The End of the World in Breslau (27 page)

“Yes.” The writer was clearly worried about something. His face reflected the astonishment of a primary school pupil who has been told to conjugate all the basic forms of the Greek verb
gignomai
. “Did none of your men follow Madame Lebetseyder? Is all you know what the receptionist has told you? Did you let her leave, just like that, to go for a walk? Maybe she’s no longer in Wiesbaden? Aren’t you worried about such a beautiful croupier? Any man would wager his wife’s dowry to have her!”

“My dear Mr Wielandt,” von Stietencrott smiled. “Have you fallen in love with Madame Lebetseyder? Are you worried you’ll never see her again?” He took a cigar from an ebony box, snipped it with clippers and pushed the box along the shining surface of the desk towards the writer. “If I was as foolish as you think, I wouldn’t have been running this casino for the past twenty years. Let me tell you something very interesting– you must give me your word of honour not to use it in your book.” Von Stietencrott scrutinized the writer who, hand on heart, gave his word of honour. “In the agreement signed by that whore and her pimp, it states as clear as day that if she flies the coop, that director from the burned-out
theatre is going to have to work for me instead. And my bodyguard is following his every step. I’m not letting him go …”

“And?” Wielandt laughed out loud, making a mental note to jot down von Stietencrott’s linguistic metamorphosis from elegant man of fashion who drops foreign quotations into his speech to vulgar lout. “Is von Finckl going to lie naked on the roulette table and push stacks of chips with a spatula? What a worthy substitute for Lebetseyder!”

“My good fellow, the only thing those two are going to have in common is working in the secret casino. That Jew is going to make me more money than his lady.”

“As a naked croupier?” Wielandt asked once more. But then he became serious, and took no offence when he heard von Stietencrott whisper:

“As my sharper, you imbecile.”

WIESBADEN, THAT SAME DECEMBER 16TH, 1927 HALF PAST NINE IN THE EVENING

Von Stietencrott and Wielandt walked along the corridor to Wlossok’s room. They wore neither coats nor hats, even though Hotel Nassauer Hof was on the other side of the street. Behind them, two doormen tossed their bellies rhythmically, while Zeissmann the receptionist skipped along. A cloud of cigar smoke wafted into the open mouths of the doormen and encircled Zeissmann’s trembling head.

“Now you’ll see,” von Stietencrott said, as a column of ash fell from his cigar onto the red carpet, “how I deal with bastards who don’t repay me.”

They stopped at the door to the room and von Stietencrott thumped his fist on it several times. The door was not locked, and the manager and writer entered. On the floor Wlossok and Knüfer lay prone, their blue faces turned up towards the new arrivals. A film covered their staring eyes
and their tensed Adam’s apples almost burst through the skin of their necks.

“
Scheisse
, someone’s screwed their heads round a hundred and eighty degrees,” muttered one of the doormen.

Von Stietencrott approached Knüfer’s corpse and turned it onto its back. The heavy head spun on the limp rope of the neck. Von Stietencrott reached into the inside pocket of the dead man’s dinner jacket and pulled out a wad of notes.

“What are you doing?” yelled Wielandt. “We mustn’t touch anything. We’ve got to call the police.”

“I can’t touch my own money?” The manager extinguished his cigar in some sauce left on a plate on the table. “The rest is the business of the police, and yours too. Yes, yours …” Von Stietencrott patted Wielandt on his chubby cheek. “As you can see, there’s never a lack of material for writers in my casino.”

“What have they got in their mouths?” asked one of the doormen, bending over the bodies.

“Scraps of paper,” replied the other. “They look like pages from a calendar.”

BRESLAU, MONDAY, DECEMBER 19TH, 1927 SIX O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING

Breslau was cloaked in swollen skeins of grey cloud from which fell large, sticky flakes of snow. Viktor Ziesch, assistant to the administrator of St Georg Hospital on Mehlgasse, removed his stiff, peaked cap, fanned himself with it, unbuttoned his greatcoat and leaned on his snow shovel. Ziesch was of a reflective nature and enjoyed above all those moments of reverie that would suddenly overcome him, directing him to stop work and meditate on the world around him and its inhabitants. It seemed to
Ziesch that his eyes could penetrate the walls of the rented tenement on Mehlgasse and see the people living within: Slotosch the barber finds it hard to wake up and regretfully leaves the safe haven of his eiderdown, dunks his head in a basin of cold water, slicks down what hair might be standing on end and turns up his moustache, and then sets off for his establishment on the corner near the Registry Office; the seamstress, Mrs Wiedemann, slides her leg from beneath her nightdress and with her toes pushes a full chamber pot towards the old servant stoking up the kitchen stove; in a moment the bar owner, Scholz, is going to come down and chide the caretaker, Hanuschka, for not having shovelled away the snow outside his place; the caretaker is not cleaning the sign of the inn because he is hacking away at the crystallized edges of old mounds of snow with his shovel and chasing away a stray dog that, searching for something to eat, pokes its muzzle through the cellar window and puts its front paws up on the rims of the cast-iron buckets of ash that the caretaker has taken out into the street. Ziesch looks up at the hospital and sees a distinguished, bearded man opening a window. Ziesch can almost smell the aromatic clouds of Austria tobacco coming from the sickroom and wonders whether he should not tell the management about the smoker. But he meets the man’s watchful eye and discards the thought: “What’s it got to do with me!” The man turns back towards the patient’s bed and sees that he is no longer asleep.

“So you’re awake, Mock. You’ve been sleeping for twenty hours. And even longer before that. Two whole weeks in a coma. Can you talk?”

Mock nodded and realized his head was held in something stiff. He then felt a stinging tear through the skin on his chin. He closed his eyes and tried to ride out the shooting pain.

“Your skin is badly and quite deeply flayed,” Mock heard Mühlhaus’ grating voice. “The buckle of your belt tore into your chin. Apart from that, you’ve suffered a crack of the cervical vertebra. You’re immobilized
in a corset. That’s all. You’ll survive,” a tone of joyfulness sounded in Mühlhaus’ voice. “I welcome you back to this vale of tears.”

The events of the preceding few days passed before Mock’s eyes in slow motion: a maggot burrowing into the corpse’s eye in the shoemaker’s workshop, Honnefelder hacked to pieces, the throbbing dryness of a hangover, Sophie’s rape, her escape, the nameless prostitute with a severed head, the blue swellings on Councillor Geissen’s hairy back, the investigation conducted together with Director Hartner, “forget about that whore, get on with your work and don’t think about her!”, happy families in modest, happy homes, Breslau turning white, becoming whiter than snow,
Asperges me, Domine, hyssopo, et mundabor; lavabis me, et super nivem dealbabor
.†

“You were saved by the University Library caretaker, one Josef Maron,” continued Mühlhaus. “He didn’t feel like being your Charon,” he sniggered.

“I forgot to give him the obol.” Mock closed his eyes and fell asleep. But he slept only for a moment, during which the slow rhythm of recent events passing before his eyes gained in strength. He turned onto his side with Difficulty and spurted vomit onto the granite-patterned hospital linoleum.

BRESLAU, THAT SAME DECEMBER 19TH, 1927 TWO O’CLOCK IN THE AFTERNOON

Mock awoke again later that day and immediately sat up in bed. Blood rushed to his head, a piercing pain tore through his neck and his scraped chin rubbed painfully against the rough edge of his corset. He fell back on the pillow and let the sweat trickle down his brow. Slowly extending his arm, he pressed the button by the bed and a moment later saw a Borromäerinner sister enter his room.

† Sprinkle me with hyssop and I shall be cleansed, wash me and I shall be whiter than snow.

“Is the man who came to see me this morning,” he managed to whisper, “still around somewhere?”

“He’s been around for a few days.” The sister lowered her eyes modestly. “He hasn’t left you for a moment. Other than to go to the bathroom or to smoke. He’ll be here shortly. Is there anything else?”

Mock wanted to shake his head but remembered his fractured cervical vertebra. So he said nothing and the sister dispersed into the whiteness of the hospital interior. In her stead appeared Mühlhaus, warming his hands on his hot pipe.

“Ah, you’re awake again!” he said. “I hope you’re not going to react with the same degree of revulsion at this subsequent return to reality.”

“What is there to return to?” snorted Mock and closed his eyes. He then saw an entirely different image: night, Mühlhaus asleep on an iron hospital chair, ash from his pipe scattered over his waistcoat.

“Thank you, sir,” he said, opening his eyes, “for being with me. It’s like keeping watch over the deceased. The last respects …”

“Yes, I’m keeping watch over you,” said Mühlhaus slowly. “As a friend and as your superior. Besides, the one’s tied up with the other. The superior wants you to come back to work. The friend believes work will cure you.”

Mock looked at the article standing in the corner of the room, a brass frame with two supporting rings. The lower one held a water jug, the upper a basin. Above the basin was a small pole with a mirror. The wash-stand was intricately decorated with violin keys; the metalworker must have been a music lover. On the rim of the basin were the remnants of some shaving foam, flecked with black specks of redundant growth. Mock touched his chin and felt that it was smooth.

“Who shaves me here?” he whispered.

“I do,” answered Mühlhaus. “I ought to be a barber. Your flayed chin would have been quite a challenge for any professional.”

“Why? Why are you taking care of me? I’m not going back. What for?” murmured Mock.

“Am I to reply as your superior or friend?”

“It makes no difference.”

“You’ll go back to your wife and your work.”

Taking no notice of the pain, Mock sat up, got out of bed and grabbed the corset with both hands, trying to pull it over his head. His feet searched for his shoes and his arms struggled to free themselves from the sleeves of his nightshirt. But within moments he could no longer ignore the pain. He collapsed onto his bed and glared at Mühlhaus. Somewhat alarmed by his subordinate’s behaviour, Mühlhaus remembered the doctor’s instructions not to annoy the patient and decided to come clean.

“Listen, Mock,” he began, feverishly stuffing tobacco into his pipe. “I spoke to Knüfer four days ago. He’s found your wife in Wiesbaden and today – or tomorrow at the latest – she’s going to be in Berlin. There, Knüfer’s going to bring her to a certain apartment where some friends of his are going to watch her day and night. She’ll have everything she needs. As soon as you’ve wrapped up the calendar murderer’s case, you can pick her up in Berlin and it’ll all be over. Your theory of crimes repeating themselves is convincing.”

“And what now, Mühlhaus?” Mock had never addressed his boss in this way. “You’ve got me in a checkmate, haven’t you? ‘Find the “calendar murderer”, Mock, and I’ll tell you where your wife is,’” he aped Mühlhaus’ grating voice. He sat up suddenly once more. “Now listen to me carefully. This job and that monster who’s killing alcoholics, Hitlerites and corrupt politicians can go to hell. All I’m interested in is my wife. I’m going to get up, get dressed and go to Berlin. I’m going to find Knüfer in his lair and he’s going to tell me where Sophie is. Understand? That’s exactly what I’m going to do right now.”

“You forget,” Mühlhaus said, clutching at straws, “that another girl
was murdered too. A whore, who for a couple of pfennigs did anything scum like Geissen desired. She was only nineteen, and before dying of syphilis she could still have had a bit of a life …”

“What do I care about some nameless whore.” Mock rang for the sister again. “There’s no way even of putting her in our files. I’m going to fetch a different whore … And I’m going to change her … Never again …”

“And what are you going to do, damn it, when you’ve found her?” yelled Mühlhaus.

“Put my arms around her,” replied Mock calmly, “and ask her for …”

The sister appeared and began to protest as the patient informed her of his intention to leave the hospital. Mock’s bass voice was spliced by the sister’s hysterical soprano. In all this commotion, Mühlhaus tried to pin down one thought, which gave him no peace; it was to be a counterargument to something Mock had said, something he had been quite wrong about, or had not taken into account. It was not about Mock putting his arms around Sophie to hug or strangle her, it was something he had said earlier, something that did not tally with the truth. Yes, now he remembered.

“Quiet, damn it! Can you shut up for a moment, please, sister!” yelled Mühlhaus, and with relief he watched the flutter of the starched apron disappear out of the door. “What makes you think that whore didn’t have a name? She’s been identified by her father who was worried she hadn’t turned up for work which he, incidentally, had found for her. Quite a bastard, eh? His own daughter’s pimp,” he shot the words out with the speed of a machine gun. “She’d been working in the brothel for just three days and her colleagues knew her only by her nickname. Her father identified her the day before yesterday. You have to find whoever murdered that girl … You’re the one most involved in the case …You’ve got some new ideas … That victim wasn’t Hitlerite scum or some drunken
musician … She was just an ordinary girl forced into prostitution by her own father!”