Death in Breslau

in two. Inside, beautifully written in silver ink, appeared:

I cordially invite you to a masked ball this evening (i.e. Monday, July 9th) at seven. It will take place at my residence, Uferzeile 9. Ladies must dress as Eve. Gentlemen are also welcome to dress as Adam.

Wilhelm Baron von Kopperlingk.

Anwaldt noticed Maass’ shadow as the latter was leaving the kitchen. He quickly replaced the invitation under the weight. He accepted the thick, hexagonal glass with a smile, emptied it in one mighty draught and tried to understand what he had just read. Maass’ falsetto did not penetrate his swirling thoughts although the Semitist, with great animation and paying no heed to his listener’s want of concentration, was describing the scientific dispute with Professor Andreae. When he got to the point of discussing matters of grammar, the front door bell rang. Maass looked at his watch and sprang to the hall. Through the open study door, Anwaldt caught sight of a schoolgirl. (Holidays, the heat, and she’s in uniform. Apparently the idiotic rules of wearing a uniform all the year round are still in force.) They whispered for a moment, then Maass landed her a racy slap on the backside. The girl giggled. (Ah, that is why he kept me here. He wanted to demonstrate that his claim about debauched schoolgirls was not unfounded.) He could not control his curiosity and left the study. He felt his stomach suddenly cramp up and a sweetish taste gather in his mouth. Before him stood the schoolgirl Erna.

“Allow me — Assistant Anwaldt, Fraulein Elsa von Herfen, my pupil. I give the young lady private tuition in Latin,” Maass emitted ever higher tones. “Fraulein Elsa, this is Criminal Assistant Anwaldt, my good friend and colleague.”

The policeman all but fainted at the sight of the girl’s intensely green eyes.

“I think we know each other …” he whispered, leaning against the door frame.

The girl’s alto had nothing in common with Erna’s quiet, melodious voice, and the large mole on the surface of the girl’s hand nothing with Erna’s alabaster skin. He realized that he had a double in front of him.

“I’m sorry …” he sighed with relief. “You look very much like a friend of mine in Berlin. Dear Doctor, you’ve already made yourself very much at home in Breslau. You’ve been here barely four days and you’ve already acquired a pupil … And what a pupil … I won’t disturb you. Goodbye.”

Before he closed the door on Anwaldt, Maass made an obscene gesture: he joined the thumb and index finger of his left hand and slipped the index finger of his right hand in and out of the circle several times. Anwaldt snorted with contempt and ran down a few steps. Then he went upstairs and stopped above the Semitist’s apartment, on the half-landing beside a stained-glass window which ran the whole height of the building scattering coloured “dancing coins” across the stairwell. He rested his elbow on an alcove where a small copy of the Venus de Milo was concealed.

He envied Maass and that envy had eclipsed his suspicions for a moment. He reluctantly greeted the reappearing memories, knowing that, although unpleasant, they would help kill the time. He had decided to wait for Elsa von Herfen so as to see what Maass’ seductive charm was worth.

Somehow a memory managed to drift to him. It was November 23rd, 1921. He was to be sexually initiated that day. He was the only one in his dormitory not to have known a woman. His friend Josef had promised to arrange everything. The young, stout, orphanage cook had allowed herself to be invited by the three wards to a small storeroom where the gym equipment, used sheets and towels were kept. Two bottles of wine had helped. She had arranged her sweaty body on a gym mat. The first had been Josef. The second turn had been drawn by fat Hannes. Anwaldt had waited patiently for his go. When Hannes had dragged himself off the cook, she had smiled mischievously at Anwaldt:

“Not you. I’ve had enough.”

The boy had returned to his dormitory and lost the desire to know women. Fate, however, had not let him wait for long. The nineteen-year-old prime pupil found himself employed as private tutor to the daughter of a rich industrialist. He disclosed the secret components of Greek to the seventeen-year-old, somewhat capricious girl, while she willingly repaid him by disclosing the secrets of her body. Anwaldt fell head over heads in love. When, after half a year of hard but very pleasant work, he asked her father for his remuneration, the latter, surprised, retorted that he had already handed over the remuneration through his daughter who, in her daddy’s presence, robustly confirmed the fact. The industrialist reacted appropriately. Two of his servants kicked the beaten-up “foul swindler” out of the manor.

It looked as though Anwaldt had lost all illusions. Unfortunately, he regained them yet again thanks to another schoolgirl, the poor, beautiful Erna Stange from a good working-class family in the Wedding district of Berlin. The thirty-year-old, having a career in the police ahead of him, thought about getting married. Erna’s father, an honest and hardened railwayman, had tears in his eyes as he watched the proposal. Anwaldt tried for a loan from the police coffers. He was waiting for Erna’s final exams and thinking about a place to live. After three months, he stopped thinking about anything but alcohol.

He did not believe in the disinterested passion of schoolgirls. That is why he did not quite believe in what he had seen a moment ago. A beautiful girl giving herself to an ugly creature.

The door to the apartment grated. Maass, eyes closed, was kissing his pupil. He gave the girl a hard slap on the backside once again and snapped the lock. Anwaldt heard the clatter of shoes on the stairs. He descended cautiously. The heels clattered through the gate. A flirtatious “goodbye” reached the shaggy ears of the caretaker. He, too, said goodbye to the caretaker, but he did not leave in a hurry. He emerged a little and observed: the girl was getting into a black Mercedes, the bearded chauffeur removed his hat, bowed and slowly pulled away. Anwaldt quickly ran to his Adler. He moved off with a roar, furious to see he was losing the Mercedes from sight. He accelerated and almost ran over an elderly gentleman in a top hat who was crossing the street. In two minutes, he found himself at a safe distance from the Mercedes, which was following a route known to Anwaldt: Sonnenplatz and Grubschener Strasse. Both cars plunged into the stream of cars, droschkas and a few carts. Anwaldt saw only the neck and head of the chauffeur. (She’s tired. Evidently lying on the back seat.) They kept going straight. Anwaldt watched the names of the streets: they were still driving along Grubschener Strasse. Past the cemetery wall, above which protruded a smooth tympanum. (The crematorium, no doubt; there’s one like that in Berlin.) The followed car suddenly accelerated and vanished from Anwaldt’s view. The policeman put his foot down and leapt over a bridge across a small river. On the left, a sign with the name “Breslau” flitted past. He turned into the first street on his left and found himself in a shady, beautiful alley along which ran villas and small houses concealed among lime and chestnut trees. The Mercedes was standing in front of a corner manor. Anwaldt turned right, into a small side street, and turned off his engine. He knew from experience that following someone in a car was less effective than doing so on foot. He got out of the Adler and carefully approached the crossroads. Peering out, he caught sight of the Mercedes as it turned back. In seconds, the car had disappeared, turned right and driven back towards Breslau. He had not the slightest doubt: the chauffeur was alone. He jotted down the number plate and went up to the manor from which the Mercedes had driven away. It was a stylish, neo-Gothic building. The closed shutters appeared very mysterious. A sign was visible over the entrance: NADSLEZANSKI MANOR.

“All brothels are asleep at this hour,” he muttered to himself, looking at his watch. He was proud of his photographic memory. He took the visiting card handed to him the previous day by the cabby from his wallet. He compared the address on the card to the one on the building. They tallied: Schellwitzstrasse. (This place just outside Breslau must be Opperau, as on the card.)

He pressed the bell at the gate to the drive for a long time. Finally, a man with the build of a heavyweight boxer appeared in the driveway. He walked up to the wicket gate and forestalled Anwaldt’s questions:

“Our club opens at seven.”

“I’m from the police. Criminal Department. I’d like to ask the man in charge a few questions.”

“Anyone could say that. I don’t know you and I know everyone from the Criminal Investigation Department. Besides, everyone from C.I.D. knows that the boss is a woman not a man …”

“Here’s my identification.”

“It says ‘Berlin Police’. And we in Opperau belong to Breslau.”

Anwaldt cursed his own absent-mindedness. His Breslau identification had been waiting for him in the personnel department since Saturday. He had forgotten about it. The “boxer” was looking at him with swollen eyes, detached. Anwaldt stood in a puddle of sun and counted the decorative railings.

“Either you open this gate, you pig, or I phone my chief’s deputy, Max Forstner,” he said in a raised voice. “Do you want your boss to be in trouble because of you?”