“But you are a detective.”
I showed her my beer-token — my little brass warrant disc.
“Tell me about yourself,” she said.
“The important stuff?”
“Of course.”
I shrugged. “I’m forty-seven. I smoke too much. I drink too much. When I can.”
“I’m afraid all I have out here is some lemonade.”
“Lemonade will be fine, thanks.”
She poured two glasses and handed one to me.
“Why do you drink too much?”
“I’ve got no wife and I’ve got no children. I work for the army right now because the police — the real police — they don’t want me anymore. You see, there’s no room in this country for people who want to know the truth, about anything. People like me, that is. I have one good suit and a pair of shoes that I have to stuff with newspaper in the winter. I have a bed with a broken leg. That’s in a tiny apartment in Fasanenstrasse. I hate the Nazis and I hate myself, but not always in that order. That’s why.” I smiled ruefully. “I’ll tell you a secret, fräulein. I don’t know why but I will. There are times when I think I’d like to be someone else.”
She smiled to reveal a row of perfect teeth. Everything about this woman looked perfect. I was beginning to appreciate her.
“That’s something I know a little about. Who? Who do you wish you were?”
“It doesn’t really matter who. The important thing is what.”
“What, then?”
“Dead.”
“That must be easy enough to fix in Germany.”
“You would think so, wouldn’t you? But you see, there’s two kinds of dead. There’s ordinary dead and then there’s Nazi dead. The worst kind is Nazi dead. I don’t want to die until I’ve seen the last Nazi do it first.”
“You don’t sound like a detective. You sound like a man who’s lost all his faith. Who’s full of doubt, about everything.”
“That’s what makes me a good detective. That and a certain romantic charm I might have.”
“You’re a romantic, then. You begin to interest me, Herr Gunther.”
“Sure. I’m a regular hero with a sentimental yearning for old times. Almost eleven years ago, to be precise. You should see me walking around on the seashore. I can get quite sensitive about a lot of things. The dawn, a storm, the price of fish. But mostly I specialize in helping damsels in distress.”
“You’re making fun of me now.”
“No, I meant what I said. Especially the part about the damsels in distress. The minister of Truth told me you were in trouble and that you needed my help. So here I am.”
“Did he, now? What else did he say about me?”
“That he was in love with you. Of course, he could have been lying. It wouldn’t be the first time. That he’s been in love, I think. I imagine he always tells the truth, at least about that sort of thing. And now that I’ve met you, it’s easy to see anyone might feel that way.”
“Did he also tell you I’m married?”
“He left out that particular detail. But then men in love often do. I think it’s what the poets call a pathetic fallacy.”
“Are you speaking from experience?”
“Yes. I was a private detective for about five years. I did a lot of missing persons, husbands mostly. For one reason or another.”
“Then you sound like the one man who might be able to help me.”
“I bet you said exactly the same thing to — to Josef.”
“He warned me that you were a tough guy.”
“Only when I’m standing next to the doctor.”
She smiled. “You know, I don’t think he’s a real doctor.”
“I wouldn’t get undressed in front of him if that’s what you mean. But he’s a real doctor, all right. At least, he has a PhD from Heidelberg University on nineteenth-century literature. I guess that’s why they put him in charge of the book burning. There’s nothing like a university education to make you hate literature.”
“What book burning?”
I smiled. “Before your time, I guess. Suddenly I feel my age. Do you mind me asking how old you are, Fräulein Dresner?”
“Twenty-six. And I don’t mind at all.”
“That’s because you’re twenty-six. In ten years’ time you’ll start to think differently. Anyway, back in 1933, when you’d have been sixteen, I guess, the good doctor helped organize an action against the un-German spirit. That’s what they called it, anyway. They burned a whole load of books right here in Berlin, on Opernplatz. Books written by Jews and more or less anyone who was opposed to the Nazis, but mostly people who could just write. People like Heinrich Mann.”
She looked horrified. “I wasn’t living in Germany at the time so I had no idea. They really did that? They burned books?”
“Sure. And it wasn’t because it was the end of Lent or because the public libraries were looking to make some space, or even because of the tough winter we were having. This was in May. They put on quite a show. Lit up the whole city. I had to draw my curtains early that night.”
Dalia shook her head. “You say the strangest things. I wonder how Josef even knows someone like you, Herr Gunther.”
“I’ve asked myself the very same question.”
“I mean, wearing that uniform you look like a Nazi. But you make it quite clear, to me at least, that you disapprove of them.”
“Obviously I didn’t make myself clear enough. It’s a lot more than disapproval. I hate them.”
“You know, I think you did, only I’ve learned to be one of the wise monkeys when I hear that kind of subversive talk. After all, if you’re a good citizen you’re supposed to do something about it, aren’t you? Call the Gestapo, or something.”
“Be my guest.”
“But then you wouldn’t be able to help me. And then where would I be? Still in distress.”
“I wouldn’t get your hopes up, Fräulein Dresner. Not yet. After all, you haven’t told me what the problem is. I have a habit of disappointing people.”
“Maybe I’d better tell you all about it.”
“Maybe you should and then we’ll know if I can help you.”
I waited for a moment but she said nothing, as if she wasn’t yet quite ready to talk. That happens a lot. Generally you just have to wait until they’re good and ready to open up.
“Josef said he was certain that you could,” she said uncertainly.
“Josef is the minister of Propaganda. Not the minister for Pragmatism. It’s up to me to decide if I’m going to stick my neck out for you. It’s my neck, after all.”
“I’m not asking you to stick your neck out for me.”
“Josef was.”
“I don’t see how.”
I told her about Kaltenbrunner and Müller and how they were keen to find some scandal about the little doctor that would embarrass him in front of the leader.
“That’s what I mean by sticking my neck out. Those people have a tendency to play rough.”
“I’ve done nothing for which either one of us need feel embarrassed,” she insisted.
“I’m sure it’s none of my business if you have.”
“I haven’t slept with him, if that’s what you mean,” she said indignantly, and then shuddered.
“He does have a reputation as a ladies’ man.”
“And I’m supposed to be a saint, after that awful film I was in about Hypatia. But it doesn’t mean I am any more than he is a ladies’ man, as you put it, or the devil.”
I let that one go.
“I wonder that you can even think such a thing. He’s not my type at all. And as I said, I’m married.”
“And that usually prevents this kind of thing from happening.”
She relaxed a little and smiled again. “What, you don’t believe people can be happily married?”