His interrogation of Willi had originally been meant to discover Willi’s supposed political activities and criminal connections while he was a policeman. But Willi’s interest in the murder of these women now completely diverted his attention. He was by no means sympathetic toward the treacherous former policeman, but he was very sympathetic toward Geismeier’s professed desire to put this killer out of commission. The Hauptsturmführer was a man who loved women. All women.
‘But damn it, man, you’re no longer a cop,’ said the Hauptsturmführer. ‘If you had been a proper policeman you might have solved the case by now. But, damn it, Geismeier, you disgraced yourself. You threw away the right to investigate anything. So, tell me: on whose authority were you impersonating a police detective and investigating this crime? That’s what I want to know.’
It was a rhetorical question, so the Hauptsturmführer was surprised when he got an answer. ‘Grosz,’ said Willi. ‘Friedrich Grosz.’
‘Friedrich Grosz?! Friedrich Grosz is the authority?’ said the Hauptsturmführer, sounding confused and indignant at the same time. ‘Who the hell is Friedrich Grosz?’
‘Friedrich Grosz is the killer, Hauptsturmführer Altdorfer.’ Willi had finally remembered the captain’s name.
Altdorfer realized that all he knew about the murders of the thirteen women was what he had read in the paper. And Geismeier seemed to know more. And Willi was correct: the police were still no closer to solving the case than they had been when he had been arrested. And the Hauptsturmführer found himself wondering for the first time why they hadn’t caught the killer. Was this beast really that cunning that he could evade the Reich’s entire security apparatus? He had been murdering women for years; they certainly ought to have caught him by now.
In fact, they probably would have solved the case if they had just followed the evidence. But they were completely distracted by other things – departmental politics for one – and Willi’s impersonation of a detective for another. That was politically safer to investigate than a murder that might involve one of their own, or worse, someone above them. And so, their investigation had veered off in the relatively harmless direction of Willi’s criminality. Some of the departmental higher-ups – superiors Willi had bedeviled when he was still a detective – believed, or pretended to believe, that his playing detective might be part of a plot against their departmental regime. Or maybe he had played detective just to show them up. Altdorfer had heard that argument and had thought it might be true.
‘Who is this Friedrich Grosz, Geismeier?’ he asked.
‘He is the murderer of those women, Hauptsturmführer, and an officer in the Gestapo.’
Altdorfer jumped to his feet and left the room without another word. That allegation crossed the line. It just couldn’t be. The Gestapo would have rooted out and punished such a heinous malefactor long ago. The Führer wouldn’t stand for such a monster in his regime. And yet, the thought stayed in Hauptsturmführer Altdorfer’s mind and wouldn’t let go.
Kristallnacht
The clouds were low; it felt like snow. Heinz had a letter from Tomas. He took it up to show Frau Schimmel. He made a pot of tea and brought it to her along with the letter. He helped her sit up in bed and plumped the pillow behind her head. ‘Drink this, Bertha,’ he said. ‘It’ll warm you up.’ They had finally, after years of knowing each other, begun using first names.
‘Nothing warms me up any more,’ she said. ‘Other than your company.’
‘Drink it anyway,’ he said.
She did as she was told, taking small careful sips. Her hand trembled and the cup rattled on the saucer as she set it down. ‘This was my mother’s china,’ she said. ‘Limoges. I never cared much for it, you know. But I always kept it. And now I’m glad I did. It seems important somehow.’
He gave her the letter. The paper fluttered in her hand as she read it. ‘Tomas sounds well,’ she said.
They sat silently for a while. The only sound was the radiator banging and the ticking of the clock on the dresser. ‘I need to bleed the radiators some day soon,’ said Heinz.
‘There’s no rush, Heinz.’
‘Still,’ said Heinz, but had nothing to add. The clock ticked.
‘You said you had something to tell me, Heinz.’
‘Yes. Maybe. I don’t know, Bertha. I don’t want to alarm you.’
‘What is it?’
‘Well. It’s probably nothing really, probably routine. And nothing for you to worry about. But two SS men stopped at my apartment yesterday. They asked for a list of residents, which I gave them. I heard they did the same thing in other buildings on the street.’
‘Don’t the police already have the names on our residency permits?’
‘Yes. That’s why it’s odd.’
‘Well, did they ask for anything else?’ said Frau Schimmel.
‘Yes, Bertha, they did. They asked about several residents in particular. Gruenhaus on the third floor, Penemann on four, and you. They asked about you.’
‘Did they? And what did they want to know?’
‘They wanted to know if you were a Jew.’
‘Did they? And what did you tell them?’
‘I told them no! I said, of course not.’
‘But I am, Heinz. I am a Jew.’
‘What?’
‘I’m a Jew, Heinz.’
Heinz felt dizzy, he swayed on his feet. He went pale. He couldn’t speak. He could hardly breathe. He sat down heavily on the chair by her bed. Betrayal, confusion, and anger flitted across his face and back again. ‘But …’ he said. ‘Why …?’
Because he was a storm trooper, Heinz had learned that morning about a planned ‘action’ in two nights. A seventeen-year-old Jew named Herschel Grynszpan had shot and killed the third secretary in the German embassy in Paris. The Nazis had deported Herschel’s father to Poland, and Herschel, mad with grief, had gone to the embassy to kill the ambassador. Ernst Von Rath, the third
