Luke McCallin - The Man from Berlin

Padelin rose from his seat in a calm eruption of energy. Reinhardt stayed staring at the screen as he heard Jelic’s yelp of protest, and the sound of Padelin’s hand, the open palm, and then the meatier thud of his fist. Blow after blow, Jelic’s cries fading into grunts, and then the ragged whimper of something broken, and then nothing. Through it all, Padelin made not a sound, and Reinhardt had eyes only for the screen, blank now. If the film could have run a little more he might have seen the end, her death, seen the man who wielded the knife. There was a part of him that felt this was all a show. A stage, and her the player, and as in a film she would rise from her bed when it was all over, show that it was all just theatre, fake, managed and directed by her.

Eventually, he stood and turned. Jelic cowered in a corner, weeping quietly, his face a mask of blood. Reinhardt ran his eyes over the room, spotting a sink in a corner with a cupboard over the top. Opening it, he found a bottle of slivovitz. He poured a measure into a glass he found standing in the sink, knocking it back and wincing as it burned its way down. He poured another and took it over to Jelic. The man watched him coming like a dog that expects only its master’s boot, and only stared at the proffered glass through eyes that were already swelling shut. He finally took it with a quivering hand and turned into the corner with it.

Padelin was nowhere to be seen, but Reinhardt spotted that the door was ajar, not shut. He looked at the projector, not knowing what to do with it. ‘Jelic,’ he called. The man ignored him, twisted inward with the glass resting on his broken lips. ‘Jelic,’ he said, sharper. The man looked up, screwing his head up and around to see through his swollen eyes. ‘The man on the film. Was that the one from Russia?’ He nodded, eventually. ‘Jelic. Can you take the film off, please?’ The man stared up at him with his head canted sideways. ‘The film. Please take it off.’

Jelic swallowed slowly, then rose to his feet. He flinched, a hand going to his chest as if to keep something in, and shuffled over to the projector. He flipped switches and clips and detached the case of film. He handed it to Reinhardt without a word and went back to his corner, folding himself into it and around the glass. Reinhardt watched him for a moment, then turned and left, knowing words were unnecessary, and wholly inadequate to whatever pain Jelic felt.

Downstairs, he found Padelin sitting on a concrete block in a patch of late afternoon sun. A handkerchief was wrapped around his fist, spotted with blood. Reinhardt tossed the film into the kubelwagen and walked over to him. Padelin looked up as he approached, his eyes hooded. ‘Was that absolutely necessary?’ Reinhardt asked. Padelin blinked, that slow blink of some great, ponderous beast at rest, and said nothing. Reinhardt looked at him, then shook his head and went back to the car.

He picked up the film case and turned it over and over in his hands. The kubelwagen shifted and creaked as Padelin sat in the seat next to him, his jacket folded over his lap, and rested his elbow over the car’s door, for all the world a picture of a man off for a drive in the country.

‘I’ll take you back to your headquarters,’ said Reinhardt, starting the car. ‘I need to show this film to my superiors and see if anyone can recognise that man. I’ll see if I can’t get you a copy.’

As Reinhardt dropped Padelin off at his headquarters under the dull gaze of a pair of policemen on duty outside the main entrance, the big detective paused as he opened the door. ‘It may not be needed, the copy,’ he said. Reinhardt blinked at him, saying nothing. Padelin glanced at his watch. ‘But I do want to know where you got it from.’

‘Padelin, I don’t understand you,’ said Reinhardt, staring straight ahead.

‘There is nothing to understand. Marija Vukic was killed by one of your soldiers. Apparently this officer she knew in Russia.’

‘Did you see her murder on that film? Did you?’ He stared hard at the detective, and this time it was Padelin who would not meet his eyes. ‘I didn’t. I saw a man who beat her, yes. I also saw a man who seemed to stop himself from going further than he did. I saw a man who seemed upset at what he had done. Which means we still don’t have a suspect for her death. We have someone we need to interview. That’s it.’

‘Who gave it to you?’ Padelin grated.

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘It does.’

‘Why? Why should it matter? I mean, not much of material value to this investigation has mattered to you until now. Why should this?’

Padelin clenched his jaw, the muscles bunching as he ground his teeth. ‘It matters,’ he said, slowly, ‘because otherwise I… we… have been made to look like fools.’

‘Like… ?’ Reinhardt raised both hands to his head, taking his cap off and scrubbing his fingers through his hair. ‘Padelin, do you honestly think that matters? And honestly, can you look at me and tell me that, through all this, through these past days, you have not acted like fools? Not acted against the evidence? Went where you wanted things to go, instead of following where the evidence suggested you go?’

‘Well, if you won’t tell me, maybe Jelic will.’

‘Jelic? Oh, for Christ’s sake, Padelin. You can’t be serious.’ Reinhardt looked hard at him. ‘Padelin. That boy had nothing to do with it.’

‘So you say.’

‘So I say. Leave him out of this.’

‘Why? What is he to you?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Well, then.’

Reinhardt ran his hand over his forehead. His skin felt thick, clammy, as if he had a fever. ‘Padelin…’ he began. ‘Padelin. You think I have never felt the need to battle my enemies without constraints? There’s nothing unusual in that. We would not be human if we did not struggle against what restrained us. It is that which demands our attention. Not the urge to action, or to violence. But what holds us back from it. As policemen, we might have such wishes. It does not mean we will act in the way we want when the restrictions are removed.’

‘I have no restrictions other than those the law places upon me.’

‘Padelin, you may believe that. I tell you it is not true. And even if it were so, what does it mean if the law itself is no restriction? If the very law we uphold is what pushes you to excess, or what tolerates it? The law that you – that I – operate under tolerates no restrictions other than its own belief in itself. There is no boundary to what it will do, no threshold it will not cross. You know that.’

‘This law… my law, is the expression of the…’

‘… will of the people. My Volk. Your Narod. I know. It holds no secrets for me. I was dealing with it long before you ever put on a uniform. But you know… you know , Padelin, that not everyone is equal before that law. Some it recognises over others. And those others have no recourse other than the restraint you, as a policeman, choose to exercise.’

‘Reinhardt, what are you talking about?’

‘I’m trying to tell you… it’s like someone saying, “Hold me back, hold me back or I’ll kill that person. I’ll kill that murderer. That rapist. That Jew. That Serb.” But maybe what that person really means is, “ Because you are holding me back, I can say I want to kill that person.” Because I know I will not. I will not because it is wrong, because the law will stop me. Because my friends, my colleagues, will stop me.’ He could see he was losing him. Padelin frowned, his mouth clamped tight shut, but he pushed on. He had to say this. ‘So the question, Padelin, is this: if a policeman is allowed to act without restraint – to the boundaries of what is permitted, and perhaps even beyond – will he do so? If not, what will constrain him? What holds him back? Will the law, will his society, his conscience, show him clearly not every goal sanctifies every means? And perhaps even there are means that cannot – ever – be sanctified.’