She tried not to show her relief. The boy seemed familiar with the machine and got down to work straightaway. Unger was almost smiling, something she had never seen before. He cleared his throat. ‘Fräulein Ritter… They’re short of tomatoes in the salad kitchen. Fetch five crates from the store and then you can finish for the day.’
Finish for the day. How good those words sounded, but she was already thinking like a kitchen maid. It didn’t matter that she’d made no progress on surveillance, it was time to get the hell out of here!
She threw her dripping apron in the large wash basket next to the time clock, debated whether to put on another apron for the tomatoes, and decided against. Her clothes were due a wash anyway.
She knew the way, but the store was big and disorganised and the tomatoes hard to find. There were several shelves full of fresh vegetables, as well as a few tins. Next to the entrance were four huge crates of potatoes. The tomatoes were in a dark corner towards the back. At least two dozen crates. She wondered how many needed shifting here every day. Finding a handcart, she started loading the crates when an echo sounded from the concrete walls. She had left the heavy door open, but now heard it click shut.
Goddamn it, some idiot had closed the door! Whoever it was, perhaps they’d still be on hand to help.
She loaded the next crate and gave a start. Black-and-white shepherd’s check pants. Manfred Unger had arrived as if by magic, watching her go about her work. She put down the crate and stood up straight. ‘Crikey!’ she said, attempting a smile. ‘You gave me quite a fright.’
She didn’t say it was the second time already today. Was he checking up on her? Or did he want to speak to her in private about yesterday?
‘My apologies,’ he said, smiling his strange smile as he drew closer. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you, Fräulein Ritter. I just wanted to tell you – privately – how glad I am to have you on board. And how much I value your work.’
‘Well, thank you very much,’ she said, feeling uneasy.
‘I hope to have some office work for you soon. Then you won’t have to get so dirty. A pretty thing like you.’
‘Office work sounds good, thank you, but please don’t think I consider this sort of thing beneath me.’
‘And you’re wet…’ He looked at her. ‘You need to get that dress dry as soon as possible, otherwise you’ll catch cold.’
‘Lucky I’m about to finish then.’ She fetched the last crate from the shelf.
‘Yes, lucky.’ He stood next to her now, closer than good manners allowed. ‘But we still have a good quarter of an hour.’ She would have taken a step back, but the shelf was in the way.
At that moment Unger pounced, so suddenly that she dropped the crate. Seven, eight tomatoes rolled across the floor, but he was unperturbed. He seized her waist and drew her against him. She felt his erection, and then his lips on hers. He tried to thrust his tongue down her throat, but she managed to turn away.
‘Herr Unger,’ she said in outrage and disgust. ‘What are you doing? You’re forgetting yourself!’
She heard him panting, and her disgust rose further still. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘What’s the big deal? The door’s closed, we won’t be disturbed.’ She tried to free herself from his vice-like grip. ‘I’ve had my eye on you from the start, and when I saw you in Linkstrasse yesterday, in that dive, I knew. That Ritter, I said to myself, she’s a good-time girl.’
‘Herr Unger, please.’
So he had seen her yesterday, and drawn the wrong conclusion. The man seemed to think she was some kind of whore.
‘You drive me wild,’ he panted. ‘The way you wiggle your backside when you know I’m watching.’
‘Herr Unger, I’m afraid your imagination is running away with you. Now let me go!’
It was no good. He held her firm and began groping her. When he laid his right hand on her breasts, she’d had enough, and gave the bastard a good, hard slap.
He gazed at her blankly, holding his cheek and breathing heavily. Then suddenly those eyes that had been so full of lust moments before showed only contempt. ‘So, you’re one of those, are you,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Drive me wild by the dishwasher. For this!’
‘Drive you wild? I was working! No one’s forcing you to stare at my backside.’
‘You mustn’t think you’re irreplaceable. There are plenty of people who’d do anything to work at Haus Vaterland!’
‘Well, not me!’
‘Oh?’ Unger looked as if he were about to spit at her feet. ‘But you put out for a black? You goddamn whore.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘You heard me!’
There was such contempt in the gaunt head chef’s voice that she thought he might actually spit. Instead, he turned around and bolted. She heard the door open again, then click shut.
Her hands were shaking. After taking a deep breath she squatted to pick up the tomatoes. Unger had trodden on one, and she threw its pulpy remains into the bin by the door. The crates were stacked, but it was some time before she felt ready to return to the kitchen. She pushed the handcart in front of her, fists inwardly raised, but there was no sign of Unger, neither in the kitchen nor behind the glass wall of his office. Was he gone already, too embarrassed to confront her? She took the tomatoes through to the salad kitchen and returned the handcart to the store. Then she went to the bathroom and washed her hands thoroughly. It was still early, but she didn’t care, she left Haus Vaterland as quickly as she could, praying she wouldn’t run into Unger again.
In the street she inhaled deeply, as if she’d been holding her breath the whole time she’d been inside. Time for a quick shower at Spenerstrasse to wash away the day’s dirt. The U-Bahn steps were on the far side of the building. The Buick was still in Moabit as it didn’t fit her cover story. So far she hadn’t benefited much from Gereon leaving it, meaning she was looking forward to her Wannsee trip all the more. Perhaps she’d take the Avus and vent her anger on the gas pedal. Fucking men.
There was a build-up of traffic on Stresemannstrasse, apparently stretching all the way back to Anhalter Bahnhof. Less patient drivers turned into side streets or made U-turns; others sought refuge in their horns. The cyclists calmly snaked their way past the cars towards the intersection, until they, too, were obliged to stop. The traffic lights at Potsdamer Platz showed red, and red they stayed.
Was the officer in the tower asleep?
Perhaps he was, for just then she saw a traffic cop emerging from Josty and crossing the intersection, where he hastily scaled the ladder leading to the tower. Moments later, the lights on Stresemannstrasse changed to green. An avalanche of metal stirred, and the chorus of horns fell silent.
She was about to make her way to the U-Bahn when she caught sight of a dark-red Horch parked in the shadow of the traffic tower, two of its wheels encroaching on the grass-covered island in the middle of the intersection. A white coat emerged, and as she wondered what Dr Karthaus was doing at Potsdamer Platz, the heavy black murder wagon raced towards her from the direction of Leipziger Strasse, screeching to a halt behind the Horch. Straightaway she knew she wouldn’t be going anywhere near the Wannsee that afternoon.
50
Wilhelm Böhm hated being late. It was ironic, therefore, that he had chosen a profession where he was condemned to appear after the horse had bolted. When, that is, someone had died in unnatural or unexplained circumstances, and an investigation had to be launched. Perhaps it explained his notorious ill temper.