On the fifteen-mile ride from downtown Berlin to the Olympic Village, along a wide, perfectly smooth highway, the taxi driver whistled happily and told Paul Schumann that he was anticipating many well-paying fares during the Olympics.
Suddenly the man grew silent as some ponderous classical music poured from a radio; the Opel was equipped with two, one to dispatch the driver and one for public transmissions. “Beethoven,” the driver commented. “It precedes all official broadcasts. We will listen.” A moment later the music faded and a raw, passionate voice began speaking.
“In the first place, it is not acceptable to treat this question of infection frivolously; it must be understood that good health would depend and does depend on finding ways to treat not only the symptoms of the disease, but the source of the illness, as well. Look at the tainted waters of a stagnant pond, a breeding ground for germs. But a fast-moving river does not offer the same climate for such danger. Our campaign will continue to locate and drain these stagnant pools, thereby offering germs and the mosquitoes and flies that carry them no place to multiply. Moreover-”
Paul listened for a moment longer but the repetitious rambling bored him. He tuned out the meaningless sound and looked at the sun-baked landscape, the houses, the inns, as the pretty suburbs west of the city gave way to more sparse areas. The driver turned off the Hamburg highway and pulled up in front of the Olympic Village’s main entrance. Paul paid the man, who thanked him by lifting an eyebrow but said nothing, remaining fixed on the words streaming from the radio. He considered asking the driver to wait but decided it would be wiser to find someone else to take him back to town.
The village was hot in the afternoon sun. The wind smelled salty, like ocean air, but it was dry as alum and carried a fine grit. Paul displayed his pass and continued down the perfectly laid sidewalk, past rows of narrow trees perfectly spaced, rising straight from round disks of mulch in the perfect, green grass. The German flag snapped smartly in the hot wind: red and white and black.
Ach, surely you know…
At the American dorms he bypassed the reception area, with its German soldier, and slipped into his room through the back door. He changed his outfit, burying the green jacket in a basket full of dirty laundry, there being no sewers handy, and putting on cream-colored flannels, a tennis shirt and a light cable-knit sweater. He brushed his hair differently – to the side. The makeup had worn off but there was nothing he could do about that now. As he stepped out the door with his suitcase and satchel a voice called, “Hey, Paul.”
He glanced up to see Jesse Owens, dressed in gymnasium clothes, returning to the dorm. Owens asked, “What’re you doing?”
“Heading into town. Get some work done.”
“Naw, Paul. We were hoping you’d stay around. You missed an all-right ceremony last night. You’ve gotta see the food they got here. It’s swell.”
“I know it’s grand, but I gotta skip. I’m doing some interviews in town.”
Owens stepped closer then nodded at the cut and bruise on Paul’s face. Then the runner’s sharp eyes dropped down to the man’s knuckles, which were raw and red from the fight.
“Hope the rest of your interviews go better than the one this morning. Dangerous to be a sportswriter in Berlin, looks like.”
“I took a spill. Nothing serious.”
“Not for you maybe,” Owens said, amused. “But what about the fellow you landed on?”
Paul couldn’t help but smile. The runner was just a kid. But there was something worldly about him. Maybe growing up a Negro in the South and Midwest made you mature faster. Same with putting yourself through school on the heels of the Depression.
Like stumbling into his own line of work had changed Paul. Changed him real fast.
“What exactly are you doin’ here, Paul?” the runner whispered.
“Just my job,” he answered slowly. “Just doing my job. Say, what’s the wire on Stoller and Glickman? Hope they haven’t been sidelined.”
“Nope, they’re still scheduled,” Owens said, frowning, “but the rumors aren’t sounding good.”
“Good luck to them. And to you too, Jesse. Bring home some gold.”
“We’ll do our best. See you later?”
“Maybe.”
Paul shook his hand and walked off toward the entrance to the village, where a line of taxis waited.
“Hey, Paul.”
He turned to see the fastest man in the world saluting him, a grin on his face.
The poll of the vendors and bench-sitters along Rosenthaler Street had been futile (though Janssen confirmed that he’d learned some new curses when a flower seller found out he was troubling her only to ask questions, not to buy anything). There had been a shooting not far away, Kohl had learned, but that was an SS matter – perhaps about their jealously guarded “minor security matter” – and none of the elite guard would deign to speak to the Kripo about it.
Upon their return to headquarters, however, they found that a miracle had occurred. The photographs of the victim and of the fingerprints from Dresden Alley were on Willi Kohl’s desk.
“Look at this, Janssen,” Kohl said, gesturing at the glossy pictures, neatly assembled in a file.
He sat down at his battered desk in his office in the Alex, the Kripo’s massive, ancient building, nicknamed for the bustling square and surrounding neighborhood where it was located: Alexander Plaza. All the state buildings were being renovated except theirs, it seemed. The criminal police were housed in the same grimy building they’d been in for years. Kohl did not mind this, however, since it was some distance from Wilhelm Street, which at least gave some practical autonomy to the police, even if none now existed administratively.
Kohl was also fortunate to have an office of his own, a room that measured four meters by six and contained a desk, a table and three chairs. On the oak plain of the desk were a thousand pieces of paper, an ashtray, a pipe rack and a dozen framed photographs of his wife, children and parents.
He rocked forward in his creaking wooden chair and looked over the crime scene photographs and the ones of the fingerprints. “You’re talented, Janssen. These are quite good.”
“Thank you, sir.” The young man was looking down at them, nodding.
Kohl regarded him closely. The inspector himself had taken a traditional route up through the police ranks. The son of a Prussian farmer, young Willi had become fascinated with both Berlin and police work from the story-books he’d read growing up. At eighteen he’d come to the city and gotten a job as a uniformed Schupo officer, went through the basic training at the famed Berlin Police Institute and worked his way up to corporal and sergeant, receiving a college degree along the way. Then, with a wife and two children, he’d gone on to the institute’s Officers School and joined Kripo, rising over the years from detective-inspector assistant to senior detective-inspector.
His young protégé, on the other hand, had gone a different route, one that was far more common nowadays. Janssen had graduated from a good university several years ago, passed the qualifying exam in jurisprudence, then, after attending the police institute, he was accepted at this young age as a detective-inspector candidate, apprenticed to Kohl.
It was often hard to draw the inspector candidate out; Janssen was reserved. He was married to a solid, dark-haired woman who was now pregnant with their second child. The only time Janssen grew animated was when he talked about his family or about his passion for bicycling and hiking. Until all police were put on overtime because of the approaching Olympics, detectives worked only half days on Wednesday and Janssen would often change into his hiking shorts in a Kripo lavatory at noon and go off on a wander with his brother or his wife.