Luke McCallin - The Man from Berlin

‘Something to think about. And the maid knew him. He’d been there before. Listen, get onto the Feldgendarmerie traffic boys, too. See what their records are for late Saturday night, early Sunday morning. Arrange a time for me to see them.’ He paused, wondering if he should say more about the Feldgendarmerie, then thought better of it. ‘I’ll look for you later, all right? So.’ He turned to Padelin. ‘Where are we going?’

‘Above the train station. Right up the hill.’

Reinhardt took the car around the back of the barracks, then gunned it up the steep road that climbed almost straight up the hill, his left knee twitching as he struggled with the pedals. He swerved around a porter in wide black trousers going up the hill, bent double under a load he carried high up on his shoulders. There was something peculiarly Oriental about him, about his trade, Reinhardt thought. The man looked up from under his brows, his skin dark and leathery, every bit the swarthy Turk of a hundred stories and postcards of this place. What did such a man think of life, he wondered. What could any man think who bore such loads and looked at little more than cobblestones all day long?

The road curved around a spur of Mount Trebevic, nearly all of the city visible down the hill to the right. Padelin pointed, and Reinhardt swung the car across the road and parked next to a large house in yellow brick, with a small front garden. Padelin showed his identity card to the elderly maid who answered their ring, and Reinhardt watched the fear bloom in her eyes as she held the door open for them. They were shown into a living room, in the middle of which stood a woman dressed in black. It was clear she was Marija’s mother, such that Reinhardt was taken aback momentarily at the resemblance, at what Marija would have grown into. The looks were the same, as was the clear, flawless skin. Only her hair was a shiny ash blond, worn long over her shoulders. She stood with a calm intensity, clearly braced for bad news, her blue eyes flickering from Reinhardt to Padelin and back again.

Padelin spoke to her gently. Reinhardt heard Marija’s name and guessed he was giving her the bad news, because her mouth formed a wordless O, a gasp coming from the maid as she stood by the door. Vukic searched blindly behind her with her hand for the chair. Everyone moved at once, Reinhardt reaching her first and helping her sit down. Her eyes sought and held his, and she spoke to him but he could not answer her. It was Padelin, surprisingly gently, who did. The tears came then, welling up and rolling down her cheeks. He talked to her for a moment and Reinhardt heard the words for German and officer . Vukic nodded behind a lace handkerchief that she held with trembling hands.

‘Yes, of course. Of course,’ she whispered. ‘We can talk in German. Please, just give me a moment.’ The maid left the room. Re shy;in shy;hardt heard her start to sob as water ran from a tap, and he incongruously found himself thanking the Austrians for having occupied this place and teaching everyone German. The sounds of crockery being arranged underlaid Vukic’s quiet tears as she wept into her handkerchief. Reinhardt and Padelin exchanged glances, Padelin looking desperately uncomfortable. Reinhardt looked around the room, which was decorated in what he took to be an old style, all heavy wood and furniture it would have taken two strong men to shift, and Art Deco vases and glasswork. Every flat surface, it seemed, was covered in white lace cloths. A grand piano stood in a corner next to a double door looking out over a small flower garden. Arranged all over its top surface were photographs, portraits mostly. Vjeko Vukic’s photo, hard mouth and harder eyes, stared back at him from several of them, including the same one that he had seen in Marija’s apartment with the mourning band along the bottom. None of the pictures he could see were of Marija.

After a moment, Vukic looked up from her crying. ‘My manners, I do apologise. I am Suzana Vukic. Please sit down.’ She rose to her feet. ‘If you will excuse me for a moment.’ She glided out of the room. Reinhardt heard her going upstairs, and a door closed. A clock ticked heavily in the still air of the room, redolent with the scent of flowers in a silver vase. The maid came in with a tray with a pot and cups, her eyes red-rimmed and puffy. She put the tray down with a soft metal clatter and left as Vukic returned. She had combed her hair and washed her face. She motioned to the two officers to stay seated and sat in her chair, drawing her legs sideways and together, her back straight. ‘Now,’ she swallowed, dabbing delicately at her nose. ‘How can I help you?’

‘Mrs Vukic, when was the last time you saw your daughter?’ asked Padelin.

She drew a deep breath, nodding to herself. ‘It was last week. Last Tuesday.’

‘How did she seem to you?’

‘As normal. Very excited about everything. And nothing.’

‘No signs of unusual behaviour? She mentioned nothing that might have been troubling her?’

‘Nothing,’ replied Vukic. She blew her nose elegantly into her handkerchief.

‘Nothing to do with men? With money? At her work?’ Vukic shook her head to all of it. ‘Can you tell us what she did, exactly?’

‘She was a filmmaker. And a photographer.’ Her German was slow, precise. She went over to an elegant escritoire of dark, varnished wood with brass handles and came back with a folder tied up with a ribbon. She spread a collection of clippings, photos, postcards, letters, and other memorabilia onto the table and fingered through it. She found one in particular, a certificate of completed training with the Propaganda Ministry in Berlin. Propaganda Kompagnien. One of Goebbels’s little stormtroopers, thought Reinhardt, and a woman. Well, well, well. He put it back as Vukic showed him another page, handwritten in an elegant, old-fashioned script, probably hers. It listed all of Marija’s assignments, and the dates she was away. Poland 1939, France and the Netherlands 1940, the Balkans and Greece 1941, USSR twice, in 1941 and again in 1942, North Africa 1942, Italy. shy;Everywhere, it seemed.

The door to the room creaked open and an old dog wandered in. It sniffed aimlessly at Reinhardt’s leg before flopping to the floor at Vukic’s feet. Vukic stroked its head, then leaned forward in her chair. ‘Will you take something to drink? I have coffee that was a present from Marija from her last trip to North Africa.’ She offered him a cup of coffee, thick and black, flavoured with cardamom. Reinhardt lifted his cup to his lips, remembering the last time he had tasted something like it, in Benghazi, in a cafe overlooking the sea with the water like a sheet of molten metal beneath him. She poured for Padelin, but he only put his cup briefly to his lips, putting it down almost untouched. ‘Yes, a photographer. A good one, too. She worked with Leni. Leni Riefenstahl,’ she added, unnecessarily. A first flicker of an emotion other than grief roused itself in her face and there was pride in her voice ‘She travelled with the troops. She followed the Croat soldiers to Russia. I have all her letters and cards. Perhaps you might want to look at them.’

‘That might be useful,’ said Reinhardt. ‘Mrs Vukic, I saw her apartment and the collection of photographs. I understand that she travelled extensively with the military, but did she travel with anyone in particular?’

‘Oh, yes. Always with the general staff.’

‘There were at least two men at Marija’s house that night.’ Vukic’s mouth firmed, and she dipped her head to sip from her cup. ‘One of them was found dead at the scene. A blond man. Blue eyes. A soldier, perhaps thirty to thirty-five years old. Do you know who that might be?’

‘She used to see a Major Bruno Gord, in the propaganda companies. I never met him, though. Then again,’ she said, quietly, ‘it might not be him.’