‘Perhaps?’
‘What do I get out of it?’
‘One hundred.’
‘Two hundred and you have a deal.’
‘One hundred.’
The youth pretended to consider if it was worth his while, but his face gave him away. He needed the cash, and one hundred marks was hardly chicken feed.
He could have gone with two hundred, it didn’t make any difference. He wasn’t planning to pay, but yielding too quickly would make the youth suspicious.
‘One hundred it is.’
For the first time he looked into the youth’s eyes, delighting in his unease. ‘But only,’ he said, holding out his hand, ‘if I catch her too.’
They shook on it.
71
The pastor’s office was as Rath remembered: dominated by a huge, intimidating painting of St Norbert, filled with dark wood furniture, two windows facing onto Mühlenstrasse where the Buick gleamed in the cold winter sun. Spring came late to Berlin.
Having postponed their appointment with Pastor Warszawski once already, today they made sure to leave the Castle in good time.
St Norbert’s wasn’t exactly close by, nor was it Rath’s home parish, but he knew of no other Catholic priest in Berlin. After four years in this heathen city, Gereon Rath from Holy Cologne hadn’t once attended Mass but, unless he wished to be disinherited, a Catholic wedding was the only option. Rather than choosing someone unfamiliar, he had sought out Johannes Warszawski, whom he’d first met a couple of years back when Warszawski had taken an incense holder to the back of his head. After this painful greeting Rath had come to appreciate the priest, without whose help the Weisse Hand, a secret band of vigilantes who had infiltrated the Berlin Police, might never have been broken.
All that was ancient history. The reason for today’s meeting was the so-called Brautexamen, which the Catholic Church set all prospective spouses prior to marriage. The pastor, stocky rather than fat, sat behind his desk like a king Rath and Charly had come to beseech. The truth wasn’t so different; to marry a Protestant, Rath had to ask permission of the Holy Mother Church, and whether or not this was granted had less to do with Rath than with his Protestant bride-to-be. That is, with Charly. He hadn’t been this nervous in a long time, and just hoped she could rein in her unpredictable streak.
So far, everything was going swimmingly. Pastor Warszawski had spoken about the deeper meaning of the marriage sacrament, about the liturgy and order of ceremony, and was noting their personal details.
‘Is that a spider?’ Charly asked suddenly, pointing towards the sacred image on the wall behind the priest.
‘St Norbert,’ Rath explained hurriedly. ‘That’s how he’s always portrayed.’
‘Our patron saint,’ Pastor Warszawski said. His irritability always put Rath in mind of Wilhelm Böhm.
‘Why’s it coming out of a chalice?’
‘I’ll explain later.’
Warszawski laughed, and with his laugh the irritability was gone. ‘I needn’t be concerned about someone so inquisitive. You’ll be a fast learner.’
‘A fast learner?’ Charly looked baffled, and Rath feared the worst. Keeping his counsel he opted to say a quick prayer…
‘Well,’ the pastor began, looking serious again, ‘if you are to enter into the sacred bond of marriage with your betrothed here, then the Church must ensure that any resulting offspring will be baptised as Catholics and raised in the Catholic faith. Seen thus, a little awareness of Catholic matters is no bad thing.’
‘Well,’ Charly said, ‘I’ve no plans to study Catholic theology.’
For God’s sake! Rath was sweating blood.
‘Nor are you obliged to,’ Warszawski said. ‘These matters can just as well be explained by your husband.’ Rath nodded devotedly. ‘Very well,’ Warszawksi said. ‘Then I can tick that box too.’ He made a few ticks on the form in front of him. ‘That’s the greatest hurdle overcome.’
More questions followed, on previous marriages, on the voluntary nature of their own vows, on possible impediments and so on, Warszawski ticking the items off one by one. Charly didn’t make any more trouble, and Rath felt relieved.
‘Right,’ the pastor said, skimming the form a final time, ‘that’s about it for today.’ He pushed the form across the table towards Charly and handed her his fountain pen. ‘Sign here, Fräulein Ritter.’
Charly looked around helplessly. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘I explained it to you,’ Rath said. ‘The Church has to be sure our children will be raised in the Catholic faith.’
‘You didn’t mention signing anything. I thought we were just talking.’
‘It’s only a signature.’
‘I can’t sign this. I don’t know anything about the Catholic faith.’
‘Will you stop making such a fuss!’
Pastor Warszawski gazed at him sternly, then turned to Charly. ‘Now listen, young woman. I am not the Pope, nor do I presume to pass judgement on your happiness. All I’m interested in, is whether you have the necessary respect for the holy sacrament of marriage. A covenant with God is a great commitment and responsibility. If you take it seriously you will raise your children accordingly.’
Charly nodded. ‘I take it seriously,’ she said and looked at Rath.
‘Then you can sign.’ Warszawski handed her the fountain pen. ‘The most important thing is what’s written in your heart.’
Charly seemed to appreciate this. She signed the document and Rath thanked God he had come to Johannes Warszawski and not one of the bigoted clerics he knew from childhood. Following Charly’s lead he signed the declaration and returned the pen to the priest.
‘Then it’s done,’ Warszawski said. ‘Now, I suggest we take the opportunity to schedule an appointment for confession. What do you say, Herr Rath?’
‘Confession?’
‘Of course. Best just before the marriage.’ He winked at him. ‘Which, needless to say, doesn’t mean you are free to sin with impunity until then.’
Rath forced a smile. ‘Needless to say.’
Sitting in the car ten minutes later his principal emotion was relief. Charly had signed. The only thing that could happen now was her jilting him at the altar. He watched her out of the corner of his eye and wondered what she was thinking about.
He was to find out soon enough.
‘Let’s stop at Bahnhof Zoo,’ she said, as they approached Charlottenburg. ‘We can look out for Fritze.’
‘The boy’s been gone three days. He isn’t coming back. Just be glad he didn’t steal anything from us.’
Charly glared at him. ‘Fritze is my only link to Hannah Singer,’ she said. ‘I have to find him.’
‘Charly, you’re getting too caught up in this business. You shouldn’t be neglecting your own work over it.’
‘My own work,’ she said contemptuously. ‘My own work is about as useful as a skin rash.’
‘You make it sound like a disease.’
‘It is.’ She looked at him. ‘Gereon, there’s something I need to confess.’
‘I’m the Catholic, not you.’
‘I was at the doctor’s today.’
‘Don’t say you’re…’
‘No!’ She laughed. ‘My God, is that all you lot can think of?’
‘You lot?’
‘Forget it.’ Charly took a piece of paper from her coat pocket. ‘I didn’t dare show this to you before but, following our meeting with the pastor, I think we should share everything.’
They stopped at a red light on Schaperstrasse, and Rath unfolded the letter. A medical certificate. He recognised the name of the doctor, one of her friends from academia, perhaps.