51
Osteria Bavaria
THOMAS BAUER, HIS HEAD shaved and wearing a thick beard, stood in the dank, humid cellar, huddled over a sink, elbow to elbow with other men, sweat dripping into his eyes, his forearms burning, as he scrubbed the last of the pots used to make the dough for brotchen, crusty rolls eaten with jam or butter.
Then he dried the pots, stacked them, and placed them on trays on the dumbwaiter that would send them upstairs to the kitchen.
Bauer wiped off his pruned hands. He was bone tired. The night shift was brutal, but it was the only one he could manage, and it paid an additional five marks a week.
Bauer had narrowly escaped prison for his break-in at the Brown House a year ago.
The Nazis did not want the publicity and thus declined to press charges.
For much the same reason, Chief Heinrich Müller did not want the administrative hassle of justifying Bauer’s dismissal.
Instead, the chief had demoted him as far as possible, to lowly patrolman, hoping that Bauer’s pride would force him to resign.
That had been Bauer’s first instinct, of course, but the economy was at an all-time low in Munich.
Work was scarce. He needed the pension and the benefits for his family.
Between the lower wages he received as a patrolman and the few extra marks washing dishes, he was still short of the salary he once received as a kriminalkommissar, but he was determined to continue providing for his family.
He always remembered the words of his father, who busted rocks in a stone quarry in Buchenwald for thirty years: Don’t ever let pride get in the way of putting food on the table.
At the station, Bauer got dressed, throwing on his dark trousers, buttoning up his dark tunic, buckling his leather belt, and clipping on his whistle, handcuffs, and baton.
“I don’t get you, Bauer,” said another officer, named Werner. “Why work a nightmare shift at that fancy restaurant when you could work nights next door at Wursthaus for more money?”
Bauer laced up his black leather boots and threw on his gray peaked hat. He had his reasons for working at Osteria Bavaria, but he wasn’t going to share them with Werner. “What can I say? I love the ambience there.”
“The ambience in the sweaty basement?”
Bauer ignored him, setting out onto the streets of the Bogenhausen District, starting his patrol shift at 7:00 a.m. sharp.
These days, every morning in Munich looked like a clean-up after a wild party, only not one of merriment but of anger and looting and violence.
Jewish shopkeepers swept glass from broken store windows and fastened boards over the open spaces, scrubbed swastikas from their doors or pig’s blood from their doorsteps.
Bauer’s morning patrol was not especially unusual: breaking up a fight between two homeless women in an alley outside the Bogenhauser Hof restaurant, chasing a pickpocket off the 17 tram (a homeless child who had lifted a billfold off a woman holding a sack of groceries), and, finally, responding to a robbery at Samuel Phelan’s hardware store that required a call into headquarters for inspectors.
“It’s nearly every other day now,” said the store owner.
Sam Phelan, whom Bauer knew from cadet training before the war, was a man with a flat nose and thick cheeks and wavy hair.
“They have nothing to lose, these homeless. Either they get away clean or you guys arrest them and provide them shelter. They have no reason not to rob me.”
The poor will steal was one of the first lessons a cop learned.
And with over six million people in Germany unemployed and homelessness at an all-time high, Munich looked less and less like the charming, vibrant city he once knew.
He was tempted to analogize a stroll through Munich to a trip through a funeral parlor, but that wasn’t quite right.
Funerals are sad and final. The city Bauer loved so dearly, where he had lived his entire life, was infected by an air of nervous uncertainty.
“Police inspectors!” a voice boomed.
Bauer recognized it instantly. Moments later, Inspector Brecht, with his thick stomach and walrus mustache, walked in. Behind him came Peter Helldorff, now promoted to Bauer’s previous rank of kriminalkommissar despite his young age, a reward for snitching thirteen months earlier.
Bauer’s blood went cold. Every time he’d run into Helldorff since the betrayal, the young man had shrunk into the woodwork.
“Officer Bauer,” said Brecht, huffing his mustache. “A shaved head! A beard! I see you’ve changed your look, along with your change in rank.”
Bauer didn’t reply. He had only recently grown a beard, which to his surprise had come in with streaks of gray.
“What do you have for us, patrolman?” Bauer kept his eyes down, but could hear the relish in Brecht’s voice.
“A smash-and-grab. Shouldn’t be too hard, even for you, Brecht.” Bauer brushed past the men and out into the street.
“Bauer,” Helldorff called after him. “Got a minute?”
“Not for you,” said Bauer. “Not ever.”
“Please.” Helldorff followed Bauer down the street. “Just let me talk!”
Bauer ignored him and kept walking. He finished his patrol shift at 3:00 p.m., returned to the station, put on a suit and tie, and jumped back on the tram.
Twenty minutes later, he was back at Osteria Bavaria.
He ducked into the kitchen and walked over to the side door that led into a private dining room.
A hostess was throwing a party for her beau in there, but it was set to end at 3:30.
He put his ear to the door. Sounded like the party was breaking up.
He bided his time until he could hear the waiters coming in and out of this door clearing plates of braised beef and omelets, imported oranges and apple strudel. He knew the waiters would later divide the leftovers and take them home to their families.
After the crowd had filtered out, Bauer opened the door into the private room. The hostess sat alone, finishing her glass of champagne.
Her name was Eva Braun.