Luke McCallin - The Man from Berlin

‘Dietmar Stern.’

‘You have worked here long?’

Stern nodded, tentatively. ‘Nearly one year, now.’

‘You say Lieutenant Hendel was a frequent visitor?’

Stern nodded, again, the photograph hanging forgotten in his hand. ‘Every few nights.’

‘Alone? With friends?’

‘He would often come with friends, yes. Excuse me, one moment,’ said Stern, as a man in a grey suit and burgundy tie came in. The maitre d’ put the photograph down, took the man’s hat, and escorted him to a table. Reinhardt stepped up to the lectern, picking up the photo and looking down over the list of bookings and reservations. Stern came back over, saying nothing as Reinhardt scanned the book, then stepped back.

‘When was the last time he was here?’

Stern ran a finger down one of the pages, turning back one. He tapped an entry. ‘Thursday night.’

‘This last Thursday?’ Stern nodded. ‘Was he with anyone?’ There was a burst of applause from the patrons as the band ended one song and started another.

‘The entry does not say, sir,’ said Stern.

‘Do you know Marija Vukic?’ asked Reinhardt.

‘Of course I did. She was a regular guest here. It is terrible, what happened to her.’

‘Did Hendel know her?’

Stern nodded, frowning. ‘He did. I believe they met here quite frequently.’

‘When would have been the last time?’ asked Reinhardt, motioning at the ledger. ‘Check, please.’

Stern looked back to his book, then back up at Reinhardt. ‘Also Thursday. But she was with someone else.’

‘Who?’

‘A General Paul Verhein.’

The name meant nothing to Reinhardt. Sarajevo was full of generals these days. ‘Is there anything that comes to mind about Hendel?’ he asked. ‘Anything at all. How he behaved. How often he came. Who he talked to.’

Stern shook his head. ‘I’m afraid I would not really know, sir. You might ask Dragan, the barman.’

Reinhardt held Stern’s eyes a moment longer. ‘Down there?’ He turned to Hueber, motioning him to follow.

‘Sir,’ Stern said, softly. ‘Your cap, if I may.’ He did not offer to take Hueber’s forage cap, but the corporal took it off and folded it into one of his tunic pockets.

Reinhardt threaded a path through the tables, past German and Italian officers, Ustase, men in suits and women in dresses that were probably fashionable a few years ago, before the war. Reinhardt flicked his eyes from German officer to German officer, hoping not to make eye contact with any of them. Some looked up at him as he passed. Most turned away; those that looked longer had eyes more for Hueber than for Reinhardt. A corporal in a club like this was not usual and would eventually cause comment.

He walked past the last table and into a space in front of the bar, with the band playing to his left in front of a long mirror that gave a poor illusion of space and light. He felt terribly exposed, imagining all those who might be watching him from the smoke-shrouded gloom behind him. A couple of men, an Ustasa in his black uniform and a man in a suit, stood at the bar, shoulder to shoulder in conversation. A barman in white shirt and black waistcoat stood to one side, polishing a glass with a cloth. Reinhardt walked to the far end of the bar, motioning to him to join him.

‘What may I offer you for drink?’ asked the barman, eyebrows raised and head tilting back slightly as he spoke. His German was thick and accented.

Continuing the place’s nautical theme, the bar was decked out with fishing paraphernalia. Reinhardt scanned past nets and seashells and a ship’s lantern and sepia-toned prints of coastal towns along the limited display of bottles behind the barman, and noticed a bottle of red standing open, with what looked like a Mostar label. ‘Give me a glass of that.’

The barman poured with an exaggerated care, filling the wineglass almost to the brim, then placing it in front of Reinhardt. He made to move away, but Reinhardt raised his hand, slightly. ‘One moment,’ he said, as he raised the glass to his lips. The wine was cold, the way they drank it here. Despite that, it was still heady and thick, lying heavy on the tongue.

‘Is all right?’ the barman asked.

Reinhardt turned his lips in between his teeth and squeezed the tip of his tongue. ‘Fine,’ he nodded. It was diabolical. Reinhardt took another sip. ‘Mr Stern said we should talk to you, Dragan.’ The barman looked back at him expressionlessly, flicked his eyes at Hueber, then picked up his cloth and began drying a glass.

‘About?’

‘About a lieutenant. Called Hendel. Do you know him?’

Dragan nodded. ‘I know him. He come often here.’ He ran his cloth around the glass with a practiced move and put it away in a rack over his head, taking another from just below the counter.

‘When was he last here?’

The barman wiped and dried the glass, his eyes turned inward and somewhere else in a ploy that, to the policeman in Reinhardt, was transparently one to gain time. Dragan could not know what this was about, but he was surely not wanting to get in the middle of whatever was making a German Army captain ask questions about a lieutenant’s whereabouts. ‘Maybe I think last week?’

‘A day?’ replied Reinhardt.

Dragan stayed expressionless as he cleaned his glass, his eyes elsewhere, then focused back on Reinhardt. ‘Thursday?’ he said, at last.

‘You remember anything special about him?’

‘Special? Sorry, my German. Not so good.’

‘Hueber, please,’ said Reinhardt, half turning away from the bar and motioning the corporal forward. ‘Ask him what he remembers in particular, if anything, about Lieutenant Hendel.’

Dragan frowned at him as he spoke to Hueber, and then his frown deepened as Hueber began talking in Serbo-Croat. The barman’s eyes flicked back and forth between the two of them, then settled on Reinhardt as he began to talk back. Hueber held up a hand after a moment.

‘Sir, he said Lieutenant Hendel was in here twice, sometimes three times a week. He usually drank at the bar. He liked the ladies. He did not cause any trouble.’

‘Does he know who Marija Vukic is?’

‘I know. Of course, I know,’ said Dragan, stepping forward as if to push Hueber out of the conversation. ‘She is here many, many times.’

‘Did you ever see the two of them together?’

Dragan nodded. ‘Yes. Two, maybe three times.’

‘What do you remember?’

Dragan opened his mouth to speak, then paused. He looked between the two of them again, and then, as if deciding that Hueber was the lesser of two evils, began to talk to the corporal. The Ustasa at the bar peered over his companion’s shoulder at them, making the other man turn and look as well. Reinhardt looked back at them expressionlessly until the civilian turned away, and the Ustasa shrugged, and they went back to their drinks and conversation.

‘Sir,’ said Hueber, again. ‘He says that Vukic was a frequent guest here. She was usually here with guests, and their parties were always quite wild. A lot of drinking, and singing. He remembers her with Hendel because the times they were together were unlike any of her other visits. She came alone, and they talked alone. The barman says he thinks that Hendel was interested in her but she was not interested in him. He was…’ He broke off for a second, asked something in Serbo-Croat to which Dragan replied. Hueber nodded, and resumed. ‘He was not her type.’

‘What was her type?’ asked Reinhardt, guessing the answer.

‘Officers. Older ones. With gold on the shoulders,’ said Dragan, not needing Hueber to translate that one.

‘Anything else?’

‘Yes, sir,’ replied Hueber. ‘The barman remembers that while they were talking, others would come up to greet her. She was courteous, but she did not allow others to join them. Some of the men were annoyed with that. He knows because they came to the bar to complain. Afterwards, when she was finished talking with Hendel, she came to the bar, and she would laugh and joke with those men, and then shy;everything was fine.