The Serpent's Egg (28 page)

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve been wondering if he might be alive. Maybe he survived the War and came back.”

“That makes no sense, Max.”

“Suppose he survived the War but decided not to return to the family home.”

“Why would he do that?”

“He might have been badly wounded or had shell shock. Or maybe he just couldn’t face living with Mother anymore.”

Anna thought about that for a few moments. “Why don’t you ring the number and see who answers?”

“I suppose I could…” Max was torn between the desire to ring the number and maybe make contact with his long lost father and the prospect that he might finally learn that his father was really dead.

“What are you waiting for, Max?” Anna picked up the telephone and handed it to him.

Max dialed 10267.

It rang three times before a man answered. “Hello?”

Max said, “Hello, who am I talking to?”

Silence.

“This is Max Noack. Is that you, Father?”

The line disconnected.

“What did he say?”

“Nothing. He broke the call.”

“Did it sound like your father?”

“I have no idea what my father sounds like, but the way he broke the call suggested it might have been him. If it wasn’t him, surely he would have said so, don’t you think?”

Anna put her hand to her mouth. “That’s creepy, Max.”

“Yes, it felt like I was calling a dead man, you know.”

“If only we could ask Madam Krauss. She could try to contact him. If she reached him, you’d know he’s definitely dead. If not, we’d know he must be alive.”

Chapter 78

January 1940

Oberassistent Fischer went looking for Schupo Officer Gretzke in Bismarckstrasss, the police station closest to St. Angar’s Church. Gretzke recognized him. “What can I do for you, sir?”

“You reported a new priest in St. Angar’s Church.”

“That’s right. Father Gunther Schlurr.”

“When did you first see him?”

“About a year ago.”

“And when did you last see him?”

Gretzke scratched his head. “Funny thing, but I don’t recall ever seeing him again.”

Fischer pulled out his notebook and pencil. “What did he look like, this disappearing priest?”

#

Fischer came into Neumann’s office wearing a hangdog look. “That Father Schlurr turned into a phantom, Boss. The Schupo man says he met him only once, a year ago.”

“Check with the archbishop’s office. They should know where he is.”

“I did that. They have no priest called Schlurr anywhere in Berlin. A wider search unearthed a Father Michael Schlurr who served in a mission in German West Africa. He died out there in 1927.”

“We can’t rely on their records. It is possible that this second pastor has also been murdered.”

“You mean we could be hunting a serial killer that only kills religious pastors?”

Neumann ignored the question. Fischer’s sarcastic tone was close to insubordination. “What about the fingerprints on the cigarette lighter, Fischer?”

“That has come up dry, Boss. We’ve checked every record we have. He’s not in there anywhere.”

“You’ve checked all the other Berlin districts?”

“Every one, Boss. We’ve even checked the files in all the other major cities in the country.”

“What about Austria?”

“The Austrian police have been searching for weeks. They haven’t finished yet, but we’ve had no success there either. I don’t know what else we can do.”

Neumann lit a Russian cigarette and blew a smoke ring at the ceiling. “Have you spoken to the Gestapo?”

Fischer shook his head. Neumann picked up the telephone. “Get me Jürgen Traut in the investigation department in Gestapo headquarters.”

He was put though straight away.

“This is Traut.”

“Jürgen, this is Erhart Neumann Berlin district 6. Good morning.”

“What can I do for you, Kommissar?”

“I’d like to interview Kurt Framzl in Ethnics and Racial Affairs. But your office tells me he’s been sent to a concentration camp.”

“That is correct. Framzl was found guilty of corruption. He has been stripped of his rank and is cooling his heels in Sachsenhausen. Tell me why you want to interrogate him.”

“I’m working on a murder case. We have found a positive link to Kurt Framzl.”

“You’d better explain that.”

“A member of the public complained that her grandfather’s grave had been interfered with. We found the body of a priest wrapped in a carpet in the burial plot. His neck was broken. When we investigated his recent activities we came across a wedding that he conducted in March. Framzl told the registrar that the Marriage Authorization was a forgery.”

“The name of this priest?”

“Vigo.”

“Salvatore Vigo?”

Neumann sat up in his chair. “You knew him?”

“We’ve had our eyes on him for some time.” Neumann was not surprised. The Gestapo had their grubby fingers everywhere. “Can you say where and when Vigo was killed?”

“We know he was killed somewhere between October 5 and October 8. He was buried in a fresh grave on the night of Sunday October 8. We don’t know where he was killed.”

Silence from the other end of the line.

“Jürgen, are you still there?”

“October, you say. Didn’t you think to alert me before now?” Traut sounded tight-lipped.

“Why should I have? It’s just one of dozens of violent deaths on my caseload.”

“I’ll be there in 30 minutes.” The line went dead.

#

SS-Sturmführer Jürgen Traut swept into the Storkowerstrasss police station and strode past the desk sergeant toward the inner offices. No one attempted to stop him. If at all possible, senior ranked police officers avoided contact with less senior ranks within the Gestapo, but such confrontations were not unheard of. They generally gave rise to tricky interagency incidents. In this case, there was no contest. A Sturmführer of the SS easily outranked everyone at the station.

Traut stormed into Neumann’s office. “Tell me what progress you’ve made in the case since October.”

Neumann rose from his chair. Traut waved at him to stay where he was.

“We found a cigarette lighter in the grass near the cemetery wall. My men took a clear set of fingerprints from it, but we haven’t been able to find a match on our records. I wondered if you could check your records.”

“I take it you’ve tried all the Kripo records in Berlin?”

Neumann offered his cigarette packet to the Gestapo man. Traut selected one and Neumann lit it for him.

“Yes, and we’ve checked in all the other major cities. We’ve even checked the Austrian police records.”

Traut sucked in a lungful of smoke. He exhaled, grimaced, and peered at the cigarette. “A search of all our identity cards would take years. Do you have anything to narrow the search?”

“Not much, but you could start with Kurt Framzl. After that you could concentrate on any special records you may have, subversives, political criminals, Communists maybe?”

“Very well.” He stubbed out the cigarette in Neumann’s ashtray. “Let me have the fingerprints and I’ll see what I can do. I’m making no promises, Kommissar, but
I’ll put some men on it and see what emerges.” 

“And Framzl?”

“I’ll check his fingerprints first, and I’ll see if I can arrange for you to interrogate him. Leave that with me.”

#

Oberassistent Fischer called to the central office of the Reich Labor Service in Hubertus Allee and asked to speak with Max-Christian Noack. Noack came down to the lobby to meet with him.

Noack was a tall, well-built young man with a pleasant smile under a shock of dark hair. His handshake was firm.

Fischer checked his identity card quickly and handed it back. “We are investigating the killing of a Roman Catholic priest, Salvatore Vigo. Did you know him?”

Noack looked shocked. “Yes, I know him. He officiated at my wedding last year. He has been killed? How terrible. Those Brownshirts are vicious brutes.”

“How well did you know Father Vigo?”

“Not well. As I said, he married us in St. Angar’s Church…”

“When was that?”

“March 25 last year. I haven’t seen him since.”

“Do you have any connection to the Italian community in Berlin?”

Noack frowned and shook his head.

“Have you ever visited the Holy Cross Church cemetery in Kreuzberg?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“What about Father Gunther Schlurr? Do you know him?”

“Never heard of him.”

#

Fischer put out an alert for Father Gunther Schlurr. The newspaper carried a description: mid to early twenties, close to 2 meters tall, with dark hair. When Greta saw it, she contacted Peter Riese and asked him to create a new passport and a set of identity and ration cards for Max. Gunther Schlurr was dead.

Chapter 79

February 1940

Anna was preparing an evening meal in the apartment. Max was crouched over the radio, listening to the Berlin news. The Russian’s incursion into Finland was going well. A new general, Erich von Manstein, had been given command of the 38th Armor Corps. Two huge trainloads of supplies had arrived in Leipzig from Russia.

The telephone rang. Anna wiped her hands on her apron and picked it up. “Berlin 12388. Who’s calling?”

She handed the telephone to Max. “It’s for you.”

“Hello? This is Max Noack.”

“Can you get to the Frederick statue in 30 minutes?”

“I think so. Who is this?”

“Meet me at the statue. I have something for you.”

Before Max could reply, the telephone went dead.

“Who was that?”

“It sounded like the man I spoke to in December.”

“Your father?”

Max put his coat on. “I have to go and meet him at the statue.”

“Your dinner’s almost ready. Have your dinner first. Did you tell him you were sitting down to your dinner?”

“Put it in the oven, Anna. Keep it warm. I won’t be long.”

#

To get to the statue of Frederick the Great, Max had to take two trams. He made it with five minutes to spare. The radio had said it was one of the coldest Februaries on record. Max believed it. The trees on Unter den Linden were covered in ice sparkling in the weak sunlight like natural chandeliers. The scene was all but deserted. It was dinner time and far too cold for loitering. He stood at the base of the statue, pulled his collar up around his ears and stamped his feet.

“Max-Christian Noack?” A man approached.

“I’m Max.”

“Let’s get in out of the cold.” The man led Max to a beer cellar in Universitätstrasss. Blowing on his hands, Max pulled out two chairs and they sat at a table.

“You drink beer?” said the man.

“Yes, thanks.”

The man was well covered against the cold with woolen gloves and an army greatcoat. Even so, Max reckoned he was a bulky individual under all the layers of wool. He was tall, gray-haired with a military bearing.

The man waved to a serving girl in a lacy bodice and paid her for two beers.

Unable to deny his curiosity any longer, Max blurted out, “Who are you?”

“My name is Walter Lehmann. I knew your father at the Somme. He saved my life.”

“How? What happened?”

“We were under fire from a machinegun. He knocked me over, saved me.”

Max took a moment to absorb that. “Was that you I spoke to in December? Your telephone number is 10267?”

“Yes. I laughed when you asked if I was your father. Do I sound like your father? Do I look like your father?”

The old photograph on the piano in his mother’s house was the only picture Max had ever seen of his father. “I have no idea what my father looks like, or what his voice sounds like. I have no memory of him. I haven’t seen him since I was three.”

“Your father and I were close. We shared a dugout. He died at the river Somme in 1916.”

“You saw his body?”

“I saw the shell hit him. He was sheltering in a foxhole. I was in another one nearby. There was a theory that a foxhole was a safe haven, that a shell couldn’t fall on the same place twice.”

“Like lightning?”