‘Box seats on the town hall balcony. To what do I owe the honour?’ Gereon said.
‘You just heard: you’re a Rath.’
‘What makes you think I want a box seat? Perhaps I prefer the worm’s eye view of the common man.’
‘This isn’t about what you want. At times like these it’s our duty as democrats to maintain a presence.’
‘Who says I’m a democrat?’
‘Gereon!’
‘Besides, how are the crowds looking up at us supposed to know? All they’ll see are bobbing heads. You know it’d be the same people on the balcony if we didn’t have a democracy, don’t you?’
‘Konrad Adenauer wouldn’t be there. You’ve heard what the Nazis are saying about him.’
‘It’s all talk. They won’t feel so big after the election. You and your party colleagues will be back on top.’
‘I hope you’re right, but Konrad sees things differently.’
‘Adenauer’s just tired of office. He’s always had a pessimistic streak.’
6
The place reeked of disinfectant, cold floor wax and cigarette smoke. Charly lit a cigarette to distract herself. Outside, in the park, leafless treetops were swinging in the wind. The grounds of the Wittenauer Sanatorium were expansive, but in winter the impression was of desolation. A few years ago it had been The Municipal Insane Asylum, Berlin-Dalldorf, a name that was far more familiar to Charly. Did you bust out of Dalldorf? children on the street would shout, or: mind you don’t get sent to Dalldorf!
Now here she was.
‘A Division want you to go to Reinickendorf and interrogate a girl,’ Friederike Wieking had said, ‘an insane Jewish arsonist.’
Charly hadn’t told her superintendent that she’d already discussed the case with Wilhelm Böhm and even briefly looked at the file. Wieking didn’t enjoy parting with her officers, but was loath to turn down a request from Homicide Chief Ernst Gennat. The reputation of the newly formed Women’s CID was greatly enhanced by having its officers seconded to other departments.
Charly had used Gereon’s Buick for the trip to Berlin North, knowing the S-Bahn would take too long. ‘You have a car?’ Karin van Almsick had asked in astonishment. Superintendent Wieking had insisted that Charly take her colleague, probably more as chaperone than aid. Charly had driven while Karin cowered silently on the passenger seat, pale-faced, one hand on the door handle, the other on her hat. Sitting in the room assigned to them by the asylum’s management – a visitors’ room with a vase of flowers on the table – her complexion was waxy-green.
Charly opened the Singer patient file, consisting mostly of the psychological report Böhm had already shown her. Hannah Singer had been interrogated on a total of eleven occasions in the weeks following the attack but hadn’t uttered a word. At some point a colleague from the WKP had also tried, with no better results than her male counterparts, a fact which neither surprised nor disheartened Charly. She leafed through the report.
It can be assumed that the patient’s silence is rooted in her profound social distrust, a clear indicator for a diagnosis of paranoid schizophrenia. Additional symptoms can be found in the patient’s increasing self-neglect, which has led to her rejecting all forms of personal hygiene. Here, see also the patient’s unwillingness to take on food and her frequently occurring bouts of sleeplessness. The patient’s fundamentally depressive disposition suggests that the risk of suicide is high. We recommend that she continue to be kept under strict observation. It is possible that the patient’s previously identified substance abuse (morphine) has impacted upon, or perhaps even caused, her illness and accompanying delusional episodes. An immediate programme of withdrawal is therefore strongly advised.
What kind of girl were they dealing with?
Karin, whose face was slowly regaining its colour, had other things on her mind. ‘I still don’t know what we’re doing here,’ she said, sounding like a stroppy adolescent.
‘I thought Wieking had already explained. We’re questioning a juvenile arsonist. Gently. It’s possible there’s a link to an ongoing investigation.’
‘I got that – but what are we supposed to ask her? The girl’s a lunatic. How’s she supposed to help us?’
‘Why don’t you let me do it?’ Charly tried to sound maternal. ‘Do you know short-hand?’
‘Of course.’
‘Take some notes. I’ll do the talking.’
Karin didn’t appear to take umbrage at her demotion. On the contrary, she appeared relieved as she rummaged in her handbag, eventually producing a shorthand pad.
Charly returned to the patient file, finding an envelope at the back which contained a photograph: a soldier from the World War, in the uniform of a reserve corporal, gazing out with solemn pride, confident the war would be won. It was how they all looked before being called to fight. When they returned their eyes were haunted. It was true of Charly’s father and many more besides, assuming, of course, they’d made it home in the first place.
Heinz Singer, too, had looked different on his return. Charly had found his photo in the police file, among the victims from the Bülowplatz attack. The fire brigade had been on hand to douse the blaze, ensuring most of those who had suffocated in their sleep suffered no burns. Even so, the photo of the deceased Heinz Singer was shocking. The man was missing his legs, both high amputations.
Hannah’s father before and after being broken by war.
All of a sudden even Karin’s interest was piqued. The date and address of the studio were marked on the reverse of the photo. 26th August 1914. Photographie J. Neumann, Usedomer Strasse 5, Berlin N 31.
Charly took down the address and, as she was about to return the photo to the envelope, noticed a slip of paper with a paperclip still inside. Heinz Singer als Uffz. der Reserve, someone had scrawled, and underneath, the uniformed officer’s birth and death dates. 7.3.1890 – 1.1.1932.
‘Her father?’ Karin asked.
‘He was one of the victims.’
‘An army corporal? Among all those vagrants and tramps?’
‘He wasn’t a corporal after the war, but a cripple. A grenade caught him, he had to have both his legs amputated. He…’
The door opened with a slight creak. A nurse in starched whites stood in the doorframe, a female version of the boxer, Max Schmeling, holding the hand of a dark-haired girl in a light green nightshirt. The girl stared at the highly-polished asylum floor without lifting her gaze.
Charly returned the photograph and note to the envelope. The sister grasped the patient’s shoulders and shunted her into the room. ‘Hannah Singer,’ she said. ‘You wanted to speak with her.’ She thrust the girl onto the free chair and stood behind her.
Hannah Singer’s eyes remained stubbornly glued to the floor.
‘Many thanks, Sister…’ Charly said.
‘Charge Sister. Charge Sister Ingeborg.’ The sister glanced at her patient with disdain. ‘Don’t get your hopes up. Hannah has been with us thirteenth months and hasn’t spoken a word in that time.’
‘Is she mute?’ Karin asked, speaking of Hannah as if she were absent or hard of hearing. Clearly, she wasn’t: her hands, which lay flat on her lap, had twitched when Sister Ingeborg mentioned her name, her eyes likewise, pupils darting left then right, and back to the middle.
‘According to the doctor there’s nothing wrong with her. We assume she’s just chosen not to speak anymore. I wouldn’t either, if I’d done something like that. What is there left to say?’