The Defeated Aristocrat (2 page)

He should have realised then that von Braunsch intended to abandon him. He had no option but to continue to patrol alone and hope none of his superiors saw him and asked questions about von Braunsch’s ‘informer’ which he couldn’t answer.

‘Want a good time, sweetie?’

‘Ooh, look, I made him blush.’

‘Kid’s in fancy dress. Let’s see what he’s made of.’

‘Ladies, please, you’re embarrassing the officer.’ A middle-aged nun with a marked French accent stepped between him and three brassy-haired prostitutes who were tugging at his uniform coat buttons.

‘Officer? Wouldn’t be surprised if he’s still in nappies. Can I look?’ The tallest of the women winked at Blau, licked her lips and slid her hand inside his coat and on to his trouser flies.

The nun caught the woman’s hand and removed it. ‘Sister Bernadotte has coffee and fruit bread donated by Becker’s on the cart tonight.’

‘I was after something sweeter, sister,’ the woman flashed a gap-toothed grin, ‘but thanks for the offer.’

To Blau’s relief the nun remained with him until the women walked on down Wasser Strasse.

‘They don’t mean any harm.’

‘I know, sister …’ Blau was embarrassed at being rescued by a nun who looked even thinner and frailer than his mother.

‘Sister Marie. God be with you tonight, officer.’

‘And you, Sister Marie.’ Blau glanced around the street. ‘Isn’t it late for you and the other sisters to be out?’

‘We don’t have to return to our convent until four o’clock morning prayers.’

‘I was thinking of the danger of you sisters being out on the waterfront at this hour, not you being needed in the convent, Sister Marie.’

She smiled. ‘We’re doing God’s work, officer. He will look after us.’

He watched her rejoin the two nuns manning the cart. It had come as a shock to discover his uniform offered no protection against the approaches of prostitutes or the insults of drunks. Retreating into silence in the hope he’d be left alone, he continued on his way. The further he walked, the more uneasy he felt.

No tutor or lecturer had mentioned ‘informers’ during his training. But from the moment he’d reported to headquarters to assume his post, he’d been advised by his superiors and colleagues to ‘forget’ the rule book because ‘things are done differently in the field’.

He was terrified of making a mistake that would cost him his job. Work was almost impossible to find, and with his father and four brothers dead in France his mother and sister would starve without his wages.

He checked the time on his father’s pocket watch. Von Braunsch had said an hour. He’d be back in Wasser Strasse by then, but he doubted von Braunsch would.

The hotel staircase was poorly lit, but von Braunsch had been in the building before the war and knew his way around. He climbed the stairs to the first floor. A gas lamp burned low, spluttering and hissing on the landing. He peered at the numbers screwed to the doors. Ten was at the end of the corridor.

He knocked. The door swung inward, creaking on its hinges. He removed his pickelhaube helmet, tucked it under his arm and stepped inside.

‘Liebchen, I remember you now,’ he lied. ‘Get your riding crop ready. A very naughty boy is coming …’

Something hard, unyielding, pressed against his neck. He retreated but the pressure persisted. The room swam around him. The light dimmed. He plunged into oblivion.

Von Braunsch was aware of a draught blowing across his body. He was cold. Not freezing cold or wet as he’d frequently been in the trenches, but uncomfortably chilled. He tried to move, to pull a covering over himself, but his arms were fastened securely above his head.

He opened his eyes. His head ached, weighed down by a heavy metal helmet that bit into his flesh, stank of rust and tasted foul. His lashes brushed against tight circles that pressed uncomfortably close to his eyes, restricting his vision. Light-headed, fighting nausea, he heaved on his bonds, but his wrists were tied so painfully high above his head that his bones felt as though they were being wrenched from his shoulder sockets. He squinted down. His ankles were tied to the footboard of a bed. He tried to say, ‘This is too much pain, even for me,’ but what came out was unintelligible. He attempted to speak again. To shout. But something was in his mouth. Something cold and hard that constricted his tongue. He retched. Struggled against his bindings. Then he realised he was stark naked.

‘It’s no use fighting.’ A familiar face glided into view, a plain face – old with grey eyebrows and skin as wrinkled as a washing board. It was then he remembered where he’d seen the beautiful young woman who’d enticed him. He shuddered.  

He moved his head with difficulty. He couldn’t see her. Was she behind the bed, out of sight?

Something hard was pushed beneath his buttocks, lifting his hips high. He’d never felt so vulnerable, so exposed. Fear sent delicious shivers down his spine. He relished the sensation.

He’d experienced whips, handcuffs, and needles but nothing like the cold, flat, heavy metal case that was laid on his chest. Gnarled hands opened it. Objects were lifted out and waved before his eyes. Shiny metal instruments that reflected sparkling, dazzling light …

In one shattering instant, he realised the lamplight was reflecting on blades. Knives!

‘Just the whip – needles – no knives –’

Yet again his words were indecipherable, even to his own ears.

He fought to free his ankles and wrists but succeeded only in bruising his flesh. A blade flashed downwards. There was pain. The instant it struck he thought it would be bearable. Seconds later he knew it wouldn’t.

His existence was reduced to all-consuming agony.

His severed penis wavered before his eyes. He heard a scream. A deafening, mind-numbing scream – endless – interminable. Then realised it was his.

His penis was pushed through a gap in the contraption that held his head. Soft flaccid flesh brushed his lips; the tinny, metallic taste of blood flooded his tongue. He looked up, pleading, begging with his eyes. Not for his life. For the pain to end.

‘You know why?’ Another face moved into view. Another he recognised and wished he didn’t.

He blinked hard. Once. Wanting to convey a message. He was sorry. Remorse didn’t excuse or mitigate what he’d done. Nothing could. But he’d been one of many. He deserved pity … mercy …

Didn’t he?

‘You’re the first. You won’t be the last.’

The knife flashed, no longer glittering but dulled by blood. His blood.

He couldn’t bear the torment. He longed for freedom from pain. For silence. For the sucking and spurting of raw flesh, blood, and tissue to cease. When it did, he tumbled into red-tinged darkness.

Pathetically grateful for release, he embraced the void.

CHAPTER TWO

Munz Platz, Konigsberg, Early hours of Saturday January 4th 1919

The winds of winter iced the Schloss Teich – the Castle Lake. It shone a sheet of shimmering opal in the moonlight. Lilli Richter had left the drapes open in her turret study so she could view the vista of frosted water and snow-encrusted trees and houses that encircled it while she worked.

She recalled her father saying, ‘We’re lucky, having this view, Lilli. It’s better than any old master and has the added advantage of changing with the seasons. Think of the millions of marks we’ve saved by not having to buy Rembrandts and Brueghels.’

The smile died on her lips when she heard a sound she’d come to dread echoing up the outer marble staircase. A drunk, stumbling, crashing into walls and swearing. She checked the clock. She’d been so engrossed in the editorial she’d been writing she’d lost track of time. Something she’d promised herself she wouldn’t do again after the last time her husband had cornered her.

She waited until the house was quiet. Then waited another ten minutes. Packing her papers into her briefcase, she crept to the door.

Dedleff was swaying on the landing. The door to their apartment was open behind him. She assumed he’d gone looking for her in there and when he hadn’t found her, realised she was in the turret room.

‘Hiding from me!’

‘I wouldn’t have opened the door if I was hiding from you.’ She regretted speaking as soon as the words were out of her mouth. The mildest response when Dedleff was in this state provoked him.

‘Ask me where I’ve been?’

‘You’re tired. I’ll help you to bed.’ She spoke softly trying not to anger him more than he already was. She’d loved Dedleff. Been proud of him when he’d volunteered to fight for Germany. She’d missed him every day he’d been away, but had learned to fear the violent monster who’d returned in his place.

‘Bitch!’ He tore off his coat and cap and tossed them to the floor.

She shook her head surreptitiously at her housekeeper, Bertha, who was creeping up the stairs behind Dedleff.

He unfastened his belt and wound the flat end around his palm, swinging the buckle wide.

Lilli signalled frantically to Bertha with her eyes to leave before Dedleff caught sight of her. But the housekeeper stood her ground. Dedleff detected movement, whirled around, thrust Bertha aside and moved in on Lilli. She backed into the turret. He followed, slamming the door behind him. He turned the key in the lock before lashing out. The buckle caught Lilly across her breasts and arm. Not wanting to wake their six-year-old daughter and invalid father on the ground floor, she stifled her cries.

Bertha hammered the door.

‘Send her away.’ Dedleff’s pale blue eyes glittered cold, terrifying, into Lilli’s.

‘Go, Bertha. Please.’ Lilli’s voice was hoarse, barely audible.

Dedleff lashed out, again … and again … and again …

Lilli slumped, beaten and whimpering, to the floor.

‘I’m getting help,’ Bertha shouted.

Dedleff pulled his police issue gun from his holster and fired in the direction of Bertha’s voice. The bullet struck the door jamb and ricocheted back into the room. He staggered, tripped on the rug, and slid to the floor.

Lilli stared at him. When he continued to remain still, immobile after a full minute, she crawled to the door, reached up and turned the key. The effort exhausted her. Bertha opened the door and looked down.

‘Is he …’ Lilli faltered.

Bertha examined him. ‘No bullet holes, more’s the pity.’ She retrieved the key from the door. ‘Better he were dead than dead drunk. I’ll lock him in here and help you to bed.’ Bertha was a large, solidly built woman with wide shoulders and strong limbs. She scooped Lilli into her arms, carried her out, and turned the key on the outside of the lock, effectively imprisoning Dedleff in the turret. She walked across the landing to Lilli’s apartment and laid her on her bed. ‘I’ll get bandages and iodine.’

‘Amalia and my father?’ Lilli whispered.

‘Amalia was asleep when I left. I hope the noise hasn’t woken her. Sister Luke is sitting with your father tonight. She said she’d check on Amalia if I wasn’t back in ten minutes. Ernst wanted to come up with me. I told him he’d only annoy Dedleff and you’d want him to stay and protect your father and Amalia.’

Ernst Nagel had been the Richters’s caretaker before the war. He’d been invalided out of the army after losing a leg in 1915, just after Lilli’s father had suffered a debilitating stroke. Lilli had given Ernst his old job back together with additional duties as her father’s carer, but when her father’s condition deteriorated she’d been forced to employ professional nurses from the convent to watch over her father day and night.

‘Please, I’m all right, go to Amalia, Bertha.’

‘I’ll go when I’m sure you’re really all right. Or as all right as that bastard has left you. I heard him come up the stairs. When everything went quiet I assumed you’d hidden and he’d passed out drunk. I came up to give you this. Ernst found it in the letterbox.’ Bertha delved into her dressing gown pocket and handed Lilli a folded page of cheap grey lined paper that looked as though it had been torn from a child’s exercise book.
Lilli Richter, Editor, Konigsberg Zeit
was scribbled on the outside.

‘When did Ernst find it?’

‘Just before I came up. The street doorbell rang. Ernst looked out but didn’t see anyone. Just that jammed in the door.’

‘Thank you.’ Lilli could barely speak for the pain in her chest and arms.

‘I’d rather not imagine who’s out disturbing law-abiding folks at this hour but I thought it might be important. There are red marks on the paper. They could be blood.’

Lilli opened the single sheet and scanned the few pencilled lines.

Eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot, burn for burn, wound for wound, stripe for stripe.
For the wages of sin is death.

14 Wasser Strasse, Room 10. So the last shall be first and the first last.

Lilli held it up to the lamp. ‘It could be blood, or paint or red ink. Ernst is certain he didn’t see anyone?’

‘No one. What does it mean?’

‘Nothing to me and nothing that can’t wait until morning.’

‘I’ll get the iodine and bandages.’

Police Headquarters, Konigsberg, Saturday January 4th 1919

The hands on Kriminalassistent Blau’s pocket watch hovered a few minutes before eight when he walked, heart pounding, through the gates of Headquarters. He returned the duty officer’s salute, glad the man was occupied in checking a delivery. Officers were expected to sign off the night shift by seven thirty, but he’d ignored von Braunsch’s order to wait no longer than five minutes. After fifteen minutes of walking in ever-decreasing circles in Wasser Street he’d knocked the hotel door. When no one had answered he’d headed for Headquarters. He walked quickly and ran in the streets where there was no one to witness his “haste unbecoming to an officer”.

The log-in room was deserted but he could hear conversation in the kitchen next door where tea and coffee was brewed. Nervous, fearful of being caught signing in late and covering for an absent colleague he turned the book around, picked up the ‘off duty’ stamp, and marked the lines next to his own and von Braunsch’s names. The officer before them had signed out at eight forty-five. He settled on eight forty-eight. Conscious of making a doubly fraudulent entry, he scribbled the time next to his and von Braunsch’s names and left quickly, before the clerk returned.