Field Grey by Philip Kerr

  I nodded. The Frenchman had a point.

  'Can we get a copy of that list of names made by the Red Cross?' I asked.

  Vigee nodded at Moeller, who went away to fetch one. 'All the same,' he said, 'I don't think he'll be using his real name, do you?'

  'No, of course not. But one has to start somewhere. Most police work starts with a list of something or other, even if it's a list of what you don't know. Sometimes that's as important as what you do know. Really, detective work is simple, it's just not very easy.'

  'Don't sweat it,' said Vigee. 'We always knew that finding de Boudel at the station would be a long shot. Reveille at the refugee camp tomorrow morning. That's where I'm pinning my hopes.'

  'Yes, I think you're right,' I said.

  We watched Moeller struggling through the crowd of men to one of the Red Cross officials. He said something and the official nodded back.

  'Where did you find him?' I asked.

  'Gottingen,' said Vigee. 'Why?' He lit a cigarette and flicked his match onto the heads of the men below, as if he wished to express his contempt for them. 'Do you think he's not up to this?'

  'I couldn't say.'

  'Maybe he's not the detective you were, Gunther.' Vigee blew out his cheeks and sighed. 'All he has to do is arrest the man you identify. There's not much to being that kind of a cop, n'est ce-pas?' he sneered. 'Perhaps you should give him some tips. Tell him your forensic secrets.'

  'They're quite simple, too,' I said. 'I used to get up in the morning and go to bed at night. And in between I'd try to keep myself busy and out of mischief.'

  'Really? Is that all you have to offer? After how many years of being a detective?'

  'Any fool can solve a crime, Frenchman. It's proving it that wears you out.'

  Moeller started back through the crowd to the station door but found himself making little or no progress. He looked up, and seeing Vigee and then me, he threw up his hands and grinned, helplessly.

  I grinned back and nodded affably as if recognising his difficulty. But all the time I was looking at him I was trying to gauge what kind of policeman I was going to be dealing with when, the following morning, Walter Bingel identified me as a collaborator and traitor.

  * * *

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR: GERMANY, 1954

  We remained behind until all of the POWs had marched off to the camp and most of the local people had left the station. Vigee was, I think, impressed that I had insisted on being there until the last; and of course he was quite without a clue that the real reason had much more to do with my trying to keep out of sight. Before we climbed into the Citroen that would take us back to our pension in Gottingen, Moeller handed me a twenty-page list of names and ranks and serial numbers.

  'All of the men who were in that train,' he said, redundantly.

  I tucked the list into my coat pocket and glanced around the station ticket hall and beyond, onto the platform where those whose dashed hopes of seeing some long-lost loved one remained, to the bitter end. A few of these people were in tears. Others just sat alone in quiet and stoic grief. I heard someone say, 'Next time Frau Kettenacher. I expect he'll come the next time. They say it might be another year before they're all home. And that the SS will be the last.'

  Gently, the owner of the voice - some local pastor, it looked like to me - helped an old woman to her feet, collected her missing persons sign off the ground and guided her towards the platform exit.

  We followed at a respectful distance.

  'Poor soul,' muttered Moeller. 'I know how she feels. I have an elder brother who's still a prisoner.'

  'Why didn't you say something?' I said. 'Suppose he'd turned up here? What would you have done?'

  Moeller shrugged. 'I was sort of hoping he would. That's one of the reasons I got put forward for this job. But now that I've seen that refugee camp I'm not so sure. There must be better ways of treating our men, Herr Gunther. Don't you agree?'

  I nodded.

  'They don't do so bad,' said Grottsch. 'Every week the camp commander at Friedland gets hundreds of letters from single women all over Germany who are looking for a new husband.'

  The five of us squeezed into the car and set off north, for Gottingen, some fifteen kilometres away.

  Sitting in the back I switched on the courtesy light and nervously scanned the list for the names of any others from Johannesgeorgenstadt. And it didn't take long to find the name of SS General Fritz Klause, who had been the SGO at the camp. It was beginning to look as if the radiation there hadn't been nearly as lethal as I had been led to believe. Then again, a man can use hate for his enemy as a blanket just warm enough to keep him alive through even a Russian winter.

  'I wish someone would write and offer to marry me,' said Wenger, as he drove the car. 'Or at the very least offer to take the place of the wife I already have.'

  'I wonder what they'll think,' said Moeller. 'About the new Germany.'

  'I imagine they'll think it's really not quite German enough,' observed Grottsch. 'That was my impression when I came back from a British POW camp. I kept looking for Germany. And all I found was new furniture, cars and toys for American boys.'

  'Turn the car around,' I said. 'We have to go back.'

  Vigee, sitting beside Wenger in the front seat ordered him to pull up for a moment. Then he turned in his seat to look at me. 'Found something?'

  'Maybe.'

  'Explain, please.'

  'As we were leaving, there was a woman back at the station seeking information about her loved one. She had written all of his details on a sign.'

  'Yes,' said Vigee. 'What was her name?'

  'Kettenacher,' I said. 'But there was also a Kettenacher who was on the train. Who's on this list prepared by the Red Cross.'

  'It's not an uncommon name in this part of Germany,' said Moeller.

  'No,' I said, firmly. 'But Frau Kettenacher's son was in the Panzer Corps. He was a Hauptmann. A captain, same as me. Richard Kettenacher. Fifty-sixth Panzer Corps. Last heard of in the battle for Berlin.'

  'He missed his mother in the crowd,' said Moeller. 'It happens.'

  'And what about all his comrades?' I asked. 'Would they have missed her, too?'

  'Go back,' Vigee told Wenger urgently. 'Go back immediately.'

  Wenger turned the car around.

  'Let me see that list,' said the Frenchman.

  I handed it to him and pointed out the name.

  'What do you think we should do?' he asked. 'Go straight to the camp? Suppose he slips away before he gets there?'

  'No,' I said. 'He's here because he needs to be official. He needs some papers. Otherwise the Russian state security people could have smuggled him across the border in Berlin. He needs his discharge papers. Ration cards. An identity document. All of that in order to enter German society. To become something new. He's not going to slip away.'

  I thought for a moment.

  'We need to speak to the real Captain Kettenacher's mother.

  That old lady we saw at the railway station. We need her to give us a photograph of her son. So that when you and Moeller here go to the camp tomorrow and he tries to throw some sand in your face, you'll be able to deal with it by being able to produce a picture. You can leave asking her to me. I am after all a representative of the VdH.'

  'You said that in a way that implied you thought you wouldn't be coming to the refugee camp,' said Vigee. 'Why?'

  'Because I think you need to keep me in reserve,' I said smoothly. 'Think about it, Emile. You arrest Kettenacher on suspicion of really being de Boudel. He denies it, of course. So you take him to the Pension Esebeck and show him the real Kettenacher's photograph. He still denies it: there's some mistake. An administrative error. There were two Captain Kettenachers. You let him talk himself into a corner. That's when I step out from behind the curtain and say, "Hello, Edgard. Remember me?" I'm your ace, Emile, But you mustn't play me until the end.'

  Vigee was nodding. 'Yes. You're correct, of course. But how will we f
ind Frau Kettenacher?

  I shrugged. 'I'm a detective, remember? If finding people was difficult they wouldn't ask policemen to do it every day of the week.' I smiled at Moeller. 'No offence intended, Inspector.'

  'None taken, sir.'

  'So where am I driving?' muttered Wenger. 'Suppose the old lady doesn't live in Friedland? Suppose she already left town?'

  'That pastor seemed to know her,' said Vigee.

  'Yes, but there's no church in Friedland.'

  'There is one in Gros Schneen,' said Moeller.

  'Head back to the station,' I said. 'We'll see if anyone remembers them there. If not we can then decide what to do.'

  The stationmaster, a stooping, etiolated figure, was sweeping up after the crowds. His flowerbed had been trampled and, as a result, he could have been in a better mood. He shook his head when I asked him about Frau Kettenacher but seemed to remember the pastor all right.

  'That was Pastor Overmans, from the church in Hebenshausen.'

  'Where's that?'

  'A couple of kilometres south of here. You can't miss it. There's even less in Hebenshausen than there is here in Friedland.'

  Wenger drove south and we soon found ourselves in a village that lived down to the stationmaster's description. We were just in time to see a bus leaving the village square and the pastor and the old lady, still carrying her missing persons sign, walking away from the bus stop. Behind the stop was a largish half-timbered house and behind the house was a small square church tower. The pastor and the old lady went inside the house and some lights were turned on.

  Wenger stopped the car.

  'Moeller,' I said. 'You come with me. And don't say anything. The rest of you wait here.'

  The pastor was surprised to see us there so late until I explained that I was from the VdH and that we'd missed Frau Kettenacher at the station.

  'I try to see all of the families in this part of Lower Saxony who have a missing loved one,' I said. 'But I don't think I've met the lady before.'

  'Ah, that's because she's from Kassel,' explained Pastor Overmans. 'Frau Kettenacher is from Kassel. I'm her brother-in-law. She's been staying with me so that she could be at the railway station tonight.'

  'I'm very sorry that your son wasn't on the train,' I told her. 'In the hope of avoiding further disappointments we've been pressing the Russians to provide more details of who they're still holding. And when these POWs might be released.'

  The pastor, a brick-faced man with white hair, glanced around the sombrely furnished room at the sagging heap of a woman who was sitting on an inadequate-looking chair. 'Well, that would be something, eh Rosa?'

  Frau Kettenacher nodded silently. She was still wearing her coat and a hat that looked like an air-raid warden's helmet. She smelt strongly of mothballs and disappointment.

  I continued with my cruel deception. If I was correct and Edgard de Boudel was indeed using the name of Hauptmann Richard Kettenacher it could only mean one thing: that the real captain was dead and had been for some considerable time. I managed to persuade myself that his cruelty and the cruelty of the Russian intelligence service that had put together this legend was crueller than mine; but only just.

  'However,' I said, weightily, 'the Soviet authorities are not known for the efficiency of their record keeping. I know, I was a prisoner myself. When our men are repatriated it's the German Red Cross and not the Russians who establish who is actually being released. For this reason we're in the process of compiling our own records of who is still missing. And while this may not seem like the best moment to be asking questions like this, I wonder if I might take a few details of the loved one still missing.' I smiled sadly at the pastor. 'Your nephew, is it?'

  'Yes,' he said and repeated the missing man's name, rank and serial number; and the details of his war service.

  I noted these down, conscientiously. 'I won't take up too much of your time,' I said. 'Do you have any personal documentation? A pay book, perhaps? Not every soldier kept his pay book on him like he was supposed to. A lot left them at home for safe keeping, so that their wives could claim the money. I know I did. Or perhaps a military service record book. A Party card. That kind of thing.'

  Frau Kettenacher was already opening a brown leather bag that was the size and shape of a small coracle. 'My Ricky was a good boy,' she said in a strong Saxon accent. 'He wouldn't ever have disobeyed the rules about carrying his pay book.' She took out a manila envelope and handed it to me. 'But you'll find everything else in here. His National Socialist Party Personal Identity Card. His SA Identity Card. His Craftsman Guild Certificate. His ID for Commercial Travellers - he trained to be a metalworker, see? And then became a travelling salesman selling the things he used to make. His German State Travel Passport. That was for the time he went to Italy on business. His Bombing Victim's Pass - Ricky's apartment in Kassel was bombed, you know. And his wife was killed. A lovely girl, she was. And his Military Service Pass Book.'

  I tried to contain my excitement. The old lady was giving me everything that could have identified the real Richard Kettenacher. Several of the documents contained not just photographs but personal signatures, blood-types, details of medical examinations, his size of gas-mask, helmet, cap and boots, a record of wounds and serious illnesses, and military decorations.

  'The inspector here will issue you with a receipt for these documents,' I said. 'And he'll make sure that they're returned safely to you.'

  'I don't care about them,' she said. 'All I care about is having my Ricky returned safely to me.'

  'God willing, yes,' I said, pocketing the missing man's life history.

  As soon as Moeller had written a receipt we left the pastor and the old lady alone and walked back to the car.

  'Well?' asked Vigee.

  I nodded. 'I got everything.' I brandished the old lady's envelope. 'Everything. Kettenacher's double couldn't get past this lot. That's the great thing about Nazi documentation. For one thing there was so bloody much of it. And for another, it's virtually impossible to contradict.'

  'Let's hope it's not the real one,' said Vigee. 'If he was blind, then perhaps he couldn't see his mother. And perhaps her eyes are not so good and she couldn't see him.' He looked through the documents. 'Let us hope you're right about this. I don't like disappointments.'

  * * *

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE: GERMANY, 1954

  The following morning I remained at the pension in Gottingen while Vigee and some of the others went to arrest the man posing as Kettenacher. I asked if I might be allowed to go to church but Grottsch said that Vigee had given orders that we should remain indoors and await his return. He said, 'I hope it's him so that we can go back to Hannover. I really don't like Gottingen any more.'

  'Why? It's a nice enough little town.'

  'Too many memories,' said Grottsch. 'I went to university here. My wife, too.'

  'I didn't know you were married.'

  'She was killed in an air raid,' he said. 'October 1944.'

  'Sorry.'

  'And you? Were you married before?'

  'Yes. She died, too. But much later on. In 1949. We had a small hotel, in Dachau.'

  He nodded. 'Dachau is very lovely,' said Grottsch. 'Well, it was, before the war.'

  For a moment we shared a silent memory of a Germany that was gone and, probably, would never be again. Not for us anyway. And certainly not for our poor wives. Conversations in Germany were often like this: people would just stop in the middle of a sentence and remember a place that was gone or someone who was dead. There were so many dead that sometimes you could actually feel the grief on the streets, even in 1954. The feeling of sadness that afflicted the country was almost as bad as it had been during the Great Depression.

  We heard a car draw up outside the pension and Grottsch went to see if they had our man. A few minutes later he came back looking worried.

  'Well,' he said. 'They've got someone. Yes, they've got someone, all right. But if it is Edgard de Boudel then he speaks
German better than any Franzi I ever met.'

  'Of course he would,' I said. 'He was fluent even when I knew him. His German was better than mine.'

  Grottsch shrugged. 'Anyway, he insists he's Kettenacher. Vigee's confronting him with the real Kettenacher's documents now. Did you see Kettenacher's Party ID? The man had Donation stamps going back to 1934. And did you see those duelling scars on his cheek in the photographs?'

  I nodded. 'It's true. He was everyone's idea of what a Nazi should look like. Especially now that he's dead.'

  'Why do I get the feeling that you weren't a Party member yourself?'

  'Does it really matter now? If I was or I wasn't?' I shook my head. 'As far as our new friends are concerned - the French, the Amis, the Tommies - we were all fucking Nazis. So it doesn't matter who was and who wasn't. They look at all those old Leni Riefenstahl movies and who can blame them?'

  'There was never a moment, when you believed in Hitler, like the rest of us?'

  'Oh yes. There was. For about a month in the summer of 1940. After we licked the French in six weeks. I believed in him then. Who didn't?'

  'Yes. That was the best time for me, too.'

  After a while we heard raised voices, and a few minutes later Vigee came into the room. He looked cross and out of breath and there was blood on the back of one hand as if he'd hit someone.

  'He's not Richard Kettenacher,' he said. "That much is certain. But he swears he's not Edgard de Boudel. So it's up to you now, Gunther.'

  I shrugged. 'All right.'

  I followed the Frenchman down to the wine cellar where Wenger and Moeller were guarding our prisoner. The photographs the Amis had shown me had been black and white, of course, and blown up after being shot from a distance so that they were a little blurred and grainy. Doubtless the real de Boudel would have gone to great lengths to disguise himself. He would have lost some weight, dyed his hair, grown a moustache perhaps. When I'd been a uniformed policeman in the Twenties I'd arrested many suspects on the basis of a photograph or a police description, but this was the first time I'd been obliged to do it in order to save my own neck.