Authors: Marek Krajewski
“What’s the time?”
“Seven in the evening.”
Anwaldt tried to walk around the room. He could barely put his weight on the swollen heel. He made out his beige suit on the chair, cleaned and pressed. He quickly pulled on his underpants and looked around for some cigarettes.
“Go to the restaurant on the corner and bring me some pork knuckle and cabbage, and beer. Buy some cigarettes, too.” He realized with rage
that his cigarette case and watch had been stolen at the Gestapo. While the boy was absent, he washed himself at the kitchen sink and, exhausted, sat down at the table, trying not to catch sight of himself in the mirror. Shortly, a steaming plate stood in front of him, the quivering fat of pork knuckle bathing in a portion of young cabbage. He devoured everything in a matter of minutes. When he looked at the round-bellied bottle of Kipke beer – droplets of water streaming down its cool neck, a white, porcelain hat secured by a nickel-plated clasp in its mouth – he remembered his resolution of total abstinence. He burst out in derisive laughter and poured half a bottle of beer down his throat. He lit a cigarette and inhaled greedily.
“I told you to buy pork knuckle and beer, didn’t I?”
“Yes.”
“Did I clearly say ‘beer’?”
“Yes.”
“Just imagine, I said that automatically. And did you know that when we speak automatically, it’s not us speaking but someone else speaking through us. So that when I told you to buy some beer it wasn’t me telling you but someone else. Do you understand?”
“Who, for example?” the baffled boy grew interested.
“God!” roared Anwaldt with laughter then laughed until pain almost drilled his head asunder. He fastened on to the bottle neck and, after a moment, put it aside, empty. He dressed awkwardly. He barely squeezed his hat on to his bandaged head. Hopping on one leg, he mastered the spiral staircase and found himself on a street inundated by the setting sun.
VII
ZOPPOT, FRIDAY, JULY 13TH, 1934
HALF-PAST ONE IN THE AFTERNOON
Eberhard Mock strolled along Zoppot pier, rejecting the thought of the approaching lunch with distaste. He was not hungry because he had drunk several tankards of beer between meals, interspersed with bites of hot frankfurter sausages. On top of that, for the sake of lunch, he had to relinquish watching the girls stroll by the casino, their lazy bodies provocatively taut under the slippery silk of dresses and swim suits. Mock shook his head and tried once more to chase away a nagging thought which stubbornly drew him towards that distant city suffocating in the hollow of stagnant air, towards those tight, crowded quarters of tenements and dark wells of yards, towards monumental buildings enclosed in the classicistic white of sandstone or neo-Gothic red of bricks, towards islands weighed down by churches and wrapped in the embrace of the dirty green snake of the Oder, towards residences and palaces concealed by greenery, where the “gentleman” betrays the “lady” with reciprocity and the servants merge with the panelling of the walls. The persistent thought drew Mock to the city where someone throws scorpions into the bellies of girls as beautiful as a dream and dispirited men with dirty pasts lead investigations which will always end in defeat. He knew what to call his thoughts: the qualms of conscience.
Filled with beer, sausages and heavy thoughts, Mock entered the Spa House where he was renting a so-called junker’s apartment with his wife. He was greeted in the restaurant by the beseeching eyes of his wife, standing next to two old ladies who did not leave her side for an instant. Mock realized that he was not wearing a tie and turned back to go to their apartment and repair this
faux pas
. As he was crossing the hotel hall he caught sight out of the corner of his eye of a tall man in dark clothes getting up and making his way towards him. Mock instinctively halted. The man stood in his path and, pressing his hat to his chest, bowed politely.
“Oh, it’s you Hermann,” Mock looked carefully at Baron von der Malten’s chauffeur’s face, grey with fatigue.
Hermann Wuttke bowed once more and handed Mock an envelope with the Baron’s golden initials. Mock read the letter three times, put it neatly back in its envelope and muttered to the chauffeur:
“Wait for me here.”
Shortly afterwards, he entered the restaurant, travel-bag in hand. He neared the table, glared at by the two ladies and followed by the distressful gaze of his wife. She was clenching her teeth so as to swallow the bitter taste of disappointment. She knew that their holiday together was coming to an end – yet one more unsuccessful rational attempt to save their marriage. He did not need to have his travel-bag with him for her to know that, in a moment, he would be leaving the health resort of which he had dreamt for years. It was enough for her to look into his eyes: hazy, melancholic and cruel – as always.
BRESLAU, THURSDAY, JULY 12TH, 1934
TEN O’CLOCK IN THE EVENING
After a two-hour walk through the city centre (Ring and the dark streets around Blücherplatz peopled with rogues and prostitutes), Anwaldt sat in
Orlich’s beerhouse, Orwi, on Gartenstrasse not far from the Operetta, looking through the menu. There was a variety of coffee, cocoa, a vast choice of liqueurs and Kipke beer. But there was also something he particularly wanted. He folded the menu and the waiter was at his side. He ordered cognac and a siphon of Deinart mineral water, lit a cigarette and looked around. Soft chairs surrounded dark tables in fours, landscapes of the Riesengebirge hung over wainscotting covered in wood, green velvet discreetly veiled booths and small rooms, nickel taps poured streams of frothy beer into pot-bellied tankards. Laughter, loud conversation and the abundant fumes of aromatic tobacco filled the restaurant. Anwaldt listened attentively to customers’ conversations and tried to guess their professions. As he easily gathered, they were mainly small manufacturers and owners of large craft enterprises selling their wares in their own stores adjacent to their workshops. Nor was there a lack of agents, petty officials and students wearing the insignia of their societies. Colourfully dressed women sauntered through the place, smiling. But, for reasons unknown to him, they avoided Anwaldt’s table. He only realized why when he glanced at the marble table top: on to a napkin embroidered with Trebnitz flowers had crawled a black scorpion. It was moving its crooked abdomen dartingly, directing its venomous sting upwards, defending itself in this way against the hornet which was trying to attack it.
The policeman closed his eyes and tried to get a hold on his imagination. Warily, his hand groped for the familiar shape of the bottle which had found itself on to his table a moment ago. He uncorked it, raised it to his lips. His lips and throat burnt pleasurably with the molten gold. He opened his eyes: the monsters had vanished from the table. He wanted to laugh now at his anxieties. With an indulgent smile, he looked at the packet of Salem cigarettes with its illustration of a large wasp. He filled the balloon of thin glass and drank it in a single draught; he inhaled his cigarette. The alcohol, fortified with a hefty dose of nicotine, infiltrated
his blood. The siphon bubbled amicably. Anwaldt began to listen to conversations at the neighbouring tables.
“Don’t worry, Herr Schultze … Isn’t there enough evil in this world to contend with? Really, Herr Schultze …” some elderly gentleman with a bowler hat glued to the crown of his head was mumbling. “I tell you: neither the day, nor the hour … And that’s the truth … Because take that last incident, for instance. The tram was turning into Gartenstrasse from Teichstrasse near the Hirschlik bakery … And, let me tell you, he went and hit a droschka going to the station … The rascal cabby survived, but the woman and child were killed … That’s how that swine sent … into the next world … Nobody knows the day nor the hour … Neither you, nor I, nor this one here or that one there … Hey, you who’s been beaten up, what are you staring at?”
Anwaldt lowered his eyes. The agitated siphon hissed. He lifted the tablecloth and saw two coupling hornets, abdomens interlocked. Swiftly, he smoothed down the tablecloth which changed into a sheet. The sheet used to cover Banker Schmetterling clenched in a painful knot with the beautiful schoolgirl, Erna.
He drank two glasses of cognac on the trot and glanced over to the side, avoiding the eyes of the fat drunkard who was revealing the secret wisdom of life to Herr Schultze.
“What? Under the statue of Battle and Victory on Königsplatz? They go there, you say? Servants and nursemaids on the whole? You’re right, that is an exceptional situation. You don’t have to woo or strut … All they want from you is what you want from them …” a thin student was drinking Beaujolais straight from the bottle and becoming more and more excited. “Yes. It’s a clear situation. You approach, smile and take her home. You don’t waste your money or lose your honour. Eh, what competition are soldiers … Excuse me, but do I know you?”
“No. I was lost in thought …” Anwaldt said.
(I’d like to talk to someone. Or play chess. Yes, chess. As at the orphanage once. Karl – he was one keen chess-player. We would place a cardboard suitcase between the beds and put the chessboard on it. Once, when we were playing, the drunk tutor came into the dormitory.)
Anwaldt clearly heard the clatter of chess pieces scattering now and felt the kicks dealt by the tutor to both the suitcase and their bodies hiding under the beds.
Two glasses, two gulps, two hopes.
“Herr Schultze, it’s good that they threw those professors out of work. No Jew’s agoing to teach German children … Agoing to fu … fu … Agoing to foul …”
The hiss of gaslight, the impatient hiss of the siphon: another drink!
“Oh, those Polish students! They know next to nothing! And what demands! What manners! And it’s a good thing they’ve been taught some sense at the Gestapo. They’re in a German city, so let them speak German!”
Anwaldt, tripping, made towards the toilet. There were numerous obstacles in his path: uneven floorboards, tables blocking his way, waiters bustling through thick smoke. Finally, he reached the cubicle. He dropped his trousers, supported his hands on the wall and swayed from side to side. Among the uniform murmur, he heard the dull thumping of his heart. He listened intently to the sound for quite a while then suddenly heard a cry and saw Lea Friedländer’s alluring body twitching below the ceiling. He stumbled back into the room. He needed a drink to scrub the image from his eyes.
“Oh, how pleased I am to see you, Criminal Director! Only you can help me!” he shouted with joy to Mock, who was sitting at his table and smoking a fat cigar.
“Calm down, Anwaldt. It’s not true, any of it! Lea Friedländer’s alive,” the strong hand, covered with black hair, patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. We’ll solve this case.”
Anwaldt looked at the place where, a moment ago, Mock had been. Now a waiter sat there, looking at him with an amused expression.
“Well, it’s a good thing you’ve woken up, sir. It would have been awkward for me to throw a client out who gives such tips. Shall I order you a droschka or a taxi, sir?”
BRESLAU, SATURDAY, JULY 14TH, 1934
EIGHT O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING
The morning sun outlined Baron von der Malten’s Roman profile and the wave of Eberhard Mock’s black hair. They were sitting in the Baron’s garden, drinking aromatic coffee.
“How was the journey?”
“Fine, thank you. Only I was a bit worried with your chauffeur driving so fast and being so tired.”
“Oh, Hermann’s a man of iron. Have you read Anwaldt’s report?”
“Yes. Very detailed. It’s a good thing you sent it to me straight away.”
“It took him the whole of yesterday to write it. He says he writes well after a drinking binge.”
“He got drunk? Really?”
“Unfortunately. At Orlich’s, near the Operetta. What do you intend to do, Eberhard? What are your plans?”
“I intend to take care of Maass and von Köpperlingk,” Mock exhaled a thick cloud of smoke. “They’ll lead me to that Turk.”
“And what has Maass got to do with him?”
“Olivier, Baron von Köpperlingk bribed Maass with pretty rented schoolgirls from Madame le Goef’s. Anwaldt’s right: Maass is too intelligent not to know that he’s dealing with the daughters of Corinth, but on the other hand too egocentric to accept the fact. He’s of a kind with
Professor Andreae, I think. Why did the Baron bribe him? That, we’ll find out. Then I’ll put some pressure on the Baron. I’m sure he’ll serve the Turk to me on a plate. Anwaldt’s not going to achieve more than he has. He doesn’t know Breslau well enough and, besides, they really scared him. Now I’m stepping into action.”
“How are you going to make them talk?”
“Olivier, please … Leave my methods to me. Ah, here is Anwaldt. Good morning! You don’t look all that good. Did you fall into some hydrochloric acid?”
“I had some minor problems,” said the convalescent, bowing to both men. Mock, embracing him cordially, said:
“Please don’t worry. The Gestapo aren’t going to harass you again. I’ve just sorted that out.”
(“Yes, he sorted that out very efficiently,” thought the Baron holding out a limp hand to Anwaldt. “I wouldn’t like to be in that Forstner’s shoes.”)
“Thank you,” Anwaldt croaked. Generally, on the third day after being drunk, the physical pains would subside and a deep depression would appear. That is how it would have been now, too, if it were not for that one human being – Eberhard Mock. The sight of that angular man in his immaculately cut pale suit had a soothing effect on Anwaldt. He glanced contritely at Mock and, for the first time in his life, had the feeling that somebody cared.
“I’m sorry. I got drunk. I’ve no excuse.”
“Too true, you’ve no excuse. If you ever get drunk again, you’ll stop working with me and you’ll go back to Berlin. And Criminal Counsellor von Grappersdorff won’t be welcoming you with open arms.” Mock looked sternly at the humbly stooping Anwaldt. Suddenly, he put his arm around him. “You won’t get drunk any more. You simply won’t have any reason to. I’m back from Zoppot and I’m going to watch over you. We’re leading this investigation together. Allow us, Baron …” He turned to von
der Malten, who was observing this whole episode with a degree of distaste, “to take our leave. We’ve an appointment to see the Director of the University Library, Doctor Hartner.”