The Good German (14 page)

“Something for your personal collection?” Jake said, pointing to the camera.

“It
was.
”

“How was the jazz?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know. What’s it like inside? Anything interesting?”

He thought of the files, every one a story, then realized she meant anything to photograph. “Like a library,” he said.

“Great.” A grimace. “Still, some trophy, huh? You know they got it all in a paper mill,” she said, her voice as excited as the driver’s. Jake looked at her. The war had become a kind of scavenger hunt. Rockets

at Nordhausen. Engineers at Zeiss. Now even pieces of paper, decorations and promotions. The magazine spread would show tall Joe opening a file.

“Yeah, I heard,” he said, moving away. “Watch yourself in there. Lots of dark corners.”

“Aren’t you funny.”

He grinned and was about to start down the steps when he heard his name shouted inside. “Geismar!” A second shout, followed by Bernie in a mad dash, almost colliding with Liz, another piece of Gelferstrasse china. “Good. I caught you.”

Jake smiled. “You know Liz? You share a bathroom.”

Bernie barely managed a confused nod to her, then grabbed Jake’s arm. “I need to talk to you.” His face was flushed from the exertion of the run. “This list.”

“That was fast,” Jake said easily, then saw Bernie’s eyes, holding him as firmly as the hand on his arm. “What?”

“Come here,” Bernie said, moving them down the stairs, out of earshot. “Naumann,” he said, holding the list up. “Renate Naumann. How do you know her? ”

“Renate? She worked for me at Columbia. They all did.”

“That’s the first I’ve heard of it.”

Jake looked at him, bewildered. “Off the books. I used her as a stringer. She had a great eye.”

Bernie made a face, as if Jake had told a bad joke, then looked away. “Great eye. Yes,” he said, his voice filled with disgust.

“You know her?” Jake said, still puzzled.

Bernie nodded.

“I thought she’d be dead. You know where she is?”

“She’s in jail.”

Bernie looked around, then took Jake’s arm again and began walking out past the sentries. “I hate this fucking barbed wire. It gives me the willies.” When they reached the jeep, Bernie leaned against it, his energy finally spent.

“What do you mean, jail?” Jake said.

“Some friends you’ve got.” Bernie took out a cigarette. “She was a
greifer
. You know
greifer
?”

“Grabber. Catcher. Of what?” Jews.

“That’s impossible. She was—”

“A Jew. I know. A Jew to catch Jews. They thought of everything. Even that.”

“But she—” Jake started, but Bernie held up his hand.

“You want to hear this?” He took a pull on his cigarette. “The first big roundup here was in ‘forty-two. February. After that, any Jew in Berlin was illegal, underground. U-boats. There were still thousands, if you can imagine it. Some had a place—if a gentile was protecting them. The others, they had to move around. Place to place. During the day, you had to keep moving, so the neighbors wouldn’t suspect. Wouldn’t report you,” he said, almost spitting the word. “Berlin’s a big city. You could stay lost in the crowd, if you kept moving. Unless somebody knew you. A
greifer
.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“No? Ask the Jews she caught. A few survived. A few. Or we wouldn’t have caught
her
. That’s when I had to break a few regulations.” He looked up. “It was worth it. To catch her? Worth it.” He moved away from the jeep, pacing in a small circle. “How it worked? Some covered the railway stations. Renate liked the cafés. Usually Kranzler’s or the Trumpf, over by the Memorial Church. The big one in Olivaerplatz, the Heil. A drink, you watch the people. Sometimes a Jew you actually knew, from the old days. Sometimes someone you just suspected, so some talk, a little fishing, a hint you were a U-boat yourself. Then snap. A visit to the ladies’ room for the telephone. They usually took them on the street, so it wouldn’t cause a disturbance in the café. Finish your drink, they’re just rounding up some Jews. Everyone but Renate. The next day, another café. She had a great eye, you see,” he said, glancing back at Jake.

“She said she could tell just by looking. Not even Streicher could do that—to him it was all cartoon noses. Renate was better than the Nazis, she didn’t need the star patches. Not with that eye. And, you know, people are foolish. So careful, day after day—can you imagine what that’s like?—and then the relief, a friendly face. If you can’t trust another Jew— A few even asked her
out
.
A date, under those conditions. Just let me powder my nose in the ladies‘.’” He flicked the cigarette into the street.

“And then?” Jake said, helpless, wanting to know.

“The collection point. A Gestapo building, so disturbances didn’t matter anymore. Lots of screaming there. They put them on the trucks. Then out to the trains for the trip east. The neighbors told us the noise was terrible. They’d keep their windows closed until the trucks left.”

“Maybe she didn’t know,” Jake said quietly.

“She lived there. With the other catchers. They kept them on a short leash. Maybe a reminder—‘You could be next.’ But she wasn’t. She saved herself.” He paused. “I saw the room where she lived. It’s on the courtyard. She could see them loading the trucks. So maybe she closed her window too.” He looked harder at Jake. “She knew.”

The day seemed to have stopped around them, the empty street as still as the archives inside. Birdless trees. Sentries standing motionless in the sun.

“That’s—” Jake sputtered, then stopped, like a candle without air.

“The worst thing you ever heard?” Bernie prompted. “Stay in Germany. When you think you’ve heard the worst, there’s something more. Always something worse.”

Loaded into trucks while she watched. “How many?” Jake said.

“Does it matter?”

Jake shook his head. A girl with bright eyes and curly hair. But who was anybody anymore?

“Can I see her? Could you arrange that?”

“If you want. I should tell you, you won’t be the first. Your buddies were all over this one. A Nazi? Old news. But a Jew? That they went for.
Ach”
He waved his hand again, as if he were swatting the whole thing away like a gnat. “There’s a trial coming up. If you have the stomach fork.”

“Does she admit it?”

“There’s no question about this one,” Bernie said, looking at him. “We have witnesses.”

“But if they forced her—”

“She did it. That’s what matters, you know. She did it.” He took a breath. “The people she caught are dead. Nobody made excuses for them.”

“No.”

“So,” Bernie said, exhaling the word, case closed. “Not what you expected, is it?”

“No.”

“No,” Bernie said. “I’m sorry. It’s a lousy business, all of it. Stick to the black market.”

“I’d still like to see her.”

Bernie nodded. “Maybe she’ll tell you something. Why. I’ll never understand it.”

“We weren’t here. We don’t know what it was like.”

“I had family here,” Bernie snapped. “I know what it was like for them.”

Jake looked back at the quiet villa, through the high barbed wire that gave Bernie the willies. “What’ll happen to her?”

“Prison,” Bernie said flatly. “She’s a woman—they won’t hang her. Maybe it’s worse—she’ll have to live with it.”

“In a cell with the Nazis who made her do it.”

“She decided that herself when she became one of them. I said it was a lousy business. How do you think I feel—her
greifer
. Another Jew. Was I right? You tell me.”

Jake lowered his head. “I don’t know.”

“I don’t either,” Bernie said quietly, a tiny crack in his voice that left his face unguarded, for a second the boy again practicing Mendelssohn. “So you just do the job.”

“It was you who got her?”

“Personally? No. Gunther Behn. Our bloodhound.” He stopped, then grabbed Jake’s arm. “Wait a minute. It didn’t occur to me before. I kept thinking Public Safety. You’re looking for someone who knows the streets? Gunther’s ex-police. Every alley. You might try him. Assuming he’s willing. You have any expense money to throw around?”

“Maybe. Berlin police?”

“A detective. Good, when he’s sober.”

“How do you know him?”

“I told you, he helped me with the Naumann case.”

“I thought the police were Nazi.”

“They were. They’re not police anymore either. Not if they were lieutenant or higher.”

“So he’s out of a job. And you gave him a new one? I thought you weren’t supposed to work with them.”

“We’re not. He’s still out of a job. He just helped me out on this.” He looked up. “I broke a regulation.”

“You used a Nazi.”

Bernie lifted his face, a slight thrust of the jaw. “We caught her.”

“How much did you pay him?”

“Nothing. He had a special interest. Renate caught his wife.”

“He was married to a Jew? ”

“They divorced, so he could keep his job. Later—” He broke off, letting the pieces assemble themselves. Had he hidden her or just let her drift through the streets, waiting for the pounce? “You’re in Berlin. There’s always something worse.”

“And you think he might help?”

“That’s up to you. Take a bottle of brandy. He likes that. Maybe you can talk him into it.”

“He knows the black market?”

“Well, that’s the thing,” Bernie said, with the first trace of a smile. “He’s in it.”

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GUNTHER BEHN LIVED as far east as you could go in Kreuzberg and still be in the American sector. In the old days it would have been a short walk to police headquarters in Alexanderplatz. Now the way was blocked by a hill of bricks and a gutted tram that had been upended as a tank barricade and never removed. The top of the building had been blown away, leaving only Gunther’s ground-floor flat and the floor above, half open to the sky. It took several knocks to bring him to the door, a pair of thick glasses peering suspiciously around the edge.

“Gunther Behn? My name is Geismar. Bernie Teitel sent me.”

A surprised look, hearing German, then a grunt.

“Can I come in?”

Gunther opened the door. “You’re an American. You can do whatever you want,” he said, shuffling indifferently back to an armchair where a cigarette was burning. The room was crowded—a table, a daybed, an old console radio, shelves of books, and a giant map of Greater Berlin that covered an entire wall. In one corner, a stack of PX cans he hadn’t bothered to hide.

“I brought you this,” Jake said, holding out the brandy.

“A bribe?” he said. “What does he want now?” He took the bottle. “French.” In the warm room, stale with smoke, he was wearing a cardigan. Close-cropped hair, almost as short as the gray stubble that covered his unshaven chin. Not yet old, probably early fifties. Behind the glasses, the glazed eyes of a drinker. A book lay open on the armchair. “What is it? Is there a date for the trial?”

“No. He thought you might be able to help me.”

“With what?” he said, opening the bottle and sniffing.

“A job.”

He looked at Jake, then put the cork in and handed back the bottle. “Tell him no. I’m finished with that business. Even for brandy.”

“Not for Bernie. A job for me.” Jake nodded at the bottle. “It’s yours either way.”

“What is it? Another
greifer
?”

“No, an American.”

His cheek moved in a tic of surprise, which he covered by walking over to the table and pouring two fingers of brandy into a glass. “How is it you speak German?” he said.

“I used to live in Berlin.”

“Ah.” He tossed back a healthy swig. “How do you like it now?”

“I knew Renate,” Jake said to his back, hoping for a point of contact.

Gunther took another gulp. “So did many people. That was the problem.”

“Bernie told me. I’m sorry about your wife.”

But Gunther seemed not to have heard, a willed deafness. In the awkward quiet Jake noticed for the first time that there were no pictures in the room, no reminders at all, the visual traces locked away somewhere in a closet, or thrown out after the divorce. “So what do you want?”

“Some help. Bernie said you were a detective.”

“Retired. The Amis retired me. Did he tell you that?”

“Yes. He also said you were good. I’m trying to solve a murder.”

“A murder?” He snorted. “A murder in Berlin. My friend, there Were millions. Who cares about one?”

“I do.”

Gunther turned, looking him up and down, a policeman’s appraisal. Jake said nothing. Finally Gunther turned back to the bottle. A drink?“ he said. ”Since you brought it.“

“No, it’s early.”

“Coffee, then? Real coffee, not ersatz.” Not grudging; an invitation to stay.

“You have it?”

“Another gift,” he said, holding up the glass. “One minute.” He headed toward the kitchen but detoured to peek out the window. “Did you disable the motor? The distributor cap?”

“I’ll chance it.”

“Don’t take chances in Berlin,” he said, scolding. “Not now.” He shook his head. “Americans.”

Jake watched him open the door to the kitchen. More packing cases, a pile of canned goods, cartons of cigarettes. Gifts. He was still sipping the brandy, but moved around the small space with steady efficiency, one of those drinkers who never seem affected until they pass out at night. Jake went over to the shelves. Rows of westerns. Karl May, the German Zane Grey. Gunfights in Yuma. Sheriffs and posses tracking through sagebrush. An unexpected vice at the edge of Kreuzberg.

“Where did you get the map?” Jake said. The whole city, dotted with pins.

“My office. It wasn’t safe in the Alex, with the bombs. Now I like to look at it sometimes. It makes me think Berlin is still out there. All the streets.” He came into the room with two cups. “It’s important to know where you are in police work. The where, very important.” He handed Jake a cup. “Where was your murder?”

“Potsdam,” Jake said, glancing involuntarily at the map, as if the body would appear in the ribbons of blue lakes in the lower left corner.