Death in Breslau

by Marek Krajewski

  The Director’s reminiscences were interrupted by the phone ringing. He was glad to hear Anwaldt’s voice.

  “I’m taking advantage of your kind permission and calling. I have a problem with Weinsberg. He’s called Winkler now and is pretending not to know anything about Friedländer. He did not want to talk and almost set his dogs on me. Do you have ‘something’ on him?”

  Mock considered for a full minute.

  “I think so, but I can’t talk about it over the phone. Please come here in an hour. Rehdigerplatz 1, apartment 6.”

  He replaced the receiver and dialled Forstner’s number. He asked him two questions and listened to the exhaustive replies. A moment later, the telephone began to ring again. Erich Kraus’ voice combined within itself two contrary intonations: the Chief of the Gestapo was at once asking and ordering.

  “Mock, who is this Anwaldt, and what’s he doing here?”

  Eberhard could not abide this arrogant tone. Walter Piontek had always humbly asked for information even though he knew that Mock could not refuse him, whereas Kraus brutally demanded it. Although he had worked in Breslau for only a week, the latter was already sincerely loathed by many for this lack of tact. “A parvenu from Frankenstein and a fanatic,” – whispered Breslau’s aristocrats, both those of blood and those of spirit.

  “Well, have you fallen asleep over there?”

  “Anwaldt is an Abwehr agent,” Mock had been prepared for questions about his new assistant. He knew that giving the true answer would be very dangerous for the Berliner. This reply also protected Anwaldt since the Head of Breslau’s Abwehr, the Silesian aristocrat, Rainer von Hardenburg, detested Kraus. “He’s uncovering Polish Intelligence in Breslau.”

  “Why do you need him? Why haven’t you gone on holiday as planned?”

  “A personal matter kept me here.”

  “What?”

  Kraus valued, above all, military marches and a stable family life. Mock felt revulsion for this man who, precisely and methodically, washed his hands of the blood of prisoners he himself had tortured in order later to sit down to a family meal. On the second day of office, Kraus had battered to death a married prisoner who had refused to reveal where he met with his lover, an employee of the Polish Consulate. He later boasted to the entire Police Praesidium that he hated marital infidelity.

  Mock drew in some air and hesitated:

  “I stayed back because of a girlfriend … But I ask you to be discreet … You know what it’s like …”

  “Psh,” snorted Kraus. “I do not know what it’s like.”

  The receiver was slammed down with force. Mock approached the window and stared at the dusty chestnut tree whose leaves were not ruffled by the slightest breeze. The water carrier was selling his life-giving liquid to the residents of the block, children chased each other and shouted on the playground belonging to the Jewish Community School and raised clouds of dust. Mock was somewhat irritated. He wanted a rest, but here they were not giving him any peace even after working hours. He set out the chessboard on his desk and reached for Chess Traps by Überbrand. When the combinations had absorbed him to such an extent that he had forgotten about the heat and his own tiredness, the doorbell rang. (Dammit, that must be Anwaldt. I hope he plays chess.)

  Anwaldt was an enthusiast of the game. So it is not surprising that he and Mock sat at the chessboard until dawn, drinking coffee and lemonade. Mock, who ascribed prognostic meanings to the simplest of actions, wagered that the result of the last game would prophesy the success of Anwaldt’s investigation. They played out the sixth and last game between two and four o’clock. It ended in a draw.

  BRESLAU, SUNDAY, JULY 8TH, 1934

  NINE O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING

  Mock’s black Adler drove up to the shabby tenement on Zietenstrasse where Anwaldt lived. The Assistant heard the sound of the horn just as he was coming downstairs. The men shook hands. Mock drove along Seydlitzstrasse, passed the enormous Busch Circus building, turned left, crossed Sonnenplatz and stopped in front of the Nazi printers on Sonnenstrasse. He got out and shortly returned with a small bundle under his arm. He turned sharply and accelerated so as to move the hot, stagnant air in the car at least a little. He was short of sleep and silent. They drove under the viaduct and found themselves on the long and beautiful Gabitzstrasse. Anwaldt watched the churches go by with interest as Mock knowingly told him to whom they were dedicated: first the small Jesuit chapel as if joined to the neighbouring tenement, then the new church of Christ the King, and the recent St Charles Boromeus with its stylized medieval outline. Mock drove fast, overtaking trams from as many as four different lines. He passed the municipal cemetery, cut across Menzelstrasse, Kürassier Allee and parked in front of the brick barracks of the guardsmen on Gabitzstrasse. Here, in the modern tenement, number 158, a large comfortable apartment was occupied by Doctor Hermann Winkler, until recently Weinsberg. The Friedländer case had changed his life auspiciously. The good angel of this transformation was Hauptsturmführer Walter Piontek. The start of their acquaintance had not been encouraging. One evening in May of ’33, Piontek had crashed into his old apartment, cruelly abused him and then, in a sweet voice, presented his alternative: either he would convincingly declare in the newspapers that Friedländer changed into Frankenstein’s monster after epileptic fits, or he would die. When the doctor hesitated, Piontek added that if he accepted his proposition, it would significantly boost his finances. So Weinsberg had said “yes” and his life had indeed changed. Thanks to Piontek, he acquired a new identity and, every month, a sum of money flowed into his account at “Eichborn and Co.” business enterprise, which – although not very large – pleased the exceptionally frugal doctor. Unfortunately, this dolce vita had not lasted long. A few days ago, Winkler had learned about Piontek’s death from the newspapers. That same day, the Gestapo had paid him a visit and retracted the agreement negotiated with the generous Hauptsturmführer. When he had tried to protest, one of the Gestapo, an overweight savage, acting – so he claimed – on the instructions of his boss, broke the fingers of Winkler’s left hand. After that visit, the doctor had bought himself two fully grown Great Danes, repudiated the Gestapo’s remuneration and tried to make himself invisible.

  Mock and Anwaldt drew back when, behind Winkler’s door, the dogs began to bark and howl.

  “Who’s there?” they heard through the minimal opening in the door.

  Mock restricted himself to showing his identification – every word would have been drowned by the racket coming from the dogs. Winkler, with difficulty, calmed the hounds, tied them on a leash and invited his unwelcome guests into the drawing-room. There, as if on command, they lit cigarettes and looked around the room which appeared more like an office than a drawing-room. Winkler, a man of middling height, red-haired and about fifty, was a classic example of the pedantic bachelor. Instead of glasses and carafes, on the side-board stood canvas-bound files. Each of them had the name of a patient neatly written on its spine. The thought occurred to Anwaldt that this modern block of a house would collapse sooner than any of the files would change their place. Mock broke the silence.

  “The dogs, are they for your protection?” he asked with a smile, indicating the Danes huddled on the floor and observing the strangers with mistrust. Winkler had tied them to the heavy oak table.

  “Yes,” the doctor retorted dryly, wrapping his bathrobe around him. “What brings you here this Sunday morning?”

  Mock ignored the question. He smiled amicably.

  “To protect you … Yes, yes … From whom? Perhaps from those who broke your fingers?”

  The doctor was perturbed and, with his good hand, reached for a cigarette. Anwaldt gave him a light. The way in which he inhaled showed that this was one of the few cigarettes in his life.

  “What do you want?”

  “What do you want? What brings you here?” Mock mimicked Winkler. Suddenly, he approached within safe distance and yelled:

  “I’m the one who’s as
king questions here, Weinsberg!”

  The doctor just about managed to pacify the dogs which, growling, threw themselves at the policeman, almost bringing down the table to which they were tied. Mock sat down, waited a moment and continued calmly now:

  “I’m not going to ask you any questions, Weinsberg. I’m only going to present you with our demands. Please make all your notes and materials concerning Isidor Friedländer accessible to us.”

  The doctor started to tremble despite the almost physical waves of heat which flooded the sunny room.

  “I haven’t got them any more. I handed everything over to Hauptsturmführer Walter Piontek.”

  Mock studied him. After a minute, he knew Weinsberg was lying. He was glancing at his bandaged hand a little too often. This could only have signified either “these men are going to start breaking my fingers, too” or “oh God, what’ll happen if the Gestapo return and demand those materials?” Mock took the second possibility to be closer to the truth. He placed the small bundle from the printers on the table. Winkler tore the parcel open and started to flick through the yet unstitched brochure. His bony finger slid along one of the pages. He turned pale.

  “Yes, Winkler, you’re on the list. This is only a proof as yet. I can get in touch with the editor of that brochure and get your new, or even old, name removed. Am I to do that, Weinsberg?”

  * * *

  The temperature in the car was even a few degrees higher than outside, meaning it was about 35°C. Anwaldt threw his jacket and a large cardboard box covered with green paper on to the back seat. He opened the box. In it were copies of notes, articles and one primitively pressed gramophone record. The writing on the lid of the box read: “The case of I. Friedländer’s prognostic epilepsy.”

  Mock wiped the sweat from his brow and anticipated Anwaldt’s question:

  “It’s a list of doctors, nurses, paramedics, midwives and other of Hippocrates’ servants of Jewish descent. It’s to appear shortly.”

  Anwaldt looked at one of the last names: Doctor Hermann Winkler, Gabitzstrasse 158. “Are you in a position to have it removed?”

  “I’m not even going to try.” Mock followed two girls walking beneath the red wall of the barracks with his eyes. His pale jacket was darkened at the armpits by two stains. “Do you think I’m going to risk contention with the Chief of the S.S., Udo von Woyrsch, and the Chief of Gestapo, Erich Kraus, for one quack who prattled nonsense in the papers?”

  He saw the clear sarcasm in Anwaldt’s eyes: “Well, admit it, that nonsense did you no harm in your career.”

  † A horse-drawn cab.

  † Watch your hooves, shoemaker, i.e. mind your own business (Latin).

  IV

  BRESLAU, THAT SAME SUNDAY, JULY 8TH, 1934

  NOON

  Anwaldt sat in the police laboratory, studying Weinsberg’s materials, and grew increasingly convinced that the paranormal did exist. He remembered Sister Elisabeth from the orphanage. That petite and unassuming person with a prepossessing smile had drawn unexplained, alarming incidents to the orphanage. It had been during her stay in the institution – never before nor after – that processions of silent people in pyjamas would march during the night, that the cast-iron coverings of the cisterns in the toilets would fall with a crash, a dark figure would sit at the piano in the clubroom, and the telephone would ring every day at the same time. After Sister Elisabeth had left, albeit at her own request, the mysterious incidents had come to a stop.

  From Weinsberg’s – alias Winkler’s – notes, it appeared that Friedländer differed from Sister Elisabeth in that he did not conjure up events and situations but foresaw them. In his state following an epileptic fit, he would shout five or six words, repeating them over and over like a monotonous refrain. Doctor Weinsberg recorded twenty-five such cases, of which he noted down twenty-three, and recorded two on a gramophone record. He analysed the material in detail and presented his results in the Twentieth Annual of the Zeitschrift für Parapsychologie und Metaphysik. His article was entitled “The Tanathological Predictions of Isidor F.”. Anwaldt had an off-print of the article in front of him. He read the methodological introduction cursorily and immersed himself in Weinsberg’s arguments:

  It has been stated beyond all doubt, that the words shouted by the patient come from Ancient Hebrew. This is the conclusion reached by the Berlin Semitist, Prof. Arnold Schorr, after three months of analysis. His linguistic expertise establishes it to be irrefutably so. We have included it in our materials and can render it accessible to those who might be interested. The sick man’s prophetic messages can be divided into two: a name written in code and the circumstances of its bearer’s death. After three years of research, I have managed to decipher twenty-three of the twenty-five messages. It is very difficult to solve the last two, even though they have been recorded on gramophone record. The messages which I have understood can be divided into those which have concurred with reality (ten) and those which refer to a person still living (thirteen). It must be emphasized that the majority of Isidor F.’s predictions concern people unknown to him personally, and this has been confirmed by the daughter. These persons are connected in two ways: 1 – all lived or are living in Breslau; 2 – all died a tragic death.

  The condicio sine qua non† of understanding the whole message is to fish out and decipher the name contained within it. It is expressed in two ways: either by the sound, or the Hebrew meaning of the word. The Hebr. geled “skin”, for example, we deciphered as being Gold (similar sound, the same consonants gld). It must be pointed out, however, that the patient could have expressed this name in a different “semantic” way. Indeed, Gold meaning “gold” could be coded synonymically in the Hebr. zahaw. This is the second way, where the name is hidden in the meaning and not in the sound of the Hebrew word. This can be seen, for example, in the Hebr. hamad – “helmet”, which clearly points to the German name Helm, which means nothing else but precisely “helmet”. Certain distortions were inevitable here, e.g. the Hebr. sair means “goat” (Bock), but the prophecy referred to a deceased bearing the name Beck. The most interesting and also the most satisfying to decipher was the Hebr. jawal adama – “river”, “field” (Germ. Fluss, Feld). It seemed, therefore, that the name should be identified as Feldfluss or Flussfeld.

  When I looked through the official list of deaths, I came across the name Rheinfelder, the circumstances of death: beating with an army belt. In a word, Rhein is “the Rhine”, “river”. From Rheinfeld to Rheinfelder is but a short distance. Here is the full roll of prophecies referring to persons deceased (I hold the list of those living in my records, but am not publishing it so as not to provoke any unnecessary, strong emotions).

  From the examples mentioned above, it is clear that patient F.’s prophecies can really only be understood after the death of the person they specify. Let us, for example, look at example 2. There are several possible interpretations. The person mentioned in the prophecy could equally well have been called Weisswasser (“white water”) – there are fifteen families of that name in Breslau. And then some Weisswasser could have been struck by angina (“lips”, “breath”) while sunbathing (“sun”). The deceased could also have been called Sonnemund (“lips”, “sun”) – three families in Breslau. Foretold death: choking (“breath”) on vodka (one of Danzig’s vodkas is called Silberwasser, “silver water”).

  I guarantee that I could also interpret the remaining cases in numerous ways. That is why we are not publishing the list which has not, so to speak, been validated by death. Let us simply say that it includes eighty-three names and various circumstances of tragic death.