Luke McCallin - The Man from Berlin

Mostly, Friedrich wrote about Stalingrad.

The worst thing, Father, the worst thing about it is nowhere is safe. Nowhere. They come at you from everywhere. Out of the sewers. Down from the roofs. From under the rubble. Out of factory chimneys. From ground you’ve fought over and liberated ten times. You live your life with your head down and your shoulders hunched. Every day is like a week, and you live every day as if it’s your last.

But, Father, fear cannot be all I feel. Yes, I am scared. We all are. But there is purpose to this. I must believe that. I passed a hospital train, yesterday. It was full to the brim with casualties, mostly from Stalingrad. Looking at it, your heart twists around its own contradictions. You rejoice it is not you among them. You envy them their ticket home. You hope for yourself the end comes clean if ever it does. You wonder what the future holds for such as they.

If I could hide them from the world, I would, though. Some things bear a heavy price, and not all prices are worth revealing. I now understand better what you went through as a young man. No one can know what it’s like who hasn’t gone through it. No one, Father, no one must know what it’s like. What we suffer for them. Promise me you’ll tell no one.

There was a photograph with the letter, and Reinhardt had to look carefully to recognise his son. Friedrich was burned away, whittled down, looking ten years older than he actually was. Reinhardt read and reread the letter, trying to find perhaps some hidden meaning. Some indication that what Friedrich had experienced might have opened his eyes, if only just a little, to what the Nazis had done to him. To them, as a family. But the faith was still there. Even after all he had seen and done and suffered.

Even if Reinhardt had wanted to write back, he could not have. Friedrich’s letter arrived at the beginning of December, just over a week after the Red Army coiled itself around the city. He spoke only to Brauer of Friedrich’s letter. Christmas leave in Berlin, hunched over glasses of beer, heads close together, Brauer had listened to Reinhardt in silence.

‘Do you think we’re different this time?’ Brauer had asked. ‘You and me?’

‘How?’

‘That we haven’t burned away enough to get through this.’

Reinhardt had nodded slowly. ‘It’s different. We’re different. This isn’t our war.’

‘Not our war,’ he whispered, pushing his pack of cigarettes around the table, knowing it was only with Brauer he could say things like that, and even then… Stalingrad had fallen. The Sixth was wiped out, they said. Only a few survivors. He tossed a handful of kuna on the table for the coffee. He had to get moving or face another evening that would end with him at the bottom of a bottle, or staring down the barrel of his pistol.

The Ragusa was in the heart of the Austrian city, sandwiched shy;between Kvaternik and King Aleksander Streets. The roads all ran at right angles to each other, and the buildings were much alike, heavy carved stone facades rising three or four floors, doorways flanked by columns or statues, all so different from the serpentine jumble of the Ottoman city. At the club’s entrance, Reinhardt stared up at a brightly lit sign: Ragusa written in gold on blue, thick red stripes above and below the lettering. He looked at the cars parked in front of the club. A couple of army staff cars, but most of the vehicles were private, including one impressive-looking Maybach. ‘Claussen, you stay out here with the car, please. Hueber, you’re with me.’ He pushed open the doors and strode into a short hallway with what looked like fishing nets hung on the walls, with shells and other nautical paraphernalia wound into the strands, along with a big painting of a coastal city, thick stone walls wrapped around a crowded port. The hall ended in a tall set of opaque glass doors. The strains of what sounded like a Gypsy orchestra became suddenly louder as he opened those and stepped into the club proper.

A lectern stood just inside the entrance, a book open on its shy;surface. Reinhardt paused a couple of steps in and looked around. The place smelled strongly of alcohol, cigarettes, and roasted meat. It was dimly lit, what lighting there was glowing through clouds of smoke or reflecting back off pictures arranged haphazardly around the walls, a mix of photographs of revellers and imitation prints of coastal scenes and cities. More fishing nets were draped across the walls. The overall colour was a heavy red, on the tablecloths and wallpaper. Round tables were spread across a surface split into two levels, the farther level lower than where Reinhardt stood. Down there was the stage, with a group of four musicians in traditional costume playing on what looked like fiddles, a clarinet, and a small handheld drum. Most of the tables were taken by men in uniforms, but some men wore civilian clothes. A few women were scattered around the tables, flecks of colour in a sea of black and field grey. Waiters moved to and fro, wearing brightly coloured waistcoats with white shirts and black trousers.

A man in a tuxedo slid smoothly behind the lectern. His hair was black and shiny, brushed straight back and held with some sort of pomade. Reinhardt could smell it. ‘Yes, sir? May I help you?’ The maitre d’ spoke perfect German, offering Reinhardt a reserved smile as he took in his uniform.

Reinhardt glanced at him, then around the bar again. ‘I’d like some information, please.’

The maitre d’ put his head slightly to one side, the smile tightening somewhat. He managed to flick his gaze up and down Reinhardt without losing eye contact, taking in the captain’s field uniform and the wear and tear on his boots. ‘Information, sir?’ He took his time looking over Hueber in his corporal’s tunic, who flushed under the maitre d’s gaze, which was unfortunate as it turned his acne an even darker shade of red. ‘What kind of information could that be?’ From the accent he was Bavarian, thought Reinhardt.

‘Information,’ repeated Reinhardt. He fixed the maitre d’ with his eyes as he took Hendel’s photo from his pocket. He put it on the lectern. ‘Have you seen this man before? An army lieutenant.’

The maitre d’ leaned over the photograph for a moment, then back up. He looked at Reinhardt, and Reinhardt could see him pondering whether he had the weight to ask what this was all about. A maitre d’ in a place like this? Popular, frequented by all kinds of officers… He might just feel confident enough to do it. Overimportant maitre d’s had been an occupational hazard back in Berlin. Especially once the Nazis had begun to colonise all the best restaurants and hotels, turning everywhere black and brown with their uniforms, and leaving men like this maitre d’ out at the front, pretending the barbarians had not taken over and everything was normal.

‘Yes,’ said the maitre d’, finally. ‘He is a frequent guest here. But not tonight. I’m sorry,’ he said, handing the photograph back.

Reinhardt left him with his hand out, the photograph in it. He looked around the club again. ‘He won’t be coming back. He’s dead,’ he said, turning back to look at the maitre d’ as he spoke. The man blinked, the hand with the photograph drawing back, and down. He looked at it again, then up at Reinhardt.

‘I am… sorry to hear that,’ he said. He proffered the photograph again, wishing to be rid of it.

‘Murdered, in fact,’ said Reinhardt. ‘What is your name?’

The maitre d’ looked back at him. ‘Name… ?’

‘Your name,’ said Reinhardt, moving closer to him, still ignoring the photograph. ‘I am conducting the inquiries into his murder.’ He said nothing about his unit, his function, letting the maitre d’ draw his own conclusions.