Winter of the World

It was not much of a place. On one wall was a framed photograph of the proprietor, Fritz, in a First World War uniform, twenty-five years younger and without a beer belly. He claimed to have killed nine Russians at the Battle of Tannenberg. There were a few tables and chairs, but the regulars all sat at the bar. A menu in a leather cover was almost entirely fantasy: the only dishes served were sausages with potatoes or sausages without potatoes.

But the place stood across the street from the Kreuzberg police station, so it was a cop bar. That meant it was free to break all the rules. Gambling was open, street girls gave blow jobs in the toilet, and the food inspectors of the Berlin city government never entered the kitchen. It opened when Fritz got up and closed when the last drinker went home.

Macke had been a lowly police officer at the Kreuzberg station years ago, before the Nazis took over and men such as he were suddenly given a break. Some of his former colleagues still drank at the Tannenberg, and he could be sure of seeing a familiar face or two. He still liked to talk to old friends, even though he had risen so far above them, becoming an inspector and a member of the SS.

‘You’ve done well, Thomas, I’ll give you that,’ said Bernhardt Engel, who had been a sergeant over Macke in 1932 and was still a sergeant. ‘Good luck to you, son.’ He raised to his lips the stein of beer that Macke had bought him.

‘I won’t argue with you,’ Macke replied. ‘Though I will say, Superintendent Kringelein is a lot worse to work for than you were.’

‘I was too soft on you boys,’ Bernhardt admitted.

Another old comrade, Franz Edel, laughed scornfully. ‘I wouldn’t say soft!’

Glancing out of the window, Macke saw a motorcycle pull up outside driven by a young man in the light-blue belted jacket of an air force officer. He looked familiar: Macke had seen him somewhere before. He had over-long red-blond hair flopping on to a patrician forehead. He crossed the pavement and came into the Tannenberg.

Macke remembered the name. He was Werner Franck, spoiled son of the radio manufacturer Ludi Franck.

Werner came to the bar and asked for a pack of Kamel cigarettes. How predictable, Macke thought, that the playboy should smoke American-style cigarettes, even if they were a German imitation.

Werner paid, opened the pack, took out a cigarette, and asked Fritz for a light. Turning to leave, cigarette in his mouth tilted at a rakish angle, he caught Macke’s eye and, after a moment’s thought, said: ‘Inspector Macke.’

The men in the bar all stared at Macke to see what he would say.

He nodded casually. ‘How are you, young Werner?’

‘Very well, sir, thank you.’

Macke was pleased, but surprised, by the respectful tone. He recalled Werner as an arrogant whippersnapper with insufficient respect for authority.

‘I’m just back from a visit to the Eastern Front with General Dorn,’ Werner added.

Macke sensed the cops in the bar become alert to the conversation. A man who had been to the Eastern Front merited respect. Macke could not help feeling pleased that they were all impressed that he moved in such elevated circles.

Werner offered Macke the cigarette pack, and Macke took one. ‘A beer,’ Werner said to Fritz. Turning back to Macke, he said: ‘May I buy you a drink, Inspector?’

‘The same, thank you.’

Fritz filled two steins. Werner raised his glass to Macke and said: ‘I want to thank you.’

That was another surprise. ‘For what?’ said Macke.

His friends were all listening intently.

Werner said: ‘A year ago you gave me a good telling-off.’

‘You didn’t seem grateful at the time.’

‘And for that I apologize. But I thought very hard about what you said to me, and eventually I realized you were right. I had allowed personal emotion to cloud my judgement. You set me straight. I’ll never forget that.’

Macke was touched. He had disliked Werner, and had spoken harshly to him; but the young man had taken his words to heart, and changed his ways. It gave Macke a warm glow to feel that he had made such a difference in a young man’s life.

Werner went on: ‘In fact, I thought of you the other day. General Dorn was talking about catching spies, and asking if we could track them down by their radio signals. I’m afraid I couldn’t tell him much.’

‘You should have asked me,’ said Macke. ‘It’s my specialty.’

‘Is that so?’

‘Come and sit down.’

They carried their drinks to a grubby table.

‘These men are all police officers,’ Macke said. ‘But still, one should not talk publicly about such matters.’

‘Of course.’ Werner lowered his voice. ‘But I know I may confide in you. You see, some of the battlefield commanders told Dorn they believe the enemy often knows our intentions in advance.’

‘Ah!’ said Macke. ‘I feared as much.’

‘What can I tell Dorn about radio signal detection?’