Philip Kerr - A Man Without Breath

‘Is that why he left so abruptly, do you think?’ I asked. ‘Because he could see that you were ill and didn’t want to catch it himself?’

‘Perhaps.’ Von Gersdorff closed his eyes and nodded, catching on at last. ‘I think it might have been, yes.’

‘I can’t say I blame him,’ I said. ‘There was typhoid around Smolensk when we left. In Vitebsk, wasn’t it? Where all those Jews died?’

‘That’s what I told the leader,’ said Von Gersdorff. ‘When he visited our headquarters in Smolensk last weekend.’

‘Typhoid?’ Wetzel frowned.

‘I don’t think I have typhoid,’ said Von Gersdorff. ‘At least, I hope not.’ He clutched his stomach. ‘However. I do feel rather ill again. If you’ll excuse me gentlemen, I’m afraid I am going to throw up once more.’

The colonel moved away from me and presented himself immediately in front of the Gestapo captain, who recoiled noticeably as, for a brief moment, Von Gersdorff placed a hand on his shoulder before launching himself into the last cubicle. He closed and then locked the door hurriedly behind him. There was a short pause and then we heard the sound of him retching loudly. I had to hand it to the colonel. He was a hell of an actor. By now I was almost convinced myself that he was ill.

Wetzel and I faced each other with obvious dislike.

‘There’s nothing personal in this. The fact I don’t like you, Captain Gunther, has nothing to do with what I’m doing here.’

‘Make sure you flush that machine pistol, colonel,’ I said loudly, through the door. ‘And while you’re at it, those two bombs in your pockets.’

‘I’m just doing my job, captain,’ said Wetzel. ‘That’s all. I’m just trying to make sure that everything is in order.’

‘Sure you are,’ I said, pleasantly. ‘But in case you didn’t notice, the cat’s already been swept down river. I don’t doubt the leader would be most impressed with your efforts to ensure his safety, Captain Wetzel, but he’s gone – back to the Reich chancellery and a nice lunch, I’ll be bound.’

Von Gersdorff retched again.

I went over to the basin and started to wash my hands furiously.

‘I forget,’ I said. ‘Is typhoid caught in the air or do you have to eat something that’s been contaminated?’

For a moment Captain Wetzel hesitated. Then he quickly washed his hands. I handed him the towel. Wetzel started to dry his hands, remembered that I’d used the towel to purportedly wipe the vomit off the colonel’s tunic, and dropped it abruptly on the floor; then he turned and left.

I let out a breath, leaned against the wall, and lit a cigarette.

‘He’s gone,’ I announced. ‘You can come out now.’ I took a deep drag of smoke and shook my head. ‘I’m impressed with the way you kept up with all that puking. It sounded very convincing. I think you’d have made quite an actor, colonel.’

The cubicle door opened slowly to reveal a very pale-looking Von Gersdorff.

‘I’m afraid it wasn’t an act,’ he said. ‘What with the bombs and that fucking Gestapo captain, my nerves are shot to pieces.’

‘Perfectly understandable,’ I said. ‘It’s not every day that you try to blow yourself up. That sort of thing takes guts.’

‘It’s not every day you fail, either,’ he said bitterly. ‘Another ten minutes and Adolf Hitler would have been dead.’

I gave him a cigarette and lit it with the butt of my own.

‘Got any family?’

‘A daughter.’

‘Then don’t be so hard on yourself. Think of her. We might still have Hitler, but she still has you, and that’s what’s important right now.’

‘Thank you.’ For a moment Von Gersdorff’s eyes filled up; then he nodded and wiped them quickly with the back of his hand. ‘I wonder why he did leave so abruptly.’

‘You ask me? The man isn’t human at all. Either that or he got a sniff of that cologne you were wearing before I splashed that lime water on your hands. It was horrible.’

Von Gersdorff smiled.

‘You know what?’ I said. ‘I think we need that drink after all. You mentioned a club? Around the corner?’

‘I thought you wanted to keep fools like me at arm’s length.’

‘That was before that stupid captain opened his mouth and told you my name,’ I said. ‘And what better company for one fool than another?’

‘Is that what we are? Fools?’

‘Certainly. But at least we know we’re fools. And in today’s Germany that counts as a kind of wisdom.’

*

We went to the German Club – formerly the Herrenclub – at number two Jager Strasse, which was a red sandstone neo-baroque hatchery for anyone with a von in his name, and the kind of place where you felt improperly dressed without a red stripe on your trouser leg and a Knight’s Cross around your neck. I’d been there once before, but only because I’d mistaken the place for Nero’s golden palace and they’d mistaken me for the mailman. Naturally women were not allowed. It was bad enough for the members to see the witchcraft badge on my tunic in there; if they had seen a female in that place someone would probably have fetched a red-hot stool.

Gersdorff ordered a bottle of Prince Bismarck. They shouldn’t have had any, but of course they did because it was the German Club and the seventy-seven princes and thirty-eight German counts who were among the members might have wondered what things were coming to when you couldn’t get a decent bottle of schnapps. I dare say that August Nothling wasn’t the only shopkeeper in Berlin who knew how to get around the country’s strict rationing. We drank it neat, cold and quickly, with quiet patriotic toasts that someone eavesdropping on our conversation might have considered treasonable, and it was fortunate that we were in the bowling alley, which was empty.

After a while we were both a little drunk and bowled a few, which was when I informed Von Gersdorff of one aspect to the plot to kill Hitler I found repellent.

‘Something’s been nagging me ever since I got back from Smolensk,’ I said.

‘Oh? And what’s that?’

‘I don’t mind you trying to blow Hitler up,’ I said. ‘But I do mind about the two telephonists in Smolensk who had their throats cut because they overheard something they shouldn’t have.’

Von Gersdorff stopped bowling and shook his head. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said. ‘When did this happen?’

‘In the early hours of Sunday March 14th,’ I said. ‘The day immediately after the leader visited Smolensk. Two telephonists from the 537th were found murdered on the banks of the Dnieper River near a brothel called the Hotel Glinka. I was the investigating officer. Unofficially, anyway.’

‘Really, I know nothing about this,’ he insisted. ‘And I can assure you, Captain Gunther, that there is no one at Army Group HQ who would commit such a crime. Or indeed order such a crime to be carried out.’

‘You’re sure about that?’

‘Of course I’m sure. These are officers and gentlemen we’re talking about.’ He lit a cigarette and shook his head. ‘But, look, this sounds much more like partisans. What makes you so sure it wasn’t some damned Popov who murdered them?’

I gave him the reasons. ‘Their throats had been cut with a German bayonet. And the murderer escaped riding a BMW motorcycle west, in the direction of Group headquarters. Also I suspect the two victims knew their murderer.’

‘God, how awful. But if it happened near a brothel, as you say, then perhaps it was just a soldiers’ argument about a prostitute.’

I shrugged. ‘The local Gestapo hanged some innocent people for the crime, of course. In retaliation. So a proper sense of order has been restored. Anyway, I just thought I’d ask your opinion.’ I shook my head. ‘Perhaps it was an argument about a whore after all.’