March Violets

Table of Contents

 

Philip Kerr was born in Edinburgh in 1956 and lives in London. As a journalist he has written for a number of newspapers and magazines, including
The Sunday Times
and the
New Statesman.
He is the author of the novels
March Violets, The Pale Criminal,
and
A German Requiem
(published together as
Berlin Noir).
He is also the author of
A Philosophical Investigation, Dead Meat, Gridiron, Esau, A Five-Year Plan, The Shot, The Second Angel,
and
Dark Matter,
and he has edited
The Penguin Book of Lies and The Penguin Book of Fights, Feuds, and Heartfelt Hatreds.

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First published in the United States of America by Viking 1989
Published in Penguin Books 2004

 

Copyright © Philip Kerr, 1989
All rights reserved

 

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING IN PUBLICATION DATA
Kerr, Philip.
March violets / Philip Kerr.
p. cm.

ISBN : 978-1-101-57592-5

1. Gunther, Bernhard (Fictitious character) — Fiction. 2. Private investigators —
Germany — Berlin — Fiction. 3. Berlin (Germany) — Fiction. I. Title.
PR6061.E784M37 2004
823'.914 — dc22 2004044275

 

 

 

 

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FIRST MAN: Have you noticed how the March Violets have managed to completely overtake Party veterans like you and me?

SECOND MAN: You're right. Perhaps if Hitler had also waited a little before climbing on to the Nazi bandwagon he'd have become Führer quicker too.

Schwarze Korps,
November 1935

Stranger things happen in the dark dreams of the Great Persuader . . .

 

 

This morning, at the corner of Friedrichstrasse and Jäger-strasse, I saw two men, S A men, unscrewing a red
Der Stürmer
showcase from the wall of a building.
Der Stürmer
is the anti-Semitic journal that's run by the Reich's leading Jew-baiter, Julius Streicher. The visual impact of these display cases, with their semi-pornographic line-drawings of Aryan maids in the voluptuous embraces of long-nosed monsters, tends to attract the weaker-minded reader, providing him with cursory titillation. Respectable people have nothing to do with it. Anyway, the two SA men placed the Stürmerkästen in the back of their lorry next to several others. They did their work none too carefully, because there were at least a couple which had broken glass covers.

An hour later I saw the same two men removing another one of these Stürmerkästen from outside a tram-stop in front of the Town Hall. This time I went up to them and asked what they were doing.

‘It's for the Olympiad,' said one. ‘We're ordered to take them all down so as not to shock the foreign visitors who will be coming to Berlin to see the Games.'

In my experience, such sensitivity on the part of the authorities is unheard of.

 

I drove home in my car - it's an old black Hanomag - and changed into my last good suit: made of light-grey flannel cloth, it cost me 120 marks when I bought it three years ago, and it is of a quality that is becoming increasingly rare in this country; like butter, coffee and soap, new wool material is ersatz, more often than not. The new material is serviceable enough, all right, just not very hard-wearing, and rather ineffective when it comes to keeping out the cold in winter. Or, for that matter, in summer.

I checked my appearance in the bedroom mirror and then picked up my best hat. It's a wide-brimmed hat of dark-grey felt, and is encircled by a black barathea band. Common enough. But like the Gestapo, I wear my hat differently from other men, with the brim lower in front than at the back. This has the effect of hiding my eyes of course, which makes it more difficult for people to recognize me. It's a style that originated with the Berlin Criminal Police, the Kripo, which is where I acquired it.

I slipped a packet of Murattis into my jacket pocket, and, tucking a gift-wrapped piece of Rosenthal porcelain carefully under my arm, I went out.

 

The wedding took place at the Luther Kirche on Dennewitz Platz, just south of Potsdamer Railway Station, and a stone's throw from the home of the bride's parents. The father, Herr Lehmann was an engine driver out of Lehrter Station, and drove the ‘D-Zug', the express train, to Hamburg and back four times a week. The bride, Dagmarr, was my secretary, and I had no idea what I was going to do without her. Not that I cared to know, either: I'd often thought of marrying Dagmarr myself. She was pretty and good at organizing me, and in my own odd way I suppose that I loved her; but then at thirty-eight I was probably too old for her, and maybe just a shade too dull. I'm not much given to having a wild time, and Dagmarr was the sort of girl who deserved some fun.

So here she was, marrying this flyer. And on the face of it he was everything that a girl could have wished for: he was young, handsome and, in the grey-blue uniform of the National Socialist Flying Corps, he looked to be the epitome of the dashing young Aryan male. But I was disappointed when I met him at the wedding reception. Like most Party members, Johannes Buerckel had the look and the air of a man who took himself very seriously indeed.

It was Dagmarr who made the introduction. Johannes, true to type, brought his heels together with a loud click and bowed his head curtly before shaking my hand.

‘Congratulations,' I said to him. ‘You're a very fortunate fellow. I'd have asked her to marry me, only I don't think I look as good as you in uniform.'

I took a closer look at his uniform: on the left breast-pocket he wore the silver SA Sports Badge and the Pilots Badge; above these two decorations was the ubiquitous ‘Scary' Badge — the Party Badge; and on his left arm he wore the swastika armband. ‘Dagmarr told me you were a pilot with Lufthansa on temporary attachment to the Ministry of Aviation, but I had no idea . . . What did you say he was, Dagmarr?'

‘A Sports Flyer.'

‘Yes, that's it. A Sports Flyer. Well, I had no idea you fellows were in uniform.'

Of course it didn't take a detective to work out that ‘Sports Flyer' was one of those fancy Reich euphemisms, and that this particular one related to the secret training of fighter pilots.

‘He does look splendid, doesn't he?' said Dagmarr.

‘And you look beautiful, my dear,' cooed the groom dutifully.

‘Forgive me for asking, Johannes, but is Germany's air force now to be officially recognized?' I said.

‘Flying Corps,' said Buerckel. ‘It's a Flying Corps.' But that was the whole of his answer. ‘And you, Herr Gunther - a private detective, eh? That must be interesting.'

‘Private investigator,' I said, correcting him. ‘It has its moments.'

‘What sort of things do you investigate?'

‘Almost anything, except divorce. People act funny when they're being cheated by their wives or their husbands, or when they're the ones doing the cheating. I was once engaged by a woman to tell her husband that she was planning to leave him. She was afraid he'd pop her. So I told him, and, what do you know, the son of a bitch tried to pop me. I spent three weeks in St Gertrauden Hospital with my neck in a brace. That finished me with matrimonial work permanently. These days I do anything from insurance investigations to guarding wedding presents to finding missing persons — that's the ones the police don't already know about, as well as the ones they do. Yes, that's one area of my business that's seen a real improvement since the National Socialists took power.' I smiled as affably as I could, and wiggled my eyebrows suggestively. ‘I guess we've all done well out of National Socialism, haven't we? Proper little March Violets.'

‘You mustn't take any notice of Bernhard,' said Dagmarr. ‘He has an odd sense of humour.' I would have said more, but the band started to play and Dagmarr wisely led Buerckel on to the dance-floor, where they were applauded warmly.

Bored with the sekt that was on offer, I went into the bar in search of a real drink. I ordered a Bock and a Klares chaser, which is a shot of the clear, colourless potato-based alcohol I have a taste for, and I drank these fairly quickly and ordered the same again.

‘Thirsty work, weddings,' said the little man next to me: it was Dagmarr's father. He turned his back to the bar and watched his daughter proudly. ‘Looks a proper picture, doesn't she, Herr Gunther?'

‘I don't know what I'm going to do without her,' I said. ‘Perhaps you can persuade her to change her mind and stay on with me. I'm sure they must need the money. Young couples always need money when they first marry.'

Herr Lehmann shook his head. ‘I'm afraid that there is only one kind of labour for which Johannes and his National Socialist government think a woman is qualified, and that's the kind she has at the end of a nine-month term.' He lit his pipe and puffed philosophically. ‘Anyway,' he said. ‘I suppose they'll be applying for one of those Reich Marriage Loans, and that would stop her from working, wouldn't it?'

‘Yes, I suppose you're right,' I said, and downed the chaser. I saw his face say that he never had me marked as a drunk and so I said, ‘Don't let this stuff fool you, Herr Lehmann. I just use it as a mouthwash, only I'm too damned lazy to spit the stuff out.' He chuckled at that, and slapped me on the back and ordered us two large ones. We drank those and I asked him where the happy couple were going on their sparkle.

‘To the Rhine,' he said. ‘Wiesbaden. Frau Lehmann and myself went to Königstein for ours. It's a lovely part of the world. He's not long back, though, and then he's off on some Strength Through Joy trip, courtesy of the Reich Labour Service.'

‘Oh? Where to?'

‘Mediterranean.'