End of the World in Breslau

by Marek Krajewski

  “So you don’t want my money?” Mock recognized Smolorz’s voice. “Isn’t it just as good as everyone else’s? Maybe I should leave it with you so you can go for a beer? Maybe you don’t like the fact that I’m not wearing a tailcoat?”

  Mock hurried over to Smolorz and took him by the arm.

  “This gentleman does not trust you.” Mock, unexpectedly amused by the situation, threw a derisive look at the ticket collector. “And quite right too. Judging by your mug you were given schnapps at school, not cod-liver oil.”

  Mock drew Smolorz aside, paying no heed to the astounded attendants.

  “So, what’s new?” he asked.

  “Everything’s alright. The morning at Miss Pflüger’s. Then at home, at your place. Both of them. They rehearsed all the time,” mumbled Smolorz.

  “Thank you, Smolorz,” Mock said, looking benevolently at his subordinate. “Less than two weeks to go. Put up with it. Then, as a reward for your good work, you get a week’s unofficial leave. Just before Christmas. You’re done for the day.”

  Smolorz tipped his hat and, dragging his feet, made towards the exit which shimmered with snow-white, starched shirt-fronts, sequins, Chinese fans and coloured feathers. Mock pulled out his invitation and stood in the queue behind a thin lady wielding a lorgnette in one hand and a long cigarette-holder with a smoking cigarette in the other. The ticket collectors did not demand to see her invitation, but instead lowered their chins to their chests as a mark of their respect.

  “Oh, whom do I see?” exclaimed the lady. “Is that really you, Marquis? Oh, what an honour!” The affected lady turned to the people behind her in order to share her wonderful discovery with them. Her attention was riveted by Mock.

  “It’s unimaginable, my dear sir,” the lady said, mistakenly holding the cigarette-holder to her eye instead of the lorgnette. “The ticket collector at today’s concert is the Marquis Georges de Leschamps-Brieux himself!”

  Clearly miffed that her information had made such little impression on the Counsellor, she floated towards the foyer, blowing smoke like a steam-engine while Georges, who had been accused of drinking schnapps at school, glanced contemptuously at Mock’s invitation.

  “And did that troublemaker who tried to get in without an invitation hand his contribution over to you, Your Excellency, Criminal Counsellor?” Georges slowly read the titles on the invitation.

  “Yes, because I’m a teetotaller,” retorted Mock, and walked past the displeased Marquis.

  BRESLAU, THAT SAME NOVEMBER 30TH, 1927

  NINE O’CLOCK IN THE EVENING

  The charity concert was drawing to a close. Sophie, delighted by the ovations, the absence of alcohol on her husband’s breath and the admiration expressed by the cream of Breslau society during the interval, slipped a glove down one arm and allowed Eberhard’s dry, strong fingers to stroke the smooth skin of her hand.

  Mock closed his eyes and recollected Sophie’s performance, her unaffected calm at the piano, her restrained elegance with no show of exaltation or wild tossings of her head. He admired not so much his wife’s playing as the outline of her body set off by the tight black dress. He was enchanted by Sophie’s profile: the proud swell of her bun, the gentle concave of her neck, the fragility of her shoulders, the twin roundness of her buttocks. He was bursting with masculine pride. During the interval, he looked down his nose at the other men and walked round and round his wife as if to say: “Don’t come near – I’m marking my territory.”

  The last chords of Debussy’s L’après-midi d’un faune were played out. Applause thundered. Mock, instead of looking at the bowing musicians, admired the grace with which Sophie brought her hands together to clap, raising them high above her head. He whispered a few words in her ear and left the auditorium. He hastened to the cloakroom, collected his wife’s fur coat and toque along with his coat and hat, and laid them on the counter. He opened the box with the mink stole and slipped it inside the sleeve of Sophie’s perfumed coat. Then he put on his coat and waited, with Sophie’s slung over his arm. A moment later she appeared at his side. She thrust out her substantial breasts and slid her arms into the sleeves of the coat he held out to her.

  “That’s not my fur,” she said in fright, removing the stole from her sleeve. “Ebi, the attendant has made a mistake. He’s given you somebody else’s fur. I didn’t have a stole.”

  “It is your fur,” Mock said with the expression of a schoolboy who has just tipped drawing-pins onto the chair of a teacher he dislikes. “And your stole.”

  “Thank you, my love.” Sophie held out her hand to be kissed.

  Mock put an arm round her waist and led her out of the Concert Hall. He looked about and caught sight of the parked Adler. Slamming the door behind Sophie, he settled himself in the driver’s seat. Sophie stroked the stole with the tips of her fingers. Mock embraced his wife, kissing her passionately. She returned the kiss, then moved away and burst into uncontrollable laughter.

  “It’s wonderful what you said to Leschamps-Brieux,” she cried with amusement. “And what’s more, you hit the nail on the head. He really does drink a lot … That’s all Breslau is going to be talking about now … Nothing but your bon mot … ‘Georges drank schnapps at nursery school instead of cod-liver oil …’ People were already laughing about it in the foyer.”

  Mock, losing his self-control, squeezed Sophie so tight that he could feel her dainty ear through the soft stole.

  “Come on, let’s do it in the car,” he whispered.

  “Are you crazy? It’s too cold,” she panted softly in his ear. “Let’s go home. I’ll make it special for you.”

  With difficulty the car pulled away from its wet and sticky bed of snow. Mock drove very slowly along Höfchenstrasse, trailing behind a mighty cart from which a man in a greatcoat was pouring sand onto the road. Mock did not overtake until just before the crossroads with Moritzstrasse, and then gliding along Augustastrasse, where the snow was packed down by horses’ hooves, he arrived safely at Rehdigerplatz.

  It had stopped snowing. Mock jumped out of the car and opened the passenger door. His wife timidly plunged her slippered foot into the glistening, cold powder, and then quickly withdrew it into the car.

  “I’ll bring you some shoes, my darling.” Mock ran up the steps of the tenement, but instead of going in he turned and went back to the car. He opened the door and squatted. Sliding one arm under Sophie’s knees, he wrapped the other round her back. Sophie laughed, embracing him around the neck. Mock took a deep breath and lifted his wife. He tottered under her weight and stood catching his balance a while with his legs astride. Then he carried Sophie to the entrance and stood her on the step beside the sign that read beware of the dog. He shut the car doors and returned to drown himself for a moment in the soft fur, pressing Sophie’s delicate body against cream-coloured tiles as her strong thighs wound themselves around his hips and the smooth stole around his neck.

  All of a sudden the light came on and Doctor Patschkowsky’s dog began to bark. Mr and Mrs Mock climbed to the second floor, shocking the lawyer who was on his way out with the dog: she was just pulling her dress down over her hips, while he smoothed his hair and pulled the stole from his neck.

  Marta opened the door to them and, seeing their mood, left immediately for the servants’ quarters from which Adalbert’s snoring could already be heard.

  Mock and Sophie rolled into the bedroom, bodies clinging. The surprised dog was initially pleased, then, seeing what he thought was a fight, growled. Sophie closed the door on him, pushed her husband onto the divan and began to undo the numerous buttons of his outfit.

  She began with his coat. Then his hat went gliding towards the door. Next came his trousers.

  At that moment, the telephone rang.

  “Marta will take it,” said Sophie. “She knows what we’re up to, she’ll say we’re not at home.” The telephone kept ringing. Marta did not pick it up.

  “Nothing can be more important than you right now,�
�� whispered Mock. “I’ll deal with whoever’s calling.”

  He stood up, went into the hall and lifted the receiver without saying a word.

  “Good evening. Counsellor Mock, please,” said an unfamiliar voice.

  “Speaking,” muttered Mock.

  “Counsellor, my name is Willibald Hönness, from the casino at the Four Seasons Hotel.” Mock recognized the voice of one of his informers, distorted though it was by the telephone. “There’s a drunken young man here. He’s losing a lot at roulette. He told me his name was Erwin Mock, said he was your nephew. On that account, he was given credit. If he continues to play like this, it’s going to end badly. It looks as though he’s losing money he hasn’t got.”

  “Listen, Hönness,” Mock said, taking his gun from the wall cabinet and slipping it into the inside pocket of his coat, “do something to stop him from winning. If the worst comes to the worst, knock him out. I’ll be right there.”

  Mock went into the bedroom and reached for his hat which was on the floor, arousing much excitement in the dog.

  “I’ll be back soon. Erwin’s in great danger.”

  Sophie was taking off her dress. A streak of mascara ran down her cheek.

  “Don’t bother to come back.” Her voice did not sound as if she had been crying.

  BRESLAU, THAT SAME NOVEMBER 30TH, 1927

  HALF PAST NINE IN THE EVENING

  Willibald Hönness, an attendant at the Four Seasons Hotel casino at Gartenstrasse 66–70, had obeyed Mock’s instructions yet had managed to eliminate Erwin from the game without the use of violence. He had simply spiked Erwin’s beer with a substance that induced violent vomiting. So when Mock burst into the casino with his coat billowing behind him and ran into the men’s toilets on the directions of a porter and an ape-like doorman, the young man was kneeling beside a toilet bowl with his head cradled in Hönness’ caring hands. This sight reassured Mock a little. He lit a cigarette and asked at which table Erwin had been playing.

  “Table four, uncle,” came the answer from the depths of the bowl.

  “I’ll be right back,” Mock said, thrusting a ten-mark note into Hönness’ pocket. He left the toilets and approached the doorman who was standing next to an enormous fountain in the hall between two enormous palm trees. There was no more fitting place for the ape, who fixed his small eyes on Mock.

  “I’d like to see the manager,” Mock said, instinctively reaching for his identification. But he checked himself; he did not want to reveal all his cards yet. “My name is Eberhard Mock. Where would I find him?”

  “Complaints are dealt with at the tables. You should have called the boss from there,” muttered the doorman. “Come back tomorrow after three.”

  “I’m here on a different matter. A very important matter,” Mock said, and resorted to a method sure to calm his nerves, that of mentally reciting Horace’s “Exegi monumentum”.† Beneath the low vault of the doorman’s skull, a small brain was strenuously at work. When Mock got to the well-known line “non omnis moriar”,‡ the doorman said:

  “Tell me what it’s about. I’ll pass it on to the boss – maybe he’ll see you …”

  “You’re not going to pass anything on to him,” said Mock, “because you’d have to repeat ten words and that goes far beyond your capabilities.”

  “Fuck off. Right now,” the doorman glowered, clenching his fists. He was on the verge of thumping his bulging chest with them.

  Mock recited to himself the famous ode about the immortality of the muses’ chosen one. Suddenly he got stuck and no longer knew who it was who had climbed the Capitol in silence: was it the priest or the Vestal? At the same time he turned abruptly and delivered his first blow from a half-spin. The astonished doorman grabbed his chin and lost his balance. That was enough for Mock. He bent down, gripped his opponent by the ankles and pulled him forwards. A spray of water indicated where the doorman, deprived of the support of his short limbs, had found himself. Water overflowed from the fountain, pouring onto the red carpet as the doorman thrashed about helplessly in the marble basin. He tried to push himself up with his hands. The waterfall poured over his white shirt and blinded him. Mock, mentally analysing subsequent lines from Horace about the roaring Aufidus River, donned a knuckle-duster and aimed another blow at the doorman’s chin. The ape’s elbow slipped on the bottom of the fountain and his head fell back into the bubbling whirlpool. Mock threw his coat aside, grabbed him once again by the ankles and, with a mighty heave, dragged him out of the water. The ape’s head thumped against the stone rim of the fountain before his body landed on the soft carpet. Mock leaned one hand against a palm tree and set about kicking the prostrate man. Unnecessarily: the doorman was already unconscious.

  Mock looked with irritation at the drenched sleeves of his jacket and his blood-stained trouser legs. He realized he was holding an extinguished cigarette end between his lips. Spitting it into the fountain, he scrutinized the casino guests who had left the gaming-room and were now staring at the unconscious doorman in horror. Their sentiments were shared by the porter who, without waiting to be asked, said:

  “The manager’s office is on the first floor. Room 104.”

  Room 104 looked a little too small for the hefty, fat body topped with a bald head, which sat sprawled in an armchair, carefully inspecting its croupiers’ reports. Norbert Risse’s stature evoked indescribable joy among restaurateurs and tailors: ten-course meals and the bales of material used to make his elegant clothes allowed representatives of both professions to forget, at least for a while, their everyday material concerns.

  Mock’s profession was entirely different, so the sight of Risse did not arouse much enthusiasm in him. He was not interested in the casino manager’s silk cravat, his quilted dressing gown, and least of all in the set of Chinese porcelain that stood on the coffee table and the listless parrot which knew only sign language.

  “My name is Eberhard Mock,” he said. “Criminal Counsellor Eberhard Mock. I am a suppliant, a humble suppliant.”

  Risse studied Mock’s sodden clothes as the latter stood shuffling from one foot to the other. He picked up the telephone and listened for a moment to the hasty and garbled report. He turned pale, replaced the receiver and offered his guest an armchair.

  “Humble perhaps, but somewhat impatient,” Risse remarked. “What can I do for you, Counsellor?”

  “My nephew, Erwin Mock, lost a sum of money in your casino this evening. I’d like to know how much,” Mock said, rolling a cigarette between his fingers. “My further requests depend on that.”

  Risse pushed a Chinese porcelain container full of blue-striped cigarettes towards Mock. Mock lit one and stared at the beautiful coffee service. The delicate design of bamboo shoots weaving around the cups, pot and sugar-bowl reminded him of his old, passing fascination with the Orient. The steam that emanated from the pot was inviting.

  “Your nephew was out of luck today. He lost a thousand marks. He took on credit for them, saying he was a relative of yours. We only grant credit when we’re sure it will be paid back the following day, at the latest.”

  “Card debts are debts of honour.” Mock turned his hat in his fingers. “I don’t know whether I can repay it by tomorrow. I would be grateful if you would grant us an extension.” He thought of having to pay Beck for the stole. “I’ll settle my nephew’s debt the day after tomorrow.”

  “We are renowned, Counsellor,” Risse said, his cheeks and double-chin undulating, “for not allowing our clients to defer repayment of debts. This ruthlessness is our trump. Our clients stand eye to eye with their fate, a challenge with an illusory opponent, if you prefer, and they know that this opponent is hard and uncompromising. He must be faced with an open visor. Last week, Prince Hermann III von Kaunitz borrowed a certain sum from us which he soon lost. We lend money only once. Von Kaunitz was here on a Saturday, and on Sundays the banks and cheque administration are closed. A conto, he had to leave some family jewellery with us. And what does your nephew have
to leave? It is a good thing you appeared when you did. My men can be very ruthless with insolvent clients.”

  “Aren’t you going to offer me some coffee?” Mock said, no longer reciting Horace in his mind. “I’ll have to think over this sales patter of yours.”

  Risse huffed. He neither said nor did anything. Mock poured himself some coffee and went to the window.

  “I wouldn’t dare break such sacred principles,” he said. “You, Risse, will simply lend me the sum. Privately. As to a good friend. And I’ll give it back to you during the week and never forget your friendly gesture.”

  “I would very much like to be a good friend of yours, Counsellor,” smiled Risse. “But as yet I am not.”

  Mock slowly drank his coffee and strolled about the room. His attention was caught by a Japanese painting of fighting samurais.

  “Do you know what happens when I carry out a search?” he asked. “I’m very exacting. If there is something I cannot find, I get annoyed, and I have to off-load my reaction accordingly. And do you know how? I simply demolish. Destroy.”

  Mock approached the table and picked up the pot of coffee. He poured himself a small amount and added sugar.

  “And just at this moment I’m very annoyed,” he said, holding his cup in one hand and the pot of coffee in the other.

  “But this isn’t a search,” Risse observed intelligently.

  Mock shattered the cup against the tiled stove. Risse’s expression changed, but he sat quite still. Mock trampled the shards of the cup with his heels, turning them to crunching grains.

  “I’ll bring you a backdated search warrant tomorrow,” he said, taking a wide swing. “Can you bear the tension, Risse? Are you going to allow this coffee pot to be destroyed?”

  Risse pressed a button under his desk. When he saw this, Mock threw the coffee pot against the wall; black streams of coffee flowed down to the floor. Next he pulled out a flick-knife and leaped towards the painting. He positioned the point of the blade at one of the samurai’s eyes. Three attendants burst into the office. Risse wiped away the tears trickling down the folds of his face and gestured for the men to leave. Then he began to write out a cheque.