Shattered Glass

By Skip Schmidt

November, 1938. An officer from Hitler's notorious SS disappears from a busy street; and reappears 75 years later. Inspector Willi Scheele must decide if it's all a carefully-prepared fraud - or something far worse.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Skip Schmidt
• Release date: Nov 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393936763

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Hardly anyone noticed when the young SS captain stepped off the tram in Stuttgart in November of 1938 and vanished into thin air.

Tall, blond, Vienna-born, with an air of cocky arrogance and a loaded Walther PPK in a black leather holster on his belt, he had just brushed the ash from the sleeve of his black tunic and tossed away his cigarette as he emerged from the crowded street car on Stuttgart’s Wilhelmsplatz.  He set his black peaked cap with its silver eagle-and-swastika badge and Death’s Head insignia at a rakish angle, then turned left on Fehlingstrasse and, somewhere between Karsten’s apothecary and Mohn’s bakery, suddenly disappeared without a trace.

––––––––

At that same moment in Berlin, in a small, nondescript office in the Air Ministry building, a Luftwaffe officer in blue, with grey-green eyes and hair the color of melted caramel, looked at the glowing green screen on the small device in his hand and shook his head ruefully.  It’s either this, or cold-blooded murder....

ONE

November 12, 1938

––––––––

Rana Fleischinger walked quickly, but kept close to the buildings, so as not to draw too much attention to herself.  It wasn’t safe for a Jew to dawdle on the streets in Germany these days.  She would not have even ventured out, had she not been out of so many staples:  sugar, flour, salt, lard.  And pears, of course.  She ducked into the little alley that connected Koenigstrasse with the Marktplatz and made for the back door of Scheuer’s Market. 

Stuttgart seemed darker these days, even in daylight.  The imposing Koenigsbau, with its massive Greek portico and Ionic pillars, once a pleasant reminder of Strauss waltzes and concerts of Brahms and Hayden, somehow seemed to her now like a gigantic shooting gallery, decked out in blood-red swastika banners.  The old Hotel Silber on  Dorotheenstrasse, with its white gingerbread facade, was now Gestapo headquarters.  The synagogue on Hospitalstrasse, while still appearing largely intact, had been thoroughly gutted by fire three days earlier during the anti-Jewish rioting.  Kristallnacht, they had begun calling it, as it seemed as though every Jewish shop window throughout the Greater German Reich had been shattered by Nazi rioters and looters. Nazi authorities, incensed by what they considered to be a half-finished job, had hired the architect Ernst Guggenheimer to dismantle what was left of the centuries-old synagogue, stone by stone.  Each time Rana passed it now, she would pause to watch, tearfully, as the workers—Jewish prisoners from the camps at Welzheim and Dachau; thin, ragged, grey as weathered limestone—struggled to pull it down, little by little, one stone at a time.  A labor of hate, Avi says.  Avi is right, as usual.

At Scheuer’s back door she knocked once, then once more.  After what seemed an eternity the back door opened and the shop clerk, tall, bald, with skin like rare parchment, stuck his head out. 

Yeah?

Yes, I’d like three tins of pears and a bottle of vanilla, please.

Sorry, no vanilla, he replied with no trace of sorrow in his voice.  And I can only sell you two tins of pears.  Rationing regulations. 

No point in arguing.  Fine; I’ll take them.  And whatever amount of flour, salt, sugar and fat I’m allowed.  Every day there seemed to be a new humiliation, a new regulation banning Jews from this or that, a new cut to her heart.  It seemed the Nazis were more determined than ever to tear down the Jews of Germany, little by little.  One stone at a time.

Fear of the SS and Gestapo aside, there was another reason Rana hurried home.  Eugen Scheele had promised to come by, to celebrate Avi’s birthday.  When he was still a prosecuting attorney, Avi Fleischinger had come to respect the Order Police lieutenant’s diligence and phenomenal memory.  Lt. Eugen Scheele, in turn, had appreciated Avi’s fairness and blunt, artless manner, in and out of the courtroom.  More to the point, Eugen had found himself drawn increasingly toward Avi’s sister, Rana. 

Avi was stretched out on the couch when she got home, the newspaper spread out before him, just as she had left him.  Five years her senior; thin, balding, with a high forehead and steel-rimmed glasses perched on a sharp, eagle’s-beak of a nose, he had the underfed look of a junior law clerk.  He had not left the house since his release from protective custody on the 11th, two days after his arrest. She even had to fetch in the mail and buy his daily paper.  Despite her attempts to draw him out, he refused to talk about his detention, although he was otherwise the same old Avi:  witty, sarcastic, prone to teasing her about her clothes or her fondness for popular movies and jazz (Django Reinhardt was her favorite).  She knew only that the Gestapo had forced him to sign over all of his remaining assets, leaving them both destitute.

Ah, she returns.  Avi stretched, and sat upright.  How was the foraging today?

I managed to find one or two things worth buying, she said, setting the bags down on the sideboard and taking off her coat and hat and hanging them on the coat rack.  And, no, you can’t peek.  You’ll have to wait until this evening.  She took the grocery bags into the kitchen.  Where Avi was pale and bookish, his sister was dark and lovely, with eyes like rich mocha and ebony hair in a wavy pageboy trim that just covered her ears.

This evening, eh?  He pulled himself to his feet with some effort and joined her at the kitchen table.  Still believe Eugen is going to show up, do you?

She slapped at his hand as he tried to reach into one of the bags.  He said he would be here, so I believe him.  Is there some reason why I shouldn’t?

There are a million reasons in Germany today why you shouldn’t believe it, said Avi.  But we both know Eugen Scheele, don’t we?  He put his hands on her shoulders from behind and kissed her fondly on the cheek.  Yes, he’ll most likely come this evening.  He’s just reckless enough.

She smiled and nudged him with her elbow.  You’re just trying to sneak a peek at what I’m baking you for your birthday.  Go.  Go finish your newspaper, you!  She turned suddenly and threw her arms around her brother and held him tight for a minute or so, then released him just as suddenly.  Love you!  Now clear out.  Out!  I’ve much too much to do to get ready for this evening.

She steered him toward the door, then busied herself with the flour and baking soda.  Aside from the occasional peck on the cheek, she and Eugen still had yet to share an actual, romantic kiss.  Perhaps that would change tonight.  Well, little by little.  One stone at a time.

**********

SS-Rottenfuehrer Otto Lanke took any excuse he could find to get out from behind the antique writing table that served as his desk at Reception.  At 22, he was the most junior NCO on the headquarters staff of the Stuttgart Gestapo, which meant he was given whatever shit assignments or mundane tasks no one else wanted to touch.  Chief among which was having to deliver bad news to the Major.  Although the Major had left strict orders not to be disturbed, Lanke knew he had no choice but to venture down the dark, wood-paneled corridor to the Major’s office and commit an unpardonable breach of protocol by knocking on the door.

"Herr Kriminalrat?"

Silence.

Corporal Lanke waited a few seconds before knocking again.  Major Rehmann?

Come!

Heil Hitler!  Lanke saluted but remained in the doorway.

Yes?  What is it?

"It’s Hauptsturmführer Kreider, Major.  He still hasn’t reported in."

SS-Sturmbannfuehrer Franz Rehmann leaned back in his desk chair.  Have you tried his home?

Not yet, sir.  He is only twenty minutes late.  Still....

Yes, yes; it’s not like Kreider to be late.  Rehmann stifled a yawn as he reached for a cigarette.  Well, give him another ten minutes or so, then send someone around to his apartment.  And send in that damned Orpo man, Lieutenant Scheele, assuming he’s still out there.  Oh, and, fetch me a cup of coffee!

His rank insignia intact, Corporal Lanke, in high humor now, bustled off to fetch the coffee and send Eugen Scheele into the dragon’s lair.

––––––––

Franz Rehmann, second in command of the Stuttgart Gestapo, turned back to the open dossier in front of him and frowned.  Shorter than average at five feet, eight inches, dark hair slicked back over his skull and with a neck that seemed to merge with his chin, he was a man with a dilemma. 

In the cells in the basement they were still holding six or seven Jews left over from the Action on the 9th, out of the 700 or so detained in the initial roundup.  Thanks to the reactionaries at the Ministry of the Interior, all wealthy Jews still in protective custody were to be freed, provided they agreed to pay a sizeable indemnity, which would then be transferred to authorized accounts.  Wilhelm Murr, Gauleiter and Reich Governor of Wurttemberg, had  designated his former chauffeur, Block Warden Bodo Tomasky, to act as receiver, while Capt. Kreider was assigned to act as Treuhaender, or trustee, for the Gestapo.  The same Bodo Tomasky the Order Police had already brought up on charges of profiteering, looting, and vandalism.  And now SS Captain Kreider was late for duty.

You wished to see me, sir?

Lieutenant Eugen Scheele of the Ordnungspolizei, or Orpo, stood at attention before Rehmann.  The Order Police were the gendarmerie, the beat cops in green and traffic police in white; the ones who broke up domestic disputes and rounded up truant school kids.  At 41 he was already a twenty-year veteran of the Orpo.  Just over six feet tall, with hair the color of mercury and confident hazel eyes, Eugen Scheele in his green uniform seemed to tower over the Gestapo major like a shadowy premonition.

The major handed him the file folder and gestured toward an easy chair.  Uncharacteristically, Rehmann decided to try a little diplomacy first.  This Tomasky business, the sausage maker accused of price-gouging.  Is this all we have on him?  Seems a bit thin to me.

You mean apart from the charges of criminal misconduct stemming from the rioting on the Ninth?  said Scheele, taking a seat.  Well, we have statements from three witnesses, including that of Frau Kleemeier, the Lutheran bishop’s wife.  And that accountant from the Reich Price Commissar’s office is bound to find something in Tomasky’s ledgers.  Still...  He glanced briefly at Rehmann.  It is rather odd that small-scale profiteering should take precedence over wholesale vandalism and looting.

Rehmann glared at him.  Scheele represented the old order:  liberal, bourgeois, and with too many scruples for Rehmann’s taste.  Not even a member of the Party.  A bad German.  "These vandalism charges are nonsense.  Oberscharfuehrer Tomasky and his men were only doing their duty, as good Germans!"

"The order from Gruppenführer Müller in Berlin was quite explicit, Major:  ‘Liaison is to be effected with the Order Police to ensure that looting—"

Yes, yes, I’m aware of the order—

‘—and other significant excesses are suppressed.’

Yes, I’m aware of that, damn you!  However, the Tomasky matter is a...delicate one.

Oh, I agree.  Quite delicate.  A case for Reichsleiter Schwarz’s Party Auditors, certainly.  In any case, far outside the purview of the Orpo.  Of course, I suppose it would be a different matter if Tomasky were, say, a Communist.  Or a Jew.

Rehmann’s eyes flashed now, his face nearly purple with rage.  In return, Scheele’s gaze was cold, impassive.

I’m given to understand that Party Comrade Tomasky has refused to turn over the account numbers for the confiscated Jewish holdings, Scheele continued, unless all charges are dropped.  Shall I have him brought in for questioning?

Rehmann grunted, crushing his cigarette in the ashtray.  But he replied, calmly, That will be all, Lieutenant.

Scheele shrugged, closed the dossier and set it on the desk.  Then he stood and, instead of a Heil Hitler!, gave a crisp military salute, turned on his heel and left, just as Corporal Lanke was bringing in the coffee.

Reactionary Jew-loving bastard, thought Rehmann, reaching for another cigarette.

––––––––

Eugen Scheele only knew one party trick, but it was a good one.

To Germans, New Years Eve is Sylvesterabend, St. Sylvester’s Eve.  Every year for the last eight or so, Lt. Scheele would open his home to the members of the Order Police on that evening, as well as to Avi and Rana Fleischinger.  After the wine and cheese and sausage, Sgt. Rudi Trommel’s wife would predict the future of whoever wished using molten lead.  Bleigiesen is a time-honored German custom on Sylvester’s Eve.  Frau Trommel would melt a small lead form in a spoon over a candle and then pour the melted lead into cold water.  The resulting shape supposedly holds some meaning for the viewer in the coming year.  Something resembling an eagle might mean success, while a flower could mean a new friendship.  Last New Year’s, in Scheele’s blob of lead, Frau Trommel saw a broken wagon wheel.  She wouldn’t tell him what it meant for the New Year 1938, and Scheele didn’t bother to ask.

Then came the Trick.  Scheele’s guests were asked to choose any page from any book on any of his shelves, tell him the page number, and Scheele would recite from memory the first paragraph from that page.  Originally he made it a betting game, but after the first few times his guests got tired of losing, so he turned it into a parlor trick.  Perhaps the best aspect of the trick was that it wasn’t a trick at all; Scheele really had a knack for remembering everything he read, the first time he read it.

Five years earlier, for New Year’s Eve, 1933, the same year that Avi had been dismissed from his job as prosecuting attorney, Scheele (against his better judgement) had invited the newly appointed Gestapo Kriminalrat, or Detective Inspector, SS-Sturmbannführer Franz Rehmann.  Major Rehmann had been a member of the Nazi Party since 1925.  When it came time for the Trick, Rehmann announced that he had brought his own book.  Not to worry, he said, eyeing Scheele closely.  This is a book I know every good German here has read!  The book was Mein Kampf, Hitler’s turgid, lifeless, anti-Semitic screed.  Everyone stopped to look at Scheele, who they knew had so far ignored all official injunctions to join the Nazi Party.

Holding a bottle of wine and just about to draw the cork, Scheele paused.  After nearly a minute, with everyone still watching him, Scheele asked, What page?

Rehmann named a page at random.  Scheele put down the wine bottle and closed his eyes as if in deep concentration.  He paused for maximum effect, then pretended to recite:  ‘I declare the following before the whole German People and the World:  everything for which I and the National Socialist German Worker’s Party stand for is a load of shit!’

Rehmann’s face turned beet-red.  He closed the book with a snap and stormed out without a word.  As soon as the door closed behind him, everyone burst out laughing in relief.  It was still a pretty good trick.  That year Frau Trommel saw a songbird in Scheele’s blob of lead; a sign of hope and renewal.  Rana Fleischinger fell in love with him on the spot. 

To Eugen Scheele, Franz Rehmann represented everything he had come to detest about Hitler’s New Order.  In the parlor of his flat, hidden beneath the floorboards, Scheele kept the original arresting officer’s report from 1926, courtesy of his friend in the state prosecutor’s office, Staatsanwalt Avi Fleischinger, detailing how one Wilhelm Murr, then just another SA thug, had raped and savagely beaten almost to unconsciousness the wife of a fellow SA leader after a drunken Bierabend.  It was then-Detective Sergeant Rehmann who had gotten the charges dropped and subsequently buried the file.  And when Murr’s chauffeur, Bodo Tomasky, was implicated by Weimar authorities in the Feme murder of a Social Democratic labor leader in Mannheim a year later, it was Rehmann who intervened again, spiriting Tomasky across state lines into Baden until things cooled down.  Now Murr was the Governor of Wurttemberg, Rehmann was the Number Two man in the Stuttgart Gestapo, and Bodo Tomasky was a prosperous sausage maker caught with one hand in the Reich’s biscuit tin and the other in the cash registers of Stuttgart’s most prominent Jewish businesses.

Someone should go to prison this time, thought Scheele as he closed Rehmann’s door behind him.  And it will most likely be me.

**********

The Stadtpolizei headquarters in the Wilhelmsplatz was a short street car ride from Gestapo HQ on Dorotheenstrasse.  Scheele had his cap and overcoat off by the time he reached the front desk.  Rudi Trommel was on duty, as usual.

I know what I saw, officer, an old woman in green tweed was saying.

But your eyes could have played tricks on you, said Trommel from behind the polished oak station desk.  Perhaps with your glasses off....

My glasses were NOT off, my good man!  I never take my glasses off during the day, she said, taking off her glasses and wiping them clean with her floral scarf.  I can see quite clearly, thank you, and I say I saw one of your SS officers disappear into thin air right outside Mohn’s shop.

It’s just that....  Sergeant Trommel looked up in relief as Scheele approached.  Oh, Lieutenant.  This is Frau....

Lukesch.  The woman extended her hand to Scheele.  Herta Lukesch.

Trommel gestured toward her with his fountain pen.  "Frau Lukesch has some...information regarding Hauptsturmführer Kreider.’

Scheele released her hand gently with a polite nod.  You have seen Captain Kreider, then?

Well, of course, I don’t know the officer’s name.  But as I was telling your sergeant, here, I saw a man in a black uniform disappear in front of the bakery on Fehlingstrasse.  Just disappear, like a letter into an envelope.

Scheele’s smile was kindly.  Perhaps he simply went into the bakery.

No, no, I stepped inside, myself.  He wasn’t there.  No, he simply vanished, right there on the sidewalk.  Right there in front of me, I tell you.  Not thirty minutes ago.  I would certainly never trouble to come all the way to the police if I wasn’t absolutely sure of what I saw.  She lowered her voice conspiratorially.  It’s ten pfennigs for the street car these days!

Yes, well, thank you for your information, Frau Lukesch.  We’ll certainly look into it.  And if you remember anything else that may be of use to us, please call on us, won’t you?  Scheele reached into his pocket and slipped her a ten-pfennig piece before she could reply.  Good day, dear lady.

After she had gone, Trommel said, Not even sure how I should write that one up.

Well, she seemed sober enough, said Scheele.  Better have someone check on it.

I can send Mertens and Dreifasch round to his apartment.  Maybe he overslept or something.

Well, tell them to be careful.  Rehmann’s SD men are already looking into it.  Remind our boys to give the Gestapo a wide berth.  Perhaps have them check the vicinity of the bakery.

Wonder why no one else reported seeing such a thing.

No one wants to stick their neck out these days.  Can’t say I blame them, after that business on the 9th.  Scheele suddenly thought of something.  How are we coming on that vandalism report I requested?

Trommel chewed the inside of his cheek before answering.  Do you really think that’s a good idea, sir?

"Tens of thousands of reichsmarks’ worth of damage.  Seven hundred Jews in ‘protective custody’ here in Stuttgart alone.  The main synagogue gutted by fire, while our Feuerwehr stood by.  Scheele paused, looking him in the eye.  Vandalism is still illegal in the Greater German Reich, last time I checked.  And we know who the vandals are."

But if Colonel Boes and Major Rehmann find out...  I just, my family...

Scheele’s expression softened.  Rudi Trommel’s strength of character was no more than average, but he was essentially a decent man.  Don’t worry, your name will be left out, I promise.  Just prepare the raw data and I’ll draft it myself.

And what about your name, sir?

I’m already in Major Rehmann’s sights, as you know full well.  Think of this as my own personal life insurance policy.

Scheele patted the desktop and retreated to his office.

Trommel thought, Yes, well, the trouble with life insurance is, you have to be dead before anyone can collect.

**********

That evening at the Fleischinger’s, after his second slice of Rana’s pear tart, Eugen Scheele refilled their glasses from the bottle of riesling, then raised his.  To Avi:  you fucking old goat, you!

Avi laughed as Rana cried, "Hear, hear:  Prost!"

As they all three drained their glasses, Avi said, You, Lieutenant, are drunk.

That’s worth drinking to, said Scheele, refilling his glass once more. 

Avi started to pour some wine for his sister, but she waved him off and he refilled his own glass instead.  A little bird tells me you were at Gestapo headquarters today.

Scheele started to object, then waved him away.

Any news on your crooked Nazi butcher boy?

Scheele shrugged.  No change.

Avi shook his head and smiled.  You’ll be in Dachau before I will, at this rate, he said, waving a finger at him.

Rana rose and snatched the bottle away from her brother.  All right, that’s enough.  Time you were in bed, my dear.

Oh, but Eugen and I were just about to map out a brilliant legal stratagem, here.

Well, you’ll just have to do that some other time.  Eugen and I have a puzzle of our own to solve.  And the last thing we need is you standing around cheering us on!

Scheele drained his glass.  We do?

Rana set the bottle on the table and took Scheele by the hand.  We do.  Say goodnight, Avi.

Scheele turned to appeal to Avi.  A puzzle?

Apparently so, yes, said Avi.

Definitely so, said Rana.  Good night, Avi!

As they reached her bedroom door, Scheele pulled her close and whispered, drunkenly yet tenderly:  A puzzle, eh?

Rana smiled.  And the solution.  And she closed the door after him.

––––––––

Later, in her bed, as Scheele lay on his back, Rana curled herself on top of him and ran her fingers through the grey hairs on his chest, reveling in their silvery fineness.  He was a good 16 years older than Rana, and hoped he didn’t show it while they were making love.  So, did we solve the puzzle, then?, he asked.

She smiled without looking at him.  A solution is in sight, yes.

To the crime of being Jewish Rana Fleischinger insisted on adding a devotion to leftist politics.  Social Democratic newspapers and pamphlets, all five years old now, littered her bedroom floor.  Had she been less devout she would almost certainly have become a Marxist.  As it was, espousing the gospel of social democracy was dangerous enough in Hitler’s New Order, especially for a Jew.  Always a bit of a tomboy, she relished, in her college days, street fighting against the Nazis and the Stahlhelm, much to Avi’s dismay.  Had their parents been alive to see her activism, her father—Orthodox, pacifist, politically conservative—would have been horrified, while her mother would have been outwardly resigned but inwardly proud of her.  Relieved of her teaching job at almost the same time that Avi had been dismissed from the civil service, Rana earned a few reichsmarks here and there writing articles for the Juedische Rundschau, until the Nazis banned that publication earlier that year.

After a moment, Scheele asked, So what will you do now, if you are no longer allowed to teach?

Not sure, yet.  Try to get a berth at the Hebrew school, the only place Jews are allowed to learn, now.  Jews are only allowed to teach Jews these days.  And if there’s no room for me there, I still have a standing offer from the editors of a Yiddish weekly.  Not much pay, but it’s something.  That is, until the Gestapo shuts it down, too.

Perhaps this latest incident was just a fluke; a way to blow off some steam.  Scheele regretted it as soon as he said it.  He couldn’t even bring himself to believe it.

‘Blow off some steam!?’

Look, you know I didn’t mean—

Thousands arrested, hundreds killed, possibly millions of marks in damages, and you think Germany was only ‘Blowing off some steam?’  She rolled off of him and reached for a cigarette and the lighter.  It took her three tries with the lighter to get the cigarette lit.  She inhaled long and deep, deeper—on purpose—than she had inhaled him just moments ago.  After letting the smoke drift over them, she added:  Were you just blowing off steam when you allowed your men to help the SS round up my brother and the rest of the Jews in the city?

The words, acrid and bitter, hung in the air above them like smoke from a burning synagogue.  After a moment Scheele suddenly rose and began dressing.

Shit.  Rana snuffed out the cigarette.  Eugen, wait, please:  I’m sorry, I didn’t mean...  Don’t go.  Please.

But Scheele already had his hand on the doorknob.  I’ll call you, he said, without looking back.

Alone, she took out another cigarette.  She flicked the lighter in a desperate attempt to light up, then flung it at the door, tossed aside the cigarette and buried her head in her hands.  Fuck! 

TWO

November 12, 2013

––––––––

Two more hours ‘til lunch, and I’m still finishing breakfast.  Life in the Schutzpolizei.

Officer Manno Piersky of the Stuttgart Municipal Police finished the last of his energy bar and stuffed the empty wrapper into the glove box of his VW Passat squad car.  He was two hours into his shift and the closest he came to anything like law enforcement was when he gave a quick blare of his siren and shook his head at a jaywalker.  It was mid morning and Fehlingstrasse was mostly empty of rush hour traffic.  Tourists in cargo shorts and sport shirts snapped pictures with their phones and dodged busy locals with more important matters to attend to.  Alpine swifts and collard flycatchers swooped and dived in competition for fast food remnants in the gutters and alleyways.  Piersky took out his iPhone and checked last night’s soccer scores.  Stuttgart had beaten Croatia, 1-0.  Real Madrid and Manchester United had tied, 2-2.  The news was boring.  Chancellor Angela Merkel had promised to challenge US President Obama on the whole NSA spying thing when the two met in Berlin to discuss the Russia-Ukraine crisis; the civil war in Syria was in its third year with no end in sight; in Bavaria the leader of the Free Democratic Party denied being in favor of abandoning the euro and returning to the deutschemark.

He was just checking to see if that Turkish girl he’d met at Klub Nemo the night before had texted him as promised, when an apparition on the sidewalk caught his eye:  a guy in a black uniform with a swastika armband, who seemed to appear out of nowhere.

Piersky shook his head.  Fucking skinhead.  He gave another short blast of his siren, unhooked his shoulder radio from his epaulet and called it in, then put on his cap and got out of the car.

Hey; you!  Hold up!

The SS captain didn’t even hear Piersky at first, so astonished was he by his surroundings.  What the devil is this?  Am I even still in Stuttgart?  When he had climbed down from the street car, tiny bits of shattered glass still covered the sidewalk and crunched under his jackboots, a relic of the spontaneous actions of three nights ago.  Now, suddenly, the sidewalk was spotless, no sign of masking tape or plywood on any of the windows.  Virtually none of the buildings in the immediate vicinity were recognizable.  Only Mohn’s bakery shop was familiar, except that the pretzel-shaped sign was gone and over the door was a banner reading Deutsche Telekom in block lettering.  And while most of the signs he could see were in German, a few seemed to be in English:  McDonald’s?  Best Buy Electronics?  Verizon Wireless?  He stared, goggle-eyed, at swooping, low-slung buildings that seemed to be made of stainless steel and whipped cream.

Sir.  You, said Piersky again.  Come here, please.

It was only when the SS officer finally turned to look at him that Piersky saw the holstered Walther hanging from the Sam Browne belt of the officer’s uniform.

Freeze!  Hands behind your head!  Piersky unsnapped his own holster and spoke into his shoulder radio.  Piersky, One-One-Nine-Two-One.  Requesting immediate backup.  I’ve got an armed skin on a Paragraph 86.  Repeat:  suspect is armed; require immediate assist.  Over.

Acknowledged, One-One-Nine-Two-One.  Backup en route.

"What sort of Schweinerei is this? the officer cried.  Who are you?"

Piersky put his hand over his weapon.  Unsnap your holster and put your hands behind your head.  Do NOT touch your weapon.  Now!

The officer’s grey-blue eyes flared.  "How dare you!  Do you realize who you are talking to?  If you are Polizei, why aren’t you wearing the proper insignia?"

Hands.  Behind.  Your.  Head.  Now!

"I am Hauptsturmführer Alfons Kreider, attached to the Stuttgart SD and Gestapo.  You will address me as ‘Sir’ or ‘Captain.’  Kreider put his hands on his hips, like a character in an old movie.  Now, explain yourself!"

A few tourists stopped to watch; one held up her phone to record the unfolding tableau.

Piersky blinked.  Sir, you need to put your hands up.  And surrender your weapon.  Now.  You are in violation of federal law.  Displaying the swastika or any Nazi-era symbol in public.  Unless....  You’re not, like, an actor or anything, are you?  Like those military re-enactors, like they do in the USA?

Before Kreider could reply another green and white VW Passat with the words Stuttgarter Stadtpolizei on the doors pulled up, no siren but with blue lights flashing.  Two officers emerged, their hands on their holsters. 

What have we got here?

Hey, Piersky; who’s your friend?

Piersky kept his eyes on Kreider.  I could use a little help here, guys.

The larger of the two officers, the one roughly the size of a bull on hind legs, said to Kreider, So, what’s your story, Skin?  You’re not going to start singing the ‘Horst Wessel,’ are you?

Can it, Miszceny, said Piersky.  Could you just cuff him, please?  If it’s not too much trouble.

With surprising speed, Miszceny the Bull had his handcuffs on Kreider and disarmed him before the latter could even react.  As he pushed Kreider’s head down to get him into the squad car, Kreider recovered enough to splutter, This is an outrage!  Unheard of.  You’ll all pay for this!

Miszceny slammed the car door shut.  So, anybody hear how we did against Croatia last night?

**********

A pool.  A deep pool.  No, a lake.  A freshwater lake, something like the Bodensee.  A lake surrounded by firs.  Snow-capped mountains in the distance.  A one-room hut with a wisp of grey smoke coming from the chimney.  A Sea-Doo tied up at a private jetty.  No, no jet ski; a sailboat.  A catamaran, maybe.  Or maybe just a skiff.  Yes, sailing.  Perhaps a little fishing.  But I’d have to clean the fish.  Too much like work.  Besides, she’d never go for fishing.  Okay, just beer and sausage and some cheese.  A loaf of good, dark rye, maybe a DVD.  Polish vodka in the evening, before bed.  And, of course, Zarah.  There’s no harm in....

Inspector?  Officer Renate Ingols put her head in the door.  Have you got a moment?

Detective Inspector Willi Scheele ran a hand through his close-cropped, steel-gray hair, brushing away his reverie.  He played with the cellphone in his hand, as if on the verge of a decision.  But he put it back in his pocket and said, Right.  What’ve we got?

Ingols nodded toward the squad room.  You should probably see this for yourself, sir.

Willi rose from his chair with a sigh.  Whose is it?

Sergeant Foersch.  Officer Piersky brought him in a few minutes ago.

At 53 Willi Scheele was within hailing distance of retirement age for a cop in Germany, and it was already beginning to show on his waistline and forehead.

Jesus, said Willi when he saw Alfons Kreider, in full SS uniform, sitting beside Foersch’s desk, his hands still cuffed behind his back.

Karl-Heinz Foersch, a newly minted Detective Sergeant recently transferred from Chemnitz, was young, tall, blonde, tanned, athletic; in short, everything Willi was not.  At least Karl was brighter than the average cop, with an uncanny knack for knowing when something would spark Willi’s interest.  He gestured toward Kreider.  I know, right?  Says his name is Kreider.  Alfons Kreider.  Calls himself a ‘Hauptsturm-something-or-other.  Keeps insisting he’s going to call the Gestapo on us.  Or is it the Stasi?

"The Stasi was East Germany.  You should know that; you’re an Osti."

I was eleven when the Wall came down.  The only thing I remember about the DDR was the time the steering wheel on my dad’s Trabi came off in his hands on the autobahn.  Luckily the thing only went fifteen kilometers an hour.

We have any ID?

Karl handed Willi an old-fashioned men’s wallet.  Have a look.

A few reichsmarks, dating from the nineteen-thirties, looked fairly new.  A paper driver’s license issued by the Gau Wurttemberg to Alfons Kreider of 13 Hirschstrasse in May, 1936.  A Personalausweis, or identity card, from 1938.  An SS Soldbuch with an eagle-and-swastika stamp.  A deckle-edged, black-and-white photograph of a young woman in an old-style, one-piece bathing suit with a bathing cap covering her hair.

The gun is a Walther PPK, 7.65 centimeter, said Karl, nodding toward the weapon on his desk.  Vintage, though, from the ‘Thirties.  It’s so clean, it looks brand-new.  We’re running a trace on it now.  If it’s original it’s worth four, perhaps five hundred euros, easily.  You know, museum-quality.

You think it may be stolen, then?

"It’s worth looking into.  The photo in the Soldbuch looks just like him.  Hair, eyes, height, weight; everything checks.  I’ve never seen a Skin go to this much trouble before."

Skinheads usually don’t.  For one thing, they all know the law.  So they stay away from Nazi regalia and stick to World War One-Imperial Prussian stuff.  Double-headed eagles and Iron Crosses and the like.  This one is either a performance artist or an American dumbass.  Or both.

All this time Kreider had been alternately glaring at them and looking around the neon-lit squad room.  It was like no police headquarters he’d ever seen.  Desks of metal and some sort of white material.  At each desk was a large, black rectangle that glowed with print and pictures, like some sort of movie screen (albeit with no discernable projector) and bristled with wires.  At some desks officers in dark blue pecked away at flat, black placards attached by wires to the glowing screens, each placard bearing letters and numbers vaguely reminiscent of a typewriter keyboard.  There didn’t appear to be any telephones in the room, so far as he could tell, although each desk had a small box like an intercom, with numbered buttons and a smaller rectangle nestled atop it, perhaps some sort of radio.  On the walls were posters extolling safety or the importance of knowing and adhering to the constitutional rights of suspects.  No gold eagle and swastika.  No photographs of The Fuehrer or Reichsführer-SS Himmler or Obergruppenführer Heydrich.  In one corner of a distant office, visible through glass walls, he could just glimpse a black, red, and gold flag on a flagstaff.  Weimar colors, he thought in distaste.  Why not just put up the Hammer and Sickle and be done with it?

Hello, I’m Detective Inspector Scheele, this is Sergeant Foersch.  Willi sat down on the edge of Karl’s desk.  So, Herr Kreider:  what’s your story?

Kreider looked up at him with arrogant disdain.

If you’re performing in a play or filming a movie, Willi continued, "you need a permit from the city to go out like that in public.  Have you been to the Rathaus?"

Kreider stared at them but didn’t answer.

Willi and Karl exchanged looks and Willi said, If we take the cuffs off, will you talk?

Kreider looked away in a gesture of contempt.

Willi nodded at Karl, who stepped behind Kreider and undid the cuffs.  Kreider rubbed his wrists but still said nothing.

Remembering something from Kreider’s Soldbuch, Willi tried a new tack.  "Very well.  Will you tell us your story, Herr Hauptsturmführer?"

That is much better, said Kreider.  But I have no story to tell, Inspector.  I do, however, have a great many questions.  To begin with, where am—

Willi held up a hand.  I have a better idea.  I’ll ask the questions and you give the answers.  First off, did the arresting officers read you your rights?

"My rights?  I am an officer of the SS Sicherheitsdienst, attached to the Gestapo here in Stuttgart—assuming this is Stuttgart.  I am well aware of my rights as a citizen of the Reich.  You, however, have no right to detain me in this fashion!"

I’ll take that as a ‘Yes.’  Where did you get that uniform?

My uniform?

You are aware, I’m sure, that it’s against the law to wear or display Nazi symbols in public in Germany, yes?  Did you order it over the Internet?  From China perhaps?  Or the UK?

‘From China?’  What nonsense!  And what in God’s name is the ‘Internet’?

Fine.  Where did you get that outfit?

This ‘outfit’ is standard issue, from Schaumburg and Sons, in Munich.  Now may I have my papers back?  And my weapon?"

Yes, about this weapon.  A Walther PPK from the Nineteen-Thirties, no?  And in such excellent condition; like brand new.  Have you a permit for it?

These questions are absurd!  Everything is absurd!  German policemen in blue uniforms, like something out of American cinema.  Laws outlawing the swastika, as though we were back under the Weimar system again.  Queer-looking automobiles and such.  Fantastic!

Willi stood and signalled Karl to join him in his office.  When he had closed the door, he said, Put him under twenty-four hour watch and call in Dr. Zardogan.  See that he gets his one phone call.  And let’s get that fucking uniform off of him!

––––––––

Having nothing else to do for the moment, Kreider let his gaze wander to the computer monitor on Karl’s desk.  It showed a list of names and addresses under the heading Federal Watch List.  Most of the street names, like Koenigstrasse and Holzstraße, were familiar.  Others he had never heard of.  Konrad Adenauer Straße?  He craned his neck to look at the other monitors on nearby desks and noticed that some of them showed moving pictures, in color, no less.  He was reminded of an article he’d read in a Stuttgarter NS-Kurier Sunday edition a few months back.  The author, Dr. Ferdinand Wais, had boasted about the latest German advances in television technology.  He knew, of course, that the Fuehrer’s speech opening the 1936 Olympic Games in Berlin had been broadcast on television.  But as far as he knew, only a few hundred sets were in use, affordable by only the wealthiest and most powerful men in the Reich.  Was this some sort of television?  Television with a typewriter attached?  Or is it a new type of Telex machine?  In any case, he had never seen anything like it.

Karl returned to his desk just then.  You’re being charged with failure to produce proper identification, and violation of Paragraph 86 of the Federal Criminal Code:  unlawful use and/or display of Nazi and/or Fascist symbols in public.  You’re entitled to one phone call.  I suggest you call a lawyer.  If you don’t have one or can’t afford one, the court will appoint a lawyer for your defense.

Oh, I most certainly will make a telephone call.  Where is your telephone?

Karl pursed his lips and pointed at what appeared to Kreider to be some sort of radio.  Help yourself.

Kreider stared at it uncertainly, and Karl lifted the handset and handed it to him.

Hello, Operator.  Connect me ...Operator?  Central?  Come in, Central.

You have to dial, said Karl.

Dial?  I see no dial.

Karl rolled his eyes this time.  Press the buttons for the number you want.

Ah.  Kreider pressed uncertainly at some numbers.  An odd, flute-like noise played in his ear, followed by a woman’s voice in German:  Sorry.  The number you have dialed is not a working number.  Please hang up and try your call again.

Nonsense, Operator.  This is the number for Gestapo headquarters.  Now please connect me—

The odd flute noise again.  Sorry.  The number you have dialed is not a....

Yes, it IS a working number—

...working number.  Please hang up and....

I will NOT hang up!  Now you will connect—

...try your call again.

Now, see here!  You will connect me this instant or I shall report you—

Karl took the handset away from him.  That’s enough.  Let’s go.

But I haven’t had my phone call!  That woman acted as if she couldn’t even hear me!

Officer Ingols tapped him on the shoulder.  Come.  This way, please.

Kreider shook his head, stood up, clapped on his silver-trimmed black visor cap, and allowed himself to be led away.  Is everyone here insane?  Or have I gone mad?

THREE

November 13, 1938

––––––––

It was only a little after eight-thirty in the morning and the sun was already shrouded by thick clouds, the sky over Stuttgart a greenish-grey.  Eugen Scheele adjusted the visor cap of his green Orpo uniform and, with the toe of his boot, worried at the tiny crumbs of glass on the sidewalk beneath the pretzel-shaped sign for Mohn’s bakery, but found nothing else there.  Really, what did he expect to find?  Disgust, certainly.  Shame, definitely, for the events of four nights ago.  Shame, and a sense of something like the approach of doom.  It was like one of those nightmares where you are standing on railroad tracks and you can hear the train bearing down on you from behind but you can’t move and you can’t scream.  And you can’t wake up.

When the order came down from Gauleiter Murr’s office to begin rounding up the Jews of Stuttgart, Scheele at first ignored it. He ordered his men to arrest any and all looters, even those targeting Jewish shops and businesses, under the guise of protecting Aryan property.  When Major Rehmann got wind of this, he raged at Scheele, ordering him to place his men at the disposal of the SS and Gestapo for the duration of the action or face arrest himself.  After some hesitation Scheele grimly complied.  He then went home, drafted a letter of resignation for Brigadefuehrer Kurt Daluege, head of the Orpo, sealed it in an envelope, set the envelope on  his coffee table, drank half a bottle of Steinhager, and fell asleep in his wing chair. 

When he left for work the next morning, the envelope was still on his coffee table.

––––––––

Finding nothing unusual outside Mohn’s bakery, Scheele climbed back into his dark green Opel and took off down Fehlingstrasse, heading toward Bishop Kleemeier’s house on Eichstrasse.  Lulled by the rumbling of his tires on the cobblestone streets, he decided to focus on the Tomasky case, at least until the Gestapo took it off his hands.  Was there a connection between the Tomasky matter and the disappearance of Captain Kreider, then?  One way to find out.

––––––––

Yes?

Frau Kleemeier?  Lieutenant Scheele, Order Police.  Scheele removed his cap.  May I come in?  It’s about the Tomasky case.

Bishop Kleemeier’s wife was forty-ish, tall and bony, with a sharp nose and deep-set eyes.  She looked nervously over Scheele’s shoulder to the street beyond and said, The police?  I don’t understand.  I’ve already spoken to the police today.

It was Scheele’s turn to be surprised.  He did a poor job of concealing it.  Ah, yes, of course.  I, uh, I merely wish to confirm that the charges against Herr Tomasky are still—

Look, I’ve already told the men from the Gestapo I’ve agreed to drop the charges.  Now please leave us in peace!

Certainly.  Sorry to trouble you.  He stepped back quickly to avoid being hit by the closing door.  Rehmann.  Fucking Nazi pig.

With the pool of witnesses slowly dwindling under pressure from the Gestapo, Scheele wondered if there was any point in paying a visit to Tomasky’s shop now, as he had planned to do next.  Was there really any point in doing much of anything now?  Avi.  Avi Fleischinger would know what to do.  And Rana.  Well, maybe not just yet.

Two men in civilian clothes, sporting dark leather overcoats and black fedoras, were waiting for him by his car.  He doubted that the Gestapo would actually dare to shoot him, then and there, in so public a venue.  But why chance it?  May as well meet them head-on.  Can I help you gentlemen?

You must come with us, Lieutenant, said the taller of the two.  Major Rehmann wishes to see you on an urgent matter.

Yes, of course.  Scheele recognized the car across the street as the black Stoewer Sedina that had been following him since he had turned off of Fehlingstrasse just minutes ago.  If you’ll just give me a moment to fetch my briefcase.

He made a motion as if to reach for the passenger door of the Opel.  The SD man was just about to object when Scheele slammed his fist into the man’s throat, dropping him to the pavement.  He spun around in the same instant to give the other SD man a sharp blow to the chin with his elbow.  It was only a glancing blow, however, and the second man already had his gun out.  He was about to draw a bead on Scheele when Scheele leapt onto him and slammed him backwards against the side of the Opel.  He grabbed the man’s head and pounded it backwards onto the car several times while the man struggled to get his gun on Scheele, until Scheele was finally able to get enough leverage to smash his knee into the SD man’s groin.  Scheele left the two Gestapo men doubled over on their sides, groaning, the first one still gasping for air.  He crossed the street to the Stoewer, took the key out of the ignition, and threw it into the sewer grate.

He knew he would have to pay for that little spontaneous demonstration of his own.  Nevertheless, he felt oddly euphoric now as he sped toward the Marktplatz, where Bodo Tomasky had his sausage shop.

––––––––

Die rechte Weg ist die beste Weg.  Wer lebt recht, lebt wohl.

The words were on the flyleaf of Oma Traudl Scheele’s huge, leather-bound bible.  She kept it on the top shelf of the bookcase in her sitting room, and whenever her grandsons, Egon and Eugen, came to visit, Grandma Traudl would fetch it down with solemn ceremony and read them a passage in her dense Schwabian dialect.  Eugen rarely paid much attention to whatever it was she chose to read.  But the flyleaf wavered before his eyes each time, these words the only ones he could see from where he sat at her feet:  The righteous Path is the best Path.  He who lives righteously, lives well.  He didn’t really know what they meant at the time.  Yet they burned their way into his soul so that, when he closed his eyes, he could still see a ghostly image of the words; white letters floating against the black slate of his mind.

The Opel’s engine made grunting noises as he brought it to a stop outside the FLEISCH UND WURSTWAREN TOMASKY.  The air in the shop was thick with the mingled smells of garlic and black pepper, mustard seed and caraway, pork fat and offal.  A glass case displaying links of blutwurst and mettwurst and Krakauer separated the front of the shop from the back.  On the walls hung posters of stoic SA troopers reminding customers to give generously to the Winterhilfswerk and that Sundays were One-Pot Meal days.  Nearly a minute passed before Bodo Tomasky appeared, a dirty apron tied over his white coat and well-fed paunch, his bow tie askew.  The combination of an overbite and a jaw that was too small for his head gave him the appearance, when he smiled, of a skull on a pirate flag.  On entering the shop Scheele removed his peaked cap and tucked it discreetly under his arm.  There were no other customers in the shop at the moment.  Another nice bit of luck. 

Good morning, said Tomasky.  What can I get you today?  Some landjaeger, perhaps?

That sounds excellent.  Can you deliver it?

Of course.  What’s the address?

Police headquarters, said Scheele, putting his cap back on.

Shit!

On second thought, perhaps I should go with you.  We wouldn’t want you delivering it to the wrong office, after all.

Wait.  I think there’s been a mistake.

Are you saying the police have made a mistake?  Scheele opened a jar of brown mustard and sniffed it approvingly.  The police are representatives of the Reich government, Herr Tomasky.  Surely, as local Party Block Warden, you’re not accusing the Reich of making a mistake.

No, I meant...it’s just....  Look, I’ve already been cleared by your people.  All charges have been...are being dropped.

Really?  And who told you this?  The Gestapo?  Major Rehmann?

Yes; no.  I meant—

So Rehmann’s SD men were just here?  How long ago?

I told you.  I’ve been cleared of all charges.  Those women, they’re just clucking hens.  Housewives pinching pfennigs, you know?

And what of the warrant for your arrest in my pocket?  Is that also a mistake?  A bluff is only a lie if someone calls you on it.

That’s impossible!  I was told—

Scheele drew his pistol and slid back the bolt.  Move away from the counter, please.  Keep your hands where I can see them.

Come, this is all a misunderstanding.  Sure, I charge more than most.  But I make the highest-quality wares.  Naturally they’re going to cost more.  That’s business.

As soon as Tomasky was clear of the counter, Scheele spun him around and cuffed his hands behind his back in one swift move.

Hey!  What gives?  I’ve already told you—

Shut up.  Scheele’s voice was low and full of menace.  I don’t give a shit about your sausages.  He tugged on the handcuffs just enough to help Tomasky to focus.  What’s your connection to Alfons Kreider?

Who?

"SS-Hauptsturmführer Kreider.  One of Rehmann’s goons.  He disappeared without a trace yesterday morning.  Hasn’t been heard from since."

Never heard of him.

Scheele tugged on the handcuffs again, harder this time.  Try again.  You wouldn’t want to lie to me.

You’re crazy!  And you’re a fucking liar; you have no warrant!  Another tug on the cuffs, harder still.  Ooow, shit!

Where’s Captain Kreider?  Well?

I told you, I never heard of—  Another hard tug.  Ow!  Dammit!

Why did he disappear?  Does he have the list of account numbers?

No; how should I know?  What account numbers?  I know nothing of such things!  Ow!

Scheele dug the barrel of his gun into Tomasky’s ribs.  You’ve already handed them over to Captain Kreider, haven’t you?

Go to hell, Orpo swine!

Is that why he disappeared?  Did the Gauleiter’s office order it?  Is Murr planning to make a move against Colonel Boes and the local Gestapo, then?  Or are you and Kreider in business for yourselves, now?

If you’re going to arrest me, then do it.  But I’m not saying another word!

With one last tug Scheele unlocked the handcuffs and pushed Tomasky against the counter hard enough to rattle a large jar of pickles.  Tomasky rubbed the purple welts on his wrists and said, You must be the one they warned me about:  Scheele.  Fucking Orpo swine!  Every party comrade in the district knows you’re a Goddamned Jew-loving pig!  You’ll get yours, asshole!

Just tell your comrades in the Gauleiter’s office my Orpo will not allow itself to be caught in the middle of any power struggle.  Scheele holstered his gun and made for the door.  You fine National Socialists want to kill each other off, that’s your affair.  Leave me out of it.

––––––––

Back in his car, Scheele switched on the ignition and sat with the motor growling for just a moment.  Bodo Tomasky was clearly a man frightened for his life.  Frightened enough to toss off so many obvious lies.  But why?  Rehmann had no doubt held out the false promise of immunity alongside the concrete threat of bone-shattering torture.  What then?  Does Kreider mysteriously reappear, with a duplicate list of account numbers?  Or is he already in Zurich, waiting for Tomasky to join him there so they can both retire in style, while Gauleiter Murr and the Stuttgart Gestapo fight it out between them?  Scheele shook his head.  None of it fits.  After all, in a power struggle like that it wouldn’t be Murr against Boes and Rehmann;  it would be Governor Wilhelm Murr against Himmler and Heydrich.  And regardless of which side prevailed, in the end it would be Scheele who ends up in Dachau.  Or simply dead.  Moreover, if Kreider and Tomasky had been in league with one another, they would have both gone missing.  At any rate, Scheele knew he was only fooling himself with the notion that his Orpo could ever really be neutral.  After all, the same pictures of Hitler and Himmler that hung in Rehmann’s office hung in Scheele’s office, as well. 

Scheele put the Opel in gear and started back toward police headquarters.  There was really only one important aspect to consider. Three days after the rioting—on the very day Kreider disappeared, in fact—Hermann Goering’s Four Year Plan office announced that a one billion-reichsmark fine had been levied against Germany’s Jews, to pay for the damages.  In addition, the government planned to confiscate any insurance claims paid out to Jews or Jewish businesses as settlements for damages.  Having already extorted money from the wealthiest victims, men like Wilhelm Murr were not about to let that much money slip through their fingers and into the coffers of the Four Year Plan.  Absent a direct order from the Fuehrer, Murr and his fellow viceroys would certainly try to hold on to as much of this free money as possible.  With or without the Gestapo’s active cooperation.

Scheele managed a bleak smile.  One can make a lot of SS officers disappear for that kind of money.   And a lot of regular police officers, too, for that matter.

**********

Later that evening, while his shop clerk was mopping up in back, Bodo Tomasky was just on the verge of locking the cash register for the night when he was interrupted by the tinkling of the bell over the front door.  Holy Christ!

Gerhard; damn you!  You forgot the front door again!  He turned to the straggler, a tall man in a Luftwaffe major’s uniform; strikingly handsome, with grey-green eyes and wavy hair the color of melted caramel.  Sorry, Major.  We’re just closing up, I’m afraid.  Come back tomorrow, and I’ll give you a discount on any of our cured meats.  And I’ll even throw in a free tin of goose fat!

Actually, I’d just like a word with the proprietor.  You are Bodo Tomasky, correct?

While the major’s German was flawless, with a Berlin staccato, Tomasky caught a hint of an accent.  English, perhaps.  Or maybe even American.  Before Tomasky could reply, his shop clerk called out:  Good night, Herr Tomasky.  I’ll lock the back door behind me.

As I thought.  My name’s Christian, Erich Christian.  You are the local Party Block Warden, yes?

Tomasky regarded him with undisguised suspicion.  That’s right.  Do we know each other?

Not as such.  But I certainly know of you.  A great deal, in fact.

Is that so?  Well, why don’t you come back tomorrow and we can have a nice chat about it then, eh?

Christian waited until he heard the shop clerk close the back door after himself.  "Oh, this won’t take long, I promise.