End of the World in Breslau Read online

  A QUARTER TO TEN IN THE MORNING

  The arthritic old woman was losing all hope of selling her spécialités de la maison. Quite unnecessarily, for from a black Adler parked by the curb emerged a hand with two fingers outstretched. The old woman beamed and handed two doughnuts to Kurt Smolorz. The Criminal Sergeant paid, then unscrewed his thermos and poured himself a little coffee which was good enough to kill the yeasty aftertaste of the under-baked doughnuts.

  Smolorz chewed more slowly when he saw a sandy Mercedes draw up outside Mock’s tenement and Elisabeth Pflüger leap out. He admired the graceful sway of her hips as she disappeared through the entrance, miraculously avoiding a collision with the doorframe. A moment later the two friends – one happy, the other sad and pensive – filled the interior of the Mercedes with the scent of their perfume. At the wheel, Baron von Hagenstahl raised Sophie’s hand to his lips and fired the engine. Without the slightest regret, Smolorz deposited his half-eaten doughnut on the passenger seat as the Baron rapidly pulled away into the traffic of Rehdigerstrasse. Smolorz stayed a while, unable to join the flow. Finally he spied a small gap, roared the engine’s cylinders and almost ran into a terrified horse which then launched itself, together with its shaft, onto the pavement. Smolorz, laughing as the furious coachman directed a lash of his whip at the Adler’s roof, accelerated again, turned right into Gräbschenerstrasse and drove under the railway viaduct. Beyond the droschkas and delivery wagons, he caught a glimpse of the rear of the sandy Mercedes as it passed the crossroads with Hohenzollernstrasse. The traffic policeman stopped a line of vehicles coming from the viaduct, among them the Adler. Feverishly, Smolorz began to calculate how he might be able to gain ground on the Mercedes. He counted on the Baron turning right into Sonnenplatz, and decided to drive past Busch Circus to catch up with it somewhere near the Concert Hall on Gartenstrasse. This proved unnecessary, however: the Mercedes stopped at the corner of Gräbschenerstrasse and Zietenstrasse.

  The policeman gave the go-ahead. Smolorz moved forward slowly. The Baron got back into his car, slipping a box of cigars into his coat pocket. Smolorz braked and found himself right behind the spare wheel in its sand-coloured cover. At Sonnenplatz, he allowed an old Daimler to squeeze in between himself and the Mercedes. The latter accelerated sharply on Neue-Graupner-Strasse, turned right and drove alongside the Old Town moat. Smolorz divided his attention between the Mercedes and the massive building site of the Police Praesidium under construction on Schweidnitzer Stadtgraben. Just before Wertheim’s department store, Baron von Hagenstahl turned left, and then right at the church of Corpus Christi. Passing the merchants’ club, he stopped outside the baths on Zwingerstrasse. Smolorz braked suddenly and pulled into a driveway. He slammed the car door, ran a hundred metres and, panting heavily, hid behind the hedge of a playground. Through the bare branches he observed the entrance to the large building housing the baths, into which Baron von Hagenstahl had disappeared with Sophie Mock and Elisabeth Pflüger a moment earlier. Smolorz entered the vestibule and looked around. It was empty. The uniformed ticket collector was vigilant and briskly approached him, saying:

  “Pool number one has been hired out privately. Until twelve. Pool number two will soon be occupied by pupils from the Realgymnasium. Perhaps you would like a steam bath?”

  Smolorz turned and left. It was cold. The paving stones on Zwingerstrasse were damp. A column of schoolboys, walking in pairs, was approaching from the direction of Liebichshöhe, with an upright man who looked like a sports teacher at its rear. The schoolboys marched up to the entrance and went in, disrupting their fine formation. Smolorz approached the teacher and showed him his Breslau Police Praesidium identification card.

  “I’m coming in with you,” he said. The teacher showed no surprise.

  A few minutes later Smolorz was being crushed in the men’s changing-room belonging to pool number two. Leaving his coat, hat and umbrella, he climbed the stairs, looking out for the ticket collector who was just explaining to a fellow with the neck of an ox where he would find the changing-room for the steam baths. Smolorz hurried along a gallery decorated with little columns and arrived at the double door leading to pool number one. It was locked. He took out a picklock and put it to use. Soon he found himself in the public gallery. Leaning over a little, he surveyed the pool but could not distinguish Sophie Mock or Elisabeth Pflüger among the naked nymphs frolicking in the water. He climbed a few steps and looked around. The gallery ran the length of the pool. On his right-hand side stretched a row of doors leading to changing-rooms, on his left a barrier to prevent people from falling into the water. At the end of the gallery was an exercise studio from which drifted the sound of a piano and a violin. Smolorz was drawn to this room in particular because he had caught a glimpse through the doorway of the naked bodies of the two artistes. To get to the exercise studio without being noticed would require a miracle; if he made his way along the gallery, he would be in full view of those rehearsing in the studio and the swimmers in the pool. He decided to hide in the public gallery and wait for his chief’s wife to appear.

  Unfortunately this, too, proved impossible. His way back was blocked by a bald, moustachioed giant, whose hand almost entirely concealed the barrel of a pre-war Luger. Smolorz cursed his own stupidity. He had given no thought as to why the Baron had been driving the car himself, and where his chauffeur had disappeared to.

  “I’m from the police,” the Sergeant said very slowly. “I’m now going to take my identification out of my pocket.”

  “You’re not going to take anything out, my friend,” the giant smiled gently. “Go straight to that exercise studio. Only be careful not to fall into the pool. You could easily drown. Especially if you’re weighed down with lead.”

  Smolorz did not move. He was sure the bald man would not risk a shoot-out.

  “I’m from the police,” he repeated. “My boss knows I’m here.”

  The giant made a sudden move. Smolorz saw a huge hand spread out on his waistcoat and felt a strong shove. He fell onto the cold tiles of the gallery. The assailant kicked, and Smolorz felt himself slide across the floor tiles towards the exercise studio. He tried to get up, to grab the barrier or the changing-room door, but after another kick in the crotch he could not. Both hands were clasped around his abused testicles. The giant was still swinging his legs at him. Smolorz rolled like a bowling ball along the track marked out by the barrier and the changing-room wall. When he had been kicked as far as the studio, he admitted he had been right: the bald man had not risked a shoot-out in a place where shots could ricochet.

  BRESLAU, THAT SAME NOVEMBER 30TH, 1927

  NOON

  Mock left by the side door of the Breslau Construction Archives on Rossmarkt and stretched so hard his joints creaked. He stood on the pavement of the narrow street and stared in irritation at the deep puddles slashed by sharp sheets of rain.

  He unfurled his umbrella and jumped through the traffic on Schlossstrasse, soiling his newly polished winter shoes with mud. He cursed the vain hope for snow and winter, and glanced at his watch. Hunger had reminded him that it was lunchtime, which irritated him even more. He insulted the whole world out loud as he walked on along the eastern facade of Blücherplatz towards Ring, moving with the fast flow of passers-by who were holding on to their hats or being tossed about among the stalls, catching the wind in the sails of their umbrellas. When he stepped onto Schmiedebrücke the wind became less trying. Mock turned into Ursulinenstrasse and went through the doors of the Police Praesidium.

  Panting heavily, he climbed the wide stairs to the third floor where two offices were located behind a glass partition wall: Mühlhaus’ and his own. The pale-faced trainee secretary, Ernst von Stetten, jumped up in deference at the sight of Mock.

  “Has there been anything?” he asked, hanging up his sodden garments in the outer office.

  “Ehlers left the photographs for you, Counsellor. Apart from that, there’s nothing new,” replied von Stetten as he slotted Mock�
��s umbrella into the brass-rimmed aperture of a dark, wooden stand.

  “Nothing new, nothing new,” mimicked Mock once he had gone into his office. “Nothing new in the investigation either. I haven’t moved an inch in the Gelfrert–Honnefelder case.”

  Mock lit a cigar and summed up his morning working through dusty old construction documents: diagrams of sanitary installations; unrealized plans for lifts to carry people and coal; dry explications by architects and engineers. In three hours he had not found anything that would prove useful in furthering his investigation. The worst thing in all this was that Mock did not really know what he was looking for.

  “What are you going to tell Mühlhaus,” he said to himself, annoyed, “when he asks what you did today?”

  To that question the answer was simple: he had looked through every document concerning the scenes of both crimes; he had acquainted himself with the plans of all the floors, including cellars and attics; he had learned what had previously been on the sites of the two tenements, how the foundations were layered one on top of the other, and who had sold the land and building sites, and to whom. Mühlhaus might ask a far worse question: why? He would then hear a complicated, philosophical exposition on the three elements: person-time-place. The victims are incidental, the time is not. And so only the place remains to be investigated. It cannot be incidental. “Something has to link both places,” is the answer Mühlhaus would hear. “But even though I’ve been through the Construction Archives I still don’t know what it is.” It was easy for Mock to imagine Mühlhaus’ sarcastic laugh. Just then he remembered that the Criminal Director was at a conference with Police President Kleibömer, and it was highly unlikely he would be back that day to ask this difficult question.

  The Criminal Counsellor breathed a sigh of relief and, with the iron handle which ran along the frame, opened the small window. He then removed his jacket, loosened his stiff collar, sat down at his desk and began to type non-existent words on his new Olympia, random combinations of letters. Mock thought best to the accompaniment of a regular tapping of keys. On the paper appeared five-letter words. Five taps – a space. Five taps – a space. Ernst von Stetten knew that for as long as the typewriter played out that particular rhythm, Mock was not available to anyone save his beautiful wife, Sophie, and old Mühlhaus.

  It lasted a long time. The secretary chased away a few clients, lied to a few more, and politely apologized to others. Just as the University church struck two, von Stetten heard a sheet of paper being rolled out from the platen of the exhausted typewriter. Then there was silence.

  “The old man has been thinking and he’s come up with something,” he concluded.

  His conclusion was correct. Mock sat among scattered pages covered in even lines of type, dipped his nib in a large inkpot and wrote on the back of one of the pages in small black letters: “You investigated the murder sites from the point of view of construction. That was a mistake. What explanation could there possibly be in plans and designs? What is important is the history of the building, not the history of the pipes, bricks, cellars, cement, repairs and renovations. What is important is the history of the people who live there, and of those who lived there in the past.”

  “So, am I now to study the family trees of people living there? When Aunt Truda met Uncle Jörg?” he asked himself.

  A moment later, he launched himself once again at the inkpot and the sheets of paper gleaming with fresh ink. “Why would anyone kill so brutally on a given day? Only on that one particular day? Because that day is important to him. Perhaps he is taking his revenge for something that happened on that day? What could that person be taking revenge for? Something bad that happened to him. What could that person be taking revenge for in such a sadistic way? Something terrible that happened to him.”

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Wait one moment please!” shouted Mock and began to write. “Where can one learn about truly terrible things?” he scrawled. “In a police file.” The nib snapped. Von Stetten knocked again. Mock muttered furiously when he saw splashes of ink settle on his shirt cuff. The secretary took the mutter to be an invitation for him to enter.

  “Your wife is on the phone, sir.” Von Stetten knew this would bring a smile to his chief’s lips, and he was not mistaken.

  Mock picked up the telephone and heard Sophie’s sweet voice:

  “Good morning, darling,”

  “Good morning. Where are you calling from?”

  “Home. I wanted to remind you about the charity concert this evening. It starts at eight. I’ll go along earlier with Elisabeth. We still have one Beethoven piece we need to practise. We’re playing right at the beginning.”

  “Good. Thank you for reminding me. Have you had lunch yet? What has Marta prepared for today?”

  “I ate at Elisabeth’s. We practised all morning. Marta didn’t cook lunch today. You told her this morning you’d have something in town.”

  “That’s fine. I forgot.”

  “That’s all.” Mock detected hesitation in Sophie’s voice. “You know, I’ve got dreadful stage-fright …”

  “Don’t worry. I’m keeping my fingers crossed for you.”

  “You’re talking so clearly and simply … So assuredly …”

  Mock did not reply. Visions of that morning’s rapture appeared before his eyes. He felt thrilled and filled with a sudden wave of happiness.

  “I know, I know, darling, I ought to go,” he heard Sophie say.

  “Yes, Sophie. Yes, my darling,” he said softly. “I’ve got something urgent to see to. We’ll see each other at the concert.”

  Mock replaced the receiver. A second later he picked it up again. He thought he could hear Sophie’s sighs of that morning through the monotonous dialling tone. He shook off the memories, fastened his collar and tightened his tie.

  “Von Stetten!” he shouted. “Come here, please!”

  The pale-faced secretary entered without a sound. In his hand was a notebook and he stood awaiting his orders.

  “Note this down,” Mock said, wrapping his hands behind his neck. “One. For several days – as of today – I am going to have to work in our archives until late. Please write an appropriate form and give it to Kluxen, the building administrator. Scheier the archivist is to bring me the spare key to the archives as soon as possible, so that I can work there day and night. You’ll find a sample of a form among the documents relating to the Lebersweiler case of December 25th. Two. Tomorrow, at eight in the morning, Kleinfeld and Reinert, Mühlhaus’ trusted men, are to be here. They’re to work in the archives alongside me. Please ask for our chief’s permission in the morning. I’m sure he won’t mind, but pro forma … Three. Pass two messages on to my servant, Adalbert. The mink stole I ordered earlier is to be collected from Beck’s, and my tailcoat from the launderette on Topfkram. He’s to have them here by seven. Four. Buy me something to eat and bring it to the archives. I’m going there now. That is all.”

  BRESLAU, THAT SAME NOVEMBER 30TH, 1927

  A QUARTER TO SEVEN IN THE EVENING

  Mock stepped into a cab on Blücherplatz and asked to be taken to the Concert Hall on Gartenstrasse. The cabby was far from delighted by such a short run, and so did not even attempt to amuse his passenger with conversation. Besides, it would have been pointless. Mock, squeezed into a tight tailcoat and irritated by the negligible results of his archival research, was just as averse to holding a conversation as his cicerone. Even the unmistakable onslaught of winter did little to improve his mood. Staring at the roof of the Municipal Theatre as it swelled with snow, he turned the results of his quest over in his mind. There were approximately a thousand files in the police records that related to murders. Mock had looked through close to a hundred of them. The work was tedious and futile. No police archivist had ever anticipated someone wanting to search for toponyms in the card index, and the files were not indexed by town or street. Apart from an index of surnames, which had been put together only recently by ar
chivists appointed for the purpose, there was no aid for anyone exploring the files. So Mock had to read through the records, hoping to come across the address Ring 2 or Taschenstrasse 23–24, and find the date of some crime which may have recurred in a later year. Only once did he hit upon the tenement where Gelfrert had lived. The files reported the case of a paedophile who had raped an eight-year-old girl in a cellar on Cat’s Alley in May. The pervert had lived on the ground floor of Friedrich-Wilhelm-Strasse 21, which meant he had been Gelfrert’s neighbour. Mock had found nothing else.

  Now, as he travelled across the snow-covered town, Mock was prey to violent emotions. He was annoyed at his own inquisitiveness, which had fixed his attentions on past crimes and misfortunes; he had studied them with such commitment that he kept forgetting about the Gelfrert– Honnefelder case. He cursed himself for the thousandth time that day for having started off from some pseudo-philosophical, deterministic assumptions, basing his entire case on the singular analysis of what is incidental and what necessary. He was furious at himself for conducting an investigation in which the object of his search was not clearly defined. In addition, the sentence of fifteen years’ imprisonment handed down to the paedophile by the Prussian judicial system gave him no peace. There was one more reason for his irritation: not one drop of alcohol had passed his lips that day.

  In this state of mind, it is not surprising that he gave not a pfennig above his fare to the taciturn cabby when they stopped on Gartenstrasse opposite the Concert Hall. Above the entrance hung a huge sign, charity advent concert. Bearing the box with Sophie’s present under his arm, Mock entered the enormous vestibule of the magnificent building designed recently by Hans Poelzig. He left his outer garments and the present in the cloakroom, then made towards the double doors where a spruced-up ticket collector was arguing with somebody.

  “You haven’t got a personal invitation!” shouted the ticket collector. “Please leave!”