As I walked over to him I thought of all the things I would have said to him if I had been his father, but when I was close to him, I smiled. I felt more like giving him a good jaw-whistler with the back of my hand.
‘Hallo, Heinrich.’
His fine blue eyes looked at me with sullen suspicion.
‘I suppose you think you can tell me off,’ he said, ‘just because you were a friend of my father’s.’
‘Me? I don’t give a shit what you do.’
‘Oh? So what do you want?’
I shrugged and offered him a cigarette. He took one and I lit us both. Then I threw him the box of matches. ‘Here,’ I said, ‘you might need these tonight. Maybe you could try the Jewish Hospital.’
‘See? You are going to give me a lecture.’
‘On the contrary. I came to tell you that I found the men who murdered your father.’
‘You did?’ Some of Heinrich’s friends who were now busy looting the clothes shop yelled to him to come and help. ‘I won’t be long,’ he called back to them. Then he said to me: ‘Where are they? The men who killed my father.’
‘One of them is dead. I shot him myself.’
‘Good. Good.’
‘I don’t know what is going to happen to the other two. That all depends, really.’
‘On what?’
‘On the SS. Whether they decide to court-martial them or not.’ I watched his handsome young face crease with puzzlement. ‘Oh, didn’t I tell you? Yes, these men, the ones who murdered your father in such a cowardly fashion, they were all SS officers. You see, they had to kill him because he would probably have tried to stop them breaking the law. They were evil men, you see, Heinrich, and your father always did his best to put away evil men. He was a damned good policeman.’ I waved my hand at all the broken windows. ‘I wonder what he would have thought of all this?’
Heinrich hesitated, a lump rising in his throat as he considered the implications of what I had told him.
‘It wasn’t — it wasn’t the Jews who killed him then?’
‘The Jews? Good gracious no.’ I laughed. ‘Where on earth did you get such an idea? It was never the Jews. I shouldn’t believe everything you read in Der Stürmer, you know.’
It was with a considerable want of alacrity that Heinrich returned to his friends when he and I had finished speaking. I smiled grimly at this sight, reflecting that propaganda works both ways.
Almost a week had passed since I’d seen Hildegard. On my return from Wewelsburg I tried telephoning her a couple of times, but she was never there, or at least she never answered. Finally I decided to drive over and see her.
Driving south on Kaiserallee, through Wilmersdorf and Friedenau, I saw more of the same destruction, more of the same spontaneous expressions of the people’s rage: shop signs carrying Jewish names torn down, and new anti-Semitic slogans freshly painted everywhere; and always the police standing by, doing nothing to prevent a shop being looted or to protect its owner from being beaten-up. Close to Waghauselerstrasse I passed another synagogue ablaze, the fire-service watching to make sure the flames didn’t spread to any of the adjoining buildings.
It was not the best day to be thinking of myself.
I parked close to her apartment building on Lepsius Strasse, let myself in through the main door with the street key she had given me, and walked up to the third floor. I used the door knocker. I could have let myself in but somehow I didn’t think she’d appreciate that, considering the circumstances of our last meeting.
After a while I heard footsteps and the door was opened by a young SS major. He could have been something straight out of one of Irma Hanke’s racial-theory classes: pale blond hair, blue eyes and a jaw that looked like it had been set in concrete. His tunic was unbuttoned, his tie was loose and it didn’t look like he was there to sell copies of the SS magazine.
‘Who is it, darling?’ I heard Hildegard call. I watched her walk towards the door, still searching for something in her handbag, not looking up until she was only a few metres away.
She was wearing a black tweed suit, a silvery crêpe blouse and a black feathered hat that plumed off the front of her head like smoke from a burning building. It was an image that I find hard to put out of my mind. When she saw me she stopped, her perfectly lipsticked mouth slackening a little as she tried to think of something to say.
It didn’t need much explaining. That’s the thing about being a detective: I catch on real fast. I didn’t need a reason why. Perhaps he made a better job of slapping her around than I had, him being in the SS and all. Whatever the reason, they made a handsome-looking couple, which was the way they faced me off, Hildegard threading her arm eloquently through his.
I nodded slowly, wondering whether I should mention catching her stepdaughter’s murderers, but when she didn’t ask, I smiled philosophically, just kept nodding, and then handed her back the keys.
I was half way down the stairs when I heard her call after me: ‘I’m sorry, Bernie. Really I am.’
I walked south to the Botanical Gardens. The pale autumn sky was filled with the exodus of millions of leaves, deported by the wind to distant corners of the city, away from the branches which had once given life. Here and there, stone-faced men worked with slow concentration to control this arboreal diaspora, burning the dead from ash, oak, elm, beech, sycamore, maple, horse-chestnut, lime and weeping-willow, the acrid grey smoke hanging in the air like the last breath of lost souls. But always there were more, and more still, so that the burning middens seemed never to grow any smaller, and as I stood and watched the glowing embers of the fires, and breathed the hot gas of deciduous death, it seemed to me that I could taste the very end of everything.
Author’s Note
Otto Rahn and Karl Maria Weisthor resigned from the S S in February 1939. Rahn, an experienced outdoors traveller, died from exposure while walking in the mountains near Kufstein less than one month afterwards. The circumstances of his death have never been properly explained. Weisthor was retired to the town of Goslar where he was cared for by the S S until the end of the war. He died in 1946.
A public tribunal, consisting of six Gauleiters, was convened on 13 February 1940, for the purpose of investigating the conduct of Julius Streicher. The Party tribunal concluded that Streicher was ‘unfit for human leadership’, and the Gauleiter of Franconia retired from public duties.
The Kristallnacht pogrom of 9 and 10 November 1938 resulted in 100 Jewish deaths, 177 synagogues burnt down and the destruction of 7,000 Jewish businesses. It has been estimated that the amount of glass destroyed was equal to half the annual plate-glass production of Belgium, whence it had originally been imported. Damages were estimated to be in the hundreds of millions of dollars. Where insurance monies were paid to Jews, these were confiscated as compensation for the murder of the German diplomat, von Rath, in Paris. This fine totalled $250 million.