Dan Fesperman - The Arms Maker of Berlin

“But wasn’t Bauer arrested? Surely you heard about that. He was interrogated by the Gestapo, even put into prison for a while.”

“I don’t know.”

“Your best friend goes to jail for five months and you don’t know about it?”

“We were friends, not best friends. And if these things indeed happened, then it must have been during a period when I didn’t see him much. There were a lot of bombings of the city in that period. Life wasn’t exactly proceeding in a normal fashion. So when people went missing from your life for a while, it didn’t seem out of the ordinary.”

“I see.” Lying son of a bitch. But why cover for Bauer on a matter that, presumably, would make the man look good, even noble? “What else do you remember about Bauer’s girlfriend?”

“Not so much. It was a poor match. My father detested her. But all the same he was fine with letting her dine in his house, because that is the kind of man he was.”

“Tolerant.”

“Of course. His duties and his work he kept to one side, his friendships and his hospitality he kept to another. As is only proper.”

“Of course.” Nat wished he had all this on tape, if only for the circuitous marvel of Stuckart’s rationalizations. He had heard some splendid examples over the years from Germans of that era, but this was a virtuoso performance.

The discussion of Bauer’s girlfriend, however, had jarred loose his memory of Berta’s findings on the deaths at Plötzensee Prison, plus all those photos of the elderly Bauer arriving at the site on the fourth day of every month, flowers in hand.

“This girlfriend. I suppose you’re referring to Liesl Folkerts?”

Stuckart tilted his head and gave Nat a long, silent look, as if reappraising his questioner. His next words emerged with great deliberation.

“How much, exactly, have you dug up on old Kurt?”

Was it Nat’s imagination, or had Stuckart’s tone contained a hint of gleeful malice? Yes, this was a complicated friendship.

“Bits and pieces. She died, didn’t she? Some misadventure at Plötzensee Prison?”

“She was killed in a bombing raid. There was a big one that night, and the prison took a direct hit. A few people even managed to escape as a result, but Liesl was buried under a collapsed wall. Kurt was inconsolable.”

“I thought you didn’t see him any then?”

“This was all secondhand, of course. From mutual friends. As for myself, I, uh, didn’t see him again until-”

“Switzerland?”

“Of course.”

“Let’s go back there for a second.”

Stuckart shrugged and reached again for his cigarettes. He stubbed out the first one even though it was only half finished.

“As I told you, we hardly saw each other in Bern. I recall running into him once on the Kornhaus Bridge, but that was about it.”

Nat consulted his notes from the Swiss surveillance reports.

“This meeting on the bridge, would that have been on the twentieth of July, 1944?”

“I have no idea. It was so long ago. That could have been the date, but I would hardly describe it as any sort of ‘meeting.’”

“Well, I’m not sure what else you would call it. You and Kurt were witnessed together on the bridge. Then both of you walked to a house in Altenberg, where you were inside for several hours.”

Stuckart was stone-faced, silent. Nat continued.

“A few days later you visited him at his room at the Bellevue, where his family had a suite. You stayed two hours, then the two of you had dinner together on the terrace, where you were also seen chatting with members of the German legation. One of them was a new addition to the staff of the Gestapo.”

Stuckart exhaled twin plumes of smoke through his nostrils. A long column of ash drooped from his cigarette, on the verge of collapse.

“Where did you come by this ludicrous hearsay?”

“It’s not hearsay. It’s a surveillance report by Swiss intelligence. An original, not a copy. Swiss agents observed a third lengthy meeting between the two of you as well. It was also attended by the new staff member of the Gestapo. Maybe now that I’ve refreshed your memory you could fill in some of the details?”

“I’m afraid that isn’t possible.”

“Isn’t possible, or isn’t desirable? Why keep protecting Bauer?”

“Look, when I said earlier that Kurt Bauer and I were still friends, perhaps I was being a bit boastful. We are in touch from time to time, but we really don’t see each other. Not face-to-face, or out in public. So, naturally, we never have occasion to revisit these old conversations, meaning that my memory of any time we may have once spent together has faded over time. Quite a bit, in fact. Do you see?”

“Yes, I see. And I’m beginning to understand your friendship. It’s based on mutual leverage, because you both have something to hide. For you, the Stuckart identity. For him, something that happened during the war, here or in Bern. In a strange way you’re still valuable to each other. In fact, I wouldn’t be at all surprised to learn that he helped arrange your little vanishing act, in that fake accident. You probably didn’t have the right connections at the time. But he did. And he was glad to help, because if his own secret ever got out, well, that would be almost as embarrassing as having people know you were the son of a convicted war criminal.”

“I think it is time for you to leave, Dr. Turnbull.”

“I think so, too. Your memory’s not getting any better.”

Nat stood. Stuckart struggled to his feet.

“Remember,” the old man said, “you have your threats, but I also have mine. If you do not keep your word, I will not hesitate to take action.”

“Don’t worry, Herr Schmidt. I know how to keep a secret.”

“Oh, I am not at all worried. You’re the one who should be worried.”

For all the excitement of the encounter, Nat realized as he was describing it to Berta that he really hadn’t learned much new information. As a result, she was suitably unimpressed. The one item that seemed like a genuine revelation-verification that Liesl Folkerts had been Bauer’s girlfriend-bounced right off her. Meaning she probably already knew. He considered telling her that he had found her stash of photographs, then decided against it. No sense bickering just before their important meeting with Göllner.

“You should have called me in,” she said. “I could have gotten more out of him.”

“You’d have only gotten us thrown out of the house quicker. Besides, Göllner’s transcript should tell us what Stuckart was trying to hide.”

“Maybe.”

They grabbed a quick lunch at a nearby Imbiss. Feeling upbeat about their prospects, he ordered a Schulteiss lager with his Currywurst. Maybe they would soon have something to celebrate.

WHEN THE APPOINTED HOUR ARRIVED, Martin Göllner was waiting for them on the sidewalk outside his building. It was immediately clear he was in no condition to transact business.

His body was flattened against the pavement with his black overcoat fanned out around him like the garments of a melted witch. Two policemen stood over the body while a third taped off the scene. Göllner’s skull had split on impact. The crack oozed pink foam like an overripe melon. Blood pooled around his open mouth. His house slippers had somehow remained on his stocking feet.

Nat looked up toward the fifth floor, where lace curtains blew out from Göllner’s open window. Was it his imagination, or did he hear the oompah blat of a tuba issuing faintly from the neighbor’s nonstop Oktoberfest? One of the policemen pulled back the flaps of Göllner’s overcoat. No papers of any kind were visible.

“Come on,” Nat hissed. “Let’s try to get in while there’s still a chance.”