The End of the World in Breslau (34 page)

Meinerer stood over the fettered murderer. The photographer released the shutter. A column of magnesium drifted upwards. Holding aloft his
gun and identification, Mock ran towards the murderer. The policemen obediently let him through. The Counsellor knelt and placed the gun to the man’s bloody temple. Magnesium cracked. Everyone looked on. In a fleeting vision, Mock saw himself being thrown out of the police. He released the safety catch on his gun. He saw himself again as the accused in court, and then in prison where all those whom he had put behind bars now awaited him with joy. He began to recite to himself Horace’s “
Odi profanum vulgus
”.† After the first verse, he put the gun away in his pocket. He knew nothing, he felt nothing – apart from the old railway-man’s spittle, which was turning to ice on his cheek.

BRESLAU, THURSDAY, DECEMBER 22ND, 1927 EIGHT O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING

A special Christmas edition of the
Breslauer Neueste Nachrichten
, dated December 22nd, 1927, p.1 – interview with Police President Wilhelm Kleibömer:

What happened yesterday at Gartenstrasse 35?

Kleibömer: A Criminal Sergeant, whose name I cannot divulge, was taking part in an investigation in the building when he saw the knife-grinder leave the yard. He was trying to escape in a great hurry, dragging the knife-grinding machine behind him. The detective’s attention was drawn to the bloodstains on the knife-grinder’s apron. He apprehended him and locked him in the toilet on the ground floor of a neighbouring building. He then discovered, in a shack in the yard, the corpse of little Gretchen Kauschnitz. Afraid of mob law on the part of the inhabitants of the building, he brought
in a considerable police force and, with their protection, arrested the man
lege artis
.

† “I loathe the unenlightened crowd”.

Somebody tried to hinder the arrest.

K.: Is that a question or a statement?

The press have a photograph of a high-ranking police officer holding a gun to the murderer’s head. Did he want to take the law into his own hands?

K.: Indeed, one of my men did behave in such a manner. In view of the vile nature of the crime, an instinctive reaction like this can be understood. Fortunately, he came to his senses and left judgement to the judiciary.

Is the murderer, Fritz Roberth, a sexual pervert?

K.: Yes. He’s a paedophile. He has already served a prison sentence for such a crime.

Was the victim raped?

K.: No.

Has Roberth confessed to being guilty?

K.: Not yet, but he will when we present him with the evidence. His fingerprints were found on the newly sharpened knife and the victim’s blood was on his apron.

Has that been so quickly ascertained?

K.: Diligent men can achieve a great deal in one night. And our technicians are diligent.

Is Roberth mentally ill?

K.: It is hard for me to judge. I am not a psychiatrist.

What will his sentence be if it turns out that he is mentally ill?

K.: He will undergo treatment.

And if he is cured?

K.: He will be released.

Do you consider that to be just?

K.: I will not comment on the rulings of the penal code. I am not a legislator and I doubt that I shall ever be one.

But you do have an opinion on the matter?

K.: I do, but I am not going to tell you what it is. You are not interviewing me as a private individual, but as the Police President of Breslau.

The majority of lawyers, doctors, psychologists and philosophers state that a man is guilty when he knowingly commits a crime. If illness forces a man to commit a crime, then he himself is not guilty. Can illness be condemned to death?

K.: I do not belong to any of the professions you have mentioned.

Thank you, sir, for the conversation.

Mock put the newspaper aside and stared for a long time at his father’s portrait hanging on the wall. The artisan shoemaker was clenching his teeth and looking intently at the photographer. Mock posed a very difficult question to his father, and immediately he received a reply. It was what he had expected.

BRESLAU, THAT SAME DECEMBER 22ND, 1927 NINE O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING

Alfred Sommerbrodt was relishing his breakfast of two fried eggs and watching his wife as she busied herself in the kitchen. With equal pleasure, he admired the well-scrubbed kitchen and his police uniform hanging on the peg by the kitchen door, which was also the entrance door of their small dwelling behind Stangen bicycle shop on Trebnitzerstrasse. Sommerbrodt was pleased that in a short while he would dress in his uniform, his greatcoat and shako, fasten to his belt the truncheon that now sat on top of the electricity metre, and take up his position on
Trebnitzerplatz to direct the trafic, as he did every day. His wife was far less pleased.

“They can’t leave you in peace, even so close to Christmas,” she said angrily.

“Darling, today, just before Christmas, people will be very jumpy out there,” said Sommerbrodt, and he fell to thinking. He drank his ersatz coffee and patted his plump wife, wondering if he still had time to pay her the honours before he left. A knock on the door dispelled any such erotic whims. His wife opened and at the same time, shoved forcibly, sat down on the table. The decrepit piece of furniture rocked dangerously, and the mug of coffee jumped and spilled over Sommerbrodt’s shirt. The policeman threw himself furiously at the two arrivals, but the barrel of a Walther soon made him abandon his aggressive intentions. The faces of both men were masked with handkerchiefs. One of them produced a pair of handcuffs and gestured to Mrs Sommerbrodt to come closer. He then secured her to the pipe that held the electricity metre to the wall. With a wave of the gun, the policeman was instructed to approach. His initial hesitation soon dissolved when a second Walther appeared in the hand of the other man. A moment later Sommerbrodt was kneeling next to his wife, secured to the same pipe. The first intruder pushed two chairs towards them and then sat down on the table, gaily swinging his legs. The second man undressed down to his underwear, and put on the uniform jacket and shako. He then yanked Sommerbrodt’s trousers off and pulled them up over his own thin hips. When he had fastened the belt and truncheon, he went out of the door. The man who stayed behind threw some wood into the fire and stood an enormous kettle on the stove.

BRESLAU, THAT SAME DECEMBER 22ND, 1927 TWO O’CLOCK IN THE AFTERNOON

A large, brand-new Horch 303 pulled up outside the investigative jail on Schuhbrücke and three men climbed out. They went through the gloomy gate, showed the guard their identification and made their way up to the first floor and the duty officer’s room.

“Which of you is Professor Nieswand?” asked the duty officer.

“I am,” replied the grey-haired man wearing a brightly coloured tie.

“I see I’m not the only one to be on duty just before Christmas,” smiled the duty officer. “If some madman were to get it into his head to …”

“These are sick men, not mad men,” remarked the professor dryly.

“And you, sirs, must be President Wilhelm Kleibömer’s trusted men,” the duty officer’s voice gave Nieswand to know that he had not been greatly impressed by this remark. “To protect the prisoner during transportation, is that right? The orders, please.”

The two other men nodded, and one of them took an envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket and handed it to the duty officer. The latter opened it and read under his breath:

“confidential instructions concerning the transportation of the prisoner Fritz Roberth for psychiatric examination … aha, good … good … signed, phew … President Kleibömer himself.”

The duty officer stowed the instructions in his desk drawer and reached for the telephone.

“Essmüller here,” he growled. “Bring Roberth to exit C immediately. That’s right. Take special precautions. Professor Nieswand will wait for you there – he’s taking the prisoner for examination in his own consulting room on Einbaumstrasse.” He gazed thoughtfully at the men in the room. “The prisoner is yours until eight.”

BRESLAU, THAT SAME DECEMBER 22ND, HALF PAST TWO IN THE AFTERNOON

There was a great deal of traffic in the city. It had not snowed since the previous day and the roads were icy. Not only did the cars skid, but the sledges and droschkas too. Breslauers squeezed into over-crowded trams and discussed the high prices of Christmas shopping.

The eight-cylinder Horch was not able to make use of its considerable power and drove very slowly, like all the other cars that day. It was stuffy inside. All the passengers, apart from the handcuffed prisoner, kept wiping down the steamed-up windows. They came to a halt at the crossroads next to Oder Station. The Horch waited behind a huge lorry with an advertisement for Wrigley’s Chewing Gum painted on its tarpaulin. A similar lorry stood behind the Horch. The trafic policeman gave a signal and the vehicles began to move. When the second lorry had passed the crossroads, the policeman unexpectedly changed the direction of the trafic. Several cars jammed on their brakes, and a driver in a checked cap stuck his head out of the window and glared at the policeman with anything but goodwill. The two lorries drove beneath the viaduct with the Horch between them. There was no other vehicle in sight; all had already disappeared towards Rosenthalerbrücke. The first lorry came to a halt and from it leaped ten men armed with Mausers. The same number of similarly armed men appeared from the second lorry and stood behind the car. No-one inside made the slightest move. No-one said a word. A pock-marked giant walked over to the Horch, opened the door and grabbed the driver by the collar of his uniform. A moment later the driver found himself on the cobbles, where the other passengers soon joined him. All, apart from the prisoner, stood in front of the car. The armed men pointed towards the back door of the first lorry, and they crowded in. A train clattered across the viaduct. A short, smartly dressed man with a long foxy face approached the car, accompanied by an older man in a railwayman’s
cap. The railwayman leaned into the car, looked the prisoner over and nodded to the little dandy. Nobody said a word. Only the prisoner began to howl; his howling was lost amid the clattering of the train.

BRESLAU, THAT SAME DECEMBER 22ND, 1927 EIGHT O’CLOCK IN THE EVENING

There were only two people waiting at the tram stop on Zwingerplatz. Both had their collars turned up and their hats pulled down over their eyes. The taller of the two traced zigzags in the snow and bent towards the shorter man who was whispering something to him on tiptoes. The snow fell at a slant through the blurred boundary between the black sky and the glow of a gaslight. The taller man listened to the other’s brief report without a word.

“Yes, just as you said, Counsellor. We let the two cops and the nutcase quack go after two hours, when it was all over …”

“And what about the traffic policeman?”

“I went to his place with my men and we set him and his wife free. Right after the operation …”

“Was he very battered?”

“Their hands had gone a bit numb. Apart from that, they were fine.”

“Wirth, you’re to go and see him now,” the taller man said, taking a wad of notes from his inside pocket and handing it to his companion, “and leave him these few marks. Give him the money but don’t say anything.” He drew the symbol of infinity in the snow. “You’ve done well.”

“Don’t you want to know what they did to that swine, Counsellor?”

“They? They were but tools in my hands.”

Wirth pocketed the money and looked at the Counsellor intently.

“The tools slipped out of your control a bit, Counsellor.”

The Counsellor shook hands with Wirth and set off towards the Municipal Theatre, whose hazy lights were diffused in the snowy mist. Huge posters on the columns outside urged people to come and see Wagner’s
Tannhäuser
, the proceeds of which were to go towards various charitable causes. A few late spectators were climbing out of sledges and cars, disseminating various scents purchased at perfume counters. The Counsellor bought a ticket for the stalls and entered the bright foyer decorated with Baroque gilding. The mighty sounds of the overture, despite its force, had managed to enrapture the stout cloakroom assistant. After clearing his throat for half a minute, Mock shook the man by the shoulder and brought him back to earth. He left his snow-covered outer garments in the cloakroom and, tapping his cane, ascended the stairs to the first floor. There he found box number 12 and gently pressed down on the handle. The horns were conveying a seascape. In the box was Criminal Director Mühlhaus, who started when the Counsellor sat down next to him. The splashing of naiads was now represented by racing violins.

“Nobody will hear us here, Mock,” said Mühlhaus, and took a deep breath as if about to sing “
Naht euch dem Strande
” along with the chorus of mermaids. “You know that today Hänscher from Department IV was looking at the photograph of you holding a gun to Roberth’s head? You know you’re the one they chiefly suspect of organizing the lynch mob that attacked that unfortunate schizophrenic man?”