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Authors: Volker Kutscher
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therefore, he determined to keep a cool head. On the morning of the third of May, Commissioner Zörgiebel ordered CID to assist uniform in their search of the city’s trouble spots. Police squads had cordoned off the district on both sides of Hermannstrasse, from Boddinstrasse to Leykestrasse and a huge part of the city had become a no-go area. Uniform guarded the access points, and signs warned that heavy gunfire was expected.
When they began the house-to-house search, duty officers sealed off the entrances to courtyards, before uniformed troops, led in each case by two members of CID, combed the entire block. They had been met with the same reaction everywhere: men cursing, women swearing, children crying – but there had been no weapons. The more the morning wore on, the more Rath felt that people knew something. Somehow, word had spread.
So far they had confiscated only a single revolver – and that after nearly six hours of hard searching in at least four dozen flats, and the man they had taken the weapon off wasn’t even a communist. They had found an embroidered text of the Internationale on the wall of his kitchen, but only in the way that Christians might display Biblical quotations. The man was a social democrat like the commissioner.
The operation was beginning to get on Rath’s nerves, and judging by his expression Bruno felt the same way. Pointless, it was a total waste of resources, and yet the pair had struggled to suppress a grin when they saw that Leykestrasse was on their list. That was where Franz Krajewski, the junkie from the Karstadt department store scaffolding and their latest informant, had his digs. The porn Kaiser himself opened the door when they called on him just after seven in the morning.
Krajewski’s heart sunk into his boots as the crowd of uniformed officers marched past him into the flat. Rath and Wolter kept him in suspense for a moment before Uncle trotted out the usual spiel, that police were engaged in a routine search for weapons throughout the district. Krajewski seemed a little more relaxed after that. A trace of nervousness remained, however, and Rath knew why. He had had the presence of mind to recover a small bag of cocaine from the sugar bowl in the kitchen before uniform got there.
‘Lucky you met us a few days ago,’ Rath whispered. ‘Otherwise we’d have found a shooter on you and you’d have had to come along with us.’
‘What’s all the fuss about?’ Krajewski asked.
‘You live in the wrong area. Too many communists. You should mind what you hide in the kitchen.’
Krajewski turned pale, but uniform were already on the next floor up. Rath lingered a moment before pressing the paper bag into Krajewski’s hands.
It was now just after twelve and they had worked through another three blocks. House after house, flat after flat, but there was still a long way to go.
‘I’ve had enough of this,’ Wolter said, as the pair left another building full of angry faces and furious protests – without finding a single weapon.
‘Trench work,’ said Uncle, and lit a cigarette while uniform got stuck into the waste containers in the courtyard.
Rath nodded. ‘We’re not about to find anything either.’
‘Are you surprised? The fighters are all out on the streets. Thälmann’s boys are stashing their weapons. 1A need to be more on the ball. It’s these caches we should be cleaning out, instead we’re searching workers’ flats.’
Wolter made no secret of his aversion to the political police. He took a final drag and threw the half-smoked cigarette onto the courtyard. ‘This is no work for CID. I’m sure uniform can manage for a while on their own.’ At the rubbish containers a young officer was using a giant poker to root through ashes and waste. Uncle gave him a few instructions and pressed the list of addresses into his hand before making his way back to Rath.
‘Let’s go to Hermannstrasse, drop off the revolver and submit an interim
When they began the house-to-house search, duty officers sealed off the entrances to courtyards, before uniformed troops, led in each case by two members of CID, combed the entire block. They had been met with the same reaction everywhere: men cursing, women swearing, children crying – but there had been no weapons. The more the morning wore on, the more Rath felt that people knew something. Somehow, word had spread.
So far they had confiscated only a single revolver – and that after nearly six hours of hard searching in at least four dozen flats, and the man they had taken the weapon off wasn’t even a communist. They had found an embroidered text of the Internationale on the wall of his kitchen, but only in the way that Christians might display Biblical quotations. The man was a social democrat like the commissioner.
The operation was beginning to get on Rath’s nerves, and judging by his expression Bruno felt the same way. Pointless, it was a total waste of resources, and yet the pair had struggled to suppress a grin when they saw that Leykestrasse was on their list. That was where Franz Krajewski, the junkie from the Karstadt department store scaffolding and their latest informant, had his digs. The porn Kaiser himself opened the door when they called on him just after seven in the morning.
Krajewski’s heart sunk into his boots as the crowd of uniformed officers marched past him into the flat. Rath and Wolter kept him in suspense for a moment before Uncle trotted out the usual spiel, that police were engaged in a routine search for weapons throughout the district. Krajewski seemed a little more relaxed after that. A trace of nervousness remained, however, and Rath knew why. He had had the presence of mind to recover a small bag of cocaine from the sugar bowl in the kitchen before uniform got there.
‘Lucky you met us a few days ago,’ Rath whispered. ‘Otherwise we’d have found a shooter on you and you’d have had to come along with us.’
‘What’s all the fuss about?’ Krajewski asked.
‘You live in the wrong area. Too many communists. You should mind what you hide in the kitchen.’
Krajewski turned pale, but uniform were already on the next floor up. Rath lingered a moment before pressing the paper bag into Krajewski’s hands.
It was now just after twelve and they had worked through another three blocks. House after house, flat after flat, but there was still a long way to go.
‘I’ve had enough of this,’ Wolter said, as the pair left another building full of angry faces and furious protests – without finding a single weapon.
‘Trench work,’ said Uncle, and lit a cigarette while uniform got stuck into the waste containers in the courtyard.
Rath nodded. ‘We’re not about to find anything either.’
‘Are you surprised? The fighters are all out on the streets. Thälmann’s boys are stashing their weapons. 1A need to be more on the ball. It’s these caches we should be cleaning out, instead we’re searching workers’ flats.’
Wolter made no secret of his aversion to the political police. He took a final drag and threw the half-smoked cigarette onto the courtyard. ‘This is no work for CID. I’m sure uniform can manage for a while on their own.’ At the rubbish containers a young officer was using a giant poker to root through ashes and waste. Uncle gave him a few instructions and pressed the list of addresses into his hand before making his way back to Rath.
‘Let’s go to Hermannstrasse, drop off the revolver and submit an interim
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