Heinrich found accommodation in Barmen, where he fared much better than in Berlin. Grimberg offered him the odd shift in the quarry, where working as a day labourer helped him keep his head above water. Though nothing permanent could come of it they would discuss old times, and the dreams which had vanished with the French gold. Then, out of nowhere, Achim von Roddeck had called and, kitted out with new clothes and spending money, Heinrich Wosniak set forth for the imperial capital once more.
With everything wired, Grimberg gazed for a final time at the solid limestone wall, pressed down the lever and began counting slowly backwards to the explosion. Some blasters put cotton wool in their ears, but not him. He wanted to hear and see everything. The moment it all came crashing down was the moment he spent his days working towards and that he loved. For the tiniest fraction of a second it looked as if the solid mass of rock face were about to topple forward in its immensity, only for it to crumble into the valley, leaving a trail of dust.
Grimberg sounded three short beeps for the all-clear, and watched the men emerging from the hut or from behind a dump truck, where they had gathered to watch. He pulled out the cable and wound it up. Paid by the cubic metre, he could finish as soon as he had packed.
He dragged the machine down the slope. From the quarry to the suspension monorail in Vohwinkel was about twenty minutes’ walk. He could be home in an hour, but had barely been able to stand living with Käthe since his dreams had risen from the ashes. Even less since they had diminished again. Nearing the hut he was met by his excitable assistant, Jüppchen. ‘Come quickly, boss. Telephone for you. Trunk call from Berlin.’
At last! When had he last taken a call from the capital? It must have been when Roddeck got himself worked up about this police inspector, thinking he was suspected of murder because he had been asked for his alibi.
Wosniak had furnished the Herr Lieutenant with the perfect alibi. As far as Grimberg recalled, the taciturn report, ‘the Huguenot is gone’, was the last sign of life he had from his faithful Heinrich, in a brief telephone call weeks earlier from Magdeburg train station. And so, when two police officers had informed him that Engel, the murdering Jew, had been found dead, and he need no longer be concerned for his safety, he wondered what might have happened. Roddeck, for his part, appeared to be avoiding him.
He set down the blasting machine, took the dusty receiver from Jüppchen’s hand, and casually announced himself. ‘Grimberg.’
‘Rath here. Detective Inspector Rath. You remember?’
There was no concealing his disappointment. ‘I remember. The dead homeless man.’
‘The dead homeless man who wasn’t Heinrich Wosniak. I wasn’t certain you’d been informed.’
‘It was in the paper.’ What did the man want from him? He wondered as Jüppchen left.
‘That’s just it, the whole thing is a little… delicate. I wouldn’t have called if you hadn’t made such a good impression when we spoke last time. Can I assume you’ll keep what I’m about to say between us?’
‘If that’s how it has to be.’
‘It concerns the reliability of your former lieutenant, Achim von Roddeck.’
‘I’m not sure I follow, Inspector.’
‘Then let me explain.’ The inspector cleared his throat. ‘The thing is… Herr Grimberg, it was Achim von Roddeck who mistakenly identified the corpse of a homeless man as Heinrich Wosniak.’
‘I’m aware of that.’
‘Of course, but now doubts have started to arise concerning the identity of a second dead man, likewise identified by Lieutenant Roddeck.’ The inspector paused as if embarrassed. ‘Perhaps you read about that as well. A few weeks ago we found a corpse in the Spree, to whom the murders of your war comrades can, beyond any doubt, be attributed.’
‘It was Captain Engel. Your colleagues in Elberfeld told me.’
‘Well, that’s just it. Whether the dead man is, in fact, Captain Engel… Herr Grimberg, forgive my indiscretion. As you know Captain Engel was a baptised Jew. Can you tell me if he was circumcised?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘The dead man is not circumcised, hence the doubts I mentioned just now. It wouldn’t be the first time Roddeck had been mistaken.’
‘I don’t know if the captain was circumcised, Inspector. He was high brass and I was a staff sergeant. You think he ever stood under the shower with the likes of me?’
‘Shame, but perhaps you can still be of service.’
‘I can’t imagine how.’
‘Apart from Lieutenant Roddeck you are the only survivor from that time. The only man who knows Benjamin Engel. Could you identify him?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t have time.’
‘No need for you to come here. I’ve sent you a few photos of the dead man. They’ll be arriving soon.’
‘I see.’
‘Take a look at the pictures and let me know.’
For a long time after the Berlin inspector hung up, Grimberg stood receiver in hand, staring out of the window. He had suspected something was amiss, that Roddeck was up to something. That he wasn’t playing with an open hand. So far only suspected, but now he knew.
103
It was raining heavily, and Roddeck had stowed his script under his jacket. He’d have liked to call the whole thing off, but Goebbels himself had heard him promise over supper at the minister’s own private apartment on Reichskanzlerplatz. He had been invited as the emerging star of the new Germany’s literary scene along with two student leaders who were not only readers of his work but had also spoken enthusiastically about their action against the ‘un-German spirit’. He couldn’t say whether it was the praise or the wine that inspired him, only that he had promptly pledged his support.
‘You, my dear Roddeck,’ Goebbels said, ‘are a shining example of what German literature can achieve when shorn of the ballast of its distorting Jewish influence. Now, shine!’
Aglow with wine, he had dazzled them with his promises, later publishing an essay which, thanks to the Student Association news service, was carried in several newspapers: German Literature in the Year Zero. It was his publisher, Dr Hildebrandt, who had done the lion’s share of the work, but it had been a great success, thrusting Roddeck’s name further into the limelight and ensuring that, already, Märzgefallene was being reprinted for the seventh time.
About tonight’s speech, also written by Dr Hildebrandt, he wasn’t so sure. It wasn’t that he was afraid of public speaking, quite the opposite. His problem was time, and an appointment he couldn’t afford to miss. It was why he had declined to take part in the torchlight procession which would carry the books from the student residence at Monbijou Palace via Karlstrasse towards the Reichstag, from there down Unter den Linden, and on to the university. No wonder it was taking so long.
He looked at his wristwatch. Gone half past ten, and where were they? People had been waiting here, by the Opera House, for hours. By now a few students had appeared, as well as the police and fire brigade, and the newsreel who made everything as bright as day with their lights, row upon row illuminating the pyre, the lectern draped in flags behind a bouquet of microphones, and the onlookers, the rain above transformed into glittering threads. The rest of the square was a sea of hats and heads, almost lost in darkness.
Despite the weather it felt almost like a public festival. Street hawkers peddled hot sausages and drinks, cigarettes and chocolate. Some were selling trench mirrors to bystanders, relics from the war used to look over the heads of those in front. Umbrella salesmen would have done a brisk trade too, but of these there was no sign.