Authors: Marek Krajewski
Anwaldt ceased being humble. This conversation was giving him a great deal of pleasure. He felt like the representative of a rare scientific discipline, who suddenly meets another demon of the science in a train and is trying not to count the stations passing by inexorably.
“Why? Because I’ve renewed an investigation which you concluded with such incredible success.
(From what I know, the investigation advanced your career prodigiously.)
”
“Then run the investigation and don’t perform psychological vivisections on me!” Mock had decided to lose his temper a little again.
Anwaldt fanned himself for a while with a copy of the
Breslauer Zeitung
. Finally, he risked: “And so I am. Starting with you.”
Mock’s whole-hearted laughter resounded in the room. Anwaldt timidly chimed in. Forstner was listening at the door – in vain.
“I like you, son,” Mock finished his tea. “If you have any problems, call me any time, night or day. I’ve got a ‘vice’ for almost everybody in this city.”
“But not yet one for me?” Anwaldt was putting the elegant visiting card away in his wallet.
Mock got up, giving the sign that he considered the conversation over. “And that’s why I still like you.”
BRESLAU, THAT SAME JULY 7TH, 1934
FIVE O’CLOCK IN THE AFTERNOON
Apart from the kitchen, Mock’s study was the only room in his five-roomed apartment on Rehdigerplatz 1 to have north-facing windows. Only here was it possible to enjoy a pleasant coolness in the summer. The Director had just finished eating lunch, brought to him from the Grajecka restaurant across the courtyard. He sat at his desk and drank cold Haselbach beer which he had taken from the larder a short while ago. As usual after a meal, he was smoking and reading a book picked at random from his bookshelf. This time he had picked the work of a banned author:
The Psychopathology of Everyday Life
by Sigmund Freud. He was reading the paragraph about slips of the tongue and slowly falling into much-desired sleep when it came to him that he had called Anwaldt “my son” that day. It was a slip of the tongue which, in Mock’s speech, was highly unusual. He considered himself to be a very reserved man and, under Freud’s influence, he believed it was precisely slips of the tongue which disclosed our hidden needs and desires. His greatest dream was to father a son. He had divorced his first wife after four years of marriage when she had betrayed him with a servant because she could no longer
tolerate his increasingly brutal accusations of barrenness. Later, he had had many lovers. If one of them had only become pregnant, he would have married her without any hesitation whatsoever. Unfortunately, the succession of lovers all left the gloomy neurotic, found someone else and created more or less happy herds. They all had children. Mock, then forty, still did not believe in his infertility and continued to search for a mother for his son. Finally he found a former medical student whose family had disowned her because of her illegitimate child. The girl was expelled from university and became the mistress of a certain rich fence. Mock was questioning her regarding a case in which the fence was involved. A few days later, Inga Martens moved into an apartment on Zwingerstrasse which Mock had rented for her, and the fence – after the policeman had caught him in a “vice” – very willingly moved to Liegnitz and forgot about his lover. Mock was happy. He would come to Inga every morning for breakfast after intensive sessions at the swimming pool next door to her house. After three months, his happiness reached it zenith: Inga was pregnant. Mock made the decision to marry a second time; he had come to believe the old Latin saying – “
amor omnia vincit
”. After a few months, Inga moved out of Zwingerstrasse and gave birth to the second child of her lecturer, Doctor Karl Meissner who, in the meantime, had got a divorce and married her. Mock, for his part, had lost his faith in love. He stopped living an illusion and married a rich, childless Danish woman, his second and last wife.
The Director’s reminiscences were interrupted by the phone ringing. He was glad to hear Anwaldt’s voice.
“I’m taking advantage of your kind permission and calling. I have a problem with Weinsberg. He’s called Winkler now and is pretending not to know anything about Friedländer. He did not want to talk and almost set his dogs on me. Do you have ‘something’ on him?”
Mock considered for a full minute.
“I think so, but I can’t talk about it over the phone. Please come here in an hour. Rehdigerplatz 1, apartment 6.”
He replaced the receiver and dialled Forstner’s number. He asked him two questions and listened to the exhaustive replies. A moment later, the telephone began to ring again. Erich Kraus’ voice combined within itself two contrary intonations: the Chief of the Gestapo was at once asking and ordering.
“Mock, who is this Anwaldt, and what’s he doing here?”
Eberhard could not abide this arrogant tone. Walter Piontek had always humbly asked for information even though he knew that Mock could not refuse him, whereas Kraus brutally demanded it. Although he had worked in Breslau for only a week, the latter was already sincerely loathed by many for this lack of tact. “A
parvenu
from Frankenstein and a fanatic,” – whispered Breslau’s aristocrats, both those of blood and those of spirit.
“Well, have you fallen asleep over there?”
“Anwaldt is an Abwehr agent,” Mock had been prepared for questions about his new assistant. He knew that giving the true answer would be very dangerous for the Berliner. This reply also protected Anwaldt since the Head of Breslau’s Abwehr, the Silesian aristocrat, Rainer von Hardenburg, detested Kraus. “He’s uncovering Polish Intelligence in Breslau.”
“Why do you need him? Why haven’t you gone on holiday as planned?”
“A personal matter kept me here.”
“What?”
Kraus valued, above all, military marches and a stable family life. Mock felt revulsion for this man who, precisely and methodically, washed his hands of the blood of prisoners he himself had tortured in order later to sit down to a family meal. On the second day of office, Kraus had
battered to death a married prisoner who had refused to reveal where he met with his lover, an employee of the Polish Consulate. He later boasted to the entire Police Praesidium that he hated marital infidelity.
Mock drew in some air and hesitated:
“I stayed back because of a girlfriend … But I ask you to be discreet … You know what it’s like …”
“Psh,” snorted Kraus. “I do
not
know what it’s like.”
The receiver was slammed down with force. Mock approached the window and stared at the dusty chestnut tree whose leaves were not ruffled by the slightest breeze. The water carrier was selling his life-giving liquid to the residents of the block, children chased each other and shouted on the playground belonging to the Jewish Community School and raised clouds of dust. Mock was somewhat irritated. He wanted a rest, but here they were not giving him any peace even after working hours. He set out the chessboard on his desk and reached for
Chess Traps
by Überbrand. When the combinations had absorbed him to such an extent that he had forgotten about the heat and his own tiredness, the doorbell rang.
(Dammit, that must be Anwaldt. I hope he plays chess.)
Anwaldt was an enthusiast of the game. So it is not surprising that he and Mock sat at the chessboard until dawn, drinking coffee and lemonade. Mock, who ascribed prognostic meanings to the simplest of actions, wagered that the result of the last game would prophesy the success of Anwaldt’s investigation. They played out the sixth and last game between two and four o’clock. It ended in a draw.
BRESLAU, SUNDAY, JULY 8TH, 1934
NINE O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING
Mock’s black Adler drove up to the shabby tenement on Zietenstrasse where Anwaldt lived. The Assistant heard the sound of the horn just as he
was coming downstairs. The men shook hands. Mock drove along Seydlitzstrasse, passed the enormous Busch Circus building, turned left, crossed Sonnenplatz and stopped in front of the Nazi printers on Sonnenstrasse. He got out and shortly returned with a small bundle under his arm. He turned sharply and accelerated so as to move the hot, stagnant air in the car at least a little. He was short of sleep and silent. They drove under the viaduct and found themselves on the long and beautiful Gabitzstrasse. Anwaldt watched the churches go by with interest as Mock knowingly told him to whom they were dedicated: first the small Jesuit chapel as if joined to the neighbouring tenement, then the new church of Christ the King, and the recent St Charles Boromeus with its stylized medieval outline. Mock drove fast, overtaking trams from as many as four different lines. He passed the municipal cemetery, cut across Menzelstrasse, Kürassier Allee and parked in front of the brick barracks of the guardsmen on Gabitzstrasse. Here, in the modern tenement, number 158, a large comfortable apartment was occupied by Doctor Hermann Winkler, until recently Weinsberg. The Friedländer case had changed his life auspiciously. The good angel of this transformation was Hauptsturmführer Walter Piontek. The start of their acquaintance had not been encouraging. One evening in May of ’33, Piontek had crashed into his old apartment, cruelly abused him and then, in a sweet voice, presented his alternative: either he would convincingly declare in the newspapers that Friedländer changed into Frankenstein’s monster after epileptic fits, or he would die. When the doctor hesitated, Piontek added that if he accepted his proposition, it would significantly boost his finances. So Weinsberg had said “yes” and his life had indeed changed. Thanks to Piontek, he acquired a new identity and, every month, a sum of money flowed into his account at “Eichborn and Co.” business enterprise, which – although not very large – pleased the exceptionally frugal doctor. Unfortunately, this
dolce vita
had not lasted long. A few days ago, Winkler had learned about
Piontek’s death from the newspapers. That same day, the Gestapo had paid him a visit and retracted the agreement negotiated with the generous Hauptsturmführer. When he had tried to protest, one of the Gestapo, an overweight savage, acting – so he claimed – on the instructions of his boss, broke the fingers of Winkler’s left hand. After that visit, the doctor had bought himself two fully grown Great Danes, repudiated the Gestapo’s remuneration and tried to make himself invisible.
Mock and Anwaldt drew back when, behind Winkler’s door, the dogs began to bark and howl.
“Who’s there?” they heard through the minimal opening in the door.
Mock restricted himself to showing his identification – every word would have been drowned by the racket coming from the dogs. Winkler, with difficulty, calmed the hounds, tied them on a leash and invited his unwelcome guests into the drawing-room. There, as if on command, they lit cigarettes and looked around the room which appeared more like an office than a drawing-room. Winkler, a man of middling height, red-haired and about fifty, was a classic example of the pedantic bachelor. Instead of glasses and carafes, on the side-board stood canvas-bound files. Each of them had the name of a patient neatly written on its spine. The thought occurred to Anwaldt that this modern block of a house would collapse sooner than any of the files would change their place. Mock broke the silence.
“The dogs, are they for your protection?” he asked with a smile, indicating the Danes huddled on the floor and observing the strangers with mistrust. Winkler had tied them to the heavy oak table.
“Yes,” the doctor retorted dryly, wrapping his bathrobe around him. “What brings you here this Sunday morning?”
Mock ignored the question. He smiled amicably.
“To protect you … Yes, yes … From whom? Perhaps from those who broke your fingers?”
The doctor was perturbed and, with his good hand, reached for a cigarette. Anwaldt gave him a light. The way in which he inhaled showed that this was one of the few cigarettes in his life.
“What do you want?”
“What do you want? What brings you here?” Mock mimicked Winkler. Suddenly, he approached within safe distance and yelled:
“I’m the one who’s asking questions here, Weinsberg!”
The doctor just about managed to pacify the dogs which, growling, threw themselves at the policeman, almost bringing down the table to which they were tied. Mock sat down, waited a moment and continued calmly now:
“I’m not going to ask you any questions, Weinsberg. I’m only going to present you with our demands. Please make all your notes and materials concerning Isidor Friedländer accessible to us.”
The doctor started to tremble despite the almost physical waves of heat which flooded the sunny room.
“I haven’t got them any more. I handed everything over to Hauptsturmführer Walter Piontek.”
Mock studied him. After a minute, he knew Weinsberg was lying. He was glancing at his bandaged hand a little too often. This could only have signified either “these men are going to start breaking my fingers, too” or “oh God, what’ll happen if the Gestapo return and demand those materials?” Mock took the second possibility to be closer to the truth. He placed the small bundle from the printers on the table. Winkler tore the parcel open and started to flick through the yet unstitched brochure. His bony finger slid along one of the pages. He turned pale.
“Yes, Winkler, you’re on the list. This is only a proof as yet. I can get in touch with the editor of that brochure and get your new, or even old, name removed. Am I to do that, Weinsberg?”
* * *
The temperature in the car was even a few degrees higher than outside, meaning it was about 35°C. Anwaldt threw his jacket and a large cardboard box covered with green paper on to the back seat. He opened the box. In it were copies of notes, articles and one primitively pressed gramophone record. The writing on the lid of the box read: “The case of I. Friedländer’s prognostic epilepsy.”
Mock wiped the sweat from his brow and anticipated Anwaldt’s question:
“It’s a list of doctors, nurses, paramedics, midwives and other of Hippocrates’ servants of Jewish descent. It’s to appear shortly.”