Alone in Berlin (Penguin Modern Classics)

36

The Fall of Inspector Escherich

In the twelve months after the ‘suicide’ of little Enno Kluge, Inspector Escherich had been able to lead a fairly tranquil existence, not too burdened by the impatience of his superiors. When the suicide was reported and it was clear that the scrawny little man had put himself beyond interrogation by the Gestapo and the SS, Obergruppenführer Prall had of course thrown one fit after another. But in time he had calmed down: that trail had gone cold, and now they were forced to wait for another.

And besides, the Hobgoblin didn’t seem so important any more. The sheer unvarying monotony with which he wrote his postcards that no one read, that no one wanted to read, that plunged everyone who found them into embarrassment or dread, made him a ridiculous, stupid figure. Of course, Escherich continued to stick his little flags into the map of Berlin. With some satisfaction he saw that they were concentrating more and more in the area north of Alexanderplatz – that was where the bird must have his nest! And that striking group of almost a dozen flags south of Nollendorfplatz – that must be somewhere that the Hobgoblin had some regular, if occasional, business. All that would come out in the wash, one day…

You’re coming along! You’re coming along nicely, all in your own time! chuckled the inspector to himself, and rubbed his hands.

But then his attention was claimed by other work. There were more urgent and important cases. A madman – a devout Nazi, as he called himself – was just then very current: he did nothing but send Minister Goebbels daily letters that were crude, and often pornographic in nature. At first the letters had amused the minister, then they’d bothered him, and finally he had thrown a fit and demanded the man’s head. His vanity was mortally offended.

Well, Inspector Escherich was in luck, he had managed to solve the ‘Filth’ case within three months. The letter writer, who really was in the Party, and had a low joining number, had been taken to Minister Goebbels, and with that Escherich could wash his hands of the case. He knew he would never hear anything about ‘Filth’ again. The Minister never forgave anyone who had offended him.

Then there were other cases – above all, the case of the man who sent papal encyclicals and radio addresses from Thomas Mann, both real and fake, to prominent persons. A wily fellow – nabbing him wasn’t easy. But in the end, Escherich booked him into his death cell in the Plötze.

And then there was the middle manager who had suddenly turned into a megalomaniac and announced that he was the director of a non-existent steelworks. He addressed confidential letters not merely to other directors but also to the Führer himself, with details of the parlous state of the German weapons industry, details that were in many cases true. Well, that bird was relatively easy to catch; the number of people privy to such information was relatively small.

So Inspector Escherich had enjoyed some important successes, and his colleagues were muttering he might be due an exceptional promotion. It had been a pleasing year, since the suicide of little Kluge; Inspector Escherich was quite happy.

But then a time came that saw Escherich’s superiors once again grouped in front of the map with the Hobgoblin’s pins. They listened to explanations of the flags, they nodded thoughtfully when the clustering north of Alexanderplatz was explained to them, they nodded thoughtfully again when Escherich drew their attention to the second, smaller cluster south of Nollendorfplatz, and then they said, ‘Do you have any other leads, Herr Escherich? What plans have you made for the apprehension of this Hobgoblin? The invasion of Russia seems to have inspired the man to new spasms of literary activity. The past week alone has seen five postcards and letters from him!’

‘True,’ said the inspector. ‘And there are three already this week!’

‘So what’s the state of play, Escherich? Think of how long the man’s been writing now. We can’t let him go on like this! This isn’t a statistical office for the analysis of treasonable postcards – you’re a detective! So, what leads are you following?’

Thus pressed, the inspector complained bitterly about the idiocy of the two women who had seen the man and not stopped him, who had seen him and couldn’t even come up with a description of what he looked like.

‘That’s all very well, my dear fellow. But we’re not talking about brainless witnesses, we’re talking about clues uncovered by your shrewd brain!’

Whereupon the inspector led the gentlemen back to the map, and, speaking in a whisper, showed them how although there were flags evenly sowed all over the area north of the Alex, one little area had none at all.

‘And that’s where my Hobgoblin lives. He doesn’t drop any cards there, because he is too well known; he would have to worry that a neighbour might see and identify him. It’s a little working-class enclave, just a couple of streets. That’s where he lives.’

‘And why do you let him live there? Why haven’t you called for a house-to-house search in those few streets? You’ve got to catch him, Escherich! We don’t understand you – you have an impressive record otherwise, but in this case it’s one blunder after another. We’ve seen the files. There was the run-in with Kluge, whom you let go, even after he confessed! And then you let him drop out of sight, and you even allowed him to do himself in, and that at a time when we really needed to talk to him! One blunder after another, Escherich!’

Inspector Escherich, nervously tugging at his moustache, permits himself to point out that Kluge manifestly had nothing to do with the author of the postcards. The postcards had continued to come in after his death.

‘In my opinion, his confession that an unknown man gave him the card to drop is absolutely credible!’

‘Well, as long as you think so! We think it’s absolutely necessary that you do something! We don’t care what it is, but we want to see movement! Conduct house-to-house searches in those streets. Let’s see what that throws up. It’s bound to be something, the infestation is everywhere!’

In turn, Inspector Escherich humbly begs to remind his visitors that even searching those few streets will mean knocking on close to a thousand doors.

‘It will cause great disquiet among the residents. People are getting more nervous as it is, on account of the intensified bombing raids, and now if we give them further grounds to complain! And ask yourselves, What will a search accomplish? What are we looking for? All the man requires for his criminal activities is a pen, and every household has one, and a bottle of ink, ditto, and a couple of postcards, ditto, ditto. I wouldn’t know what to tell my men to look for. At the most, a negative indication: the author has no radio. Never in all the cards have I seen any suggestion that he may have got his news from the radio. Often, too, he is badly informed. No, I wouldn’t know how to instruct a search.’

‘But, my dear Escherich, we simply don’t understand you any more! You are full of doubts and hesitations, but you don’t come to us with a single positive suggestion! We must capture the man, and soon!’

‘And we will capture him,’ said the inspector, smiling, ‘but I don’t know how soon. I can’t guarantee it. But I don’t think he’ll still be writing his postcards in two years’ time.’

They groaned.

‘And why not? Because time is working against him. Look at the little flags – another hundred of them, and we’ll be much further along. He is an incredibly tough, cold-blooded guy, my Hobgoblin, but he’s also been incredibly lucky. Cold-bloodedness on its own isn’t enough – you need a bit of luck as well, and he’s had that to the most baffling degree. But it’s just like playing cards, gentlemen: for a while the cards will favour you, but then your run comes to an end. And suddenly the deck will be stacked against the Hobgoblin, and we’ll have all the trumps!’

‘That’s all very well, Escherich! Detection theory, I’m sure – we understand. But we are not so interested in theoretical questions, and all we take from your words is that we may be kept waiting for two more years before you decide to take any action. Well, we haven’t got the patience. We suggest you think through the whole case again and come to us with fresh proposals, in, say, a week. Then we’ll see if you’re a suitable man to take care of this or not. Heil Hitler, Escherich!’

After they had all gone, Obergruppenführer Prall, who had kept quiet because of the presence of higher-ranking officers and officials, came storming back in: ‘You moron! You imbecile! Do you think I’ll allow my department to be further damaged by a fool like you! You’ve got one week!’ He waved his fists furiously at Escherich. ‘Heaven help you if you don’t come up with anything this time! I’ll haul you over the coals!’ And so on and so forth. Inspector Escherich no longer listened to such talk.

Over the next week Inspector Escherich busied himself with the Hobgoblin case by doing nothing at all. Once before, he had allowed himself to be pressured by his superiors out of his patient waiting game, and as a result, everything had gone wrong, and that was what had ultimately made necessary the sacrifice of Enno Kluge.

Not that Kluge weighed heavily on his conscience. A useless, pathetic moaner – what did it matter whether such a creature lived or died. But Inspector Escherich had had a lot of trouble over that little wretch. Once that mouth had been opened it had cost him quite a bit to close it. Yes, on a certain night that the inspector didn’t like to recall, the inspector had been rather agitated, and if there was anything the gaunt, colourless, grey man disliked, it was being agitated.

No, he wasn’t going to be tempted out of his patient insistence, not even by his high-and-mighty superiors. What could they do to him? They needed their Escherich; he was in many ways irreplaceable. They might rant and rave at him, but in the end they would do the one thing that was right: wait. No, Escherich had no proposals to make…

It was a remarkable meeting. This time, it wasn’t held in Escherich’s office, but in the conference room, under the chairmanship of one of the top officials. Of course the Hobgoblin case wasn’t the only one on the agenda – many other cases from other departments were also discussed. There were reprimands, yelling, and mockery. And then it was Next, please!

‘Inspector Escherich, would you now tell us what you have to say in the case of the anonymous postcard author?’

The inspector told them. He gave a little report on what had been done thus far and what had been learned. He did it extremely well: short, to the point, not without wit, all the while thoughtfully stroking his moustache.

Then came the chairman’s question: ‘And what proposals do you have to make for wrapping up this case, which has now gone unsolved for more than two years? Two years, Inspector Escherich!’

‘I can only recommend further waiting; there is no other solution. But perhaps one might hand the case over to Inspector Zott for a second opinion?’

For a moment, there was deathly silence.

Mocking laughter broke out in various parts of the hall. A voice called out: ‘Slacker!’

And another: ‘First you make a mess of it, then you try to make a present of it to someone else!’

Obergruppenführer Prall slammed his fist down on the table. ‘I’ll haul you over the coals, you son of a bitch!’

‘Silence, please!’

The voice of the chairman carried an undertone of disgust. The room fell silent.

‘Gentlemen, the response we have just heard reminds me of – desertion in the face of the enemy. Cowardly running away from difficulties that are an inevitable part and parcel of any struggle. I deplore your conduct, Escherich, and relieve you immediately of your participation in this meeting. Go back to your office to await further instructions!’

The inspector, ashen-faced (he had not been expecting this), bowed. Then he walked over to the door, clacked his heels together, and, with extended arm, roared, ‘Heil Hitler!’

No one paid him any attention. The inspector went to his office.

The instructions he had been told to await came in the guise of two glowering SS men, of whom one said, ‘You’re not to touch anything here, understand!’

Escherich turned his head toward the man. This was a new tone. Not that Escherich was wholly unacquainted with it, but it had never been used on him before. A simple SS man – things must be in a bad way with Escherich if they talked like that to an inspector.

A brutal face: broad nose, prognathous jaw, inclination to violence, low intelligence, dangerous when drunk, summarized Escherich. What was it the commander had said upstairs? Desertion? Ridiculous! Inspector Escherich and desertion! But that was their style, always big words, and afterward nothing happened!

Obergrüppenfuhrer Prall and Inspector Zott walk in.

Well then, so they took my suggestion! The most sensible thing they could have done, even though I don’t myself believe that even that wily mind can make anything different out of the available material.

Escherich is on the point of giving Inspector Zott a friendly greeting, not least to show that he isn’t at all miffed about the handing on of his case, when he feels himself pulled aside roughly by the two SS men. The one with the thuggish face shouts, ‘At your service, SS men Dobat and Jacoby with prisoner!’

Prisoner, Escherich thinks in bewilderment – are they referring to me?

And aloud he says, ‘Obergruppenführer, might I add that…’

‘See that that pig keeps its muzzle shut!’ roars Prall, who has probably gotten his knuckles rapped, too.

SS man Dobat hits Escherich flush on the mouth with his fist. The inspector feels a vivid pain and the disgusting warm taste of blood in his mouth. Then he leans over and spits a couple of teeth out on the carpet.

While he does all this – does it perfectly mechanically; not even the pain really hurts – he thinks, I must make my position clear. Of course I’m ready to do anything. Door-to-door searches the length and breadth of Berlin. Spies in every building that has more than one doctor’s or lawyer’s office. I’ll do whatever you want, but you can’t just tell your stooges to punch me in the face, me, a long-serving detective and holder of the Iron Cross!

While he is feverishly thinking such thoughts, and trying mechanically to get out of the clutches of the two SS men, and trying to speak – but how can he speak through his ripped upper lip and bleeding mouth? – while he is struggling, Obergruppenführer Prall has launched himself at him, grabbed him by the lapels with both hands, and began screaming, ‘Now at last we’ve got you where we wanted you, you arrogant fuck! You always thought you were so smart, giving me the benefit of your bullshit lectures, eh? Do you think I didn’t notice how stupid you thought I was, while you were so smart? Well, now we’ve got you, and we’ll haul you over the coals like you won’t believe!’

For an instant, Prall, almost insensate with fury, stared at the bleeding detective.

Then he screamed again: ‘What are you doing spewing your vile blood all over my carpet? Gulp it down, you miserable hound, or I’ll give you one in the chops myself!’

And Inspector Escherich – no, miserable, terrified little manikin Escherich, who only an hour before had been a mighty Gestapo inspector – strove, death-sweat beading on his brow, to gulp down the disgusting warm stream of blood and not to foul the carpet, which was his own carpet, no, now it was Inspector Zott’s…

The Obergruppenführer watched the wretched inspector with sadistic pleasure. Then he turned away from Escherich with an angry, ‘Bah, scum!’ and asked Zott, ‘Do you require this man for briefing purposes, Herr Zott?’

It was an unwritten rule that all long-serving detectives transferred to the Gestapo stayed together through thick and thin, just as the SS itself also stuck together – often against the detectives themselves. It would never have occurred to Escherich to betray a colleague to the SS, whatever his faults; rather, he would have been at pains to hide his shortcomings from them. And now he had to look on as Zott, with a cursory glance in Escherich’s direction, coldly said, ‘This man? For a briefing? No thanks, Obergruppenführer. I’d do better briefing myself!’

‘Take him away!’ screamed the Obergruppenführer, ‘and give him a bit of a gee-up, boys!’

And Escherich was whisked down the corridor between the two SS men, the same corridor, incidentally, down which he had dispatched Borkhausen with a kick in the pants, laughing at the humour of it. And they threw him down the same stone steps, to lie bleeding on the same spot where Borkhausen had lain bleeding. Then he was booted upright, and tossed down more stairs to the basement cells…

Every joint hurt him, and then it was out of his clothes and into the striped zebra suit, and the shameless redistribution of his possessions among the SS guards. All amid continual kicks and punches, and threats…

Oh yes, Inspector Escherich had seen it all many times in the past few years, and seen nothing surprising or reprehensible in any of it, because that was how you dealt with criminals. Naturally. But the fact that he, Detective Inspector Escherich, was now ranked among these criminals and stripped of all rights, that was something he couldn’t get into his head. He hadn’t broken the law. All he had done was make the suggestion that a case be passed along, a case on which his superiors had had not one useful idea between them. It would all be cleared up – they would have to get him out. They couldn’t do without him! And until that time, he had to maintain his dignity, show no fear, not even show pain.

They were just bringing someone else down into the basement. A petty thief, he managed to overhear, who had been unfortunate enough to try to rob a woman who kept company with a high SA official, and had been caught in the act.

Now they brought him down here, after probably already softening him up: a whimpering creature, stinking of his own excrement, repeatedly going down on his hands and knees, hugging the SS men round their legs: please for the love of Mary not to hurt him! Have mercy – Jesus would repay them!

The SS men made a joke of letting the little fellow tug at their legs and beg and then smashing their knees in his face. Then the pickpocket would roll around on the floor, wailing – till the next time he looked in their hard faces, thought he saw a trace of clemency in one of them, and launched into a new round of appeals…

And it was with this worm, this excrement-stinking coward, that the all-powerful Inspector Escherich was made to share a cell.