The Good Cop Page 2

  Maximilian was about to leave when he looked at that week’s paper displayed along the entry wall. Das Neue Deutsche Bild. Maximilian turned to the editor. ‘The New German Picture?’ he said. ‘So, where are the pictures?’

  The editor smiled. ‘We can’t afford a photographer. Or, for that matter, a darkroom. Are you a photographer?’

  ‘No,’ said Maximilian. ‘But I draw.’

  ‘Can you show me something?’

  Maximilian was back in thirty minutes with his notebook. The editor turned the pages and saw soldiers in masks during an attack – you could almost smell the gas. There was a drawing of trenches in the pouring rain. Levi’s face. Soldiers searching for their injured comrades. Dead farm animals. The starving dog. Klaus with his concertina. Armed Spartacists at a barricade waiting to attack. Hungry children. A dead body on the steps of a church.

  ‘I can’t pay you much,’ the editor said. He named a sum, and Maximilian agreed that it wasn’t much. But he took it. His job would be to wander the city and capture moments of life in Munich. ‘Political life, preferably,’ said the editor, Erwin Czieslow. ‘But, then, everything is political these days, isn’t it? Hunger, poverty … so, draw whatever you see.’

  Maximilian went all over the city, drawing political rallies, beggars, city officials, barricaded revolutionaries. Erwin printed some of his drawings in every issue, sometimes as story illustrations, and sometimes as stand-alone pictures of the life they were all living.

  One day Maximilian did a series of drawings of Orthodox Jews. When the paper came out the next day, three drawings of the Jews – one of the bearded patriarch in his caftan, one of his son and his wife, and one of the children with their mother – were featured on the back page over an article with the headline FOREIGN WAYS THREATEN OUR GERMAN REPUBLIC. The piece went on to say that Germanic values were rooted deep in the soil of the Fatherland. The new Germany needed a unified people to survive and endure. But the German nation and its new order were under threat from the terrible Versailles Treaty and the inhuman reparations it demanded.

  Foreigners meddling in German affairs had caused the war that had cost Germany millions of young lives. The war had been waged to protect the wealth of Jewish bankers and politicians who were not Germans at all. They had profited from the war and had stabbed Germany in the back. Foreign influences were infecting German culture from within.

  ‘If it bothers you so much, Maxi, why don’t you talk to the editor?’

  ‘Doesn’t it bother you, Inge?’ said Maximilian.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Frankly, it doesn’t. If anything, it doesn’t go far enough. The Jews are behind everything that’s wrong. They run the banks. They’re behind the so-called treaty that’s taken everything from us. They’re not Germans. Who do you think is collecting the reparations? The Jews.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ said Maximilian.

  ‘You just have to look around, Maxi,’ she said. ‘Open your eyes.’

  The next morning Maximilian went to Erwin. ‘In the war,’ he said, ‘I fought alongside Jews. They died for Germany, just like everybody else. They suffered like everybody else. A Jew saved my life.’

  ‘Listen,’ said Erwin, ‘here’s the situation. Detlev von Plottwietz, who wrote that piece, is our publisher and our major funder. He pays your wages. Without him, the paper wouldn’t last another week. He has his own ideas, and every once in a while he likes to write something. I don’t like his ideas either. But when he writes something, we print it. That’s not going to change.’

  DAS ALTE ROSENBAD

  ‘Where are we going?’ said Maximilian.

  Sophie Auerbach was walking fast. ‘A meeting,’ she said. She glanced at her notes. ‘German Workers’ Party. They’re meeting at a bar on Herrnstraße. Probably nothing, but let’s see what they’re up to.’

  Sophie, the new reporter, had asked Maximilian to come along. She had been roughed up at one of these gatherings the week before; Maximilian would offer some protection.

  ‘I’m an artist, not a bodyguard,’ said Maximilian.

  ‘Don’t worry. You’ll get some good drawings.’

  Herrnstraße was deserted. The street lamps were mostly broken. Some paving stones had been torn up. The pavement was scarred black where a barricade had burned. Das Alte Rosenbad was marked by a faded sign with a rose on it. Several armed men stood by the door watching who went in.

  Sophie and Maximilian passed through the small, empty bar. As they opened the door to the back room, they were met by a wall of sound and heat. The room was jammed, mostly with men. Every space was occupied. People stood packed against the walls. An argument was going on about who should lead their movement.

  ‘We need a man who can stand the sound of gunfire,’ someone shouted. ‘A man who can get the rabble to shit their pants.’ A roar of approval went through the crowd. ‘What about the veterans?’ someone else shouted. ‘You’ve got to get the veterans.’ The crowd roared again. ‘Not the officers,’ someone else shouted. ‘Those assholes stabbed us in the back.’ The room erupted into shouting.

  The man up front banged on the table, and finally everybody quieted down. ‘Here’s what we stand for,’ he said. ‘Read it.’ Some men passed around mimeographed pages. ‘Spread the word about the new German Workers’ Party. Our next meeting will be announced on signs and in newspaper ads.’

  ‘Which newspapers?’ someone asked. He was ignored.

  ‘Listen,’ the man up front continued, ‘for too long, a small, self-appointed government elite has been in charge. They sent us off to war while they got fat and rich. Now they’re getting fatter and richer. Eating steaks while we’re starving. Anyone here getting rich?’

  ‘No!’ roared the crowd.

  ‘They take care of themselves, these elites,’ said the speaker. ‘They don’t care about you. Who does care about you? Nobody, that’s who. Those bastards lost the war, they surrendered, but you’re paying for their treachery. For too many years, foreign industry has gotten rich on the backs of the German workers. And now German workers are being screwed again. The banks? They’re doing fine. The Americans? They’re fat and happy. The French? Oh la la. And the Jews? Well, nobody’s doing better than the Jews.’

  The crowd roared.

  ‘The government says, “The people govern.” Really? It’s strange, don’t you think? We the people have been in charge since the war ended, and no one has ever asked for our opinion. Not once. Treaties were signed that will cripple us for centuries. And who signed the treaties? The people? No! The November criminals did, which one fine day was the government just because they announced they were the government.

  ‘This can’t go on. This must not go on. They don’t care about you. You and I – we have to put a stop to it. We have to rule ourselves. And we have to protect ourselves. “From whom?” you ask. Isn’t it obvious? From the foreigners and the Jews who have infected Germany, who have destroyed German industry, who are destroying German society.

  ‘We are going to take Germany back. We are going to start winning again, winning like never before. We will rebuild our industries. We will bring back our jobs. We will win back our Fatherland.

  ‘We will build new roads and highways and bridges and railways all across this great nation. We will rebuild our economy, and we’ll do it all with honest German labor.

  ‘We can do it if we stand together. The bedrock of our politics will be a total allegiance to Germany. When Germany is united, Germany is unstoppable.’

  The crowd stamped their feet and whistled and roared.

  SOPHIE

  Sophie turned the pages of Maximilian’s notebook. ‘These are good,’ she said. ‘Really good. This guy looks like a maniac. Do you think Erwin will publish this?’

  ‘So far he’s published pretty much everything I’ve showed him.’

  ‘This is different,’ said Sophie. ‘Von Plottwietz, the publisher, is behind these guys, you know – this German Workers’ Party. They’re his boys; he�
��s given them lots of money. He hates the Weimar government, hates the socialists, is terrified of the Bolsheviks. So if he’s behind them, the paper is behind them, or will be before long. Don’t show Erwin this one.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You have to protect yourself.’

  ‘From what? They’re just drawings.’

  ‘No, Maximilian, they’re not just drawings,’ said Sophie. ‘They’re hand grenades.’

  ‘What about you?’ said Maximilian. ‘What are you going to write? How are you going to protect yourself?’

  ‘I’ll report what happened. What was said. I’ll say how many people were there. I’m a reporter. No opinion, just the facts. I’ll write about the guy that talked, repeat what he said …’ She looked through her notes for his name. ‘Hitler, Adolf Hitler.’

  ‘So you feel all right writing what he said?’

  ‘It’s my job. I’m a reporter.’

  ‘Will you report what he said about the Jews?’

  Sophie set down her glass and studied Maximilian’s face for what seemed like a very long time. ‘Are you a Jew?’ she said.

  ‘No,’ said Maximilian.

  They were in a tea room not far from the paper. ‘Why did you do those drawings of Jews? Why did you give them to Erwin?’

  ‘They were good drawings. I didn’t know he was going to use them that way.’

  ‘Did you say anything to him?’

  ‘Yes. Now I keep certain drawings to myself.’

  ‘You’re right. You should. Be careful what you show him. He’s a good guy, but he’s caught in the middle.’ She reached across and touched the scar by Maximilian’s ear. ‘How long were you in the war?’

  He took her hand away from his cheek. He didn’t answer.

  ‘My husband was killed in 1917,’ she said.

  ‘I’m sorry. He died for the Fatherland,’ said Maximilian. It was what you said, even when you didn’t believe it. He died for the Fatherland.

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Twenty-four,’ said Maximilian.

  ‘You seem younger,’ she said. ‘Except for your eyes.’

  They sat in silence for a while.

  ‘Everybody said he was a hero,’ said Sophie finally. ‘The pastor, his family, the officer who came and told me he was dead. They all said he was a hero. But he wasn’t a hero. He was just an ordinary guy. He was cannon fodder. He was sent off to die for nothing. Nothing.’

  ‘He died for the Fatherland. The Fatherland is not nothing.’

  ‘No, you’re right. The Fatherland is not nothing. But that war was not for the Fatherland. It was for power and influence and greed.’

  ‘Don’t you want to make Germany great again?’ said Maximilian. She couldn’t tell if he was serious.

  ‘It’s not what they want to do that’s the problem. It’s how they want to do it. Germany was great, because we have great scientists, great thinkers, great artists. But these guys with their slogans – Germany first, make Germany great, the German Workers’ Party – they want to make it great the way the Huns were great, the way Genghis Khan was great. For them greatness means vengeance and violence, intimidation and fear.

  ‘They want military and industrial power first of all, so they can punish somebody for whatever injustice they think has been done to them. They feel humiliated, ridiculed, and abused. All their talk is about hate and force and destruction. It comes from a dark place.’

  ‘Do you have children?’ said Maximilian.

  ‘No children,’ said Sophie.

  ‘How long were you married?’

  ‘Five weeks. I’ll never have children.’

  ‘You can’t?’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘Because your husband is dead?’

  ‘His name was Johannes,’ said Sophie.

  ‘Because Johannes is dead?’

  ‘Because Germany’s not a place for children. Because Germany is in ruins and won’t recover. It can’t recover.’

  ‘Yes, it can,’ said Maximilian. ‘Recovery will be difficult, but we can recover. We were stabbed in the back, sold out by the socialists in Berlin.’

  ‘Do you really believe that?’

  ‘It’s what everybody says,’ said Maximilian.

  ‘Stop repeating what everybody says. It’s just slogans. Look at who’s saying it. You’re smarter than that.’

  ‘I don’t want to argue with you. It’s not something we can change.’

  ‘That’s true,’ said Sophie. ‘We can’t change it. We can just report it and hope that the people change it.’

  ‘How old are you?’ said Maximilian.

  ‘Twenty-five,’ said Sophie. ‘Going on a hundred.’

  THE POLICEMAN

  Hermann Gruber, a Munich policeman, watched the excited crowd leave the Alte Rosenbad. They had been whipped into a real frenzy by that speech. Hermann remained at the back of the room while the six men who had organized the meeting – the speaker was one of them – sat planning their next step.

  Hermann was a realist. And he told himself being a realist meant that, when you see an opportunity, you seize it without asking too many questions. And here were maybe two opportunities at the same time. He recognized one of the men at the front of the room from precinct headquarters. Hermann was about to take the detective’s exam for the third time. And he saw in this Hitler fellow a chance to advance his position in life. He had the sense that either Hitler or the other man, or maybe both of them, could definitely be of use. You never knew, but you had to take a risk if you wanted to get anywhere.

  Hermann thought of his father and shook his head. His father had been a policeman too. But he had no ambition. And where had he ended up? Hoeing leeks and radishes in his small rented plot by the train yards. All he had to show for thirty-five years of foot patrols and night-desk duty was a tin medal for faithful service to the Kaiser and a pension nobody could live on.

  The speaker, Hitler – Hermann didn’t know his first name – didn’t look like much. Thirty maybe, skinny, pale, a little mustache, dark hair combed flat. He could have been a concierge or a baker. Except when he spoke he had an explosive quality, an intensity that never left him. He had no patience for opinions; he was a man of the truth. He just knew. He had a sense of what was to come, and it was his destiny to force whatever it was into being.

  ‘Gentlemen …’ Hitler said, as though he were addressing the Reichstag and not this motley crew of would-be insurrectionists. At that point he noticed Hermann sitting back by the door. ‘What do you want here?’ he said. It was a command, not a question. ‘We’re working; the show is over.’

  Hermann rose to leave. He gave a little bow in the group’s direction and said, ‘I admire your speech, Herr Hitler. I am with you one hundred percent.’

  In fact, Hermann hadn’t paid close attention to Hitler’s speech. He had heard that stuff a dozen times. It was being spouted on street corners and in bars all over the city – the betrayal of the Fatherland, the dark times they were going through, the return of a mighty Germany. And the Jews, of course, were to blame for everything. It was always the same old political shit, to rope in the gullible and the naive.

  But this had been different. The crowd of people weren’t just persuaded. They were melded into one, lifted up, transported, and ready for action. The difference wasn’t the speech, it was the speaker. Here was a man who, as someone had said, wasn’t afraid of gunfire, a man who could scare the crap out of the rabble. Here was a man Hermann could hitch his wagon to.

  The next morning, as Hermann came into District Headquarters to begin his shift, he saw the man he had recognized. Walther Reineke was a police captain and chief of detectives in the next district. Hermann saluted him. ‘Herr Captain,’ he said.

  Reineke stopped. ‘You were there yesterday, weren’t you?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, Herr Captain.’

  Reineke looked around to see who was listening. ‘Come to the next meeting,’ he said in a lowered voice. ‘Then you�
��ll really see something.’

  ‘The German Workers’ movement is a great movement, Herr Captain,’ said Hermann. ‘I want to be part of it.’

  ‘Come to the next meeting,’ said the captain again.

  ‘I want to do more than go to meetings, Herr Captain. I want to be useful.’

  ‘There are many ways to do that, Herr …’

  ‘Gruber. Wachtmeister Hermann Gruber.’ He saluted again. ‘I am at your disposal, Herr Captain. I am at the Party’s disposal.’

  Reineke looked him up and down. He saw a man of average height with a barrel chest and a thick neck. His hair was cropped short and his lips pressed together in determination. ‘Right now, Gruber,’ he said, ‘more than anything, we need foot soldiers. Men to put up posters, to patrol our meetings, to break Communist skulls. And we need men like you to recruit other policemen. That is something you can do right now. Remember: today’s foot soldiers will be tomorrow’s leaders.’ Reineke put a hand on Hermann’s shoulder. ‘Come to my office in the Prinzregentenstraße after your shift.’

  Hermann couldn’t believe his luck. This Hitler was going somewhere. Reineke was his way in. And when it came to making detective, knowing Reineke wouldn’t hurt either.

  ‘Mitzi!’ he called excitedly as he came through the apartment door.

  He told her all about Hitler and Reineke and all the doors they would open. ‘This guy is going to change the world,’ he said.

  ‘That’s wonderful, Hermann,’ she said. Hermann always came home with schemes that would make them successful or rich. And they usually went nowhere. She had heard it all before. This time would be no different. Hermann was eight years older than Mitzi, but she felt like the adult in the family.