Фолькер Кучер: Babylon Berlin

Every now and then, one of the officers stole a furtive glance at the detective inspector. Rath tapped out an Overstolz and lit it. He was about as welcome here as the Salvation Army in a nightclub.

Vice squad didn’t have much of a reputation in police circles. Up until two years ago regulating prostitution in the city had been E Division’s number one priority, and a kind of state-run pimping service, since only prostitutes registered with the police could ply their trade legally. Many officers exploited this dependence before a new law to fight VD transferred responsibilities from Vice squad to the local health authorities. Since then, E Division’s remit encompassed nightclubs, pimps and pornography, though its reputation had scarcely improved. It seemed as though some of the smut its officers confronted in the line of duty had permanently attached itself to them.

Rath blew smoke across his desk. Rainwater was dripping from the shakos on the coat hooks onto the linoleum floor, green linoleum, reminiscent of the CID offices at Alexanderplatz. His grey hat looked out of place against the black leather and glittering officer’s crests, likewise his coat, hanging in the midst of the blue police cloaks. Plain clothes, with nothing but uniform for company.

The coffee they had given him tasted like nasty black sludge in a misshapen enamel cup. So, the police couldn’t make coffee in the 220th precinct either. Why should Neukölln be any different from Alex? All the same, he took another sip. It wasn’t like he had anything else to do except wait for the phone to ring.

Reaching again for the file he noted that the various members of the Hohenzollern dynasty and other prominent Prussian figures depicted there were different from the usual schlock. The images weren’t copies but premium high-resolution prints neatly arranged in a file. A buyer would have to fork out a pretty penny. No doubt they were intended for more rarefied circles. A roving magazine vendor had been selling them at the train station at Alexanderplatz, no more than a few steps away from police headquarters and the offices of E Division, when he caught the eye of a patrol unit and lost his nerve. The two officers had tried to draw the vendor’s attention to a harmless magazine that had fallen from his sales tray but, as they approached, he hurled his entire consignment at them and took to his heels.

Fluttering in the air alongside the magazines were the glossy pornographic photos, just about level with the youthful officers’ blushing cheeks. The young pair were so amazed at the artistry that they momentarily neglected to give chase but, when they finally did take up pursuit, the man had disappeared amongst the building works surrounding Alex. This caused the officers’ cheeks to blush for a second time when they deposited their findings on Lanke’s desk and submitted their report.

The head of E Division could be very loud. Superintendent Werner Lanke was of the opinion that congeniality undermined authority. Rath only had to think of how his new boss had greeted him four weeks before.

‘I know you have connections, Rath,’ Lanke had yelled, ‘but if you think you can avoid getting your hands dirty you’re very much mistaken! No-one gets an easy ride here! And certainly not someone whose presence I never requested!’

Rath’s first month in E Division was almost behind him now. It had seemed like a punishment, and maybe that’s what it was, even if he had only been reassigned and not demoted. He had had to leave Cologne, Homicide too, but he was still a DI and had no intention of hanging around Vice forever. He didn’t understand how Wolter could put up with it, but the work was something his colleague almost seemed to enjoy.

Detective Chief Inspector Bruno Wolter, known by most of his colleagues as Uncle on account of his affable manner, was in charge of the investigation team as well as today’s raid. Outside in the station yard, where the police van stood waiting, Wolter was discussing individual details of the planned raid with the two ladies from women’s CID and the squad leader. They were just waiting for Jänicke’s call.

Rath imagined the rookie sitting in the stuffy flat they had sequestered to observe the studio – a pair of binoculars in one hand, the other shaking nervously above the receiver. Like Rath, Assistant Detective Stephan Jänicke had joined Vice at the start of April, freshly assigned to Alex straight from police academy in Eiche. But the taciturn, blond East Prussian wouldn’t let himself be put off by the teasing of older colleagues; he took his job seriously.

The telephone on the desk sounded. Rath stubbed his cigarette out and reached for the glossy black receiver.

The police van stopped in front of a large tenement house in Hermannstrasse. Police were not welcome in this part of the city. In the half-light of the archway which led to the rear courtyards, Jänicke was waiting, hands buried in the pockets of his coat, collar turned upwards and the brim of his hat pulled over his brow. Rath was forced to stifle a grin. Jänicke was doing his best to appear like a hard-nosed cop from the big city, but his eternally ruddy cheeks betrayed the country boy within.

‘There must be a dozen people inside now,’ he said, trying to keep pace with Rath and Wolter. ‘I’ve seen a Hindenburg, a Bismarck, a Moltke, a Wilhelm I and a Wilhelm II, and even an Old Fritz.’

‘Let’s hope there are a few girls too,’ said Uncle, heading towards the second courtyard. Two female officers smiled sourly. The plain-clothes men and ten uniformed colleagues followed the DCI through to the back of the tenement. Five boys were playing football with a tin can. When they saw the police contingent, they stood stock still, leaving the can to perform a final, clanking pirouette.

Wolter put a finger to his lips. The oldest, a boy of about eleven, nodded in silent assent. Above them, a window slammed shut. Johann König, photographer 4th floor , proclaimed a brass plate by the entrance to the stairs.

Uncle had had to quiz one of his many informants in the Berlin underworld to track König down, as the photographer was unknown to the police. He made cheap passport photos for his insolvent Neukölln clientele, along with the occasional obligatory family portrait: infants on polar bear rugs, children with school satchels, newlyweds and the like. Until now there had been nothing to suggest he was rotten but for one entry in his record: political. You didn’t have to break the law to attract the attention of the police.

It had been Rath’s idea to go through the extensive files of Section 1A, the political police, where he stumbled upon a note that had lain dormant for ten years. In 1919, the politicals had registered Johann König as an anarchist, assigning him his own – albeit sparingly marked – index card. After the Revolution the photographer had ceased to be politically active. Now, though, his aversion to the pomp and circumstance of Prussian life had brought him into conflict with the law for a second time. No wonder, Rath thought. Being anti-monarchist with a name like König was never going to end well.

It seemed one of the younger officers was entertaining similar thoughts.

‘The Kaiser is screwing at the King’s,’ he joked and gazed nervously around him.

No-one laughed. Wolter positioned the comic at the entrance to the rear building, and with the rest of the troops began to climb the dingy staircase as quietly as possible. Somewhere in the building a radio was blaring out a popular hit. On the second floor, a grey-haired old lady poked her nose into the stairwell, only to withdraw it again as soon as she saw the police, two women officers and twelve males barely making a sound. At the very top, they halted in front of a sign saying Johann König photographer , printed on yellowing cardboard that was already fraying at the edges.