End of the World in Breslau

by Marek Krajewski

  “Really? That’s the famous von Finckl?” Knüfer gathered into an ebony casket the mound of chips he had won after the croupier called twenty-three red. He lit his first cigar of the day. “And what’s your name?”

  “Richter, honourable sir …”

  “Tell me, Richter, why are you telling me this? After all, casino employees aren’t allowed to talk to guests! Otherwise croupiers could come to all sorts of arrangements with players …”

  “It’s all the same to me. I’m going to lose my job anyway …”

  “Why?”

  “Every croupier is assigned to one table, and one table only.” Richter spun the wheel from force of habit even though Knüfer had not shown any desire to continue playing but, puffing smoke from his cigar, was trying to stuff the casket into the pocket of his jacket. “My table is regarded as being unlucky so nobody plays here. If nobody plays, I don’t get any tips and it’s the tips I live off because our wages are … I apologize, I wasn’t trying to wheedle anything out of you, sir …”

  “As of today, your table is no longer unlucky. After all, I’ve just won a great deal here.” Knüfer counted out ten chips and slipped them into the croupier’s tailcoat pocket. “If you want more, much more, report to me everything that blonde does with her little fancy man.”

  He patted Richter on the shoulder and left the room, followed by the eyes of the other players, the blonde woman and her short companion appearing to show the most interest in his recent activities.

  WIESBADEN, THAT SAME DECEMBER 13TH, 1927 FIVE O’CLOCK IN THE AFTERNOON

  Knüfer placed a photograph of Sophie near the telephone and cast his eyes over the room. Wherever he looked – be it at the wall covered in pale-blue wallpaper with little roses, or at the ceiling speckled with dead flies, or at the screen that separated the iron bed from the washbasin – he saw her face disappearing in the reversed, black, white and half-tones of a negative.

  Knüfer felt a vague unease and reached for the telephone receiver bouncing on its hook. He held it to his ear and heard the telephonist’s Hessian dialect informing him that he had just been connected to number 6381 in Breslau. A moment later he heard the calm voice of subscriber 6381 who, with lengthy pauses between words, emitted what sounded like puffs on a pipe.

  “Good afternoon, Criminal Director.” Knüfer, pressing the receiver tube to his ear, brought his head closer to the mouthpiece. “I’ve found her. She’s in Wiesbaden under the name of Isabelle Lebetseyder, in the company of a Bernard Finkelstein. Yes, I do know a little about him. How did I find out? I’ve got associates in Berlin and the telegraph is swift. Finkelstein was a popular film director at the beginning of the twenties … Really, I assure you! Does the name Bodo von Finckl mean anything to you? Of course, it’s the same man. He was famous for a while then got into some sort of trouble. He had a poor record with the Berlin police, Vice Department, for being a notorious gambler. Suspected of making pornographic films. He’s playing very hard here in Wiesbaden and winning heaps of money. Sophie Mock, alias Isabelle Lebetseyder, is clearly his good muse.”

  “Listen to me carefully now.” Knüfer heard the crackle of a match and could almost smell the aroma of Austria tobacco. “You’re going to have to isolate the woman.”

  The voice fell silent. Knüfer said nothing either.

  “Don’t you understand?” Saliva gurgled in the pipe. “You’re to abduct her and hide her for a month or two. Until further notice. Expenses are of no importance.”

  “I understand you perfectly, Director Mühlhaus,” Knüfer said, and replaced the receiver.

  WIESBADEN, THAT SAME DECEMBER 13TH, 1927 SEVEN O’CLOCK IN THE EVENING

  Croupier Richter happily slid the enormous pile of chips towards von Finckl’s immaculate white shirt-front. The film director was expressionless as he screwed a Turkish cigarette into a long, ivory cigarette-holder and passed it to his fair-haired companion. Sophie accepted it thoughtfully, then slowly raised her eyelids. The green flame in her eyes licked at the men gathered around the table. Several snow-white cuffs emerged from the sleeves of dinner jackets, and paraffin lighters hissed between manicured fingers. Sophie wrapped her hand, clad in a lace glove, around another with plump, red fingers, in which a glittering cone that clicked alight with a bluish flame was barely visible. The owner of the fingers was so moved by her touch that he felt hardly any pain from the heated metal.

  At Richter’s table no-one was playing but von Finckl. It was the only occupied table in the casino. All the others were empty since the guests who usually sat at them now surrounded Richter’s. The croupier lived his great day radiantly, blessing the moment when Knüfer’s chips had first hit the red and black board printed on green baize. This had been the start of Knüfer’s splendid run, which was the talk of all present, and now Bodo von Finckl had been drawn to the table, who, for the past several hours had been telling guests and casino employees that the ill-fame attached to the table, which so discouraged players, was a foolish superstition, invented, as Richter claimed, by envious fellow croupiers.

  The huge crowd thickened around the table and left the croupier, the player and the blonde goddess of gambling practically no room to breathe.

  “S’il vous plaît,” called Richter. “Mesdames, messieurs, faites vos jeux.”

  Von Finckl counted out twenty ten-mark chips and pushed the column towards Sophie who, to the indignation of the few ladies watching the game, made a sign of benediction over them. Von Finckl then tossed one chip towards the board. Most of it covered twenty-eight red. On von Finckl’s instructions, Sophie then placed the two-hundred-mark column on twenty-eight and the rest of the chips, five similar columns, on red. The audience gasped; this was the first time von Finckl had not placed an even-money bet.

  “Rien ne va plus.” Richter spun the wheel. The clanking of the ball skipping in the squares and the faint hiss of the wheel sliding in its cylinder resounded in the deathly silence. After a while, the wheel came to a standstill. A murmur of admiration billowed through the crowd. Sophie threw both her arms in the air, revealing depilated armpits. Nineteen red had come up. The column standing on twenty-eight made its way towards Richter, while twice as many chips as had stood on red were pushed towards von Finckl. The latter reverently kissed his companion’s hand and tossed another chip, once again setting the determinism of chance in motion. After being “blessed”, the chip landed on the line between squares nineteen red and even. Sophie, von Finckl and Richter leaned over the table and a vault of heads and shoulders closed above them. The player got to his feet, took a breath of air and looked at the spectators who moved away unwillingly.

  “Perhaps you could all step back and allow me to make a decision,” he said in a calm voice and looked at Sophie expectantly: “What do you think, madame?”

  “Probably pair.” Sophie glanced uncertainly at von Finckl. “No … I don’t know myself …”

  The player took the chip between two fingers and slipped it into Richter’s tailcoat pocket. Then he carefully chose another one, let a spell be cast over it and tossed it up. The greater part of it landed on six black. Von Finckl then placed a thousand marks on six black and ten thousand on black. Richter uttered the French incantation and the ball began its dance among the wooden divisions of the wheel. Von Finckl closed his eyes and pictured his childhood in Bęndzin, in the wooden cottage reeking of onions that also served his father as a tailor’s workshop, his eight siblings as a field of constant battles, and numerous bedbugs as a comfortable haven. He no longer heard the rattling of the ball but the clatter of an old Singer sewing machine; he did not hear the moan of disappointment from the people surrounding him but the yelling of the tailor’s displeased client; he did not sense Sophie’s fear but his mother’s anxiety as they faced another day of hunger. Von Finckl did not open his eyes when he heard the rustle of chips being moved away, when Sophie dug her fingers into his shoulder, when the scraping of his former supporters’ shoes reached his ears, and when suddenly othe
r tables came to life with French phrases and his own croupier chanted a funereal “Les jeux sont faites.” He opened his eyes only when he felt the cold touch of glass against his hand. Opposite him sat a distinguished, grey-haired man delicately holding a glass of champagne like those that now stood in front of von Finckl and Sophie.

  “Claus von Stietencrott, manager of the casino,” he smiled. “Please allow me to express my admiration. I have never yet met a player whose every bet was a va banque.”

  “Thank you,” said von Finckl in a shaky voice, afraid to look at Sophie. “I am honoured by your admiration.”

  “No, the honour is mine.” Von Stietencrott made a swift movement and two glasses tinkled musically. “After such a loss you haven’t said: ‘What good is your admiration to me!’ or ‘Go to hell!’, but have reacted like a true gentleman. We treat gentlemen with great respect in our casino and, when fortune ceases to be kind to them, we always offer a loan of whatever sum they desire without their having to leave anything with us on security. Would you like such a loan?”

  BRESLAU, THAT SAME DECEMBER 13TH, 1927 ELEVEN O’CLOCK IN THE EVENING

  Elisabeth Pflüger was just coming to the end of Erik Satie’s third Gnossienne and her white piano had begun to patter with the sound of falling rain when the chambermaid entered the parlour, informing her of an urgent telephone call from Wiesbaden, and asking where Miss Pflüger wished to take it. Elisabeth wished to take it in the parlour and, crossing her shapely legs on the chaise-longue, asked the chambermaid in an irritated voice who had the gall to disturb her at such a late hour. When told, she suppressed her anger and held the receiver to her ear. After a series of sobs, snivels and assurances of love and friendship, she listened to her friend’s request for help and advice.

  “I beg you, Elisabeth, tell me what to do … He’s lost everything …”

  “That von Finckl you wrote to me about? A messenger picked up your letter from the Wiesbaden train today and delivered it to me …”

  “Yes, von Finckl. The casino manager suggested a loan without security, but he refused and asked for the bills of exchange and cheques he had with him to be exchanged for chips. When his request was granted, he lost everything. He hasn’t got anything to pay the hotel with. He then accepted the offer made by the casino manager, but the offer had changed … Now it’s a different kind of loan, and the security’s supposed to be me …”

  A man’s hand pressed down the telephone cradle. Elisabeth gazed through her gathering tears at Baron von Hagenstahl and was relieved that she did not have to listen to her friend’s weeping any longer.

  “There’s nothing you can do,” the Baron said quietly. “Only I can help her now. I know what it means to hold a beautiful young woman as security in a casino. Va banque.”

  WIESBADEN, THAT SAME DECEMBER 13TH, 1927 MIDNIGHT

  “Von Stietencrott gave von Finckl a thousand marks for his bills of exchange and cheques,” Richter spoke quietly, casting nervous glances about the park that surrounded the casino. “Von Finckl played va banque as usual, and lost. Then the boss offered a loan, but with a warranty. That warranty is to be Miss Isabelle Lebetseyder. The boss has valued her at three thousand marks. That’s the sort of loan it is.”

  “I don’t understand anything, Richter,” Knüfer said, shivering with cold. “They’re going to play for Miss Lebetseyder?”

  “Yes.” Richter pulled his hat down over his eyes. “And tomorrow even, at my table. At midnight. Von Finckl is placing his lover on one side of the scales, and on the other, von Stietencrott has put three thousand marks. If the film director wins, he gets chips for that sum; if the boss wins, Miss Lebetseyder has to stay on in our casino for some time. There’s only the one game – black and red. Nothing else. One game. Va banque.”

  Knüfer felt his legs shaking.

  “It’s cold in this park,” he growled. “Let’s go and get something to drink, damn it. Lead the way, Richter.”

  The croupier adjusted his gloves and hurried away across the park. Knüfer set off after him. By night Wiesbaden was decorated with festive lanterns and, despite it being Advent, the Ente wine bar in Hotel Nassauer Hof pulsated with life. Beneath the statue of Emperor Frederick, a couple were kissing passionately, their lips chapping in the frost. A moustachioed police sergeant was giving the directions to Emperor Frederick’s baths to an inebriated man. Richter took Knüfer by the arm and pulled him through one of the doors into Hankäs mit Musik, a homely bar smelling of onions and cheese. They sat in a dark corner and the croupier ordered two tankards of hot äppelwoi.

  “Tell me, Richter,” Knüfer said, placing a ten-mark note on the table. “If von Finckl loses, how long will Miss Lebetseyder have to stay at the casino and what will she have to do there?”

  “If I told you …” Richter put his hand over the note. “What I’m going to tell you,” he corrected himself, “could cost me my job … But what the hell! You’ve brought me luck … We’ve got another casino … an unofficial one … in the basement … That’s where seriously rich clients gamble. The croupiers are beautiful, naked women. If a player wins a very high sum – its value would depend on the player’s skill and addiction – he gets the croupier who served him as a gift for the night. You’ve no idea how lust can blind those men. They lose piles of gold, they hardly ever manage to win a girl, and yet they still keep coming … They’d play like maniacs to win Miss Lebetseyder. You just have to take one look at her. Our boss knows what he’s doing …”

  “How long would Miss Lebetseyder have to work in this secret casino?” Knüfer repeated his question.

  “Two months is mandatory. Any extension would be up to our blonde Venus.”

  “And when did you say the game was to take place?”

  “Tomorrow at midnight. The boss wants to notify a few journalists he’s acquainted with, as well as the regular clients of our unofficial casino who’ll be all too willing to cast an eye over the goods. I imagine he’ll invite you too, after the decent amount you won at my table.”

  “There’s something you haven’t taken into account.” Knüfer tried to hide the trembling of his hand as he tipped back the apple wine spiced with cloves and cinnamon. “The girl might not agree. And von Finckl might not lose.”

  “I don’t think so,” retorted Richter. He drew a grubby curtain, which, if it had been in one piece, would have separated their table from the rest of the room. “I’ve seen many losers in the casino who have treated the game as their one and only possibility of getting any money. Most of them didn’t say who they were, and were about as genuine as this ‘aristocratic’ film director who anyone can see is a Jew, and that pseudo-Austrian with the Bavarian accent. Losers will do anything for another chance.”

  “Thank you, Richter.” Knüfer threw yet another note on the table. He made to leave but the croupier caught him by the sleeve. He was very strong for his age. Clearly his muscles had not been developed merely by spinning a roulette wheel.

  “They’ll do anything and lose everything,” he looked intently at Knüfer. “Every single one. Without exception. Just remember that.”

  WIESBADEN, WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 14TH, 1927 A QUARTER TO MIDNIGHT

  With a silver spoon, Rainer Knüfer scooped up a heap of red caviar and garnished a square of coarse, dark, wholemeal bread with it. He then twisted half a lemon, cut lengthwise and set in an upturned cup, into a cone of crystal glass. The cup filled with juice, a few drops of which cut the bland taste of the caviar. Knüfer washed this morsel down with champagne and once again pulled out his invitation, handwritten by the manager:

  I have the honour of inviting you, Esteemed Gentleman, to a special game at midnight on December 14th, to be held in the main hall of the casino. Following the game, you are invited to a reception, which will take place in the basement of our casino. This invitation applies only to the respected Rainer Knüfer

  – with no companions.

  With my respects,

  Claus von Stietencrott Manager


  Knüfer scanned Käfer’s Bistro, the casino restaurant, and a violent shudder ran through him. His mother used to explain this unpleasant sensation as “death looking you in the eye”. Now the hope of an easy life was looking him in the eye: Knüfer eating his dinner on silvery-white tablecloths every day, sitting on these soft seats of cherry-coloured leather; Knüfer slicing a roasted suckling pig using a knife with an engraved crest, then replacing the knife on a silver knife-rest and handing the girl next to him a piece of pink meat in a crunchy coating of bread-crumbs; the girl’s fair hair, in the golden halo of the spidery chandeliers, sharply contrasting with the plush cherry curtains; a waiter bowing from the waist and, in the background, a rainbow of drinks arranged on triangular napkins, sparkling on the enormous mahogany bar; Knüfer looking at the girl one more time and wondering who she could be …

  The detective shook his head and found himself alone with his dreams. He folded the invitation carefully, slipped a ten-mark note under the white, starched napkin, and went to the casino hall. At the entrance to the main hall, a man with moulting blond hair and a pointed goatee was showing the doorman an invitation identical to the one that nestled in Knüfer’s dinner jacket. The doorman bowed and his white-gloved hand gestured to the man to enter. A moment later, Knüfer also found himself in the main room of the casino. He quickly counted thirty-eight men already present, all of whom were wearing tailcoats or dinner jackets, with their shirt-fronts diffusing a snowy brilliance. Croupier Richter silently spun the wheel as the guests adjusted their top hats, re-tied silk scarves around their necks and tapped their canes – some to conceal their embarrassment, others to draw attention to themselves, but most to express their impatience. Minutes passed. Knüfer’s eyes wandered over the cream walls, lit up in the electric brightness of the chandeliers, and found relief in the calm, rough, green baize that covered the tables. The murmur of impatience swelled, then, a little later, turned into a roar of greeting and a fawning hum of approval. Into the hall walked Sophie, followed by the manager, von Stietencrott, and Bodo von Finckl. Sophie was wearing a long, tight dress of black satin with elbow-length gloves of the same colour and material. Knüfer drew near to her and thought he could detect traces of recent tears in her pale green eyes. Von Finckl’s eyes were unmoved and his tiny yellow teeth gnawed at his upper lip. Von Stietencrott adjusted his monocle, raised both his arms and began his speech.