Death in Breslau

his post-doctoral thesis. I disclosed this fraud in the Semitische Forschungen. Do you know what arguments I put forward?”

“I’m sorry, Maass, but I’m in a bit of a hurry. I’ll willingly get acquainted with this fascinating puzzle when I have a free moment. Anyway, I take it that you and Andreae are not friends. Am I right?”

Maass did not hear the question. He had dug his insatiable gaze into the generous curves of a girl walking past in school uniform. It did not go unnoticed by the elderly man who was blowing the cigarette butt out of his amber cigarette holder.

BRESLAU, THAT SAME JULY 8TH, 1934

HALF-PAST THREE IN THE AFTERNOON

Forstner drank what was his third schnapps within a quarter of an hour and ate a hot frankfurter topped with a white hat of horseradish. The large dose of alcohol calmed him. He sat, gloomily, in a discreet alcove separated from the rest of the room by a maroon curtain, and tried, with the help of strong drink, to loosen the vice which Mock had tightened over his head an hour ago. It was all the more difficult in that the pincers of the vice were manipulated by two mighty and despised powers: Eberhard Mock and Erich Kraus. On leaving his apartment on Kaiser-Wilhelm-Strasse, he had heard the persistent ringing of the telephone. He knew it was Kraus calling for information about Anwaldt’s mission. Standing on the scorching pavement at the 2 and 17 tram stop, he brooded over his own helplessness, Mock, Kraus and, above all, Baron von Kopperlingk. He cursed the wild orgies in the Baron’s palace and gardens at Kanth, during which naked teenage nymphs and curly-haired cupids invited guests to drink ambrosia, and the pool swarmed with naked dancers, male and female. Forstner had felt safe under the wing of the omnipotent Piontek, all the more so as his chief had still remained ignorant as to the private life and contacts of his assistant. He had not been worried about Mock, although he knew from Piontek that, after Baron von Kopperlingk’s unfortunate remark, the Counsellor had been acquiring ever more information about him. He had been lulled and entirely anaesthetised by his spectacular promotion to the position of Deputy Chief of the Criminal Department. When, during “the night of the long knives”, Heines, Piontek and all the top people of Breslau’s S.A. fell, Forstner — previously an employee of the Criminal Department — had been spared; but he had lost the ground under his feet. He had become entirely dependent on Mock. One word whispered into Kraus’ ear about Forstner’s contacts would plunge him into inexistence, following in the footsteps of his protectors. As a homosexual, he could be certain of the double cruelty of Kraus. His very first day in office, the new Chief of Gestapo had announced that “if he were to find a queer within his department, he would end up like Heines”. Even if he did not make good his threat when confronted with Forstner, who was, after all, a policeman from a different department, he would most assuredly withdraw his support. And then Mock would devour him with wild relish.

Forstner tried to calm his nerves with a fourth, significantly smaller, schnapps. He put a splodge of horseradish and fat left by the frankfurter on a roll, swallowed it and grimaced. He had realized that it was Mock, not Kraus, who was squeezing the vice with doubled force. He had decided to suspend his co-operation with the Gestapo for the length of Anwaldt’s secret investigation. His silence vis-a-vis Kraus could be justified by the exceptional secrecy of the investigation. If, however, he were to incur Mock’s displeasure by refusing to co-operate, disaster was unavoidable.

Separating the truth from probability in this way, Forstner heaved a sigh of some relief. He wrote Mock’s informal instructions into his notebook: “to draw up a detailed dossier on Baron Olivier von der Malten’s servants.” Then he raised his frosted glass high and drank it down in one go.

BRESLAU, THAT SAME JULY 8TH, 1934

QUARTER TO FOUR IN THE AFTERNOON

Anwaldt sat on tram 18 contemplating with great interest the unusual cabled bridge he was just crossing. The tram rumbled over the bridge; red-brick buildings and a church wrapped in old chestnut trees flitted by on the right, solid tenements on the left. The tram stopped in a very busy square. Anwaldt counted the stops. He was to alight at the next one. The tram moved away and quickly gathered speed. Anwaldt prayed for it to go even faster. The reason for his supplications was an enormous wasp which had begun its mad dance around the Assistant’s head. At first, he had tried at all costs to keep calm, and moved his head as little as possible, once to the right, once to the left. These moves greatly intrigued the insect, which had taken a clear liking to Anwaldt’s nose. (I remember: the sticky jar of cherry juice in the delicatessen store in Berlin, angry wasps stinging little Herbert, the shopkeeper’s laughter, the reek of onion peelings applied to the stings.) He lost control and flapped his arms. He felt he had struck the wasp. With a slight flick, it fell to the tram floor. He was about to squash it with his shoe when the tram suddenly braked and the policeman tumbled on to a corpulent lady. The wasp started up with a buzz and sat on Anwaldt’s hand, who, instead of a sting, felt the hard blow of a newspaper, then heard a distinctive crunch. He looked with gratitude at his saviour — a not very tall, old man of endearing appearance, who had just stamped on the assailant. Anwaldt thanked him politely (Where do I know this old man from?) and got off at the tram stop. Following Mock’s instructions, he crossed to the other side and made his way between some official buildings. On one of them, he read the sign: UNIVERSITY CLINIC. He turned left. The buildings were burning in the heat, the cellars stank of rat poison. He reached the river, leaned against the barrier and removed his jacket. He was disorientated — he had obviously made a mistake — and waited for someone who could show him the way to Hansastrasse. A fat servant, lugging an enormous bucket full of ashes, approached the barrier. Slowly, unworried by the presence of a witness, she started to spill them on to the grassy embankment. Suddenly, a gust of wind picked up — the harbinger of a storm. The grey dust of ashes swirled around the bucket and blew right into the face and on to the neck and shoulders of the furious Anwaldt. The policeman showered the contrite wench with a volley of vulgar abuse and went off to look for a tap with clean water. He did not find one, however, and confined himself to blowing the ashes off his shirt and wiping them from his face with a handkerchief.

The adventure with the wasp and with the ashes, his unfamiliarity with Breslau all made Anwaldt late for his meeting with Lea Friedlander. When finally he got to Hansastrasse and found the Fatamorgana Studio of Photography and Film, it was four-fifteen. Pink curtains were drawn across the window front, a brass sign ENTRANCE FROM THE YARD was nailed to the door. Anwaldt obeyed the instruction. He knocked for a long time; it was several minutes before the door was opened by a red-haired servant. In a strong foreign accent, she informed him that “Fraulein Susanne” did not admit clients who arrived late. Anwaldt was too irritated to try subtle persuasion. Without ceremony, he moved the girl aside and sat in the not very large waiting room.

“Please tell Fraulein Friedlander that I’m a special client.” He calmly lit a cigarette. The servant left, clearly amused. Anwaldt opened all the doors except for the one behind which the girl had disappeared. The first led to a bathroom lined with pale blue tiles. His attention was drawn to a bath of unparalleled size which stood on a high pedestal, and a bidet. Having looked at the unusual sanitary equipment, Anwaldt entered the large front room where the film studio “Fatamorgana” was located. The centre was taken up by an enormous divan strewn with gold and crimson cushions. Spotlights and several wicker paravents, hung with elegant, lace underwear, were arranged all around. There could not be the slightest doubt as to the nature of the films shot here. He heard a rustling, turned and saw a tall, dark-haired girl standing in the door, wearing nothing but stockings and a see-through peignoir. She rested her hands on her hips, parting her garment. In this way, Anwaldt became acquainted with most of the beautiful secrets of her body.

“You’re half an hour late. So we haven’t got much time,” she spoke slowly, drawing out the syllables. She walked over to the large bed, gently swaying her hips. She gave the impression that crossing these two metres was beyond her strength. She sat down heavily and, with a slender hand, made an inviting gesture. Anwaldt approached quite cautiously. She pulled him firmly towards her. It seemed she would never finish the simple action of unbuttoning his trousers. He interrupted these manipulations, leaned over a little and took her tiny face in his hands. She looked at him with surprise. Her pupils had dissolved, entirely covering her irises. The shadows of the semi-darkness outlined Lea’s face — pale and sick. She tossed her head in order to sever the gentle embrace. The peignoir slipped from her shoulder to reveal fresh prick marks. Anwaldt felt the cigarette burn his lips. He quickly spat it out, straight into a large porcelain bowl. The butt hissed in a residue of water. Anwaldt removed his jacket and hat and sat down in the armchair opposite Lea. Rays of the setting sun penetrated the pink curtains and danced on the wall.

“Fraulein Friedlander, I’d like to talk with you about your father. Only a few questions …”