Self's punishment (20 page)

5

So whose goose are you cooking?

Over brunch in Café Gmeiner I drew up a programme for the rest of the week. Outside, the snow was falling in thick flakes. I’d have to root out the scoutmaster of the troop Mencke had belonged to, and speak to Professor Kirchenberg. And I wanted to talk to the judge who’d sentenced Tyberg and Dohmke to death. I had to know whether the sentence had been influenced from above.

Judge Beufer had been elevated to the Appellate Court in Karlsruhe after the war. At the main post office I found his name in the Karlsruhe telephone directory. His voice sounded astonishingly young, and he remembered my name. ‘Master Self,’ he crooned in his Swabian accent. ‘Whatever became of him?’ He was willing to have me round for a talk that afternoon.

He lived in Durlach in a house on the hillside with a view of Karlsruhe. I could see the large gas tower with its welcoming inscription ‘Karlsruhe’. Judge Beufer opened the door in person. He had a soldier’s upright posture, was wearing a grey suit, beneath it a white shirt and a red tie with a silver tie pin. The collar of his shirt had become too large for the old, scraggy neck. Beufer was bald and his face had a heavy downward pull, bags under the eyes, jowls, chin. We’d always joked about his sticking-out ears in the public prosecutor’s office. They were more impressive than ever. He looked ill. He must be well over eighty.

‘So, he’s become a private detective. Isn’t he ashamed? He was a good lawyer, after all, a sharp prosecutor. I expected to see him back with us when the worst of it was over.’

We sat in his study and sipped sherry. He still read the
New
Legal Weekly
. ‘Master Self hasn’t simply come to pay his old judge a visit.’ His little piggy eyes were twinkling shrewdly.

‘Do you remember the case of Tyberg and Dohmke? End of nineteen forty-three, beginning of forty-four. I was leading the investigation, Södelknecht was the prosecutor. And you were presiding over court.’

‘Tyberg and Dohmke . . .’ He spoke the names softly to himself a few times. ‘Yes, of course. They were sentenced to death and Dohmke was executed. Tyberg escaped. He went a long way, that man. And was a true gentleman, or is he still alive? Bumped into him once at a reception in Solitude, joked about old times. He certainly understood we all had to do our duty back then.’

‘What I’d like to know – was the court given signals from above regarding the outcome, or was it a perfectly normal trial?’

‘Why does that interest him? Whose goose is he cooking, that Master Self?’

The question was bound to come. I told him about a coincidental connection to Frau Müller and my meeting with Frau Hirsch. ‘I simply want to know what happened back then, and what role I played.’

‘To reopen the trial, what the lady told you is nowhere near enough. If Weinstein were still alive . . . but he isn’t. I don’t believe it anyway. A lawyer has his gut feeling, and the more clearly I remember, the more certain I am the verdict was right.’

‘And were there signals from above? I’m sure you won’t misunderstand me, Herr Beufer. We both know that German judges knew how to preserve their independence even under extraordinary conditions. Nevertheless, now and then some interested party would try to exert influence, and I’d like to know whether there was an interested party in this trial.’

‘Oh, Self, why won’t he let sleeping dogs lie? But if it’s essential for his peace of mind . . . Weismüller called me a few times back then, the former general director. His focus was to clear it out of the way and stop people gossiping about RCW. Perhaps the sentencing of Tyberg and Dohmke met with his approval, simply for that reason. Nothing clears up a case quite so effectively as a quick hanging. Whether there were other reasons he wanted the sentence . . . No idea, I don’t think so, though.’

‘That was it?’

‘Weismüller also had some business with Södelknecht. Tyberg’s defence counsel had brought forward someone from the RCW as a witness who talked himself blue in the face on the witness stand, and Weismüller intervened on his behalf. Hang on, that man also went a long way, yes, Korten is the name, the current general director. There we have them, the whole merry crew of general directors.’ He laughed.

How could I have forgotten? I had been glad not to have to bring my friend and brother-in-law into it myself, but then the defence had hauled him in. I’d been glad because Korten had worked so closely together with Tyberg that his participation in the trial could have cast suspicion on him, or damaged his career at least. ‘Was it known at court then that Korten and I are brothers-in-law?’

‘My word. I’d never have thought it. But you advised your brother-in-law badly. He spoke out so strongly for Tyberg that Södelknecht almost arrested him on the spot at the hearing. Very decent, too decent. It didn’t help Tyberg one bit. It smells just a little fishy when a witness for the defence has nothing to say about the deed and only spouts friendly platitudes about the accused.’

There was nothing left to ask Beufer. I drank the second sherry he poured me, and chatted about colleagues we’d both known. Then I took my leave.

‘Master Self, now he’s off to follow that sniffing nose again. The quest for justice won’t let go of him, eh? Will he show his face again at old Beufer’s? Be delighted.’

On top of my car were ten centimetres of fresh snow. I swept it off, was glad to make it safely down the hill, onto the autobahn. And once I was on that, I drove north in the wake of a snowplough. It had turned dark. The car radio reported traffic jams and played hits from the sixties.

6

Potatoes, cabbage, and hot black pudding

In the thick snow I missed the turn-off to Mannheim at the Walldorf intersection. Then the snowplough drove into a parking lot, and I was lost. I made it as far as the Hardtwald service area.

At the stand-up snack bar I waited with my coffee for the driving snow to stop. I stared into the swirling flakes. All at once pictures from the past came vividly alive.

It was on an evening in August or September, 1943. Klara and I had to leave our apartment in Werderstrasse, and had just completed the move to Bahnhofstrasse. Korten was over for dinner. There were potatoes, cabbage, and hot black pudding. He enthused about our new apartment, praised Klara for the meal, and this annoyed me, because he knew what a pitiful cook Klärchen was and it couldn’t have escaped him that the potatoes were over-salted and the cabbage burnt. Then Klara left us men with our cigars for a bit of male conversation.

At that time the Tyberg and Dohmke file had just reached my desk. I wasn’t convinced by the results of the police investigation. Tyberg was from a good family, had volunteered for the front, and it was only against his will, as his research work was essential to the war effort, that he’d been left behind at the RCW. I couldn’t picture him as a saboteur.

‘You know Tyberg, don’t you? What do you think of him?’

‘A man beyond reproach. We were all horrified that he and Dohmke were arrested at work, without anyone knowing why. Member of the national German hockey team in nineteen thirty-six, winner of the Professor Demel Medal, a gifted chemist, esteemed colleague and respected superior – no, I really don’t understand what you people at the police and prosecutors are thinking.’

I explained to him that an arrest wasn’t a conviction and that in a German court no one was sentenced unless the necessary evidence was at hand. This was an old theme of ours from our student days. Korten had come across a book at a bookstall about famous miscarriages of justice and argued for nights on end with me whether human justice can avoid miscarriages. That was my contention, Korten’s position being the opposite, that one has to accept they occur.

A winter evening during our student days in Berlin came to my mind. Klara and I were tobogganing on the Kreuzberg, and were expected back at the Korten household for supper. Klara was seventeen, I’d encountered her and overlooked her, thousands of times, as Ferdinand’s little sister. I’d only taken the brat tobogganing with me because she’d begged so. Actually, I was hoping to meet Pauline on the toboggan run, help her up after a fall or protect her from the ghastly Kreuzberg street urchins. Was Pauline there? At any rate, all of a sudden I only had eyes for Klara. She was wearing a fur jacket and a bright scarf, and her blonde curls were flying, and snowflakes melting upon her glowing cheeks. On the way home we kissed for the first time. Klara had to persuade me into going up to supper. I didn’t know how to behave towards her in front of her parents and brother. When I left later she found some pretext to bring me to the front door and gave me a secret kiss.

I caught myself smiling out of the window. In the parking lot a military convoy stopped, also unable to make headway in the snow. My car was swathed in another thick layer. At the counter I fetched a coffee refill and a sandwich. I took up my place at the window again.

Korten and I had also come round to talking about Weinstein that time. An irreproachable man as the accused and a Jew as the prosecution witness – I wondered whether I shouldn’t drop the investigation. I couldn’t tell Korten about Weinstein’s significance, nor could I let the opportunity of learning something about Weinstein slip by.

‘What do you actually think about using Jews at the Works?’

‘You know, Gerd, that we’ve always thought differently about the Jewish question. I’ve never had any truck with anti-Semitism. I find it difficult having forced labourers in the plant, but whether they’re Jews or Frenchmen or Germans is all the same. In our laboratory we have Professor Weinstein working with us and it’s a crying shame that the man can’t be behind a lectern or in his own laboratory. His service to us is invaluable, and if you go by his appearance and cast of mind, you couldn’t find anyone more German. A professor of the old school, up until nineteen thirty-three he had a chair in organic chemistry at Breslau. Everything that Tyberg is as a chemist he owes, as his pupil and assistant, to Weinstein. The loveable, scatter-brained academic type.’

‘And if I were to tell you that he’s the one accusing Tyberg?’

‘My God, Gerd. And with Weinstein so fond of his student Tyberg . . . I really don’t know what to say.’

A snowplough made its way to the parking lot. The driver got down and came into the snack bar. I asked him how I could get to Mannheim.

‘A colleague has just set off for the Heidelberg intersection. Get going quickly before the lane is blocked again.’

It was seven. At a quarter to eight I was at the Heidelberg intersection and at nine in Mannheim. I had to stretch my legs and revelled in the deep snow. I’d have liked to have driven a troika through Mannheim.

7

What exactly are you investigating now?

At eight I awoke, but I didn’t manage to get up. It had all been too much, the night flight from New York, the trip to Karlsruhe, the discussion with Beufer, the memories, and the odyssey along the snow-covered autobahn.

At eleven Philipp called. ‘Wow, caught you at last? Where have you been gadding off to? Your dissertation is ready.’

‘Dissertation?’ I didn’t know what he was talking about.

‘Door-induced fractures. A contribution to the morphology of auto-aggression. You did commission it.’

‘Oh, yes. And now there’s a scientific treatise? When can I have it?’

‘Anytime. Just come by the hospital and pick it up.’

I got up and made some coffee. The sky was still heavy with snow. Turbo came in from the balcony, powdered white.

My refrigerator was empty and I went shopping. It’s nice that they go easier than they used to on sprinkling salt in towns. Instead of wading through brown slush, I walked on crunchy, tightly packed fresh snow. Children were building snowmen and having snowball fights. In the bakery at the Wasserturm I bumped into Judith.

‘Isn’t it a splendid day?’ Her eyes were sparkling. ‘Before, when I still had to go to work, the snow always irritated me. Clear the windshield, car doesn’t start, drive slowly, get stuck. I was really missing out on something!’

‘Come on,’ I said, ‘let’s have a winter walk to the Kleiner Rosengarten. You’re invited.’

This time she didn’t say no. I felt somewhat old-fashioned next to her; she in her padded jacket, trousers, and high boots that are probably a spin-off of space technology, me in my overcoat and galoshes. On the way I told her about my investigations in the Mencke case and the snow in Pittsburgh. She also asked straight away whether I’d seen the little lady from
Flashdance
. I was getting curious about the film.

Giovanni was wide-eyed. When Judith had gone to the restroom he came up to our table. ‘Old lady notsa good? New lady better? Next time you getta Italian lady from me, then you have peace.’

‘German man don’t needa the peace, need lotsa, lotsa, ladies.’

‘Then it’s lotsa good food you need.’ He recommended the steak pizzaiola preceded by the chicken soup. ‘The chef slaughtered the chicken himself this morning.’ I ordered the same for Judith and a bottle of Chianti Classico to go with it.

‘I was in America for another reason, Judith. The Mischkey case won’t leave me in peace. I haven’t made any progress. But the trip confronted me with my own past.’

She listened attentively to my report.

‘What exactly are you investigating now? And why?’

‘I don’t know. I’d like to talk with Tyberg, if he’s still alive.’

‘Oh, he’s alive all right. I often wrote letters to him, sent him business reports or birthday presents. He lives on Lake Maggiore, in Monti sopra Locarno.’

‘Then I’d also like to speak to Korten again.’

‘And what does he have to do with Peter’s death?’

‘I don’t know, Judith. What wouldn’t I give to be able to get to the bottom of it? At least Mischkey has got me working on the past. Have you had any further thoughts about the murder?’

She’d considered taking the story to the press. ‘I find it simply unbearable for the whole thing to end like this.’

‘Do you mean not knowing? It won’t improve by going to the press.’

‘No. I believe the RCW hasn’t really paid. Regardless of the way things went with old Schmalz, it does fall under their responsibility somehow. And besides, perhaps we’ll discover more if the press stirs up a hornets’ nest.’

Giovanni brought the steaks. We ate for a while in a silence. I couldn’t warm to the idea of going to the press. After all, I had been commissioned by the RCW to find Mischkey, at least the RCW had paid me for it. All that Judith knew and could go to the papers with she knew from me. My professional loyalty was at stake. I was annoyed I’d accepted Korten’s money. Otherwise I’d be free now.

I explained my concern to her. ‘I need to consider whether I can change my spots, but I’d prefer you to wait.’

‘All right then. I was perfectly happy back then not to have to foot your bill, but I should have known straight away it would come at a price.’

We were finished with dinner. Giovanni brought two sambucas. ‘With the compliments of the house.’ Judith told me about her life as an unemployed person. To begin with she had enjoyed the freedom, but slowly the problems began. She couldn’t expect the Unemployment Office to find her another comparable job. She’d have to get going herself. At the same time she wasn’t sure if she wanted to embark on a life as an executive assistant again.

‘Do you know Tyberg personally? I last saw him forty years ago and I don’t know if I’d recognize him again.’

‘Yes, at the RCW centenary, I was assigned as his Girl Friday, to look after him. Why?’

‘Would you like to come with me if I visit him in Locarno? I’d like that.’

‘So you really want to know. How do you propose to make contact with him?’

I pondered.

‘Leave it to me,’ she said. ‘I’ll set it up somehow. When do we go?’

‘How soon could you organize a meeting with Tyberg?’

‘Sunday? Monday? I can’t say. Maybe he’s in the Bahamas.’

‘Set the date for as soon as possible.’