The Mastersinger from Minsk

by Morley Torgov

  Just as suddenly, von Mannstein turned serious again. “Less than two hours from now I am going to find myself standing before Mayor von Braunschweig stumbling and mumbling through a string of pitiful excuses. There’ll be damned little rejoicing when I announce that the one good thing to come out of this … if one can call it a good thing … is that a murderer is no longer loose among us. But I will not compound this unsatisfactory turn of events by fixing my stamp of approval on a report which labels this tenor of yours innocent. You forget, Preiss, that there is a moral dimension to what we do, you and I. If we yield to hypocrisy, to concealment, to favouritism, where are we, Preiss? Where, I ask you?”

  A moment went by, and then I heard a voice uttering the following response to the commissioner’s question: “You ask where are we, sir? We are in places and situations which we prefer not to be made public, such as a certain house in Friedensplatz operated by one Rosina Waldheim, or a certain relationship — albeit it distant — to a family by the name of Waggoner.”

  Much to my amazement, the voice that spoke those words was mine!

  “Damn it, Preiss, I could have you sacked for such impertinence!” von Mannstein shot back through clenched teeth.

  “Indeed you could, sir,” I admitted, “but then this discussion would have to come to light, wouldn’t it? Not a pleasant prospect for either of us … with all due respect.”

  For the next minute or two I found myself participating with von Mannstein in a silent game I hadn’t played since I was a child. The two of us sat staring uncompromisingly at one another, neither one of us daring to blink.

  It was Commissioner von Mannstein who blinked first.

  “Very well, Preiss,” he said, eyeing me coldly, “we will consider the case of Fräulein Vanderhoute officially closed. We will attempt to put the best complexion on it that we can. ‘A deranged murderer has fortunately met her just end’ … that’s how my report to the mayor will read. For what it’s worth, I shall also have to add, distasteful as it is, that with her death the threat to Wagner has died as well. As for your man Schramm, or Socransky, or whatever his name is, and as for all the rest of these artistic pests … well, Preiss, enough is enough. Your orders are to return immediately to real police work. This Wagner business is over, Inspector. Understood?”

  “Perfectly, sir,” I replied.

  Returning to my own office I set the Wagner file squarely before me on my desk. I leafed through numerous pages of notes, clippings from newspapers and magazines, official and unofficial reports, several state documents, until I came across a single sheet of inexpensive stationery upon which, written in a crude hand, was the message:

  JUNE 21 WILL BE THE DAY OF YOUR RUINATION

  I sat back, holding the paper at arm’s length.

  I read the message over and over, aloud but in a quiet voice.

  Then I replaced the sheet of paper in the file. I locked the file in a private drawer of my desk.

  This Wagner business may have been over for Commissioner von Mannstein, but it was far from over for me.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Every May, when the sun has finally ended its annual winter game of hide and seek and bursts from behind April’s clouds as if to shout “Surprise!” Munich spreads itself bare under the warming rays so that by the time May has slipped effortlessly into June the city once more blooms with newborn gardens. There is a sense that every blade of grass, every leaf of every tree, every petal of every flower is out to prove that Nature, which has treated the city with callous indifference over the long winter months, possesses a softer side after all. Total strangers, having shed the constraints of cold weather along with their heavy coats and hats and boots, pass one another in the streets and smile. On the surface, Munich at this time of the year is a collection of sunbeams and greenery and charm and civility.

  Crime, on the other hand, possesses no softer side. Indeed, this spring, which brought balmier-than-usual temperatures, inspired Munich’s denizens of the underworld to burst forth from their hiding places with a kind of vigour and audacity not seen here in recent years. In the Old Town, almost within the shadows of the onion-shape domes of the ancient Frauenkirche Cathedral, petty thieves were stealing their daily bread regularly at the stalls of the Viktualienmarkt, helping themselves brazenly as well to expensive meats and vegetables, fruits and cheeses. Nothing but the best for these non-paying gourmands! Climb the high tower of nearby Peterskirche for a view of the area and, if you had sharp eyes, you would catch sight of pickpockets here and there following closely on the heels of affluent pedestrians like stray dogs, waiting for the right moment to capture a fat wallet or snatch a loosely held purse, their skills revived after months of inactivity due to the cold. As June’s temperatures climbed, so did both the quantity and quality of lawlessness in the city. At the beer gardens frequented by ruffians, evenings of heavy drinking intended to afford relief from the heat erupted into quarrels, which in turn led to vicious beatings and stabbings, many with fatal results.

  Once again a rapist was creating fear, this time in the vicinity of the Botanical Gardens adjacent to the Schloss Nymphenburg, a favourite spot of young couples for a romantic stroll after dusk. The method was the same in every one of a half-dozen cases: the rapist, described as having the build of a professional wrestler, would attack the male from the rear, dispatching him with a single blow to the head; the female would then be dragged off behind a hedgerow. If she were lucky she would lapse into unconsciousness before her assailant was finished.

  In many of these crimes, one way or another I found myself involved, all as part of what Commissioner von Mannstein regarded as my rehabilitation — that is, my return to “real” police work. My reward for acquiescent behavior came in the form of ever more “real” police work thanks to von Mannstein’s determination to “save” me from the temptations that had led me astray earlier in the year.

  I’m forced to admit the odd moment of gratification. Remembering how a disguise worked to my advantage in the Friedensplatz rape cases, I once again resorted to disguise, this time as a young student (no easy feat at my age) in the typical garb of university students — a small felt cap with the school insignia on the badge, a high-button jacket worn open with a collarless shirt, narrow striped trousers. The young “woman” with whom I strolled arm-in-arm was actually Constable Emil Gruber who, dressed in headscarf, flowing dirndl, a light shawl about the shoulders, made a remarkably appealing female companion. Sure enough, as Gruber and I ambled along, our arms interlocked, we heard footsteps behind us on the remote and deserted path we’d chosen at the Gardens. The expected blow to the back of my head was interrupted, however, by the swift swing of a truncheon Gruber produced from under his skirt. As a result it was the rapist’s head, not mine, that ended up cracked. For the swiftness of his response, Gruber received a promotion to constable first class, along with my heartfelt thanks. My reward came in the form of a magisterial note from von Mannstein granting me a three-day leave of absence to — as he put it — “enjoy a respite and refresh yourself for the challenges to come.”

  Three days. Seventy-two hours. What can a weary worn-out, fed-up aging police inspector accomplish in such a short time span? I asked myself.

  Düsseldorf … Helena Becker! That was the answer. I would send a telegram immediately. “Dearest Helena … a bit of luck …” I would pack quickly, make a dash for the late afternoon train. Seventy-two hours of heaven!

  I began hastily to tidy up my office, humming a passage from Schubert’s “Trout,” the second movement, a happy little tune that reflected my mood perfectly. Finished, I looked about, saw that everything was in order, blew a kiss to my modest workplace, whispered, “Auf Wiedersehen,” and prepared to leave.

  At which point the door was thrown open and in came Gruber, his young face flushed with excitement. “Inspector Preiss, you won’t believe what’s happened,” he yelled, as though I were stationed in some remote section of Bavaria instead of a metre or two away.
“You know Detective Brunner, Detective Franz Brunner?”

  “Of course. What about him?”

  “He’s been murdered.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  If I were a wagering man I would have bet my last pfennig that the person who had just confessed to murdering Detective Franz Brunner was incapable of slaying a common house fly, let alone an overweight human being. She was at least a head shorter than her victim and her physique was anything but robust. Indeed, so thin was she that, had it been possible, I would have interrupted my interrogation and ordered up a square meal for the woman. Lines of exhaustion fanned out across her brow and her hollow cheeks were barely supported by a drooping mouth and weak chin. It was not difficult to understand the state of her appearance. I had only to look about me to realize that, despite the modesty of the place, and despite the burdens of raising four young children, there was not so much as a speck of dust or a crumb to be seen anywhere. If one needed evidence that fastidiousness has nothing to do with affluence, here was proof absolute! Throughout the small house, part of a row of similar small houses in Munich’s working-class district, there were signs that this woman must have spent all her waking hours cleaning — when she wasn’t busy cooking, that is. Even the children’s rooms were as orderly as military barracks. I wondered where their playthings were stored until it occurred to me that there probably were no playthings. I wondered also who could have imposed such a pattern of tidiness, such a standard of perfection. (Even I, who admire good housekeeping, doubted that I could maintain this level of cleanliness and neatness in such confined quarters.)

  “My husband was sloppy and clumsy but insisted his home be as spotless as a clinic. The only thing that interested him about children was the act of conceiving them, if you must know the truth, Inspector.”

  But this was not all Helga Brunner had to say about the man she had just slain. We were seated at a plain wooden dining table in the kitchen. Between us, at the centre of the table, lay a large butcher’s knife. Not surprisingly, its blade and handle were spotless, Franz Brunner’s blood having been typically scrubbed off. (Brunner’s body had already been carted away for an autopsy, and the Brunner children dispatched to the nearby house of their grandmother.)

  “He would routinely arrive home from work with his clothing rumpled and messy and stained,” Helga Brunner went on, “and always with the same excuse. ‘Ours is not a life of tea parties, Helga,’ he would say. ‘Be happy you’re a housewife, Helga,’ and he would hand me his shirt to wash and his suit to clean and press as best I could. I must say, Inspector Preiss, you don’t seem to fit the picture my husband painted about police life.”

  “So that is how you happened upon this photograph and a note pinned to it?”

  “I was going through the pockets of his jacket, you know, and came to the inner pocket where apparently you detectives normally carry your identity cards and badges. I always did this before starting to iron out the creases. And yes, the picture and note were there. Obviously he’d forgotten to remove them.”

  I asked, “Is it possible that he actually intended you to see these? That he deliberately —”

  Before I could finish my question Helga Brunner tossed aside the suggestion with a harsh and bitter laugh. “Not a chance of that! He was too stupid. Anyway, a woman can always tell when her husband is unfaithful, especially when her job is to look after his clothes. This certainly was not the first time I came across signs — signs I would rather not have to describe to you in detail, Inspector, disgusting signs — signs that he was doing with other women what he’d stopped doing with me, may he rest in hell!”

  “I take it,” I said, holding up the photograph for both of us to see, “that this, and the woman’s note, were the last straw —”

  “I have no regrets, Inspector. I’ll probably burn in the same hell that I’ve sent him to, but this … this, as you say, was the last straw.”

  “Does the woman in the photograph mean anything to you?” I asked.

  “No, nothing at all.”

  “Her name was Cornelia Vanderhoute,” I said.

  “Was?”

  “She, too, is dead, though her death had nothing to do with your husband,” I said. “Or so I thought, until now. It is clear to me now that your husband was much more involved with this Vanderhoute woman than I was led to believe, and for a much longer time.”

  “The note says something about the two of them working together and hoping … how does she put it? … hoping to make progress soon with H. S. Who or what is ‘H.S.’?”

  Once again a well-used excuse came to my aid. “I’m afraid that is a highly sensitive matter under police investigation which I am not at liberty to disclose.”

  Helga Brunner received this reply with an air of resignation. “Then there’s nothing left, I suppose, except for you to arrest me for murder. Does the law go easier if it’s a crime of passion, Inspector?”

  “I have to be honest with you,” I said. “Crimes of passion are a French phenomenon. We Germans go out of our way to avoid linking the two things … crime, and passion. I wouldn’t count on too much leniency in our courts, but I will tell you this: I had the dubious honour of working with Franz Brunner, and I will do my very best to convince your judge that Detective Brunner was the kind of man that even a saint would have taken a knife to.”

  I watched Constable First Class Emil Gruber take Helga Brunner into custody and leave the Brunner house in a cab destined for the Constabulary. I myself had other plans. Hailing another cab, I ordered the driver to take me to the opera house. At this hour of the day — it was just short of noon — I knew it was most likely that “H.S.” could be found there, participating in the last-minute frantic rehearsals that are part and parcel of an immense operatic undertaking like Die Meistersinger.

  Chapter Forty

  At the stage door of the National Theater I was confronted by a security guard, posted there presumably at the behest of Maestro Wagner. A man of brutish demeanor with hands that could crush rocks, he demanded to know the purpose of my visit, his stance suggesting that nothing would have sweetened his day more than an excuse to send me — or anyone, for that matter — flying clear across Max-Joseph-Platz. So crestfallen was he when I presented my police identity card and badge that my heart bled a little for him.

  Standing aside, he pointed with his thumb over his broad shoulder to the auditorium behind him. “Final dress rehearsal,” he grunted. “It’s holy hell in there!”

  Hell it was, and then some.

  Surrounded by principal singers and choristers, while below in the pit members of the orchestra and conductor Hans von Bülow sat with eyes fixed up at him, Richard Wagner, at centre stage, was breaking his own record for verbal fire and brimstone. “Must I once again remind all of you,” he shouted, “that an octave contains twelve semitones … twelve equal parts of what is known as the chromatic scale … something with which I hoped you would be at least vaguely familiar, each and every one of you? Do you suppose I wrote certain notes in the score with the intention that singers and instrumentalists could ignore them at will? Listen to me: There are no throwaway notes in my score, absolutely none! Singers are dispensable. Players are dispensable. Yes, even conductors. But not one single semiquaver I take the trouble to insert in my score is dispensable! Is that understood?”

  Without waiting for responses, and totally indifferent to the expressions of exhaustion and sagging postures of the cast, Wagner barked, “Von Bülow, the singers will take a pause … ten minutes. Meanwhile I want to hear again the introduction to the third act. Woodwinds and horns, remember: this is what I call the Renunciation theme. It is supposed to reflect the sadness and frustration experienced by the hero Walther, and by his mentor Hans Sachs, because hidebound tradition at this point in the opera seems to be triumphing over freshness and creativity. The opening phrase must be played with subtlety, do you hear? It must convey at one and the same time a sense of obstruction and a sense of hope! You must pla
y the phrase loudly but not too loudly, firmly but with a feeling of compassion. Life is full of difficulty, but life is not coming to an end. That is what I want to hear from you.”

  Turning to the singers, Wagner snapped his fingers. “All right, the rest of you … go … ten minutes and not a minute longer.”

  As the singers began their retreat from the stage, I managed to catch Hershel Socransky’s eye and signalled that I would meet up with him backstage.

  He was not happy to see me. “What’s this all about? As you can see, we’re in the midst —”

  “We have to talk,” I said firmly.

  “Talk? About what? What is so important that —”

  “Trust me, I would not be here if it weren’t important.”

  “Then tell me —”

  “Not here. Not now. I will wait until the rehearsal is over. I’ll be sitting at the back of the auditorium. You will join me there. Then we’ll go where we can talk privately.”

  “But the rehearsal will last at least another hour.”

  “I said I would wait until it’s over.”

  “I’m very tired,” the young tenor pleaded. “As you can see, all of us are ready to collapse. Can’t this wait?”

  “It cannot. And I am in no mood for any foolishness. I’ll be in the back row of the house. Be there!”

  Chapter Forty-One

  One hour, as it turned out, exploded into two hours, at the end of which mutiny hung in the air like a thundercloud, the cast on stage whispering conspiratorially among themselves, the players in the pit shooting hostile glances at von Bülow who in turn shot hostile glances at Wagner. The soprano engaged to replace Karla Steilmann had earlier stormed off the stage in tears. The tenor engaged to replace Wolfgang Grilling in the role of Beckmesser followed closely in her footsteps vowing not to return until a suitable apology was offered (Wagner’s choice of “lifeless” to describe his rendition of a particularly key passage had not sat well with him). Only the man known to Wagner as Henryk Schramm seemed, by some act of God, to escape the Maestro’s scathing criticism. Only he, “Schramm,” despite evident fatigue, managed as he departed a courteous nod toward Wagner, then to the musicians below grumbling as they laid aside their instruments.