Open your eyes, Germany, but then the “i” in Arisch was crossed out, rendering Hitler’s “Aryan face” Hitler’s “arse-face”. Reading the sentence, Charly couldn’t help but smile. Her colleague Karin van Almsick, meanwhile, studied the photos with deadly seriousness, magnifying glass in hand.
‘I don’t know why we’re only hunting those responsible for the second sentence,’ Charly said. ‘The point is, it’s forbidden to scrawl political slogans, no matter how nice they are to look at.’
‘It also depends on the message!’ There was astonishment in Karin’s voice at having to explain something so obvious. ‘Where would we be if any old lout could get away with besmirching someone else’s property?’
Any old lout. So, that’s why the photos had landed on Charly’s desk. Because the political police suspected the slogan was the work of a wild posse, and dealing with gangs of youths fell firmly within the remit of Women’s CID. The Politicals had enough on their plate with adults whose views were out of sync with the times.
‘I’ll bet you anything it was the Rote Ratten. They were scrawling that sort of thing everywhere last summer.’ Karin brought such zeal to the task that Charly started to feel ill. With her magnifying glass and checked skirt, her desk neighbour looked like a female Sherlock Holmes.
The Rote Ratten, or Red Rats, were teenagers from around Kösliner Strasse, who mostly engaged in harmless skirmishes with other youths, but occasionally angered the SA by daubing slogans across their Sturmlokal or tipping sand into the tanks of their cars. The Rats might not be easily integrated into any party machine, whether that of the Communists – who still held sway in Kösliner Strasse – or the Social Democrats, but they were, most definitely, Red.
Which was precisely why they were a thorn in Friederike Wieking’s flesh. Charly’s section chief made no secret of her delight that the new Reich chancellor was Adolf Hitler, nor that she hoped his cabinet would survive longer than the two months that had become customary in recent times.
Charly was among those who hoped the madness would soon pass, but the approval with which Hitler’s cabinet had been greeted among the WKP, the Women’s CID, sent a shiver down her spine. Not that the WKP was representative of Germany, and certainly not of Berlin. Charly couldn’t believe that the ‘national uprising’, as the Nazis had dubbed Hitler’s appointment, would be sanctioned in any way by a majority of Germans.
‘The Red Rats. Could be.’ She shrugged. ‘What happens if we actually catch them, and succeed in building a case?’
‘They’ll get their just deserts.’
‘Or be beaten black and blue by SA auxiliary officers.’
‘What if they are? A few slaps never hurt anyone. If their parents aren’t going to then…’
Charly stood up. ‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘I need a cigarette break.’
Karin nodded. ‘If you go past the kitchen, can you put some water on? I was about to make us a fresh pot of tea.’
‘Of course.’ Charly attempted a smile.
She was glad not to encounter any colleagues in the kitchen as she filled the battered kettle and set it on the electric stove. Understanding the crimes the WKP handled – youth crime, girl gangs, underage prostitutes – she had quickly made her peace with it, even if she missed working in Homicide and envied Gereon his role with Gennat. But this, now? This was no longer about sitting on her backside in an overheated office, this was about turning innocuous pranks into serious political crimes; about hunting down gangs of youths who rejected the new Reich chancellor and, unlike so many others, were prepared to voice their scorn.
The canteen was equally quiet. She got a coffee and a slice of nutcake from the buffet. Though no great fan of cake, Charly sometimes treated herself to a slice in memory of the old days. Meetings with the portly head of homicide, Ernst Gennat, had almost always meant cake. For Gennat, too, Charly had been more than a stenographer; he had recognised her abilities.
Carrying her tray through the rows of tables, it was as if the memory of A Division somehow conjured the man sitting alone with a cup of coffee. Wilhelm Böhm, keeping his distance behind a pillar. ‘Evening, Sir. Mind if I join you?’
Böhm gave a start, but his expression soon brightened. ‘Charly! Of course, take a seat!’
She set down her tray. ‘Long time no see.’
‘You can say that again.’
The nutcake was far too dry, no comparison with the cake in Gennat’s office. She had to take a sip of coffee before she could continue.
Böhm bridged the silence. ‘How are you? Lots to do in G?’
‘Depends on how you look at it.’ She lit a Juno. ‘Mostly routine. No comparison with Homicide. Right now we’re turning harmless graffiti into serious crime.’
‘Times are changing. Only today I was advised not to expend too much energy investigating the violent death of a homeless man. Apparently the police have more important things to do.’
‘Gennat said that?’
Böhm shook his head. ‘Some jumped-up auxiliary officer. An SA man who was called by an angry citizen, this morning at Nollendorfplatz. Didn’t make any difference that there were only three of us in attendance, or that we were dealing with an unnatural death.’
‘Most civilians don’t understand what we do.’
‘Yes, but, thanks to our friend Herr Göring, this brown ignoramus gets to call himself a police officer. We can do without his sort at a homicide investigation. Auxiliary police!’
‘I’m sure that’s true of plenty of seasoned officers as well.’
‘It’s good to hear your voice, Charly. It reminds me of happier times.’
‘I’d be only too glad to be seconded to Homicide again.’
‘You know your superior doesn’t approve. Superintendent Wieking can be – how shall I put this? – rather forthright.’
‘You’re telling me!’ She stubbed out her cigarette, drank the last of her coffee and made to get up.
‘Actually, Charly, do you have a minute? I… I’d like to hear your opinion on something. It’s about…’ Böhm stirred his coffee cup even though it was empty. ‘It has to do with pigeon droppings and… God! I sound like such an idiot!’ The teaspoon landed on the saucer with a clink. ‘It’s best if I start from the beginning. Sit down, I’ll get us some more coffee.’
Charly thought of her office, her colleague, of the potted plants by the window sill, and the by now lukewarm tea Karin had brewed for her. She nodded, and took out her cigarette case for a second time.
5
Tea cups clinked on Frieda’s tray as she entered the drawing room, and Rath shifted uneasily in his chair. He’d have felt more comfortable at one of his mother’s coffee mornings than in the company of these two men. They looked on in silence as Frieda filled their cups, taking up the thread only when she had closed the door behind her.
‘Thanks for inviting me, Engelbert.’ The man by the window, sitting in the room’s most comfortable chair, stirred his coffee and leaned back.
‘Of course, Konrad. I know how important it is to relax between meetings. Carnival, an election campaign, and the city still needs to be run.’