Authors: Marek Krajewski
BRESLAU, THAT SAME JULY 14TH, 1934
NINE O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING
Despite the early hour, the sun scorched the windows and roof of the Adler. Anwaldt was driving, Mock navigating and explaining the streets and places they passed. They drove down Krietener Weg, along which ran workmen’s blocks interspersed with small, flowery houses. They passed the border post of Breslau and found themselves in Klettendorf. The sweetish stench of Liebich’s sugar factory penetrated the thick air. The recently built Evangelical church, separated by a low fence from the presbytery concealed among trees, flashed past their right window. Mock grew pensive and stopped commenting on the neighbourhood. They were driving through a beautiful suburb full of gardens and villas.
“Ah, so we’re in Oparów, are we? Except we’ve approached it from another direction, is that right?”
“Yes. It’s Opperau, not Oparów.”
Anwaldt did not ask the way again. He parked the car outside Madame le Goef’s salon. The muffled cries of bathers – already using the sports pool some 200 metres away, despite the early hour – could be heard in the silence. Mock did not get out. He found his cigarette case and offered it to Anwaldt. The striped, blue cigarette paper grew damp to the touch.
“You’ve experienced great humiliation, Herbert.” Clouds of cigarette smoke emerged from Mock’s nose and lips with every word. “I once experienced something like that, too. That’s how I know how to stifle the bitterness inside. You have to attack, throw yourself at someone’s throat,
tear and bite. Fight! Act! Who shall we attack today, Herbert? The corruptible erotomaniac Maass. Who shall we use against him?” He did not answer, but indicated, with his head, the manor standing in its burning garden. They extinguished their cigarettes and made a move. Nobody stopped them either at the gate or on the drive. The guards bowed politely to Mock. After several sharp rings, the door opened a little. With a kick, Mock flung it wide open and roared to the terrified butler:
“Where is Madame?!”
Madame ran down the stairs, wrapping a dressing gown around her. She was no less alarmed than the doorman.
“Oh, what’s happened, your Excellency? Why is your Excellency so angry?”
Mock placed one leg on a stair, put his hands on his hips and yelled so loudly that the crystals on the hall lamp swung.
“What’s the meaning of this, dammit? My associate is viciously attacked here, in this place! What am I to understand by that?”
“I’m sorry. It was a misunderstanding. The young man did not have any identification. But please, please … Do go up to my office … Kurt will bring some beer, a siphon, ice, sugar and lemons.”
Mock spread himself brusquely behind Madame’s desk, Anwaldt on the small, leather sofa. Madame sat on the edge of her chair and glanced anxiously at one, then the other in turn. Mock lengthened the silence. The servant entered.
“Four lemonades,” ordered Mock. “Two for this man.”
Four tall glasses sweated on the small table. The door closed behind the servant. Anwaldt swallowed the first lemonade almost in one gulp. The second, he savoured for longer.
“Please call the pseudo-schoolgirl and some other pretty eighteen-year-old. She’s to be a ‘virgin’. You know what I mean? Then please leave us alone with them.”
Madame smiled knowingly and retreated from the royal presence. A freshly made-up eye winked meaningfully. She was pleased that His Excellency was no longer angry.
The “schoolgirl” was accompanied by a red-haired angel with pale, hazel eyes and white, transparent skin. They did not let the girls sit, so they stood in the middle of the room, worried and helpless.
Anwaldt got up and, with his hands behind his back, paced the room. Suddenly, he stopped in front of “Erna”.
“Listen carefully to me. Today the bearded chauffeur is going to take you to see Maass. You’ll tell Maass that your friend from school wants to meet and please him. That she’s waiting for him in the hotel … Which hotel?” he asked Mock.
“The Golden Goose on Junkerstrasse 27/297.”
“You,” Anwaldt turned to the red-head, “really will be waiting for him there, in room 104. The porter will give you the key. You’re to play the innocent and surrender to Maass after a long time resisting. Madame will tell you what to do to make the client think he’s dealing with a virgin. Then you,” he pointed to “Erna”, “will join them. To put it briefly – you’re to keep Maass in that room for two hours. I wouldn’t like to be in your shoes if you don’t. That’s all. Any questions?”
“Yes,” the schoolgirl’s alto reverberated. “Will the chauffeur agree to take us there?”
“It’s all the same to him where you give yourself as long as it’s with Maass.”
“I’ve got a question, too,” the red-haired angel croaked.
(Why do they all have such deep voices? Never mind. As it is, they’re more honest than Erna Stange with her melodious, quiet squeak.)
“Where do I get a school uniform from?”
“Wear an ordinary dress. It’s summer and not all schools make their pupils wear uniforms. Apart from that, tell him that you were ashamed
of coming to a tryst in a hotel wearing school uniform.”
Mock got up unhurriedly from behind the desk. “Any other questions?”
BRESLAU, THAT SAME JULY 14TH, 1934
TEN O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING
They parked the Adler in front of the Police Praesidium. After entering the gloomy building where the walls soothed with their cellar-like coolness, they parted ways. Mock went to see Forstner, Anwaldt to the Evidence Archives. A quarter of an hour later, they met at the porter’s counter. Each held a package under his arm. They left the thick walls of the Praesidium regretfully and choked as they breathed in the heat of the street. The police photographer, Helmut Ehlers, whose enormous bald head seemed to reflect the sun’s rays, waited beside the car. All three got in; Anwaldt drove. First, they went to Deutschmann’s tobacco shop on Schweidnitzer Strasse, where Mock bought his favourite cigars, and then turned back. They passed St Dorothy’s Church, the Hotel Monopol, the Municipal Theatre, Wertheim’s Department Store and turned right into Tauentzienstrasse. After about twenty yards, they stopped. Kurt Smolorz emerged from the shadowy gate and approached the car. He got in next to Ehlers and said:
“She’s been with him for five minutes already. Köpperlingk’s chauffeur is waiting for her over there,” he waved at the chauffeur who was leaning against the Mercedes, smoking a cigarette. Fanning himself with his somewhat too small, stiff cap, he was clearly suffocating in his dark livery with its golden buttons carrying the Baron’s monogram. After a while, on a pavement as hot as an oven, Maass appeared – plainly excited – with the schoolgirl attached to his side. An elderly lady, walking past, spat with disgust. They got into the Mercedes. The chauffeur did not look
in the least surprised. The engine growled. A moment later, the elegant rear of the limousine disappeared from sight.
“Gentlemen,” Mock said quietly. “We’ve got two hours. And let Maass enjoy himself a bit at the end. Soon he’ll be with us …”
They got out and, with relief, hid in the shade of the gate. The short caretaker blocked their way and asked, a little frightened:
“Who have you come to see?”
Mock, Ehlers and Smolorz paid him no heed. Anwaldt pushed him against the wall and, with one hand, forcefully squashed his unshaven cheeks. The caretaker’s lips rolled into a frightened snout.
“We’re from the police, but you haven’t seen us. Understand, or do you want trouble?”
The caretaker nodded to show he understood and scurried into the depths of the yard. Anwaldt barely managed to climb to the first floor then pressed the brass doorknob. It gave way. Although his conversation with the caretaker and his ascent had taken no more than two minutes, both policemen and the photographer had not only silently entered the apartment, but they had also begun a methodical, detailed search. Anwaldt joined them. Wearing gloves, they picked up and examined every object, replacing it exactly where they had found it. After an hour, they met in Maass’ study which had been searched by Mock.
“Sit down,” Mock indicated the chairs spread out around a small circular table. “You’ve searched the kitchen, bathroom and living-room, have you? Good work. Find anything interesting? That’s what I thought. There is, however, one interesting thing here … This notebook. Ehlers, to work!”
The photographer unpacked his equipment, stood a vertical, portable tripod on the desk and fixed a Zeiss camera to it. On the top of the desk, he spread the rough-book found by Mock then held it in place with a pane of glass. He pressed the cable release. The flashlight shot once. The title
page: “
Die Chronik von Ibn Sahim
. Übersetzt von Dr Georg Maass”
†
was fixed on photographic film. The flash clicked and went off another fifteen times until all the pages covered in the even, small handwriting had been photographed. Mock glanced at his watch and said:
“My dear gentlemen, we’ve managed on time. Ehlers, when can you have the photographs ready?”
“At five.”
“Anwaldt will collect them from you then. Only him, understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thank you, gentlemen.”
Smolorz locked the door as easily as he had opened it. Anwaldt glanced through the stained-glass window and, in its coloured glow, made out the caretaker sweeping the yard and anxiously looking around at the windows. It was probable that he did not know which apartment they had broken into. After a few seconds, they were in the car, Mock driving. They made their way along Agnesstrasse to the Police Praesidium where Ehlers and Smolorz got out. Mock and Anwaldt turned into Schweidnitzer Strasse, and then into Zwinger Platz and, passing the coffee-roasting house and merchants’ club, drove into busy Schuhbrücke. They passed the Petersdorff and the Barasch Brothers’ Department Stores – the latter crowned with a glass globe – then left behind them the Museum of Palaeontology and the former Police Praesidium. They reached the Oder. Next to St Maciej’s Secondary School, they turned right and soon found themselves at Dominsel. Passing the medieval cathedral and the red Georgianum Seminary building, they made their way on to Adalbertstrasse. A moment later, the bellboy of the Lessing Restaurant was bowing from the waist before them.
A pleasant coolness dominated the room, which, at first, allowed them to breathe freely again, then produced a calm sleepiness. Anwaldt closed
his eyes. He thought he was being rocked by gentle waves. The clatter of cutlery. Mock attacked the succulent, pink salmon swimming in horseradish sauce, with two forks. He cast an amused eye on the dozing Anwaldt.
“Wake up, Anwaldt,” he touched the sleeping man’s shoulder. “Your lunch will get cold.”
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.