† ‘Schlossarczyk’ is the German form of the Polish surname ‘Slusarczyk’.
XIV
BRESLAU, THAT SAME TUESDAY, JULY 17TH, 1934
SEVEN O’CLOCK IN THE EVENING
Eberhard Mock sat shirtless in his apartment on Rehdigerplatz, resting after a heavy and nerve-racking day. He spread out the chessboard, positioned out the pieces and tried to immerse himself in Uberbrand’s Chess Traps. He was analysing a particular master hand. As usual, he put himself in the defence’s position and, to his satisfaction, found a solution which led to stalemate. He looked at the chessboard again and instead of the white king, which was not being pinned down in check but which nevertheless could not move, he saw himself, Criminal Director Eberhard Mock. He stood retreating, under fire from the black knight, who bore the face of Olivier von der Malten, and the black queen, who resembled the Chief of Gestapo, Erich Kraus. The white bishop, looking like Smolorz, stood useless in one corner of the board, and the white queen, Anwaldt, was curled up somewhere on his desk far from the chessboard. Mock did not answer the telephone which rang persistently for the fourth time already that evening. He expected he would hear the Baron’s cold voice summoning him to give a report. What was he to tell von der Malten? That Anwaldt had disappeared who knew where? That the owner of the tenement and his new tenant had entered Maass’ apartment and found Smolorz there? Yes, he could of course say that he had identified the murderer. But where was that murderer? In Breslau? In Germany? Or maybe the mountains of Kurdistan? The telephone rang persistently. Mock counted the rings. Twelve. He got up and crossed the room. The telephone stopped ringing. At that moment, he threw himself at the receiver. He remembered von Hardenburg’s principle regarding telephones: wait until the twelfth ringing tone. He went to the kitchen and took a piece of dried sausage. Today was the servant’s day off. He tore a fair piece of sausage with his teeth, then ate a spoonful of hot horseradish. As he chewed, his eyes watered abundantly — the horseradish was hot — and he thought about the young Berliner who, humiliated and maltreated in the Gestapo cells, had surrendered under his torturers’ threats and left this over-heated and evil city. The telephone rang again. (Where can Anwaldt be?) A second ringing of the telephone. (I’ll sort that cursed Forstner out yet!) Third. (A nerve-racking day, but nothing really happened.) Fourth. (That’s exactly why). Fifth. (It’s a pity about Anwaldt; it would be good to have someone like him among my men.) Sixth. (Too bad, he too had found himself in a “vice”.) Seventh. (I’ve got to get a whore for myself. That’ll calm me.) Eighth. (I can’t pick it up with my mouth full.) Ninth. (Yes, I’ll call Madame.) Tenth. (Maybe it’s von Hardenburg?) The telephone rang for the eleventh time. Mock dashed into the hall and picked the receiver up after the twelfth bell. His ear heard a drunk babbling. He brusquely interrupted the stream of incomprehensible justifications.
“Where are you, Anwaldt?”
“At the station.”
“Wait for me on platform one. I’ll come and collect you right away. Repeat — which platform?”
“Plaaaatform … One.”
Mock did not find Anwaldt on platform one or on any other platform. Guided by his intuition, he went to Bahnschutz Police Station. Anwaldt was lying in a cell, asleep and snoring loudly. Mock showed the astounded duty constable his identification and politely asked for help. The constable eagerly barked some instructions to his men. They grasped the drunkard under the arms and carried him out to the Adler. Mock thanked the obliging constable and his colleagues, started the engine and a quarter of an hour later was back at Rehdigerplatz. All the benches on the square were occupied. People, resting after the day’s heat, watched with amazement as a stocky man with a sizeable belly, panting loudly, dragged an inert creature from the back seat of his car.
“He’s sozzled,” laughed a passing teenager.
Mock removed the drunken man’s jacket, soiled with vomit, rolled it up and threw it into the front of the car. Next, he threw the man’s left arm over his own sweaty neck, with his right he took him by the waist and, under the eyes of the mocking rabble, hauled him through the doorway. The caretaker, as if out of spite, was nowhere to be seen. “Anyone could walk through the door and that idiot’s probably drinking beer at Kohl’s,” he muttered furiously. He advanced step by step. His cheek rubbed against Anwaldt’s dirty, sweaty shirt. He shuddered every now and then as a sour cloud of breath swept over him, stopped on the half-landings and swore like a trooper, careless of the neighbours. One of them, the lawyer Doctor Fritz Patschkowsky, taking his dog for a walk, stood stock still, amazed, and the large Pomeranian practically tore itself from its leash. Mock glanced at the man with some hostility and did not respond to the haughty “good evening”. At last he reached his door and stood Anwaldt next to it. With one hand, he held him up; with the other, he struggled with the lock. A minute later, he was in the apartment. Anwaldt lay on the floor in the hall. Mock, sitting at the mahogany dressing-table, was breathing heavily. He closed the door and calmly smoked a cigarette. Next, he grasped Anwaldt by his shirt collar and tugged him to the games room. He took him under the arms, put him on to the gently sloping chaise longue, and searched his pockets. Nothing. (Some pick-pocket has already robbed him.) He loosened the tie, unbuttoned the shirt and removed the shoes. Anwaldt’s clothes were in a dismal condition, stained by grease and ash. On the thin cheeks, a two-day stubble fell like a shadow. Mock observed his subordinate for a while, then went out to the kitchen and ran his eyes thoughtfully over the green jars standing on the top shelf in the larder. Each of them had a parchment cap held in place by a pale rubber band. Finally, he found a jar containing dried mint. He poured two handfuls of the herb into a jug and then, with some difficulty, lit a fire under the stove. He fiddled with the stove lids for a long time until he found the right one and stood a shining, polished kettle on it. From the bathroom, he brought a tin basin and stood it next to Anwaldt’s bedding just in case, then returned to the kitchen. He lifted the steaming kettle and filled the jug containing the leaves with boiling water. Not knowing how to extinguish the fire, he drowned it with tap water. Then he took a cool bath and changed into a dressing gown. He sat at his desk, lit a fat Turkish cigar — one of the ones he kept for special occasions — and looked at the chessboard. Stalemate continued to paralyse the king-Eberhard Mock. He was still threatened by the knight-von der Malten and the queen-Kraus. But here, at the chessboard, appeared the white queen-Anwaldt — recovered from somewhere — and came to the king’s aid.
BRESLAU, WEDNESDAY, JULY 18TH, 1934
EIGHT O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING
Anwaldt opened his swollen eyes and immediately saw the jug and glass standing on the little table. With shaking hands, he filled it with strained mint tea and raised it to his lips.
“Shall I give you a knife to separate those lips?” Mock was tying his tie, spreading a spicy scent of quality eau de cologne and smiling kindheartedly. “Do you know, I’m not even furious with you. Because how can you be furious with someone who’s just miraculously been found? Click, Anwaldt was here and Anwaldt’s gone. Click, and Anwaldt’s here again.” Mock stopped smiling. “Nod if you had a good reason to disappear from my sight.”
Anwaldt nodded. Fireworks lit up inside his skull. He poured himself some more mint. Mock stood astride, observing his hung-over assistant. He clasped his hands and twiddled his thumbs.
“Good. I see you feel like drinking. That means you won’t be sick. I’ve run a bath for you. There’s one of my shirts in the bathroom and your cleaned and pressed suit. You certainly took care of it yesterday. I paid the caretaker’s wife an arm and a leg for her efforts. It took her half the night. She also cleaned your shoes. You’ll pay me back when you’ve got some money. Someone robbed you yesterday. Take a shave because you look like an alcoholic tramp. Use my razor,” Mock was harsh and decisive. “And now listen to me. In three-quarters of an hour you’re to sit here and tell me your adventures. Briefly and concretely. Then we’ll go to John the Bapti
st’s Cathedral. There, at nine-fifteen, Doctor Leo Hartner’s going to be waiting for us.”
They sat in the cool darkness. The violence of the sun stopped short of the coloured filter of stained-glass windows; walls of ashlar muffled the noise and bustle of the sweating city; Silesian princes slept in silent niches; and Latin signs on the walls invoked the contemplation of eternity. Mock’s watch showed nine-twenty. As agreed, they sat in the front row and watched out for Hartner. Instead of him, a short priest with a crew-cut and silver-framed spectacles walked up to them. Without a word, he handed Mock an envelope, turned and left. Anwaldt wanted to follow him, but Mock held him back. He took the typed letter from the envelope and passed it to his assistant.
“You read. I can’t see properly in this light and we’re not going out into that cursed heat.” On saying this, Mock realized that he was speaking in familiar terms to Baron von der Malten’s son. (If I was on familiar terms with Marietta, I can be the same with him.)
Anwaldt looked at the sheet of paper embossed with the University Library’s golden crest beneath which appeared the elegant letters of the Director’s typewriter.
Dear Excellency.
I apologize for not being able to attend our appointment personally, but family reasons prompted me to leave suddenly yesterday evening. I called Your Excellency several times, but you were not in. So let me speak through this letter for I have several important things to impart. All that I am now going to say is based on the admirable book Les Yesidis by Jean Boye, published ten years ago in Paris. The author, a well-known French ethnographer and traveller, stayed with the Yesidis for four years. They liked him and respected him to such a degree that he was admitted to some sacred rituals. Among the many interesting descriptions of the religious cult of this secret sect, one is particularly significant. And so, our author stayed somewhere in the desert (he doesn’t say exactly where) with several of the Yesidi elders. There, they visited an old hermit who lived in a grotto. This elderly eremite would frequently dance and fall into a trance like the Turkish dervishes. While he did so, he pronounced prophecies in an incomprehensible tongue. Boye had for a long time to implore the Yesidis to clarify these prophetic cries. They eventually agreed and explained them. The hermit proclaimed that the time of vengeance for the murdered children of Al-Shausi had come. Boye, knowing the history of the Yesidis very well, knew that these children had died at the turn of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. He was surprised, therefore, that these born avengers had waited so long to fulfil their sacred duty. The Yesidis explained to him that, according to their law, vengeance is only valid if it corresponds exactly to the crime which it is to avenge. So that if someone’s eye had been gouged out with a stiletto, then his avenger had to visit the same barbarity on the criminal or his descendant, and not just with any ordinary knife but with a stiletto and — best of all — the very same one.
Vengeance for Al-Shausi’s murdered children would only be in keeping with their law if the children of the murderer’s descendant were killed in the very same way. But this could not come about for centuries, up until the moment that the deity Malak-Taus manifested himself to the hermit and announced that the awaited time had come. These hermits are profoundly venerated by the Yesidis and are considered to be the guardians of tradition. And the duty to avenge belongs to the sacred tradition. So that when the eremite announced that the time was right, the gathering chose an avenger whose right hand was tattooed with the symbol of vengeance. If this avenger did not fulfil his task, they hung him before everybody’s eyes. So much for Boye.
Dear Excellency, I too, unfortunately, am unable to answer the question which so troubled Jean Boye. I looked through the entire genealogy of the von der Malten family and think I know why the Yesidi’s vengeance could not be fulfilled for so many centuries. In the fourteenth century, the von der Maltens branched into three: the Silesian, the Bavarian and the Netherlandish. In the eighteenth century, the last two dried out. The Silesian branch did not propagate abundantly — mostly singleton boys were born to this well-known junker’s family, and the vengeance — let me remind you — could only be considered valid if it was carried out on siblings. In that family’s entire history, siblings were born only five times. In two cases, one of the children died when still an infant, in two others, the boys died in unknown circumstances. In the last one, Olivier von der Malten’s aunt, his father Ruppert’s sister, spent all her days in a strictly closed, sequestered convent, so that vengeance on her was effectively hindered.
Dear Excellency, I wrote that I know why revenge has not been taken. Unfortunately, I do not know why this elder had insight and announced ceremoniously that the moment of vengeance had come. The only living male descendant of Godfryd von der Malten, Olivier, did not, at the time of the hermit’s insight, have any other children apart from the hapless Marietta. So that her terrible murder is a tragic mistake of a demented old shaman, caused by the hashish which is so popular in his country.
I finish my overly long letter and apologize for not verifiying Maass’ translation of Friedlander’s last two prophecies. A lack of time rendered it impossible; much time was spent in my examining the Yesidi’s curse and on complicated family matters which unexpectedly hastened my departure. I remain sincerely yours, Doctor Leo Hartner.
Mock and Anwaldt looked at each other. They knew that the prophecies of the holy elder from the desert were not the drug-induced babble of a demented shaman. They left the cathedral and, without a word, got into the Adler, which was parked in the shade of an enormous chestnut tree, of which many grew in the Cathedral Square.
“Don’t worry, son,” Mock looked at Anwaldt with compassion. This was no slip of the tongue. He had uttered the word “son” consciously. He remembered the Baron, clinging to the train window and shouting: “He is my son”. “I’ll take you home now. Your apartment may not be safe. I’ll send Smolorz to get your things. You stay at my place, get some sleep, do not answer any telephone calls and do not open the door to anyone. In the evening, I’ll take you somewhere where you’ll forget about your daddy and all insects.”
XV
BRESLAU, THAT SAME WEDNESDAY, JULY 18TH, 1934
EIGHT O’CLOCK IN THE EVENING
Wednesday frolics at Madame le Goef’s salon were kept in the style of Antiquity. In the evening, a naked slave, painted the colour of mahogany, struck an enormous gong, the curtain rose and the set was revealed in front of the audience: the facade of a Roman temple with naked men and women dancing against this background amidst rose petals floating from the ceiling. These Bacchanalia — where dancers only mimicked sexual congress — lasted about twenty minutes, after which there followed an interval of a similar duration. During this time, some guests retreated to discreet rooms while others fortified themselves and drank. After the break, the slave struck the gong once again and on stage there appeared several “Roman men and women” dressed in thin tunics, which they promptly discarded. More rose petals fell, the room became airless; this time, the bacchanalia were real. After half an hour of such games, the actors and actresses left the stage — exhausted, the hall emptied while the withdrawing rooms burst at the seams.
That evening, Rainer von Hardenburg, Eberhard Mock and Herbert Anwaldt sat in a small gallery, observing the introductory mimicry of a Bacchanalian orgy from above. At the very outset of the performance, already, Anwaldt was clearly stirred. Seeing this, Mock got up and went to Madame’s office. He greeted her effusively and presented her with his request. Madame agreed without hesitation and picked up the telephone. Mock returned to his seat. Anwaldt leaned over to him and whispered:
“Where does one get the keys to one of the rooms?”
“Wait a minute. What’s the hurry?” Mock laughed coarsely.
“Look: all the prettiest ones are being taken.”
“They’re all pretty here. See: those coming in our direction, for example.”
Two girls in school uniforms were approaching their table. Both policemen knew
them well; the girls, on the other hand, pretended to be seeing the men for the first time. Both gazed at Anwaldt with rapture. Suddenly, the one resembling Erna touched his hand and smiled. He got up, put his arms around the girls’ slender backs, turned to Mock and said “thank you”. The three withdrew to a room in the middle of which stood a round table with a beautifully embossed chessboard. Von Hardenburg glanced at Mock with a smile. He relaxed in Madame le Goef’s salon and was not so exacting with titles.
“You knew how to make that boy happy. Who is he?”
“A close relative from Berlin. Also a policeman.”
“So we’ll hear a Berliner’s opinion of the best club in Breslau. Or rather just outside of Breslau.”
“What do Berliners know? They’ll always laugh at us. But not my relative. He’s too well behaved. You know, they have to treat their complexes somehow. Especially those who come from Breslau. You know the saying ‘a true Berliner has to come from Breslau’?”
“Yes. Take Kraus, for example,” von Hardenburg adjusted his monocle. “He spent two years in Berlin then, after Heines’, Bruckner’s and Piontek’s downfalls, von Woyrsch transferred him to Breslau as Chief of Gestapo. Kraus took his promotion as a kick upstairs. So, to hide his disappointment, our spiteful and wooden-headed eager beaver started to turn his nose up. And here is the two-year-old Berliner criticizing Silesian provincialism at every step. I checked — do you know where he’s from? From Lower Silesian Frankenstein.”
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