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She looked forlornly back at the door. “Peter hasn’t been himself for quite a long time. Over a year now. Not long before we married. At first, I thought it was second thoughts about our wedding. But that’s not it. It’s something to do with work. He got this wonderful promotion—he was made a kommissar—but he’s been, well…” She lowered her voice. “He’s been miserable ever since.”

Before Bauer could answer, the door swung open again. Helldorff nodded.

“I have your answer,” he said.

82

Neuhausen Police Directorate

Munich

PATROL OFFICER THOMAS BAUER, dressed in full uniform from beveled cap to polished shoes, approached the police directorate in Neuhausen, a large stone structure at one end of the public square. Parked nearby was a long SA truck, painted its trademark brown with red swastikas on the sides, a transport vehicle for the detainees in protective custody to be taken to Dachau or some other hastily built concentration camp.

He passed the truck and entered the station through glass doors. To his left, a large community bulletin board, just as in Bauer’s directorate in Bogenhausen, a haphazard collection of papers pinned up, mostly advertisements of people needing work, announcements of civic group or religious gatherings, or notices of public meetings.

Immediately in front of him, the receipt sergeant, an old, jowly sort, who processed every entry to the directorate. Behind the receipt desk, the inspectors’ squad room, largely empty this time of night. Bauer did a quick count. Two plainclothes inspectors, conversing casually while typing up reports. Three SA brownshirts, chatting in the corner. Two SS officers in their black uniforms, their feet up on desks, listening to a radio.

Sparse this time of night, no different from Bauer’s directorate.

Before Bauer could speak, the glass doors opened behind him. In walked a man, short and stooped, with long gray hair under a flat cap, thick glasses too large for his face, a sack over his shoulder. “May I post a bulletin?” the man said in a weak voice. “I’m looking for work.”

The receipt sergeant gave the man a once-over. “Go ahead. I hope it’s not for manual labor, old-timer. I’m not sure you could lift a shovel at this point.” Then he looked at Bauer with a question.

“Evening,” said Bauer. “Got a request for a transfer to Bogenhausen.” He unfolded a piece of paper. “The prisoner is an Amalie Bauer. B-A-U-E-R.”

“This time of night?”

Bauer shrugged. “I do what they tell me.”

“Amalie Bauer… Bauer…” The receipt sergeant looked up and down a list. “Oh. She’s not held by kripo. She’s one of the PCs. It’s not my decision. It’s up to the SA.”

“All the PCs are in the cellar?”

“Right.” The sergeant lowered his chin and his voice. “These days, we have a lot more protective custody than regular custody.”

“Same with us in Bogenhausen. So the SA officer’s in the cellar?”

“Yeah.”

“Very good.” Bauer braced himself, then headed down a flight of stairs to the cellar. Five oversized cells linked together, a capacity of 125 detainees. Bauer glanced at the cells and estimated that they were about half capacity. But he didn’t dare attempt eye contact with Amalie. He had to stay as emotionless as possible.

Sitting at a metal desk was a brownshirt, a young man with rosy cheeks and a thick frame who looked half asleep. Stacks of papers lined his desk.

Just one guard down here. As Bauer expected and hoped, but you never knew.

“Kriminalpolizei,” said Bauer. “I have a transfer order for an Amalie Bauer to the Bogenhausen directorate for questioning.”

“No,” said the guard without looking up.

“No? I have a transfer order right here.” A doctored and fraudulent one, of course, but no less a seemingly valid transfer order.

The guard shook his head. “The SA doesn’t answer to kripo.”

“C’mon, comrade. I’m just following orders here. I already filled out the form. All you have to do is sign it. Don’t get me in trouble with my superiors.”

“We’re shipping her and the others off tomorrow morning.” The guard pointed at himself. “If you don’t bring her back, I’ll be in trouble with my superiors. You want to talk to her, you do it right down here.”

Bauer sighed. “I’ll need some privacy to question her. Is there a room?”