Rath decided to wait until after lunch to look at the three addresses and the Korn distillery. After that he had to find out what happened in the spring of 1924. What had prompted the three men to leave town in the same year? He felt certain that if he could answer these questions, he’d find the link between them – and, perhaps, the reason they were murdered.
He lit a cigarette, stepped onto the little balcony and gazed down at the square. So, this was Germany’s largest marketplace, as everyone was at pains to tell him. Right now it was the probably its most deserted too. The vast expanse lay desolate in the midday heat. Children would be at home eating lunch with their mothers, and even the sheep had disappeared. A lone group of young men wearing brown uniforms and swastika brassards emerged from the little wood by the church and marched across the square. In Berlin the presence of brownshirts inevitably denoted a threat. On the sunlit Treuburg marketplace, against a backdrop of pretty gable houses, there was something almost idyllic about it, as if a group of SA officers on their way to lunch was just another aspect of small-town life. This impression was reinforced when the blue uniform of Chief Constable Grigat emerged from an alleyway into a cordial exchange that ended when the policeman touched his shako in military salute.
In Berlin it would have been unthinkable for a police officer to greet Nazis in this way. Rath stubbed out his cigarette on the wrought-iron balcony railing and remembered his audience with Bernhard Weiss. Was Erich Grigat a Nazi? Not officially, of course, otherwise he would have had to quit his post. Still, an officer couldn’t be prevented from harbouring political sympathies. Rath reflected that one or two of his Berlin colleagues might pull on the brownshirt as soon they were permitted.
He went inside, took the file from the table and made his way downstairs. Grigat was already seated when he entered the dining room.
‘Afternoon,’ the constable said, looking up from the menu.
He returned the greeting and sat down, placing the file on the lily-white table cloth. ‘So, what can you recommend?’
‘Seeing as we’re in East Prussia, you might want to try the Königsberger Klopse or buttermilk blintzes and caraway meatballs. It’s all there.’ Grigat leaned over the menu as if protecting a secret. ‘I’d take the roast pork and potato dumplings.’
‘I can get that in Berlin.’
‘But not like here.’
Grigat was right. The meat, which was served by a young girl following a starter of beetroot soup, was mouth-watering, and there was plenty of it.
‘Did you manage to get some reading done?’ Grigat asked, pointing at the file.
‘There wasn’t much to read. The most intriguing thing is why all three left Treuburg in the same year.’
‘No idea. There’s no information about that.’
‘Can you remember any of them? Personally, I mean.’
‘Sadly not.’ Grigat swallowed and dabbed at his mouth with a serviette. ‘I only moved here in the autumn of ‘29 but you can always ask around. You’ve got the addresses; perhaps someone here can remember them.’
‘Precisely what I had in mind. I can take a look at your lovely town while I’m at it.’
‘If you need any help, just say. I could place a man at your…’
‘Not necessary, thank you. I have Herr Kowalski.’
‘Of course. Where is he, by the way?’
‘At his uncle’s.’
‘Your companion has relatives here?’
‘Actually, he’s from here himself.’
‘Then you should ask him. Perhaps he knows what happened in ‘24.’
Rath nodded. Not such a bad idea, although he wondered how old Anton Kowalski would have been eight years ago. He was probably still at school.
At last they conquered the mountains of flesh. The blonde girl cleared the plates and, without being asked, served two bowls of a golden yellow mixture topped with raisins.
‘Masurian Glumse,’ Grigat explained.
‘Glumse?’
‘What you’d call Quark. Tastes like cheesecake without the biscuit.’
Erich Grigat was right, it tasted good. Even so, Rath felt as if he’d endured a lengthy meeting with Buddha. Grigat, however, couldn’t get enough. He sat rubbing his hands. ‘You wanted to try something East Prussian? How about a Pillkaller to finish?’
‘I don’t think I’ve got room for anything else.’
‘To help with digestion.’ Grigat grinned, hands already raised. ‘Hella? Can you bring us two Pillkaller, please!’
Moments later the girl returned. She wore long blonde pigtails, the sort of hairstyle that had long since gone out of fashion in Berlin. She balanced two large glasses of Doppelkorn on her tray, a slice of liver sausage on top of each, spread thick with mustard. Rath found the sight alone disgusting.
‘Put the sausage on your tongue, pour the schnapps over it, then swallow,’ Grigat said, and demonstrated.
This ritual was even less appealing. The thought made him decidedly uneasy, but Grigat’s expectant face left him no choice. Time to grit your teeth and get on with it! The result was a horrible sludge that didn’t taste quite as bad as expected.
‘And now we repeat, a dozen or so times.’ Grigat laughed when he saw Rath’s horrified expression. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘Pillkaller is more of an evening thing. When you want to get drunk but don’t have much in your stomach.’
Rath resolved to give Chief Constable Grigat a wide berth this evening, if not for the remainder of his stay in Treuburg.
32
The houses on Legasteg were small, with low roofs. Bed sheets lay on the low meadows, bleaching in the afternoon sun. The tired, sluggish river; the crooked little houses – at first glance it appeared idyllic, but poverty was plain to see. Rath knocked on the door of August Simoneit’s former address and waited. There was no bell, neither here nor anywhere else on the street. Probably, most houses had no electricity.
He heard floorboards creaking before the door opened. At first he could hardly make out the man standing in the dark hollow of the entrance hall. ‘Good afternoon,’ he said. ‘Please excuse the interruption.’
‘We’re not buying.’
‘I’m not trying to sell.’ Rath showed his identification. ‘CID, Berlin. I have a question.’
‘Berlin?’
The man stepped into the sun to take a closer look at the badge. Rath saw a thin, wrinkled face, with blonde hair that was now mostly white. ‘It concerns August Simoneit,’ he said. ‘He used to live here. Do you remember?’
The man looked at him through suspicious eyes and shook his head before closing the door. It wasn’t rude; he didn’t slam it, just closed it without another word.
Taciturn and lightning-fast. Rath remembered how they used to joke about the odd Westphalian officer who strayed into the Rhineland during his years in Cologne.
He knocked again and waited. After a time, the man opened the door again and looked at him inquiringly. He didn’t have a photograph of Simoneit but took pictures of the other two men from his jacket. The man at the door inspected them thoroughly. ‘Do you recognise either of them?’ Rath asked. ‘They used to live in Treuburg.’
The man shook his head. ‘Don’t know them,’ he said, and promptly closed the door a second time.
Rath gave up. It really wasn’t unfriendliness; the people here were just taciturn. It was how they communicated – or didn’t, as the case might be.