Фолькер Кучер - Goldstein

Rath was about to pull out his identification when Charly nudged him in the side.

‘We’re looking for Emil Reinhold,’ she said. ‘Apparently he lives here with his wife.’

‘What do you want from him?’

‘We’re friends of Helmut’s,’ Charly said. ‘The son of…’

‘I know who Helmut Reinhold is, but I don’t know if Emil will have much time for him. Or his Social Democrat friends.’

‘That’s why he sent us.’ Charly lied. Rath was astonished at how convincing she was. ‘He knows his father resents him, and he’d like to make peace.’

‘So you’re his envoys, are you?’ The man laughed. ‘There I was thinking you were cops.’ He ran both hands over the dog’s neck fur. ‘Stalin has an allergic reaction to cops. But…’ He lifted his hat towards Charly, ‘then I saw there was a lady present.’

‘So where can we find Herr Reinhold?’ the lady asked.

The man pointed in the direction of the shore. ‘Down there by the lake. See the trail of smoke?’

Charly nodded and pulled Rath away. Stalin followed them with his eyes, but stayed where he was even when Kirie issued a brief, spirited bark. Rath pulled the lead and she followed obediently.

Emil Reinhold’s hut was a former Christmas market stall. Rath had difficulty imagining it had ever been so badly put together as here on the banks of the Müggelsee. The roof looked as if it were built solely for the purpose of gathering rainwater, before transmitting it inside, drop by drop. The side wall didn’t appear to have a single right angle. Clearly, Emil Reinhold was no carpenter. In front of the entrance he had constructed a little lean-to, which was covered with what might have been a grey flysheet, or perhaps a discarded lorry tarpaulin.

Rath gave Charly a nod, positioned himself by the fitted door and knocked. An ill-tempered man of about fifty appeared. ‘Emil Reinhold?’ The man nodded. ‘My name is Ritter, and this is Herr Rath. We’re looking for your daughter Alexandra.’

‘Well, you’re in the wrong place.’ Reinhold tried to shut the door, but Charly had wedged her foot in the crack.

‘Perhaps you have some idea where we might find her. Your son, Helmut…’

The mention of his son acted like a trigger on him. ‘So, that’s the way the wind is blowing. Is Helmut sending his Sozi friends, because he no longer dares come here himself?’ He gestured towards the settlement. ‘Take a look around. This is the mess you Social Democrats have landed us in. Class traitors!’ He spat, and Charly had to move her feet to avoid being hit.

‘Herr Reinhold, we’re not Social Democrats; this isn’t about Helmut, it’s about your daughter!’

‘I don’t know where she is, and I don’t want to know. Maybe she’s started at Wertheim again. If he’s so keen to see her he can go looking for her himself.’

‘ We’re looking,’ Charly said. ‘Because we’re afraid something bad has happened. We want to help her.’

‘And who is we ?’ Charly gave Rath a nudge and he pulled out his identification. Reinhold stared at the metal badge. ‘I thought you wanted to help her?’

‘We do,’ said Rath.

‘Always nice to hear from your local police department.’ The man gave a jerky laugh. ‘Go on, you have my blessing. Give that brat what for. If you find her that is!’

Charly struggled to keep cool. ‘We don’t want to give her what for. We want to help her,’ she said, ‘even if that’s hard for you to understand. Alexandra is suspected of having broken into a department store…’

‘Do what you want. Just leave me in peace.’

Finally, Charly’s patience ended. ‘You need to learn how to listen! Is this how you treated your son? I’m not surprised your family wants nothing more to do with you.’

‘We proles don’t need help, especially not from Social Democrats. We look after our own!’

‘You’re too proud to accept the help of your son, just because he’s a Social Democrat?’

‘A social Fascist! Complicit in the exploitation of labour by capital!’ Reinhold’s face turned red. ‘It won’t be long before the hour strikes and the proletariat rises in arms!’

Rath understood why the Reinhold family had fallen apart. ‘I think the hour has struck already,’ he said. ‘Many thanks for the information, Herr Reinhold.’

He linked arms with Charly and pulled her away from the hut. Emil Reinhold closed the door as soon as their backs were turned.

‘Why did you do that?’ she asked. ‘I had more questions.’

‘That he wouldn’t have answered. You heard the nonsense he was spouting!’

‘Perhaps he’d have given us something.’

‘Perhaps if you’d been a little friendlier. And besides…’ Rath gazed skywards. ‘Take a look up there. It’s getting dark, and I don’t know how old the batteries in my torch are. We need to make sure we get back to the car. It was hard enough in the light.’

Charly said nothing, but Rath could see she was angry. They reached the square in silence, where Stalin’s master was sparking the bonfire. ‘Is the Sozi-delegation leaving our workers’ paradise so soon?’ he asked.

The dog lay dutifully next to the blazing fire, which had already started to crackle. Kirie began to growl once more, cautiously this time, so that no one could hear, especially not the other dog.

‘I don’t know what everyone here has against the SPD,’ Rath said.

‘Well, take a look around: unemployed, homeless people everywhere. Families with barely anything to eat thanks to Social Democrat policies. At the expense of us workers!’

‘Looks rather idyllic to me,’ Rath gestured towards the bonfire, which had drawn the first people from the settlement. ‘Almost like a gypsy camp. All you need now is a guitar.’

‘Why don’t you come back in February when the lake’s frozen over and you can barely get any water; when the cold saps all the warmth from your body. Then you’ll rethink your gypsy romanticism. This is no operetta. This is real life.’

They left the camp, returning through the wood, and with every step visibility grew poorer. Rath switched on his torch. The beam of light flashed along the tree stems, making anything it didn’t illuminate seem darker. The torch was no use here. They couldn’t find the trail.

‘Maybe we should let Kirie go on ahead,’ Charly said. ‘She relies more on her nose than her eyes.’

Rath nodded and, unable to think of anything better, gave the dog the car key to sniff. It seemed to work. She fixed her nose to the ground and took up the scent. Rath loosened the lead and followed through undergrowth that became thicker and thicker.

‘Are you sure this is the way we came?’ Charly asked after a while.

‘No idea. At least the dog has a scent.’

‘Yes, but what?’

Five minutes later Kirie accelerated when they reached the edge of the wood. She pounced on something that lay on the ground, taking it in her mouth and swinging it back and forth.

‘Drop!’ cried Rath who, despite the torchlight, wasn’t sure what she had picked up. Only at the third ‘drop’ did Kirie let her prey fall to the ground. Rath shone the light on a bundle of fur that had been ripped to pieces, a soggy red sludge pouring out of it like a burst plush cushion.

A dead squirrel.

Kirie looked guilty. Charly couldn’t help but laugh.

‘Don’t laugh,’ Rath said. ‘We have to be strict with her.’

She pulled herself together, but when Rath said ‘Bad dog’ in all seriousness, she burst out laughing again.

‘We’re never going to be able to train her,’ he sighed.

‘Now that both your torch and your dog have come up short, how about we rely on my sense of direction.’