may have gone toward the river, but I’m not sure.’
Willi was risking his life. The police now knew somebody was impersonating a detective, and that meant the SS and Gestapo knew. He didn’t need to be told about the danger he was in. Bergemann told him anyway. Lola didn’t know what Willi was up to. But there was no mistaking that he was keyed up and on edge about something. He got out of bed in the middle of the night and sat in the dark. You could almost hear him thinking. She tried to warn him too, but she didn’t even know what to warn him about.
There were five clinics and hospitals along the streetcar line between the scene of the latest murder and Karolinenplatz. After talking with the driver, Willi had retrieved his bicycle and ridden from one clinic to the next. At the very last clinic – a small private one – he struck gold.
Late on the night
