Death in Breslau

by Marek Krajewski

  Smoking a cigar, he watched as Anwaldt greedily consumed a beefsteak with sauerkraut and potatoes.

  “Please don’t be offended, Herbert,” Mock placed a hand on his bloated stomach. “I’ve eaten too much, but you, I see, have an excellent appetite. Perhaps you’d like this piece of salmon? I haven’t touched it.”

  “With pleasure. Thank you,” smiled Anwaldt. Nobody had ever shared their food with him. He ate the fish with relish and took a fair draught of strong, black tea.

  Mock built Anwaldt’s character profile in his thoughts. It was not complete without the details of his torture in the Gestapo cell, but no tactical question, no trick which could provoke Anwaldt into confessing, came to mind. Several times, he opened his mouth and immediately closed it again because it seemed that what he was about to say sounded silly and flat. After a while, he came to terms with the thought that he would not be reading Anwaldt’s psychological profile to Madame le Goef’s girls next week.

  “It’s half-past one now. Before half-past four, please look through von Köpperlingk’s files and consider how we can pin him down. Please look through the files of all the Turks, too. Maybe you’ll find something. At half-past four, you’re to give all those files to Forstner; at five, collect the photographs from Ehlers and come to see me in my apartment. I’m leaving the car with you. Everything clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So why are you looking at me so strangely? Do you need anything?”

  “Nothing, nothing … It’s just that nobody’s ever shared their food with me.”

  Mock laughed out loud and patted Anwaldt on the shoulder with his small hand.

  “Don’t take it as a sign of my particularly liking you,” he lied. “It’s a habit from childhood. I always had to hand in an empty plate … I’m taking a droschka home now. I need a nap. Goodbye.”

  The Criminal Director was falling asleep already in the cab. On the threshold of sleep and wakefulness, he remembered a Sunday lunch a year ago. He was sitting with his wife in the dining-room, happily nibbling spare ribs in tomato sauce. His wife was also eating with great relish, going through all the meat first. At one point, she glanced pleadingly at the plate in front of Mock, who always left the best pieces to the end.

  “Please, do give me a little of your meat.”

  Mock did not react and stuffed all the meat still remaining on his plate into his mouth.

  “I’m certain you would not even give it to your children – if you could have any, of course.” She got up, angry. (She was wrong again. I did give some to one. And to one not my own.)

  BRESLAU, THAT SAME JULY 14TH, 1934

  TWO O’CLOCK IN THE AFTERNOON

  Anwaldt left the restaurant and climbed into the car. He glanced at the files stamped by the Gestapo, and at the package which he had collected that morning from the archives. Unwrapping it, he shuddered: strange, curved writing. Blackened blood on blue wallpaper. He rewrapped the bloody writing and got out of the car. Under his arm, he carried the Gestapo files and the blanket used by Mock to cover the back seat. He did not feel like driving through the scorching city. He made off in the direction of the slender steeples of St Michael’s Church to Waschteich Park, whose strange name Mock had explained to him during their drive: in the Middle Ages, women used to wash their linen in the pond there. Now children were shouting and running by the pond while most of the benches were occupied by nursemaids and servants. These women demonstrated an excellent capacity to divide their attention as they pursued vociferous discussions while, from time to time, shouting at the children wading in the shallow waters by the bank. The remaining benches were occupied by soldiers and local scamps proudly smoking cigarettes.

  Anwaldt removed his jacket, lay on the blanket and began to examine von Köpperlingk’s files. Unfortunately, there was nothing in them that he could use to pin down the Baron. What was more: everything the Baron did in his apartment and on his property took place with the Gestapo’s full blessing. (Mock told me that even Kraus, although he was furious when he heard about his homosexual agent, soon realized the advantage to be gained from him.) The last piece of information filled Anwaldt with hope: it concerned the Baron’s servant, Hans Tetges.

  He turned on his back and, with the help of a few brutal and suggestive images, thought of a way for the Baron. Pleased with his idea, he now started looking through the files written by the Gestapo and the C.I.D. concerning Turks. There were eight Turks in all: five had left Breslau before July 9th, when the Baron’s ball had taken place, the other three had to be excluded because of their age – Anwaldt’s assailant, after all, could not have been twenty (like the Turkish students at the Engineering College) or sixty (like a certain merchant, included in the Gestapo files because of his uncontrollable tendency to gamble). Of course, data from the Registration Office and the Turkish Consulate, which Smolorz was to supply, might bring additional information about Turks who did not have the dubious pleasure of finding themselves included in police documents.

  When the Turkish trail failed him, Anwaldt applied all his intellectual powers to conjuring up details of a “vice for the Baron”. The protests of a child who, not far from Anwaldt, was insisting that he was right, were not conducive to concentration. He raised himself on his elbow and listened to the kind-hearted reassurance of the old nursemaid and the little boy’s hysterical voice.

  “But, Klaus, I keep telling you: the gentleman who arrived yesterday is your daddy.”

  “No! I don’t know him! Mummy told me I don’t have a daddy!” The enraged little child stamped his foot on the parched earth.

  “Mummy told you that because everybody thought your daddy had been killed by Indian savages in Brazil.”

  “Mummy never lies to me!” The shrill voice broke down.

  “Well, she didn’t lie to you. She said you didn’t have a daddy because she thought he was dead. Now Daddy’s come … Well, we know he’s alive … Now you’ve got a daddy,” the nanny explained with incredible patience.

  The little one did not give in. He thumped the ground with his wooden rifle and yelled:

  “You’re lying! Mummy doesn’t lie! Why didn’t she tell me that it’s Daddy?”

  “She didn’t have time. They left for Trebnitz in the morning. They’ll be back tomorrow evening, and they’ll tell you everything …”

  “Mummy! Mummy!” The boy screamed and threw himself on the ground, thrashing his arms and legs. As he did so, he kicked up clouds of dust which settled on his freshly ironed sailor’s suit. The nanny tried to pick him up with the result that Klaus broke away and dug his teeth into her plump arm.

  Anwaldt got to his feet, folded the files, rolled up the blanket and limped towards the car. He did not look behind, afraid that he might turn back, grab Klaus by his sailor’s collar and drown him in the pond. The murderous thoughts had not been provoked by the child’s yelling which, like a lancet, had cut through his wounded head and the blue traces of the hornet’s stings; no, it was not the shouting which had infuriated him but the thoughtless, blind stubbornness with which the spoilt brat rejected unexpected happiness: the return of a parent, who had appeared after so many years. He did not even realize he was talking to himself:

  “How can you explain to a pig-headed brat like that that his resistance is idiotic? He needs a thrashing, then he’ll see his foolishness. After all, he won’t understand anything if I go up to him, put him on my knee and say: ‘Klaus, have you ever stood in the window with your face pressed up against the pane, watched men pass by and said about each and every one of them without exception: that’s my Daddy, he’s very busy – that’s why he’s put me in an orphanage, but he’ll come and get me soon?’ ”

  † The Chronicles of Ibn Sahim. Trans. Dr Georg Maass.

  VIII

  BRESLAU, THAT SAME SATURDAY, JULY 14TH, 1934

  HALF-PAST TWO IN THE AFTERNOON

  Kurt Smolorz sat on the square in Rehdigerplatz, watching for Mock and becoming more and more worried about
the state of his report. He was to have included the results of his surveillance of Konrad Schmidt, the iron fist of the Gestapo known as “fat Konrad” by screws and prisoners alike. These results were to help him find an effective means of coercion, that is, a “vice for Konrad”, as Mock metaphorically described it. From the information gathered by Smolorz, it could be concluded that Schmidt was a sadist in whom the number of fat cells was in reverse proportion to the grey matter of his brain. Before finding employment in the prison service, he had worked as a plumber, circus athlete and guard at the Kana alcohol distillery. From there, he had ended up in prison for stealing spirits. He was released after a year and here the chronology of his files broke off. Further files dealt only with Konrad the Screw. In this capacity, he had worked for the Gestapo for a year. Smolorz looked at his first annotation: “drinking vodka” below the heading “Weak Points”, and grimaced in anger. He knew that this remark would not satisfy his boss. Vodka, after all, could only be a “vice” for an alcoholic and fat Konrad certainly wasn’t one. The second entry ran: “Easily provoked into a brawl.” Smolorz could not imagine that this fact could be used against Schmidt, but it was not up to him, after all, to do the thinking. The third and last annotation: “Is probably a sexual pervert, sadist”, brought some hope that his week-long, strenuous labour would not go to waste.

  He was also cross at Mock for forbidding him to use the usual official channels of communication which meant that he, Smolorz – instead of drinking cold beer somewhere now after having left the report on his boss’ desk – had to keep watch near Mock’s house for Lord knows how long.

  It was not, as it turned out, long. A quarter of an hour later, Smolorz was sitting in Mock’s apartment with his much-desired, perspiring tankard and waiting with some impatience for his boss’ opinion. The opinion was more of a stylistic nature.

  “What’s this, Smolorz, can’t you formulate your thoughts appropriately and officially?” The Criminal Director laughed out loud. “In official documents we write ‘tendency to intoxicating drink’ and not ‘drinking vodka’. Alright, alright, I’m pleased with you. And now, go home. I have to take a nap before I make an important visit.”

  BRESLAU, THAT SAME SATURDAY, JULY 14TH, 1934

  HALF-PAST FIVE IN THE AFTERNOON

  The newly nominated Director of the University Library, Doctor Leo Hartner, stretched his bony torso and for the hundredth time cursed the architect who had designed the Baroque Augustinian monastery, now the magnificent building of the University Library on Neue Sandstrasse. The architect’s mistake, according to Harnter, lay in locating the elegant quarters, serving as the Director’s study at present, on the north side, thanks to which the room was cool – pleasant to everyone but its occupant. His aversion to temperatures below 20°C was founded. This excellent specialist of Oriental languages had returned from the Sahara a few weeks ago after having spent close to three years studying the languages and customs of desert tribes. Now Breslau, in its summer heat, provided him with much-loved warmth but this, unfortunately, ended at the threshold of his study. The thick walls, the stone, heat-resistant barriers irritated him more than the freezing Sahara nights when deep sleep had isolated him from the prevailing cold. But here – within the closed expanse of his study – he had to act, make decisions and sign masses of documents with numb hands.

  The coolness which prevailed in the room acted entirely differently on the two men comfortably ensconced on the leather armchairs. Both were breathing deeply and, instead of the swelter and dust of the street, they inhaled the bacteria and spores of mould born on the yellowing pages of volumes.

  Hartner strolled nervously across the room. He held the piece of wallpaper with the “death verses”.

  “Strange … The writing is similar to some I saw in Cairo in eleventh- or twelfth-century Arabian manuscripts.” His intelligent, slender face froze in thought. The short, grey hair bristled on the top of his head. “But it’s not the Arabic I know. To be honest, this doesn’t look Semitic to me at all. Well, please leave it with me for a few days; maybe I’ll break the code when I put some other language under the Arabic text … I see you’ve got something else for me. What photographs are these, Herr, Herr …?”

  “Anwaldt. They’re copies of Doctor Georg Maass’ notes, which he himself described as being a translation of the Arabic chronicle of Ibn Sahim. We’d like to ask you, sir, for some more information about this chronicle, its author, and also the translation.”

  Hartner skimmed Maass’ text. After a few minutes, his lips twisted into a pitiful smile.

  “I see a number of characteristics of Maass’ academic writing in these few sentences. But, for the time being, I’ll reserve any comments as to the translation until I see the original text. You have to know, my dear sirs, that Maass is well known for his fantasizing, his stubborn dullness and a peculiar idée fixe which makes him perceive more or less hidden archetypes of the apocalyptic visions of the Old Testament in every ancient text. His academic publications are swarming with pathological images of annihilation, death and disintegration which he finds everywhere, even in works of love and festivity. I can also see it in this translation, but only when I’ve read the original can I say whether these catastrophic elements come from the translator or from the author of the chronicle, whom, by the by, I’m not acquainted with.”

  Hartner was a typical armchair scholar who made his discoveries alone, entrusted the results of his research to specialist periodicals and expressed his pioneer’s euphoria to the desert sands. For the first time in several years, he had before him an audience which – although small – was listening attentively to his arguments. He, too, listened intently and with pleasure to his own deep baritone.

  “I know Maass well, as also Andreae and other scholars analysing fictitious works, creating new theoretical constructions, moulding their heroes from the clay of their own imaginations. Which is why, in order to eliminate any fraud on Maass’ part, we have to check what he’s working on at the moment: whether he really is translating some ancient text or whether he’s creating it himself in the depths of his own imagination.” He opened the door and said to his assistant:

  “Stählin, ask the librarian on duty to come and see me. Tell him to bring the register of loans with him. We’ll check,” he addressed his guests, “what our exterminating angel is presently reading.”

  He approached the window and lost himself in the cries of boys who had turned out in swarms on the grassy tuft opposite the cathedral and were bathing in the Oder. He shook his head, remembering his guests.

  “But, dear sirs, please help yourselves to some coffee. Strong, sweet coffee is excellent in the heat – something the Bedouins know very well. A cigar perhaps? Imagine, that was the only thing I missed in the Sahara. I emphasize: thing, not person. Indeed, I took a whole trunkful of cigars, but it turned out that the Tibbu people were even more fond of them than I. I assure you that the very sight of those people is so terrifying that I would willingly hand anything over to them in order not to have to look at them. On the other hand, I bribed them with cigars so as to listen to their ancestral and tribal stories. They proved useful for my post-doctoral thesis, which I recently submitted for publication.” Hartner bellowed forth a large cloud of smoke and was on the point of presenting the arguments of this thesis when Anwaldt fired a question:

  “Are there a lot of insects there, Doctor?”

  “Yes, a lot. Just imagine: a cold night, ragged crags, the sharp chimneys of bare rock, sand eating its way into everything, people in the rifts with faces like the Devil himself, wrapped in black cloaks, and, in the moonlight, snakes slithering and scorpions …”

  “That’s the face of death …”

  “What did you say, Inspector?”

  “Sorry, nothing. You’re describing it so vividly, Doctor, that I felt the waft of death …”

  “I too felt it many times in the Sahara. Fortunately, it did not sweep me away and I have been allowed to see them again.
” Here, he pointed to a slim blonde and a seven-year-old boy who had unexpectedly entered the office.

  “I’m very sorry, but I knocked twice …” said the woman with a clear Polish accent. Mock and Anwaldt stood up. Hartner looked at his loved ones tenderly. He stroked the boy on the head, who – evidently shy – was hiding behind his mother.

  “It doesn’t matter, my dear. Allow me to introduce His Excellency, Director Eberhard Mock, the Chief of the Criminal Department of the Police Praesidium and his assistant Herr Herbert, Herbert …”

  “Anwaldt.”

  “Yes, Criminal Assistant Anwaldt. Allow me, sirs – this is my wife, Teresa Jankewitsch-Hartner, and my son, Manfred.”

  Greetings were ceremoniously exchanged. The men bowed over the beautiful, slender hand of Frau Harnter. The boy bowed politely and gazed at his father who, apologizing to his guests, was speaking to his wife in a half-whisper. Frau Jankewitsch-Hartner, with her original beauty, stirred an intense yet somewhat differing interest in the two men: Mock was driven by the instinct of Casanova; Anwaldt, the contemplation of a Titian. This was not the first Polish woman to make such an impression on him. He sometimes caught himself thinking, absurdly, that the female representatives of that nation had something magical about them. “Medea was a Slav,” he thought at such moments. Looking at her delicate features, her turned-up nose and her hair tied back in a knot, listening to her amusingly soft “bitte”, he tried to liberate the noble contours of her body, the rounded curvature of her legs, the proud lift of her breasts, from her summer dress. Unfortunately, the object of their various, but perhaps basically similar, yearnings bade them farewell and left the office, tugging the shy boy with her. In the door, she passed the old, stooping librarian whose eyes lingered on her, something which did not escape the husband’s notice.

  “Show me that register you’re lugging under your arm, Smetana,” Hartner said, not too kindly. The librarian, having done what was asked of him, returned to his duties while Harnter began to study Smetana’s sloping, Gothic calligraphy.