Philip Kerr - Berlin Noir

‘I, on the other hand, am a pragmatist, and would prefer to use the papers in a rather more tactical way, as and where I require.’

‘In other words, you’re not above a bit of blackmail yourself. Am I right?’

Heydrich smiled thinly. ‘You see through me so easily, Herr Gunther. But you must understand that this is to be an undercover operation. Strictly a matter for Security. On no account should you mention this conversation to anyone.’

‘But there must be somebody among the S S at Dachau that you can trust?’

‘Of course there is,’ said Heydrich. ‘But what do you expect him to do, march up to Mustchmann and ask him where he has hidden the papers? Come now, Herr Gunther, be sensible.’

‘So you want me to find Mustchmann, and get to know him.’

‘Precisely so. Build his trust. Find out where he’s hidden the papers. And having done so, you will identify yourself to my man.’

‘But how will I recognize Mutschmann?’

‘The only photograph is the one on his prison record,’ said Sohst, handing me a picture. I looked at it carefully. ‘It’s three years old, and his head will have been shaved of course, so it doesn’t help you much. Not only that, but he’s likely to be a great deal thinner. A K Z does tend to change a man. There is, however, one thing that should help you to identify him: he has a noticeable ganglion on his right wrist, which he could hardly obliterate.’

I handed back the photograph. ‘It’s not much to go on,’ I said. ‘Suppose I refuse?’

‘You won’t,’ said Heydrich brightly. ‘You see, either way you’re going to Dachau. The difference is that working for me, you’ll be sure to get out again. Not to mention getting your money back.’

‘I don’t seem to have much choice.’

Heydrich grinned. ‘That’s precisely the point,’ he said. ‘You don’t. If you had a choice, you’d refuse. Anyone would. Which is why I can’t send one of my own men. That and the need for secrecy. No, Herr Gunther, as an ex-policeman, I’m afraid you fit the bill perfectly. You have everything to gain, or to lose. It’s really up to you.’

‘I’ve taken better cases,’ I said.

‘You must forget who you are now,’ said Sohst quickly. ‘We have arranged for you to have a new identity. You are now Willy Krause, and you are a black-marketeer. Here are your new papers.’ He handed me a new identity card. They’d used my old police photograph.

‘There is one more thing,’ said Heydrich. ‘I regret that verisimilitude requires a certain amount of further attention to your appearance, consistent with your having been arrested and interrogated. It’s rare for a man to arrive at Columbia Haus without the odd bruise. My men downstairs will take care of you in that respect. For your own protection, of course.’

‘Very thoughtful of you,’ I said.

‘You’ll be held at Columbia for a week, and then transferred to Dachau.’ Heydrich stood up. ‘May I wish you good luck.’ I took hold of my trouser band and got to my feet.

‘Remember, this is a Gestapo operation. You must not discuss it with anyone.’ Heydrich turned and pressed a button to summon the guards.

‘Just tell me this,’ I said. ‘What’s happened to Six and Helfferich, and the rest of them?’

‘I see no harm in telling you,’ he said. ‘Well then, Herr Six is under house-arrest. He is not charged with anything, as yet. He is still too shocked at the resurrection and subsequent death of his daughter to answer any questions. Such a tragic case. Unfortunately, Herr Haupthändler died in hospital the day before yesterday, having never recovered consciousness. As to the criminal known as Red Dieter Helfferich, he was beheaded at Lake Ploetzen at six o’clock this morning, and his entire gang sent to the K Z at Sachsenhausen.’ He smiled sadly at me. ‘I doubt that any harm will come to Herr Six. He’s much too important a man to suffer any lasting damage because of what has happened. So you can see, of all the other leading players in this unfortunate affair, you are the only one who is left alive. It merely remains to be seen if you can conclude this case successfully, not only as a matter of professional pride, but also your personal survival.’

The two guards marched me back to the elevator, and then to my cell, but only to beat me up. I put up a struggle but, weak from lack of decent food and proper sleep, I was unable to put up more than a token resistance. I might have managed one of them alone, but together they were more than a match for me. After that I was taken to the S S guardroom, which was about the size of a meeting hall. Near the double-thick door sat a group of S S, playing cards and drinking beer, their pistols and blackjacks heaped on another table like so many toys confiscated by a strict schoolmaster. Facing the far wall, and standing at attention in a line, were about twenty prisoners whom I was ordered to join. A young S S Sturmann swaggered up and down its length, shouting at some prisoners and booting many in the back or on the arse. When an old man collapsed onto the stone floor, the Sturmann booted him into unconsciousness. And all the time new prisoners were joining the line. After an hour there must have been at least a hundred of us.

They marched us through a long corridor to a cobbled courtyard where we were loaded into Green Minnas. No S S men came with us inside the vans, but nobody said much. Each sat quietly, alone with his own thoughts of home and loved ones whom he might never see again.

When we got to Columbia Haus we climbed out of the vans. The sound of an aeroplane could be heard taking off from nearby Tempelhof Flying Field, and as it passed over the Trojan-grey walls of the old military prison, to a man we all glanced wistfully up into the sky, each of us wishing that he were among the plane’s passengers.

‘Move, you ugly bastards,’ yelled a guard, and with many kicks, shoves and punches, we were herded up to the first floor and paraded in five columns in front of a heavy wooden door. A menagerie of warders paid us close and sadistic attention.

‘See that fucking door?’ yelled the RottenFührer, his face twisted to one side with malice, like a feeding shark. ‘In there we finish you as men for the rest of your days. We put your balls in a vice, see? Stops you getting homesick. After all, how can you want to go home to your wives and girlfriends if you’ve nothing left to go home with?’ He roared with laughter, and so did the menagerie, some of whom dragged the first man kicking and screaming into the room, and closed the door behind them.

I felt the other prisoners shake with fear; but I guessed that this was the corporal’s idea of a joke, and when eventually it came to my own turn, I made a deliberate show of calm as they took me to the door. Once inside they took my name and address, studied my file for several minutes, and then, having been abused for my supposed black-marketeering, I was beaten up again.

Once in the main body of the prison I was taken, painfully, to my cell, and on the way there I was surprised to hear a large choir of men singing If You Still Have a Mother . It was only later on that I discovered the reason for the choir’s existence: its performances were made at the behest of the S S to drown out the screams from the punishment cellar where prisoners were beaten on the bare buttocks with wet sjamboks.

As an ex-bull I’ve seen the inside of quite a few prisons in my time: Tegel, Sonnenburg, Lake Ploetzen, Brandenburg, Zellengefängnis, Brauweiler; every one of them is a hard place, with tough discipline; but none of them came close to the brutality and dehumanizing squalor that was Columbia Haus, and it wasn’t long before I was wondering if Dachau could be any worse.