Аннетте Хесс - The German House

“You have to be the right type for something like that.”

“Then what type might I be, pray tell?”

“You are a normal young woman who needs a normal man. Maybe a tradesman. Roofers make very good money.” Eva snorted in outrage and was about to voice her disdain for every last type of tradesman, when a small black-and-white photograph in the newspaper caught her eye. It showed two of the men she had spent an hour with in a smoke-filled room yesterday: the younger, blond man and older fellow with the funny windswept hair. They were pictured in serious conversation. The caption read, “Lead prosecutor and Hessian state attorney general holding preparatory discussions.” Eva started to read the one-column article. A trial against former members of the SS was evidently set to begin in the city that very week.

“Eva? Are you listening? I’m talking to you! What about Peter Rangkötter? He courted you for such a long time. And tilers never run out of work.”

“Mum, do you seriously think I would ever want to be named Eva Rangkötter?” Stefan, his little chin covered in honey, giggled and gleefully chanted, “Frau Rangkötter! Frau Rangkötter!” Eva ignored her brother, pointed to the article, and looked at her mother. “Have you heard about this? This trial? That was my assignment yesterday.”

Edith took the paper, glanced at the photograph, and skimmed the article. “It’s terrible, what happened. In the war. But no one wants to hear it anymore. And why in our city, of all places?” Edith Bruhns folded up the paper. Eva looked at her mother in surprise. It sounded as though she had some stake in it. “And why not?” Her mother didn’t respond. Instead, she stood and began to clear the dirty dishes. She was wearing a tight-lipped expression—her “lemon face,” as Stefan called it. She turned on the boiler above the sink to heat dishwater.

“Can you help downstairs today, Eva, or do you have to work?”

“Yes, I can. Things are slow around Christmas. Besides, the boss always asks Karin Melzer first. Because she always wears such pointed brassieres.”

“Shhh,” Edith hissed, with a glance at Stefan, who merely smirked.

“As if I didn’t knew what a brassiere is.”

“As if I didn’t know ,” Edith corrected him. The water in the boiler began to seethe. Edith stacked the dishes in the sink.

Eva opened the newspaper again and finished reading the article: twenty-one men had been indicted. They had all worked at a camp in Poland. The trial had been repeatedly delayed. The main defendant, the camp’s final commander, had already died on them. His adjutant, a Hamburg businessman of excellent repute, had been indicted in his place. Testimony would be heard from 274 witnesses. Hundreds of thousands of people in the camp were allegedly—

“Boo!”

Stefan unexpectedly smacked the bottom of the paper, one of his favorite jokes. As always, Eva was terribly startled. She tossed the paper aside and leaped to her feet. “Just you wait!” Stefan stormed out of the kitchen, Eva on his heels. She chased her little brother through the apartment, finally capturing him in the living room, where she held him tight and threatened to squish him like the lousy louse he was. Stefan squealed in delight, his peals so shrill they shook the crystal glassware in the cupboard.

In the kitchen, Edith still stood at the sink, watching the boiler. The water was now boiling loudly, unsettlingly. The dirty dishes waited in the sink. But Edith didn’t move. She stared, motionless, at the big, hot bubbles dancing behind the glass.

At the same time, in the offices of the prosecution, the atmosphere resembled backstage at the theater shortly before the curtain rises on a world premiere. David Miller attempted to appear composed and professional as he stepped into the corridor but was instantly seized by the feverish surge: every office door was open, telephones were ringing, pastel-colored office girls balanced towers of files or wheeled documents across the linoleum on squeaky carts. Ring binders were laid out along the length of the hallway, dark red and black, like collapsed rows of dominoes. Plumes of smoke spilled from every room. The clouds reminded David of greyhounds hovering, as if in slow motion, over the nervous chaos and dissipating before their chance to chase the mechanical hare. David almost laughed. It made him uncomfortable, it seemed cynical—but he was excited. He was there. Of the forty-nine applicants for the clerkship, only eight had been selected. Himself included, despite having passed the bar only a year earlier in Boston. David knocked on the open door to the lead prosecutor’s office. He was standing at his desk, on the phone, a glowing cigarette between his fingers. The outlines of a construction crane in the courtyard outside were visible through the foggy windows. The blond man gave David a curt nod and, as usual, appeared to struggle to recall exactly who he was. David entered.

“The length of the trial will depend on the chief judge,” the blond man spoke into the phone. “And I cannot read the man. If he acts according to the consensus, then things will be hushed up and relativized and we’ll be through in four weeks. But the prosecution will insist upon a thorough evidentiary hearing. Personally, I’m expecting more along the lines of four months.” He paused. “Sure, consider it a present. Go ahead and write it.” The blond man hung up and used the butt of his cigarette to light the next. His hands were steady. David didn’t waste time with a greeting: “Has he been in touch?”

“Who?”

“The Beast.”

“No. And I would prefer it, Herr Miller, if you would refrain from using such slanted terms. We’ll leave that to the public.”

David waved off the rebuke. He couldn’t comprehend how the prosecutor could remain so calm. One of the main defendants had been released from custody three months earlier, citing health issues. For the past five days now, they’d been unable to reach him at his registered address. And the trial was scheduled to begin Friday morning.

“But then we’ve got to get the police involved! They’ve got to launch a manhunt!”

“No legal basis, I’m afraid. The trial hasn’t begun yet.”

“But he’ll abscond, damn it! Like all the others, to Argentina and—”

“We need that young woman. The one from yesterday. What was her name?” the blond man interrupted him. David shrugged reluctantly, although he knew who he meant. The prosecutor didn’t wait for a response.

“They won’t let Dombreitzki leave the country.”

“Dommitzki.”

“Exactly, him. Negotiations are under way, but he’s staying where he is for now. In a Polish prison. An agreement could take months to reach.”

“I don’t believe that a young German woman, of all people, is suitable for such a demanding position. Sir”—David was becoming more insistent—“we are entirely dependent on our interpreters. They could tell us whatever the hell they wanted—”

“She’ll take an oath. You could also see it this way: a woman might have a calming effect on witnesses. And that’s exactly what we need, witnesses who feel safe! We need to get everything we can out of them—and they have to tell us what happened, have to endure the strain. So drive over there straightaway. You remember the address?” David nodded hesitantly and shuffled out.

The blond man sat down. This Miller fellow was too keen, too dogged. He’d heard a rumor that Miller’s brother had died in the camp. It would be tricky if there were any truth to that rumor, because they’d have to replace him then, due to conflict of interest. On the other hand, they needed dedicated young people like him to spend day and night processing the thousands of documents, comparing dates, names, and events, and helping maintain order in this cacophony of voices. The blond man deeply inhaled the smoke from his cigarette, held his breath for a moment, and turned to the window. Outside in the courtyard, the shadowlike crane traced its usual circles.