Death in Breslau

VI

BRESLAU, THAT SAME TUESDAY, JULY 10TH, 1934

SEVEN O’CLOCK IN THE EVENING

On the main road which lay at the end of Hansastrasse, Anwaldt found a small restaurant. Out of professional habit, he noted the owner’s name and the address: Paul Seidel, Tiergartenstrasse 33. There he ate three hot sausages immersed in a mash of boiled peas and drank two bottles of Deinart mineral water.

Ten minutes later and feeling somewhat heavy, he stood outside Fatamorgana Studio of Photography and Film. He thumped for some time — loudly and stubbornly — on the closed door. (No doubt she’s topped herself up with morphine again. But it’s the last time.) The old caretaker shuffled out of the gate on to the pavement.

“I haven’t seen Fraulein Susanne going out anywhere. Her servant left an hour ago …” he muttered, inspecting Anwaldt’s identification.

The policeman removed his jacket and resigned himself to the trickles of sweat: he did not even attempt to wipe them off with a handkerchief. He sat down on a stone bench in the yard next to a dozing pensioner in a perforated hat. One window-vent in Lea’s apartment, he noticed, was not quite closed. He barely managed to climb on to the sill — his swollen heel was aching and his stomach lay heavily. Slipping his hand inside, he turned the brass handle and, for a moment, struggled with the tangling curtain netting and rampant ferns standing on the window sill. He felt at home in this apartment and took off his jacket, waistcoat and tie, hung all this on the back of a chair and set off in search of Lea. He made towards the studio where, so he thought, he would find her lying, intoxicated. But, before he got there, he turned to the bathroom: the peas and sausages were sending out strong physiological messages.

Lea Friedlander was in the bathroom, her legs hanging over the toilet bowl, her thighs and shins smeared with faeces. She was naked. The thick cable wrapped around her neck was attached to the overflow pipe just below the ceiling and the corpse’s back was touching the wall. The painted crimson lips revealed gums and teeth from between which protruded a blue, swollen tongue.

Anwaldt threw up the contents of his stomach into the bidet. He then sat on the edge of the bath and tried to collect his thoughts. In no more than a few minutes, he was sure Lea had not committed suicide. There was no stool in the bathroom, nothing from which she could have kicked herself off. She could not have rebounded from the toilet bowl because she was not tall enough. She would have had to tie the loop on the thick drainpipe below the ceiling and then, holding on to it with one hand, place the loop around her neck. (Such a feat would have been hard for an acrobat let alone a morphine addict whom half a dozen men must have shagged that day. It looks as if someone very strong strangled Lea, hung the rope in the bathroom, lifted the girl and slipped her neck through the loop. Except that he forgot about the chair which would have made the trick credible.)

Suddenly, he heard the curtain flutter in the window through which he had climbed. A draught. (There must be another window open in this apartment.)

In the door, stood a huge, dark man. He took a rapid swipe. Anwaldt jumped aside, treading on the silk petticoat lying on the floor. His right leg slid back; the entire weight of his body rested on his swollen left foot; it was more than he could take. The left leg gave way under him; Anwaldt bent forward in front of the Turk. The latter clasped his hands and gave a blow from below — to the chin. The policeman collapsed backwards into the enormous bathtub. Before he realized what had happened, he saw the assailant’s face over him and an enormous fist armed with a knuckleduster. The punch in his solar plexus took his breath away. A cough, wheezing, a blurred image, wheezing, wheezing, night, wheezing, night, night.

BRESLAU, THAT SAME JULY 10TH, 1934

EIGHT O’CLOCK IN THE EVENING

The icy water restored Anwaldt’s consciousness. He was sitting, quite naked, in a windowless cell, tied to a chair. Two men in black, unbuttoned S.S. uniforms were observing him. The shorter of the two twisted his long, intelligent face in a grimace reminiscent of a smile. He reminded Anwaldt of his secondary school maths teacher who used to pull similar faces when one of his pupils could not solve a problem. (I warn you against these people — they are ruthless and capable of forcing anyone into giving up an investigation. If, God forbid, you ever find yourself at the Gestapo, please stubbornly state that you are an agent of the Abwehr uncovering the Polish Intelligence network in Breslau.)

The man from the Gestapo walked around the cell, where the stench of sweat was almost palpable.

“Bad, Anwaldt, isn’t it?” he clearly expected an answer.

“Yes …” the tortured man gasped. His tongue caught the jagged remains of his front tooth.

“Everybody’s bad in this city.” He circled the chair. “Yeees, Anwaldt. So what are you doing here … in this Babylon? What brought you here?”

The man in uniform lit a cigarette and put the flaming match to the prisoner’s crown. Anwaldt flung himself about; the stink of burning hair was suffocating. The second torturer, a sweaty, fat man, threw a wet rag over his head, extinguishing the fire. The relief was short-lived. That same Gestapo man squeezed the prisoner’s nose with one hand while, with the other, he shoved the rag into his mouth.

“What’s your assignment in Breslau, Berliner?” the muffled voice repeated. “Enough, Konrad.”

Freed of the stinking gag, Anwaldt fell into a long fit of coughing. The slim Gestapo man waited patiently for an answer. Not getting one, he looked at his helper.

“Herr Anwaldt doesn’t want to answer, Konrad. He evidently feels safe. He thinks he’s protected. But who’s protecting him?” he spread his hands. “Criminal Director Eberhard Mock, perhaps? But Mock isn’t here. Do you see Mock anywhere, Konrad?”

“No, I don’t, Herr Standartenfuhrer.”

The slim man bowed his head and uttered in a pleading voice:

“I know, I know, Konrad. Your methods are foolproof. No secret remains, no name blotted from memory, when you question your patients. Allow me to cure this patient. May I?”

“Of course, Herr Standartenfuhrer.”

The smiling Konrad left the cell. The Standartenfuhrer opened an old, tattered briefcase and took out a litre bottle and a half-litre jar. He poured the contents of the bottle — some kind of suspension — over Anwaldt’s head. The prisoner tasted something sweet on his tongue.

“It’s water with honey, you know, Anwaldt,” the torturer reached for the jar. “And this? You know what this is? Alright, alright … I’ll satisfy your curiosity.” He shook the jar several times. A low buzzing of insects emanated from it. Anwaldt looked: two hornets were furiously jumping on each other and thrashing against the sides of the jar.

“Oh dear, what awful monsters …” the man from Gestapo lamented. Suddenly, he took a swing and smashed the jar against the wall. Before the disorientated hornets had found their wings in the small cell, the prisoner was alone.

Anwaldt had never imagined that these enormous insects gave off the same sound with their wings as small birds. The hornets first threw themselves at the wire-encased light bulb but, after a moment, changed direction. They made strange convulsive movements in the fusty air and with every shudder fell lower. Soon, they found themselves in the vicinity of Anwaldt’s head where they were drawn by the smell of honey. The prisoner tried to use his imagination to escape the cell. He succeeded. (He was walking along a beach washed by gentle waves, rippled by a fresh breeze. His feet sank into the warm sand. Suddenly, a wind arose, the sand grew white-hot, the waves — instead of licking the beach — roared and lashed out at Anwaldt in raging froth.)

His imagination refused to obey. He felt a slight current of air near his lips which were stuck together by the honey and water. He opened his eyes and saw a hornet which clearly had its eye on his lips. He blew at it with all his strength. The hornet, propelled by the rush of air, settled on the cell wall. Meanwhile, the second insect had started to circle his head. Anwaldt moved abruptly with his chair and flung his head from side to side. The hornet sat on one of his collar bones and dug its sting into his skin. The prisoner pressed it down with his chin and felt a searing pain. A blue, pulsating swelling merged the jaw with the collar bone. The squashed insect contorted its black and yellow body on the floor. The other hornet broke away from the wall and made to attack — stubbornly towards the lips. Anwaldt tilted his head and the insect, instead of landing on the lips, found itself on the edge of an eye socket. The pain and swelling spilt over the entire eye. Anwaldt jerked his head and, together with the chair, tumbled on to the concrete. Darkness flooded the left eye. Then the right.

A bucket of ice-cold water restored his consciousness. The Standartenfuhrer dismissed the helper with his hand. He grabbed the chair by the backrest and, without the least difficulty, returned Anwaldt to a vertical position.

“You’ve got fighting spirit,” he looked at the prisoner’s swollen face with concern. “Two hornets attacked you and you killed them both.”

The policeman’s skin was painfully taut over the hard spheres of swelling. The hornets were still twitching on the rough floor.

“Tell me, Anwaldt, is that enough? Or do you want me to ask those aggressive creatures for help again? Do you know, I’m even more frightened of them than you are. Tell me, Anwaldt, is that enough?”

The prisoner affirmed with a nod. The fat torturer entered the cell and placed a chair in front of the officer. The latter sat astride it, rested his elbows on its back and looked amicably at his victim.

“Who are you working for?”

“The Abwehr.”

“Your mission?”

“To uncover the Polish spy network.”

“Why did they bring you in all the way from Berlin? Isn’t there anybody good enough in Breslau?”

“I don’t know. I received orders.”

Anwaldt heard a stranger’s voice coming from his own vocal cords. Every word was accompanied by pain in his throat and facial muscles stiff between the lumps made by the stings on his eye and jaw.

“Untie me, please,” he whispered.

The Standartenfuhrer observed him without a word. A warmer emotion flickered in his intelligent eye.

“Uncovering Polish Intelligence. And what have Baron von Kopperlingk and Baron von der Malten to do with it?”

“The man I was following was present at Baron von Kopperlingk’s ball. But von der Malten has got nothing to do with the matter.”

“What’s the man’s name?”

Anwaldt was taken in by the torturer’s friendly expression. He filled his lungs with air and whispered:

“I can’t tell you …”

The man in uniform laughed silently for a while then began a strange monologue. He asked questions in a deep voice then answered himself in a trembling falsetto:

“Who beat you up at the Baron’s ball? Some swine, officer. Are you afraid of the swine? Yes, officer. But you’re not afraid of hornets? Oh, I am, officer. How come? After all, you did kill two! Without even using your hands! Oh, I see, Anwaldt, two’s not enough for you … You can have more …”

The man from Gestapo finished his bass-falsetto medley and deliberately stamped his cigarette into the swelling on Anwaldt’s collar bone.

A stranger’s voice practically tore apart Anwaldt’s swollen throat. He lay on the floor, yelling. One minute. Two. The Standartenfuhrer called: “Konrad!” A bucket of cold water silenced the prisoner. The torturer lit a new cigarette and blew on its tip. Anwaldt stared at the glow in horror.

“Name of the suspect?”

“Pawel Krystek.”

The Gestapo man got up and left. After five minutes, he entered the cell in the company of the Turk whom Anwaldt knew.

“You’re lying, you fool. There was nobody by that name at the Baron’s, was there?” he turned to the Turk who, having put on his glasses, was going through a wad of black and silver invitations. He shook his head as he did so, confirming, in his oriental manner, the words of the Gestapo man, who was greedily inhaling the last of his cigarette.

“You’ve wasted my time and are making a mockery of my methods. You’ve hurt my feelings. You’ve annoyed me,” he sighed and sniffed a couple of times. “Please take care of him. Maybe you’ll be more effective.”

The Turk got two bottles of honey diluted in a small amount of water from the briefcase and slowly — both at the same time — poured them on the prisoner’s head, shoulders and stomach, particularly abundantly covering the lower abdomen and genitalia. Anwaldt started to yell. Gibberish emerged from his larynx, but the Turk understood: “I’ll talk!” The Turk took a jar from the briefcase and shoved it under the prisoner’s eyes. Some dozen hornets were stinging each other and contorting their thick abdomens.

“I’ll talk!”

The Turk held the jar in his outstretched hand. Over the concrete floor.

“I’ll talk!”

The Turk dropped the jar.

“I’ll talk!”

The jar neared the floor. Urine spattered all around. The jar landed on the stone floor. Anwaldt had lost control over his bladder. He was losing consciousness. The jar did not shatter. It only hit the concrete with a dull thud.

The Turk moved away from the unconscious prisoner with revulsion as fat Konrad appeared. He untied Anwaldt from the chair and grabbed him under the arms. His legs dragged through the puddle. The Standartenfuhrer barked:

“Wash that piss off him and take him to Oswitzer Wald.” He closed the door behind Konrad and looked at the Turk. “Why do you look so surprised, Erkin?”

“But you had his back up against the wall, Standartenfuhrer Kraus. He was all ready to sing.”

“You’re too hot-headed, Erkin.” Kraus observed the hornets thrashing around in the jar of thick Jena glass. “Did you take a good look at him? He’s got to have a rest now. I know men like him. He’ll start singing such nonsense that it’ll take us a week to check it out. And I can’t keep him here that long. Mock is still very strong and is on very good terms with the Abwehr. Apart from that, Anwaldt’s mine. If he decides to leave, my people in Berlin will get him. If he stays here, I’ll invite him for another talk. In the first and second instance, it’s enough for him to see an ordinary bee and he’ll start singing. Erkin, as of today, to that man you and I are demons who will never leave his side …”

BRESLAU, WEDNESDAY, JULY 11TH, 1934

THREE O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING

A damp shroud of dew fell over the world. It pearled on the grasses, trees and the naked body of a man. On touching the burning skin, it immediately evaporated. The policeman woke up. For the first time in many days, he experienced a cool shudder. He just about managed to get up and, dragging his swollen leg, bumped against the trees and emerged on a gravel alley. He was making his way towards a dark building whose angular shadow contrasted with the brightening sky when the glare of headlights lashed him. By the building stood a car, its lights painfully carved Anwaldt’s nakedness out of the darkness. He heard the cry “Stop!”, a woman’s muffled laughter, the sound of gravel crunching under the shoes of approaching men. He touched his aching neck, a coarse eiderdown rubbed against his wounded body. He opened his eyes in the soothing glow of a bedside lamp. The wise eyes of Doctor Abraham Lanzmann, Baron von der Malten’s personal physician, were observing him from behind thick lenses.

“Where am I?” the faint effort of a smile appeared on his lips. It amused him to think that this was the first time his loss of memory was not due to alcohol.

“You’re in your apartment,” Doctor Lanzmann was short of sleep and serious. “You were brought in by some policemen who were patrolling the so-called Swedish Bastion in Oswitzer Wald. A lot of girls gather there in the summer. And where they are, there’s always something shady going on. But to the point. You were barely conscious. You persistently repeated your name, Mock’s name, the Baron’s and your address. The policemen did not want to leave what they suspected was their drunk colleague and brought you home. From here, they phoned the Baron. I’ve got to leave you now. The Baron has asked me to pass this sum on to you,” his fingers caressed an envelope lying on the table. “Here’s some ointment for your swellings and cuts. You’ll find instructions about what the medication is for and how to take it on each bottle and phial. I managed to find quite a bit in my first-aid cabinet at home — considering the unusual time of day. Goodbye. I’ll come back at about midday, when you’ve had some sleep.”

Doctor Lanzmann’s eyelids closed over his wise eyes, Anwaldt’s over his swollen ones. He could not fall asleep. The walls, reflecting the day’s heat, bothered him. With a few moves, he rolled off the bed on to the dirty carpet. Crawling on all fours, he reached the sill, pulled the heavy curtains apart and opened the window. He fell on his knees and slowly reached the bed. He lay on the eiderdown and mopped himself with a linen shawl, avoiding the swellings — volcanoes of pain. As soon as he opened his eyes, swarms of hornets flew in. When he closed the windows against them, the walls of the tenement stifled him with a burning breath, and cockroaches crawled out from the holes — some looking like scorpions. In a word, he could not fall asleep with the window closed and could not sleep with open eyes.

BRESLAU, THURSDAY, JULY 12TH, 1934

EIGHT O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING

It was a little cooler in the morning. He fell asleep for two hours. When he woke, he saw four people sitting at his bedside. The Baron was talking quietly to Doctor Lanzmann. Seeing that the sick man was awake, he nodded to two orderlies standing by the wall. The two men grasped the policeman under the arms, carried him to the kitchen and put him in a huge tub of luke-warm water. One washed Anwaldt’s sore body, the other removed his dark stubble with a razor. After a while, Anwaldt was lying in bed again, on a clean, starched sheet and exposing his wounded limbs to the effects of Doctor Lanzmann’s ointments and balsams. The Baron patiently waited with his questions until the medic had finished. Anwaldt talked for about half an hour, stopping and stumbling. He had no control over his loose syntax. The Baron listened with seeming indifference. At one moment, the policeman broke off in mid-word and fell asleep. He dreamt of snow-capped peaks, icy expanses, freezing gusts of the Arctic: the wind blew and dried his skin; where was the wind coming from? the wind? He opened his eyes and in the dark setting sun saw a boy fanning him with a folded newspaper.

“Who are you?” he could barely move his bandaged jaw.

“Helmut Steiner, the Baron’s kitchen boy. I’m to look after you until Doctor Lanzmann comes in tomorrow to examine you.”

“What’s the time?”

“Seven in the evening.”

Anwaldt tried to walk around the room. He could barely put his weight on the swollen heel. He made out his beige suit on the chair, cleaned and pressed. He quickly pulled on his underpants and looked around for some cigarettes.

“Go to the restaurant on the corner and bring me some pork knuckle and cabbage, and beer. Buy some cigarettes, too.” He realized with rage that his cigarette case and watch had been stolen at the Gestapo. While the boy was absent, he washed himself at the kitchen sink and, exhausted, sat down at the table, trying not to catch sight of himself in the mirror. Shortly, a steaming plate stood in front of him, the quivering fat of pork knuckle bathing in a portion of young cabbage. He devoured everything in a matter of minutes. When he looked at the round-bellied bottle of Kipke beer — droplets of water streaming down its cool neck, a white, porcelain hat secured by a nickel-plated clasp in its mouth — he remembered his resolution of total abstinence. He burst out in derisive laughter and poured half a bottle of beer down his throat. He lit a cigarette and inhaled greedily.

“I told you to buy pork knuckle and beer, didn’t I?”

“Yes.”

“Did I clearly say ‘beer’?”

“Yes.”

“Just imagine, I said that automatically. And did you know that when we speak automatically, it’s not us speaking but someone else speaking through us. So that when I told you to buy some beer it wasn’t me telling you but someone else. Do you understand?”

“Who, for example?” the baffled boy grew interested.

“God!” roared Anwaldt with laughter then laughed until pain almost drilled his head asunder. He fastened on to the bottle neck and, after a moment, put it aside, empty. He dressed awkwardly. He barely squeezed his hat on to his bandaged head. Hopping on one leg, he mastered the spiral staircase and found himself on a street inundated by the setting sun.