Death in Breslau iem-1

by Marek Krajewski

  BRESLAU, THAT SAME JULY 15TH, 1934

  EIGHT O’CLOCK IN THE EVENING

  Kurt Wirth and Hans Zupitza knew that they could not refuse Mock. These two bandits, before whom the entire criminal world of Breslau shook, had a double debt of gratitude owing to “good Uncle Eberhard”. Firstly, he had saved them from the noose; secondly, he had allowed them to carry on with dealings both profitable and completely at odds with German law. In exchange, he sometimes asked them to do that which they did best.

  Wirth had met Zupitza twenty years earlier, in 1914, on the freight ship Prinz Heinrich, which sailed between Danzig and Amsterdam. They became friends without the use of unnecessary words — Zupitza was a mute. The clever, short and slim Wirth, ten years his elder, took the twenty-year-old mute giant under his wing and did not regret his decision a month later when Zupitza saved his life for the first time. It happened in a tavern in Copenhagen. Three drunk, Italian sailors wanted to teach the small, thin German some good manners — meaning how to drink wine. This cultural education entailed pouring gallons of sour Danish plonk down Wirth’s throat. When he was already on the floor, drunk, the Italians decided that they would not be able to civilize that Kraut anyway so it would be better if such a cad disappeared from the face of the earth altogether. They had begun enforcing this decision with the help of broken bottles when into the inn came Zupitza who, a moment earlier, had almost brought down the wooden privy where he had got his hands on one of the numerous girls who comforted sailors in Copenhagen. He had not, however, lost all of his energy in her arms. A few seconds later, the Italians had stopped moving. The following day, the gloomy waiter — whose countenance over time would frighten many — shook like jelly when, questioned by the police, he tried to put across in his unskilled tongue the sound of skin cracked open, the shattering of glass, the moans and the wheezing. When Wirth came to, he weighed out the pros and cons and in Amsterdam abandoned the sailor’s profession for ever. The inseparable Zupitza likewise disembarked permanently on to terra firma. Yet they did not break all contact with the sea. Wirth devised a means of survival not known in Europe at the time: extortion from port smugglers. The pair formed an efficient mechanism whereby Wirth was the brain, Zupitza the muscle. Wirth would lead the negotiations with the smugglers; if these proved not to be submissive, Zupitza would kidnap and murder them, using methods invented by Wirth. Soon all the police in post-war Europe were looking for them: in the docks of Hamburg and Stockholm, where they left their victims’ mutilated remains; in the brothels of Vienna and Berlin, where they spent mountains of increasingly worthless marks. They felt the chase on their backs. Chance associates began to betray them more and more frequently in exchange for worthless promises. Wirth had a choice: either to leave for America, where the Mafia awaited them, bloodthirsty and ruthless competition in the field of extortion, or to find a quiet and peaceful place in Europe. The first choice was very dangerous, the second virtually impossible, since European policemen everywhere, dreaming of fame, carried photographs of both bandits in their pockets.

  Nobody achieved that fame, but there was one man who consciously rejected it. This was a policeman from Breslau — Criminal Director Eberhard Mock — who, in the mid-’20s was in charge of so-called Vice Affairs in the Kleinburg district. It was shortly after his extraordinary promotion. All the newspapers wrote about the brilliant career of the forty-one-year-old policeman who, from one day to the next, had become one of the most important people in the city — Deputy to the Chief of the Breslau Police Criminal Department, Muhlhaus. On May 18th, 1925, during a routine check on a brothel on Kastanien-Allee, Mock, shaking with nerves, enlisted a constable from the street and, together, they burst into the room where the duo, Wirth and Zupitza, were mingling with a female trio. Mock, afraid that the arrested men might not obey him, shot them just in case, even before they had managed to clamber out from under the girls. Then, with his constable’s help, he tied them up and, in a hired cart, took them to Karlowitz. There, on the flood banks, Mock presented the two bound and bleeding bandits with his conditions: he would not stand them up in front of a tribunal if they settled in Breslau and obeyed him unconditionally. They accepted the proposition without reservation. Nor were there any reservations as to the whole situation on the part of the constable, Kurt Smolorz. He was quick to pick up Mock’s reasoning, not least since it most intimately concerned his own career. Both bandits found themselves in a certain friendly brothel where, handcuffed to their beds, they were subjected to loving first aid. After a week of convalescence, Mock made his conditions explicit: he demanded the large sum of a thousand dollars for himself and five hundred for Smolorz. He did not trust German money, which was being wasted away at the time by the fatal disease, inflation. In exchange, he proposed to Wirth that he would close his eyes on the extortion racket against smugglers who, shunting their dirty goods to Stettin, paused in Breslau’s river port. It was an argument of a sentimental nature which inclined Wirth to accept these propositions unconditionally. Mock had decided to separate the inseparable companions and assured Wirth that — if the money was not handed over on time — Zupitza would be turned over to the hands of justice. A second important argument was the prospect of a peaceful, settled life instead of the wandering life they had led up until then. Two weeks later, Mock and Smolorz were wealthy men, while Wirth and Zupitza — sprung from the executioner’s axe — entered terra incognita, fallow ground which they swiftly cultivated in their own way.

  That evening, they were happily drinking warm vodka in Gustav Thiel’s tavern on Bahnhofstrasse. The tiny man with a foxy face, slashed with scars, and the square, silent Golem accompanying him, made an unusual couple. Some of the customers laughed at them surreptitiously; one of the regulars was completely unabashed and openly expressed his amusement. The fat man with pink, wrinkled skin kept exploding into laughter and pointing his chubby finger in their direction. Since they were not reacting to his taunts, he recognized them as cowards. And there was nothing he liked more than to torment fearful people. He rose and, pushing his feet hard into the damp floorboards, made towards his victims. He stood near their table and laughed hoarsely:

  “Well then, my little man … Are you going to have a drink with good old uncle Konrad?”

  Wirth did not so much as glance up at him. He calmly drew strange shapes with his finger on the wet oilcloth. Zupitza gazed pensively at the pickled gherkins swimming in a murky solution. At last, Wirth turned his eyes to Konrad. Not of his own free will, certainly: the fat man had squeezed his cheeks and was ramming a bottle of vodka into his mouth.

  “Piss off, you fat pig!” Wirth with difficulty suppressed the memories of Copenhagen.

  The fat man blinked in disbelief and grabbed Wirth by the lapels of his jacket. Not noticing the giant rise from his seat, he butted his head, but before it reached the would-be victim’s face Zupitza’s open hand materialized and the assailant’s forehead collided with it. That same hand grasped the fat man by the nose and shoved him on to the counter. Wirth, in the meantime, was not idle. He leapt on to the bar, grabbed Konrad by the collar and slammed his head into the countertop wet with beer. Zupitza took advantage of the moment. He spread his arms and suddenly clapped them together. The fat man’s head found itself between two fists; blows from either side crushed his temples, soot poured over his eyes. Zupitza took the inert body under the arms while Wirth made way for him. Those present in the tavern were numb with fear. Nobody would laugh at the singular couple again. They all knew that Konrad Schmidt did not give in to just anyone.

  BRESLAU, THAT SAME JULY 15TH, 1934

  NINE O’CLOCK IN THE EVENING

  Unusual equipment had been arranged in cell no. 2 of the investigative prison in the Police Praesidium: a dentist’s chair, its arms and leg-rests fitted with leather straps and a brass buckle. At that moment, the straps tightly hugged the mighty, stout limbs of the man sitting in it, a man so terrified that he was almost swallowing his gag.

  “Did you
know, sirs, that what every sadist fears most is another sadist?” Mock calmly finished his cigarette. “Consider, Schmidt, these men,” — he indicated Wirth and Zupitza — “they are the cruellest sadists in all Europe. And do you know what they like most? You won’t find out if you answer my questions nicely.”

  Mock signalled to Smolorz to remove the gag from Konrad’s mouth. The prisoner breathed heavily. Anwaldt asked the first question:

  “What did you do to Friedlander during the interrogation that made him admit to killing Marietta von der Malten?”

  “Nothing, he was simply afraid of us, that’s all. He said he killed her.”

  Anwaldt gave the signal to the duo. Wirth yanked Konrad’s jaw down, Zupitza thrust an iron rod into his mouth. He squeezed the upper first tooth with a small pair of pliers and broke it in half. Konrad screamed for almost half a minute. Then Zupitza removed the rod. Anwaldt asked the question again.

  “We tied the Jew’s daughter to the couch. Walter said we’d rape her if he didn’t admit to slashing up that one in the train.”

  “Which Walter?”

  “Piontek.”

  “And then he confessed?”

  “Yes. Why in the hell is he asking that?” Konrad turned to Mock. “For you, it’s …”

  He did not manage to finish. Mock broke in:

  “But you screwed that Jewish girl anyway, eh, Schmidt?”

  “It goes without saying,” Konrad’s eyes hid in folds of skin.

  “And now, tell us, who is this Turk with whom you tortured Anwaldt?”

  “That I don’t know. The boss simply told me that with this one here we … both … well …” here he indicated the Assistant with his eyes.

  Mock gave Zupitza the signal. The rod found itself in Konrad’s jaws again and Zupitza yanked the pliers down. What remained of the broken tooth crunched in its gum. At the next signal, Zupitza broke off a bit of the second upper first. Konrad choked on blood, wheezed and sobbed. After a minute, they removed the rod from his teeth. Unfortunately, Schmidt could not say anything because his jaw was dislocated. It took Smolorz a long time to put it back in place.

  “I am asking you again. Who is that Turk? What is his name and what is he doing at the Gestapo?”

  “I don’t know. I swear.”

  This time Schmidt pressed his jaws together so tightly as to make it impossible for them to reintroduce the rod. Then Wirth took a hammer and positioned a huge nail on the hand of the bound man. He slammed at the hammer. Konrad screamed. Not for the first time that day, Zupitza demonstrated his reflexes. When the Gestapo-man’s jaws flew open, the rod quickly found itself between them.

  “Are you going to talk or do you want to lose some more teeth?” asked Anwaldt. “Are you going to talk?”

  The prisoner nodded. The rod was removed.

  “Kemal Erkin. He came to the Gestapo in order to train. The boss holds him in high esteem. I don’t know any more.”

  “Where does he live?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Mock was certain that Konrad had told them everything. Unfortunately — even too much. Because in the broken, stifled phrase “For you, it’s …” he had touched on the murky secret of Mock’s agreement with Piontek. Luckily, he had only brushed up against it. Mock did not know whether any of the men present could guess the rest of the sentence. He looked at the tired but clearly moved Anwaldt and at Smolorz, calm as usual. (No, they probably haven’t guessed.) Wirth and Zupitza looked at Mock in expectation.

  “We won’t get any more out of him, gentlemen.” He got up close to Konrad and gagged him again. “Wirth, there’s to be no trace left of this man, understood? Apart from that, I advise you leave Germany. You were seen in that tavern butchering Schmidt. If you’d acted like professionals and waited for him to go outside, you could safely carry on with your business. But you got carried away. Did you have to deal with him in the tavern? I had no idea you got so violent when someone offers you vodka. Too bad. Tomorrow, when Konrad doesn’t turn up for work … the day after tomorrow at the latest, the entire Gestapo in Breslau will be looking for your distinctive mugs. In three days, they’re going to be looking for you all over Germany. I advise you to leave the country. Go somewhere far away … I consider your debt repaid.”

  X

  BRESLAU, MONDAY, JULY 16TH, 1934

  NINE O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING

  Konrad Schmidt’s body had been lying at the bottom of the Oder beyond Hollandwiesen for ten hours already when Mock and Anwaldt lit up their choice Bairam cigars from Przedecki’s and were having their first sip of strong, Arabic coffee. Leo Hartner did not conceal his pleasure. He was sure he was going to surprise and interest his listeners. Pacing his office, he constructed in his mind a plan of how to present his report, appropriately distributing the turning-points, composing apt recapitulations. Seeing that his guests were growing impatient with the prevailing silence, he began his lecture with apparent retardation.

  “My dear friends, in his Geschichte der persischen Litteratur Wilhelm Grunhagen mentioned a lost historical work from the fourteenth century describing the Crusades. This work, entitled The War of Allah’s Army against the Infidels, was supposed to have been written by a certain educated Persian, an Ibn Sahim. Gentlemen — ‘So what?’ — you may say. After all, many works have disappeared … here’s … yet another old manuscript … Such disdain would, however, be unfounded. If Ibn Sahim’s work had survived to this day, we would be in possession of yet one more source of the fascinating history of the Crusades, a source all the more interesting in that it was written by a man from the other side of the barricades — a Musulman.”

  Mock and Anwaldt lived up to the lecturer’s hopes. The epic delay of the narration did not disconcert either of the would-be Classicists. Hartner was excited. He placed his slim hand on the pile of papers:

  “My dear gentlemen, the dream of many an historian and Oriental specialist has been fulfilled. In front of me lies the lost work of Ibn Sahim. Who discovered it? Yes, yes — it was Georg Maass. True enough, I don’t know how he discovered that the manuscript was to be found in the University of Breslau’s library, whether he was the one who found a clue or whether someone gave it to him. And it is not easy to find a manuscript which — as this one is — has been bound with two other, lesser manuscripts. To put it briefly, this discovery will bring Maass world fame … The more so since, working on the piece, he is simultaneously translating it into German. And — this I do have to concede — he is translating faithfully and most beautifully. The photographic prints which you gave me are a literal translation of a very interesting fragment of that chronicle. It speaks of a macabre murder committed in the year 1205 by two men — a Turk and a Crusader — on the children of Al-Shausi, the leader of the Yesidi sect. Those who know the history of the Crusades will be surprised, for in 1205, during the fourth Crusade, the Crusaders did not go beyond Constantinople! But one cannot exclude single sallies of at least a few detachments even into the distant territories of Anatolia or, perhaps, Mesopotamia. These seekers of adventure and riches plundered what they could, sometimes in excellent mutual understanding with the Muslims. The Yesidis frequently became the target of their attacks …”

  Anwaldt sat listening, all ears. Mock glanced at his watch and opened his mouth politely to ask Hartner to get to the point. The latter, fortunately, understood his intention:

  “Yes, yes, your Excellency, I’m just going to explain who these Yesidis were. This rather secret sect, which came into being in the twelfth century and exists to this day, is commonly considered as being satanic. This is a great simplification. Indeed, the Yesidis do worship Satan, but a Satan that is already being punished for his sins. Despite the punishment, however, he is still omnipotent. They call this god of evil Malek Tau, represent him in the guise of a peacock, and believe that he rules the world with the help of six or seven angels, also represented as iron or bronze peacocks. To put it briefly, the Yesidi religion is a mixture of Islam, Christianit
y, Judaism and Mazdaism, that is, all the faiths whose representatives crossed the mountains in the centre of Mesopotamia, west of Mosul, leaving behind crumbs of their beliefs. On a day-to-day basis, the Yesidis are a peaceful, honest and clean people — and this the nineteenth-century traveller and archaeologist, Austen Henry Layard, clearly emphasized — who have been persecuted over entire centuries by everyone: the Crusaders, Arabs, Turks and Kurds. So do not be surprised that alliances against the Yesidis were forged even between those who fought each other, such as the Crusaders and the Saracens. For all these persecutors, the cult of the god of evil was a stumbling block which justified the cruellest of slaughters. The decimated Yesidis avenged themselves on their enemies in the same way, passing down the dictates of ancestral revenge from generation to generation. To this day, they live on the borders of Turkey and Persia, retaining their unaltered customs and strange faith …”

  “Doctor Hartner,” the impatient Mock could no longer bear it. “What you’re saying is very interesting, but please tell us, does this interesting story from centuries ago — apart from the fact that Maass brought it into the light of day — have any bearing on our case?”

  “Yes. A great deal,” Hartner adored surprises. “But let us be precise, gentlemen: it is not Maass who brought this chronicle out into the light of day, but the person who murdered Marietta von der Malten,” he relished the astonished expression of his listeners. “I declare with full responsibility that the writing on the wall of the saloon carriage where that unfortunate girl was found comes from precisely that Persian chronicle. In translation, it reads: ‘And scorpions did in their innards dance’. Keep calm, I will try to answer all of your questions presently … Now I’ll give you one more piece of important information. An anonymous source from the end of the thirteenth century, recorded in the writings of a Frankish chronicler, states that the teenage children of the Yesidi leader, Al-Shausi, were murdered by a ‘German knight’. Only two of our compatriots took part in the fourth Crusade. One of them died in Constantinople. The other was Godfryd von der Malten. Yes, gentlemen, our Baron’s ancestor.”