Straight into Darkness Read online

  As soon as Berg hit the ground floor, he threw open the outside door and pumped his legs to full speed. The boys homed in on the squeaking hinges, saw the charging figure, and took off in all directions. Berg elected to take on not the one closest to him but, rather, the biggest, the ringleader.

  The boy appeared to be around Joachim’s age but stockier, more muscled across the chest like a typical Bavarian. Like Berg, Joachim had the lean build of an effete English schoolboy. But also like Berg, he had strength in those sinewy arms. More than once Joachim had come home with a bloody nose and a sly smile. At the Gymnasium, he was known as a boy who could hold his own.

  Berg lengthened his stride, having an advantage over his quarry because he was already running while the teenagers were warming up. But the punk managed to elude immediate capture. The kid turned right, then left, then right, then left, in an effort to shake Berg off, but all it did was slow them both down. Finally, the boy realized he could pick up speed if he ran in a straight line, and was able to pull ahead by several meters. He appeared to be heading northwest toward the Isar, a debatable strategy because it limited his options. Once there, he’d either have to run alongside the river or cut across one of the bridges. Although Berg wasn’t the fastest runner, he had endurance. He decided the best plan was to keep up a steady gait and increase his speed later, after the kid had tired from the wind, wet, and cold.

  Dawn was imminent but there was no glory in the skies, just a mass of pewter clouds wafting through charcoal globs of sooty smoke. The little light that did break through only served to make the city more depressing; it revealed lines of row houses with thatched roofs and locked shutters instead of the newer glass windows. Interspersed among the residential buildings were the infamous cigarette rooms, but it was too early even for the prostitutes. Heart banging against his chest, Berg flew by several fleabag hotels that housed jobless men curled up in blankets, sleeping behind the display windows. When the kid hit the levee, he abruptly turned left and scrambled down the knoll until he was at the riverbank. He continued north.

  Berg kept apace, his body in rhythm to his run.

  Last night’s rainstorm had turned the ground into a treacherous slush of mud, debris, and lumpy tree roots, all working in tandem to trip him up. The churning river was deafening, especially in contrast to the empty streets. Lungs burning, Berg continued his chase, each step spraying mud against his pajama bottoms and the hem of his coat. Working hard to keep his balance, he choked back icy spray from the roiling water as the river danced over rocks and collided with huge boulders. A sticky, gelid mist chilled his face. His nose and ears had turned numb. His fingers had become stiff and lost feeling, but internally he was warm from running, sweat accumulating under his armpits and around his neck.

  His body in sync with metronome of his feet: thump, thump, thump, thump.

  Within minutes, he passed the new German Museum of Science and Technology, Munich’s proof to the rest of the country that it was a forward-thinking city. The sky was turning light gray. Soon the streets would fill up with bicycles, pushcarts, motor scooters, buses, streetcars, and the ever-growing population of privately owned automobiles.

  It would be easier for the punk to lose him in traffic, so Berg lengthened his stride. The kid turned his head and looked over his shoulder. The action slowed him down, allowing Berg to narrow the gap between them. Now he was on the punk’s tail . . . just a little more momentum.

  A final sprint, legs extended to the maximum, then Berg reached out and grabbed the punk’s coat, trying not to trip over his own feet as they both pitched forward. The teen tried to get away by slipping his coat off, but Berg was ready. He grasped the scruff of the boy’s neck with his long, dexterous fingers, yanking him backward. Then he gave the kid a solid kick behind the knees. The teen buckled and slipped, then fell facedown in the mud. Berg jerked him back up to his feet and slammed him into the wire fence that lined the river.

  “Heil Hitler!” the punk groaned out as he dropped to his knees.

  “Your devotion is touching.” Berg was breathing hard but remained in control. He pulled the kid’s arms behind his back, took out a pair of handcuffs from his coat, and locked the boy’s hands together. Once again, he snapped him to his feet. “Perhaps he can visit you in prison. It is a place he knows well from firsthand experience.”

  “Your days are numbered. There are more of us than you.”

  “Yes, yes. Still, you are in handcuffs and I am not.” Berg pushed him up the hill and onto the street. Without speaking, they walked a couple of minutes until they reached Ludwigs Bridge. Berg pushed him left. “This way.”

  Berg was surprised. The kid offered nothing in the way of physical resistance. He had some girth but was soft in the arms. Short, too. He had a pink face but any face would be pink in such cold weather. Piggish blue eyes. To Berg, they all were pigs. Underneath his worn coat, the boy wore a beige work shirt, the rough fabric probably woven from nettles, thick woolen pants, and boots with more holes than leather.

  Abruptly, the young Nazi broke into song. “O Germany, high in honor . . .”

  Berg tightened his grip. “Quiet! People are still sleeping.”

  The teen changed the song but not the volume. “Deutschland, Deutschland über alles.”

  Berg kneed him in the back. “I said, Quiet!”

  “You object to Germany’s great national anthem?”

  “Not the anthem, only your voice.”

  Weighing several options, Berg decided on the main police station on Ett Strasse. It was ten minutes away, and Berg felt more comfortable holding the kid in his own territory. A push forward, and the two trudged through the fog and the cold on the cobblestones, trying to avoid the numerous puddles. Berg could hear the city begin to stir: the occasional clopping of hooves, the squeaking of wooden wheel axles on wagons, the purr of motor vehicles, the clanging of streetcars. Heavy objects—most likely crates of food being unloaded and delivered—were falling to the ground at Viktualienmarkt, only blocks away. Berg decided to bypass the market in order to avoid unwanted attention, specifically from the punk’s compatriots who seemed to be everywhere these days. “What’s your name, Junge?”

  “I don’t have to answer your questions.”

  “You will eventually.”

  “No, you are wrong. One day, you will have to answer my questions.”

  “That day has not come, Junge. What is your name?”

  The kid shrugged. “Lothar.”

  “Lothar what?”

  “Lothar Felb.”

  “Lothar, why do you throw rocks at our building? It houses many of your own.”

  “But it also has many degenerates—Jews, Kommunisten, Independent Socialists, Social Democrats, Bavarian Workers, German Democrats, Liberal burghers, German Socialists—”

  “That’s a lot of people, Junge—everyone in the city other than Nazis.”

  “Exactly.” The kid stopped walking and turned his head. “Do whatever you must. But we both know, Inspektor, that I will find a sympathetic ear with the police. Especially when they see you dressed so comically.”

  Suddenly Berg realized he was still in his pajamas. Embarrassed and angry, he backhanded the teen across the left side of his face. “You underestimate me, Junge.” Before the kid could respond, Berg backhanded the right side. “Don’t talk anymore. You’re irritating.”

  The kid opened his mouth, but no sound came out. They plodded the rest of the way in silence. Berg shivered. He was chilled, wet, and very troubled. There was more truth than lie in the young Brownshirt’s words.

  TWO

  Built on land once owned by an Augustine cloister, the Central Police Station on Ett Strasse was a Gothic labyrinth of multistoried stone structures encircling an open central courtyard, the faces of the buildings overlaid with a checkerboard pattern of windows. A steel-rimmed pebbled lot provided an area to park official police vehicles—scooters, cars, and motorized wagons. The gate to the car lot was flanked by two
monumental stone pilasters supporting muscled, snarling lions—the symbol of Bavaria. Horses were stabled in the back of the complex, fewer in number now that motorbikes were rapidly replacing them.

  The primary entrance to the station house was reached by walking up stone steps sandwiched between square pilasters festooned with friezes. The main doors were imposing and heavy. Inside, the ground floor held a narrow, high-ceilinged anteroom where a uniformed officer with a sign-in sheet sat behind a desk. Included in his duties was the dispensing of detailed directions to the various interior offices. But he also gave out forms. Bavaria, like all of Germany, had many, many forms, the most important being the registry of addresses. Any German resettling from one city to another was required to report the move and his new address to the proper authorities. The Fatherland wanted to know where its citizens were at all times. It not only made for an orderly society, but also greatly simplified the process of conscription, now rendered illegal by the Versailles Treaty. There were also the requisite forms for citizens to lodge official crime reports and complaints.

  The layouts of the building’s floors were nearly identical: a series of interconnecting whitewashed hallways punctuated by many doorways. The pine floors, discolored and scuffed from constant use, creaked under heavy foot traffic. By the time Berg had accompanied his charge up the staircase to the fourth floor, it was close to seven in the morning. It was nearly eight when he finished with the processing and paperwork and disposing of the youth. Several of his colleagues were now at work.

  Because Berg and these men were part of the newly established Mordkommission—the Homicide Unit—and often dealt with complex crimes, they shared a premium office with high ceilings, crown moldings, and floor-to-ceiling paned windows that allowed in steely light and lots of draft. Old-fashioned gas sconces were still used to augment the newly installed but rather weak yellow-tinged electrical room lighting that flickered with each uptake of wind. The radiator was diligently hissing out steam, but still the place was frigid.

  Rubbing his hands together, Berg felt eyes were upon him, specifically those of Georg Müller, who had looked up from the communal worktable that he shared with Berg and Ulrich Storf. Müller had just turned forty, a man of medium height and dense physique—thick limbs, barrel chest, wide neck. His face was round and ruddy, topped by a helmet of chestnut-colored hair. His pewter eyes, hooded under lazy, drooping lids, belied a quick mind, though he was a little lax in his report writing . . . skimpy with detail. Georg just couldn’t be bothered with the usual preciseness that was the mark of the German Zeitgeist. Still, he was a good worker and an amiable fellow, and Berg considered him a friend. Right now, he was staring at Berg’s pajamas, his lips barely resisting a smile. “Grüss Gott, Axel.”

  “Guten Morgen.” Berg blew warm breath on his hands, regarding his co-workers attired neatly in appropriate dress. The basic Munich police uniform consisted of dark waistcoat with buttons hidden under a front pleat, a detachable round collar, and matching dark trousers. Georg’s police cap—the newer style without the heavy metal spire—sat neatly beside his paperwork. “I’m going home to change. I stopped by so no one would think I’m shirking my duties.”

  “May I ask why you’re half-naked?”

  “I am not naked—neither half nor whole.”

  “But neither are you in clothing.”

  It was Ulrich Storf who had piped up. Still in his twenties, he had recently been promoted to this division. Although it was unfair to assume favoritism, Berg felt that the man had been advanced either because he was a relative of some higher-up or because he was in the right party and knew the right people. A tall man, he was quite thin but still had a double chin. His shiny face with its rosy cheeks smacked of youth and impertinence, yet there was definite intelligence in his eyes. “If it’s a costume you’re seeking, I remind you that it’s past Fasching.”

  “With all the Brownshirt clowns who clog up Königsplatz, I’d say this city is one continuous carnival.”

  “If you feel that every day is Fasching, then at least be a good Bavarian and put on your lederhosen.”

  “I am not Bavarian.”

  Müller tossed him off with a wave. “Ach, you Prussians have no sense of humor.”

  Berg retorted calmly, “I am not Prussian.”

  “He is worse than Prussian.” Müller winked at Storf. “He is Danish!”

  “Ah . . .” Ulrich grinned back. “So when he grows up, we will let him be German.”

  “Many Danes would bristle at such an invitation,” Berg answered. An angry gust of wind rattled the windows. The walls were damp and smelled of mold. “No, my Kameraden, though many Bavarians would dispute it, I fear that I am as German as the rest of you.”

  “So he’s even worse than Danish,” Storf whispered to Müller sotto voce. “He is a Kommunist!”

  Berg smiled. “I think I will see you all later.”

  Storf said, “Button up your coat, Axel. It wouldn’t be nice to scare the good people who ride the streetcar.”

  “I think I will go by foot,” Berg said. “It’s not so far.”

  Müller said, “Still, you are not dressed for the weather, Axel. I’ll boil some water for tea. It will warm up the innards. Not just for you, but for all of us. The radiator lacks energy this morning. Would you like it with or without schnapps?”

  “Whatever you bring, Georg, I will be glad to drink.”

  Berg took his place at the table and closed his eyes, trying not to think about the piles of paperwork in front of him. Once again, general crime was on the rise after a dip in ’24, that anomaly due to the more stable but devalued mark. Still, things were not as bad as in ’23 when inflation had been lethal. This year, crimes against property were down, as was juvenile crime. Berg had a theory about the decline; he believed that once the government lifted the ban on the NSDAP, the delinquents redirected their antisocial proclivities into being good little Nazis. So maybe Hitler was good for something after all.

  Unemployment was up. Of the seven hundred thousand people who resided in Munich and its environs, over forty thousand were out of work. Troubling, yes, but even the current joblessness with its ebbs and flows wasn’t as worrisome as the alarming trend of deaths from traffic accidents. Automobiles had increasingly become the transportation of choice for the rich, their cars choking the streets with din and noxious smoke. Nothing but menaces, the motorized vehicles, pushing out the competition with their size and weight, honking at bicycles and knocking over wagons and, too often, people. Cars should be confined to government use only.

  “Sleeping on the job, Axel?”

  Berg snapped open his eyes and sprang to his feet, recognizing the voice of his superior.

  “It is convenient since you’re already dressed for bed.” Hauptkommissar Martin Volker held up his left hand. The fingers on his right hand were locked around sheaves of paper. “No need to explain. As a matter of fact, I prefer that you not explain, that you don’t even talk until I’ve asked you several questions about this trivial matter.”

  The trivial matter was Lothar Felb. Someone had cleaned him up; his face was scrubbed raw and pink, although his hair retained bits of this morning’s mud bath. He was standing to Volker’s left, a distinctive smirk across his lips.

  The Kommissar’s pale blue eyes were unreadable. He was dressed in an exquisitely tailored dark suit, silk tie, and starched white-collared shirt, the gold chain of his pocket watch dipping from his vest pocket to the pocket of his trousers. White-haired and tall, Volker was aristocratically handsome. It was rumored that he had independent money. If so, why he was working in Munich’s police department—even as head of the Kriminalpolizei—was anyone’s guess.

  The expression on the punk’s face told Berg that he had gotten up early for nothing.

  “You are the one who arrested this boy, Axel?”

  “I brought him in, yes.”

  “What for?”

  “For disturbing the peace, vandalism, wanton destru
ction of property, resisting arrest, and running from a police officer.”

  Lothar said, “I didn’t know you were a police officer—”

  “Quiet!” Volker snapped.

  “His acts are described in detail in the papers, sir,” Berg stated. “If you read the file, it’s all there.”

  “I did read the file, Inspektor.”

  Berg swallowed hard. “Of course.”

  Volker showed him the paperwork. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Berg, but I don’t recall any mention of his actually attacking you.”

  “Herr Kommissar, he’s been throwing rocks at my building for at least a week.”

  “Broken anything?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Let me ask you this, Inspektor. Did he attack you directly? Punch you? Slap you? Hit you? Kick you?”

  Berg licked his lips. “No, sir.”

  “Did he threaten you in any way?”

  “Not more than any others in his party, no.”

  “This is not a political matter but rather a criminal one.”

  “No, he didn’t threaten me . . . not seriously anyway.”

  “Did he use obscenities in your presence?”

  “No.”

  “In other words, what he is . . . is a nuisance.” Volker looked at him intently. “Is that accurate?”

  “A big nuisance.”

  “A big nuisance, then.” Volker shook his head in disgust. “The boy is my nephew, my wayward sister’s child. Her husband hasn’t been employed in over a year. My brother-in-law is slothful and drinks heavily. The family has all but disowned her. It’s very hard on my sister, it’s hard on my nephews—there are six of them as well as three nieces.”