"This has gone beyond absurd," Gross protested. "I feel threatened. I'm leaving the car this instant!"

A rock pelted Berg across the chest. "Stay where you are!"

"And get stoned? How dare you!"

"It's for your own safety!" Berg called to the crowd to disperse immediately, but his shouts were drowned out by the mob's booing. Without conscious thinking, Berg reached down for the pocketknife hidden in his boot, but before he could retrieve it, he was knocked in the chest by a rock. "Damn it!"

"Yes, I see how safe you're keeping me!" Gross ducked, barely escaping the path of a whizzing projectile. "Damn you and damn the police! I am getting out of here before these monsters kill us both!"

Gross hoisted himself out of the sidecar.

"He's getting away!" screamed one of the hoodlums.

"The Jude is trying to escape!" yelled another.

"I've got the bastard!" Lothar Felb cried in delight. He pulled back his fist and punched Gross in the stomach. Berg jumped off the motorcycle and vaulted onto Lothar, clipping him across the chin. Lothar reared back and elbowed Berg hard in the ribs. Berg fell to his knees. Lothar and a buddy continued to kick him until he lay on the ground, prostrate, his arms over his face, his hands over his head. Finally, the kicking stopped, but that was only because he was being trampled to death, beaten and crushed by a malodorous pile of hot human flesh.

He gasped and sputtered, his lungs begging for fresh air, his hands flaying about.

I am not going to die like this, he told himself. Not without a fight! Using his limbs as weapons, he kicked and grabbed and poked and yanked until his eyes made out the cool gray mist of daylight. Clawing like a caged cat, he dug his way out of the human mass, using his fingernails as rakes as he gashed through clothing and skin. Once he had surfaced, he inhaled hungrily, and as he did, a sharp pain coursed through his lungs and chest. His nose was bleeding and so was his lip. As he ran his tongue across his teeth, he thanked God that he could feel his incisors still firmly rooted in his mouth. In the distance, Berg could hear the welcome sound of official horns blowing.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw what he hoped was the police wagon. He was feeling woozy, barely able to stand on his feet. Abruptly, he felt an arm on his jacket. He pivoted around, and a tingling shiver went down his spine.

Face-to-face, staring into calm blue eyes. Black hair, a long face, and a swatch of black mustache hiding a thin upper lip. "I would never sanction an attack on our good German police," Hitler said to Berg. "Never!"

"Just as you would never sanction a putsch!"

Hitler's brows narrowed, his nostrils flaring in indignation.

"You sanction nothing but lawlessness." Berg was suddenly aware that his speech was slurred.

A smile formed on Hitler's lips. "I sanction whatever is necessary to get rid of the enemies of our Fatherland. Make sure you are not counted among them."

"I hold you responsible for this!" Berg barked. He coughed sputum veined with blood.

Hitler's upper lip twitched. He turned to one of the youths and nodded.

Without warning, Berg was grabbed by his coat collar and pulled upward. Before he could react, a granite-hard object thwacked his cheekbone. Immediately, he went light-headed, as his vision turned to pinpoints of light. His stomach turned into a pit of acid as bile wormed up through his esophagus. When his eyesight cleared, Berg realized he was looking at the world in blurred duplicate.

But even through his compromised vision, he could make out the remnants of what was once Anton Gross, now a bloodied mass of flesh and pulp, unrecognizable as a living being. One of the Jew's eyes dangled from its socket on the white twine of a nerve. The man's nose had been crushed so hard, his face was now concave.

That was the last image that burned in Berg's brain before he blacked out.

TWENTY-TWO.

In and out of a drug-induced stupor; mercifully, the pain lasted only for brief interludes. It took several days for Berg to wake up, for the medication to wear off sufficiently until he knew he was in a bad way. Head throbbing, his mouth caked with dust, each pulse of his heart sending waves of agony through his jaw. He blinked several times, then tried to swallow. When no saliva materialized to soothe his throat, he hacked drily, his temples pounding with each cough. He knew he wasn't dead, but he felt as if he were.

"Papa is up!" Monika shrieked. "Papa is up."

"Hush!" Britta scolded, then softened her tone of voice. "This is a hospital, dolly."

"Here, Papa." Joachim brought a wet rag to his father's mouth, moistening his lips, and wiping his face with filial love. With great effort, Berg hoisted his body upward until he was in a semireclined position. Monika smoothed his sheets as Britta propped up his head with soft pillows.

"You want water, Axel?"

The answer was yes, but Berg couldn't move his head. He blinked because that was all he could do, and even that seemed Herculean.

A needle in his arm was attached to an IV. That meant he was in a hospital ward. The muscles of his neck creaked as he slowly turned his head.

Ten beds on each side, and all of them were occupied. Above the headboards hung wooden crucifixes; nuns in black habits and nurses in starched white uniforms scurried about-a life-size chessboard. As the grogginess lifted from his brain, he became aware of sounds . . . moans . . . groans . . . the soft sighs of weeping. Whispers crackled through the air like radio static. He freed his hand from under the sheets and pointed to the water glass.

Britta held the cup to his lips. "Sip slowly."

As if to sip any other way was an option. Feeling the cool liquid course down his parched throat, he nodded for more.

Again, Britta offered the glass, but this time his thirst was greedy. Trying to make up for forty-eight hours of breathing hot, stale air.

"Slowly, Axel," Britta told him.

Within a minute, he had finished the entire glass.

"Good man," he heard Muller say.

Georg was here?

"More water," Berg said. His voice was tinny. It reverberated in the hollows of his skull.

Britta held her hand to her face and tears leaked out. "It's good to hear your voice, Axel."

"Water."

"Let me ask the nurse-"

"Damn the nurse," Berg responded. "More water."

"Das ist gut," Storf told him. "He's recovering quickly."

Georg and Ulrich were both here. For them to have come . . . had he been that close to the other side? Joachim poured water from a pitcher into the empty glass, then brought it to his father's lips. Berg managed to take the vessel out of his son's hands and into his own grip. "I'm fine," he stated.

His announcement was met with laughter from everyone except Britta. "You are not fine, Axel. You were beaten up, and you must stay in bed if you hope to recover."

"Horseshit!" Berg insisted. "How long have I been here?"

"Talk slowly, Axel," Storf told him. "Your jaw and lips are twice their size. It's hard to understand your words."

"How . . . ?" Another swallow. "How long . . . have I been . . . here . . . in a hospital?"

"You came in Monday morning; it's now Wednesday," Storf told him.

"What some people won't do to sleep late in the morning," Muller said.

Berg felt his lips break into a lopsided smile. His hand traced the topography of his jawline, his fingertips delicately moving over an enormous swelling. There were no bandages around the area. Though very tender and sore, his mouth had mobility. "It isn't broken . . . my jaw?"

Monika stood at his bedside and plopped a kiss on top of his head. "You have a giant bump, Papa. The size of an egg. I didn't know a bone could grow a bump so big."

"It's not broken, Papa," Joachim told him. "Just bruised. Very badly bruised."

"It's all purple and red and icky," Monika told him.

Joachim pushed blond hair out of his pale blue eyes. "The doctor was amazed, Papa. None of your bones are broken. He said you must have bones like lead."

"He has a brain like lead," Britta whispered. But he heard her. He offered her his hand and she took it. Again the tears escaped her eyes, trailing down her cheeks.

"Come, come," he told her. Gott in Himmel, how he hurt. "I'm tough. You're not going to get rid of me that easily. What's going on?"

Storf said, "If you rest properly, the doctor thinks that you'll be up and about in a week."

"A week?"

"Maybe a little sooner," Muller said.

"Maybe a little longer . . ." Britta turned her head.

Footsteps. Berg homed in on the source of the sound.

Volker.

"Our patient has awakened."

Fuck you, Berg thought. But he must have spoken out loud-and clearly, too. Volker bristled. "Britta, dear, can you take the children out for a spot of air."

Britta didn't move. As Volker repeated his request, she told him that she had heard him the first time. She looked down at her hand, her fingers laced with her husband's.

"Can't it wait, Herr Kommissar?"

"I need to speak with your husband, Britta."

Without the dear. Volker was angry. Fuck him. But this time, Berg managed to keep his words in his head.

With reluctance, Britta let go of her husband's hand and took Monika's small, soft hand. "I'll be back in five minutes, Axel."

As soon as his family was out of earshot, Volker said, "I'll assume the profanities were due to your delirious state. How do you feel, Axel?"

"I'll recover," he said softly. "What . . . what happened to Anton Gross?"

Muller blew out a gust of air; Volker played with the knot in his tie. "He died . . . trying to escape arrest."

Berg sat up, his eyes filled with fury. "That's a lie!"

Volker ignored his outburst. "He was trying to escape justice, and you were beaten up by him as you tried to restrain him. A true hero you are, Axel, risking your life for the honor of your profession. Deserving of a citation. I have talked to the Lord Mayor in regard to this-"

"This is pure shit!" Berg interrupted.

"Don't excite yourself, Axel." Volker smiled. "And don't waste your breath talking. No one can understand a word you say."

"It was your nephew who . . ." Berg suddenly felt a bomb of pain detonating in his head. For a brief moment, he was back in the trenches. He couldn't complete his sentence.

"Did you say something about Lothar?" Volker shook his head and clucked his tongue. "Quite a troublemaker. You needn't fret about him, Axel. He will be dealt with. You need to summon all your energy into recovery. I'll try to drop by tonight . . . after the rally." Volker took out his pocket watch. "Quarter to nine." He flipped the cover on his watch. "Are you gentlemen coming? It would not look good to our citizens for their officers to arrive late for duty."

"Five minutes, Kommissar," Muller said.

"No longer than that, Georg. You know how I frown on tardiness."

"We'll be there, Kommissar," Storf said.

"Good man, Ulrich, good man." Volker turned and left.

"Motherfucker!" Berg said. "It's all bullshit!"

"Axel, you must understand," Storf said. "There was a riot. People were hurt. Not only you."

"Badly?"

"None as badly as you were," Muller said. "But there were some bruises and broken bones."

Storf said, "They blame it on the Jew."

"It wasn't the Jew!" Berg said. "It was Hitler's gang . . . thugs and hoodlums." Lord, how his head hurt-but he couldn't let go. "They were there from the very beginning, throwing rocks at Gross . . . at me, too. Absolutely no regard for the law!"

"The Nazis say the Jew was trying to escape-"

"Lies!"

"It is in the official police report," Storf said. "It is over and done, Axel. There is no sense protesting because you cannot change it."

Berg leaned back on his pillow. It was all a nightmare-the pain that racked his body, the humiliation of being beaten by thugs, Gross's horrifying death. "I hurt" was all that he could say.

"Then you must sleep," Muller said.

Storf tapped Berg gently on the shoulder. "Heal up, Inspektor. All is not lost. We're still working on Marlena Druer's murder. Come back soon. We need your help-not to mention the extra duty we must work with you gone."

Extra duty? Like tinder against a flint, Berg's brain began to spark. "What rally was Volker talking about?"