Philip Kerr - Berlin Noir

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An omnibus of novels
These three mysteries are exciting and insightful looks at life inside Nazi Germany – richer and more readable than most histories of the period. We first meet ex-policeman Bernie Gunther in 1936, in March Violets (a term of derision which original Nazis used to describe late converts.) The Olympic Games are about to start; some of Bernie's Jewish friends are beginning to realize that they should have left while they could; and Gunther himself has been hired to look into two murders that reach high into the Nazi Party. In The Pale Criminal, it's 1938, and Gunther has been blackmailed into rejoining the police by Heydrich himself. And in A German Requiem, the saddest and most disturbing of the three books, it's 1947 as Gunther stumbles across a nightmare landscape that conceals even more death than he imagines.

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‘Cocaine hydrochloride has always been used as a stimulant to combat the more extreme cases of depression.’

‘How do you stop them becoming addicted?’

‘It’s true there is always that risk. One has to be watchful for any sign of drug dependency. That’s my job.’ He paused. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Just curious, Herr Doktor. That’s my job.’

At Hohenwarhe, north of Magdeburg, we crossed the Elbe by a bridge, beyond which, on the right, could be seen the lights of the almost completed Rothensee Ship Elevator, designed to connect the Elbe with the Mittelland Canal some twenty metres above it. Soon we had passed into the next state of Niedersachsen, and at Helmstedt we stopped for a rest, and to pick up some petroleum.

It was getting dark and looking at my watch I saw that it was almost seven o’clock. Having chained one of Kindermann’s hands to the door handle, I allowed him to take a pee, and attended to my own needs at a short distance. Then I pushed the spare wheel into the back seat beside Kindermann and handcuffed it to his left wrist, which left one hand free. The Mercedes is a big car, however, and he was far enough behind me not to worry about. All the same, I removed the Walther from my shoulder-holster, showed it to him and then laid it beside me on the big bench seat.

‘You’ll be more comfortable like that,’ I said. ‘But so much as pick your nose and you’ll get this.’ I started the car and drove on.

‘What is the hurry?’ Kindermann said exasperatedly. ‘I fail to understand why you’re doing this. You could just as easily stage your performance on Monday, when everyone arrives back in Berlin. I really don’t see the need to drive all this way.’

‘It’ll be too late by then, Kindermann. Too late to stop the special pogrom that your friend Weisthor’s got planned for Berlin’s Jews. Project Krist, isn’t that what it’s called?’

‘Ah, you know about that do you? You have been busy. Don’t tell me that you’re a Jew-lover.’

‘Let’s just say that I don’t much care for lynch-law, and rule by the mob. That’s why I became a policeman.’

‘To uphold justice?’

‘If you want to call it that, yes.’

‘You’re deluding yourself. What rules is force. Human will. And to build that collective will it must be given a focus. What we are doing is no more than a child does with a magnifying-glass when it concentrates the light of the sun on to a sheet of paper and causes it to catch alight. We are merely using a power that already exists. Justice would be a wonderful thing were it not for men. Herr -? Look here, what is your name?’

‘The name is Gunther, and you can spare me the Party propaganda.’

‘These are facts, Gunther, not propaganda. You’re an anachronism, do you know that? You are out of your time.’

‘From the little history I know it seems to me that justice is never very fashionable, Kindermann. If I’m out of my time, if I’m out of step with the will of the people, as you describe it, then I’m glad. The difference between us is that whereas you wish to use their will, I want to see it curbed.’

‘You’re the worst kind of idealist: you’re naïve. Do you really think that you can stop what’s happening to the Jews? You’ve missed that boat. The newspapers already have the story about Jewish ritual murder in Berlin. I doubt that Himmler and Heydrich could prevent what is going on even if they wanted to.’

‘I might not be able to stop it,’ I said, ‘but perhaps I can try and get it postponed.’

‘And even if you do manage to persuade Himmler to consider your evidence, do you seriously think that he’ll welcome his stupidity being made public? I doubt you’ll get much in the way of justice from the ReichsFührer-S S. He’ll just sweep it under the carpet and in a short while it will all be forgotten. As will the Jews. You mark my words. People in this country have very short memories.’

‘Not me,’ I said. ‘I never forget. I’m a fucking elephant. Take this other patient of yours, for instance.’ I picked up one of the two files I had brought with me from Kindermann’s office and tossed it back over the seat. ‘You see, until quite recently I was a private detective. And what do you know? It turns out that even though you’re a lump of shit we have something in common. Your patient there was a client of mine.’

He switched on the courtesy light and picked up the file.

‘Yes, I remember her.’

‘A couple of years ago, she disappeared. It so happens she was in the vicinity of your clinic at the time. I know that because she parked my car near there. Tell me, Herr Doktor, what does your friend Jung have to say about coincidence?’

‘Er… meaningful coincidence, I suppose you mean. It’s a principle he calls synchronicity: that a certain apparently coincidental event might be meaningful according to an unconscious knowledge linking a physical event with a psychic condition. It’s quite difficult to explain in terms that you would understand. But I fail to see how this coincidence could be meaningful.’

‘No, of course you don’t. You have no knowledge of my unconscious. Perhaps that’s just as well.’

He was quiet for a long while after that.

North of Brunswick we crossed the Mittelland Canal, where the autobahn ended, and I drove south-west towards Hildesheim and Hamelin.

‘Not far now,’ I said across my shoulder. There was no reply. I pulled off the main road and drove slowly for several minutes down a narrow path that led into an area of woodland.

I stopped the car and looked around. Kindermann was dozing quietly. With a trembling hand I lit a cigarette and got out. A strong wind was blowing now and an electrical storm was firing silver lifelines across the rumbling black sky. Maybe they were for Kindermann.

After a minute or two I leant back across the front seat and picked up my gun. Then I opened the rear door and shook Kindermann by the shoulder.

‘Come on,’ I said, handing him the key to the handcuffs, ‘we’re going to stretch our legs again.’ I pointed down the path which lay before us, illuminated by the big headlights of the Mercedes. We walked to the edge of the beam where I stopped.

‘Right that’s far enough,’ I said. He turned to face me. ‘Synchronicity. I like that. A nice fancy word for something that’s been gnawing at my guts for a long time. I’m a private man, Kindermann. Doing what I do makes me value my own privacy all the more. For instance, I would never ever write my home telephone number on the back of my business card. Not unless that someone was very special to me. So when I asked Reinhard Lange’s mother just how she came to hire me in the first place instead of some other fellow, she showed me just such a card, which she got out of Reinhard’s jacket pocket before sending his suit to the cleaners. Naturally I began to start thinking. When she saw the card she was worried that he might be in trouble, and mentioned it to him. He said that he picked it off your desk. I wonder if he had a reason for doing that. Perhaps not. We’ll never know, I guess. But whatever the reason, that card put my client in your office on the day she disappeared and was never seen again. Now how’s that for synchronicity?’

‘Look, Gunther, it was an accident, what happened. She was an addict.’

‘And how did she get that way?’

‘I’d been treating her for depression. She’d lost her job. A relationship had ended. She needed cocaine more than seemed apparent at the time. There was absolutely no way of knowing just by looking at her. By the time I realized she was getting used to the drug, it was too late.’

‘What happened?’

‘One afternoon she just turned up at the clinic. In the neighbourhood, she said, and feeling low. There was a job she was going for, an important job, and she felt that she could get it if I gave her a little help. At first I refused. But she was a very persuasive woman, and finally I agreed. I left her alone for a short while. I think she hadn’t used it in a long time, and had less tolerance to her usual dose. She must have aspirated on her own vomit.’

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