he was furious when he heard about his homosexual agent, soon realized the advantage to be gained from him.) The last piece of information filled Anwaldt with hope: it concerned the Baron’s servant, Hans Tetges.
He turned on his back and, with the help of a few brutal and suggestive images, thought of a way for the Baron. Pleased with his idea, he now started looking through the files written by the Gestapo and the C.I.D. concerning Turks. There were eight Turks in all: five had left Breslau before July 9th, when the Baron’s ball had taken place, the other three had to be excluded because of their age — Anwaldt’s assailant, after all, could not have been twenty (like the Turkish students at the Engineering College) or sixty (like a certain merchant, included in the Gestapo files because of his uncontrollable tendency to gamble). Of course, data from the Registration Office and the Turkish Consulate, which Smolorz was to supply, might bring additional information about Turks who did not have the dubious pleasure of finding themselves included in police documents.
When the Turkish trail failed him, Anwaldt applied all his intellectual powers to conjuring up details of a “vice for the Baron”. The protests of a child who, not far from Anwaldt, was insisting that he was right, were not conducive to concentration. He raised himself on his elbow and listened to the kind-hearted reassurance of the old nursemaid and the little boy’s hysterical voice.
“But, Klaus, I keep telling you: the gentleman who arrived yesterday is your daddy.”
“No! I don’t know him! Mummy told me I don’t have a daddy!” The enraged little child stamped his foot on the parched earth.
“Mummy told you that because everybody thought your daddy had been killed by Indian savages in Brazil.”
“Mummy never lies to me!” The shrill voice broke down.
“Well, she didn’t lie to you. She said you didn’t have a daddy because she thought he was dead. Now Daddy’s come … Well, we know he’s alive … Now you’ve got a daddy,” the nanny explained with incredible patience.
The little one did not give in. He thumped the ground with his wooden rifle and yelled:
“You’re lying! Mummy doesn’t lie! Why didn’t she tell me that it’s Daddy?”
“She didn’t have time. They left for Trebnitz in the morning. They’ll be back tomorrow evening, and they’ll tell you everything …”
“Mummy! Mummy!” The boy screamed and threw himself on the ground, thrashing his arms and legs. As he did so, he kicked up clouds of dust which settled on his freshly ironed sailor’s suit. The nanny tried to pick him up with the result that Klaus broke away and dug his teeth into her plump arm.
Anwaldt got to his feet, folded the files, rolled up the blanket and limped towards the car. He did not look behind, afraid that he might turn back, grab Klaus by his sailor’s collar and drown him in the pond. The murderous thoughts had not been provoked by the child’s yelling which, like a lancet, had cut through his wounded head and the blue traces of the hornet’s stings; no, it was not the shouting which had infuriated him but the thoughtless, blind stubbornness with which the spoilt brat rejected unexpected happiness: the return of a parent, who had appeared after so many years. He did not even realize he was talking to himself:
“How can you explain to a pig-headed brat like that that his resistance is idiotic? He needs a thrashing, then he’ll see his foolishness. After all, he won’t understand anything if I go up to him, put him on my knee and say: ‘Klaus, have you ever stood in the window with your face pressed up against the pane, watched men pass by and said about each and every one of them without exception: that’s my Daddy, he’s very busy — that’s why he’s put me in an orphanage, but he’ll come and get me soon?’ ”
†
VIII
BRESLAU, THAT SAME SATURDAY, JULY 14TH, 1934
HALF-PAST TWO IN THE AFTERNOON
Kurt Smolorz sat on the square in Rehdigerplatz, watching for Mock and becoming more and more worried about the state of his report. He was to have included the results of his surveillance of Konrad Schmidt, the iron fist of the Gestapo known as “fat Konrad” by screws and prisoners alike. These results were to help him find an effective means of coercion, that is, a “vice for Konrad”, as Mock metaphorically described it. From the information gathered by Smolorz, it could be concluded that Schmidt was a sadist in whom the number of fat cells was in reverse proportion to the grey matter of his brain. Before finding employment in the prison service, he had worked as a plumber, circus athlete and guard at the Kana alcohol distillery. From there, he had ended up in prison for stealing spirits. He was released after a year and here the chronology of his files broke off. Further files dealt only with Konrad the Screw. In this capacity, he had worked for the Gestapo for a year. Smolorz looked at his first annotation: “drinking vodka” below the heading “Weak Points”, and grimaced in anger. He knew that this remark would not satisfy his boss. Vodka, after all, could only be a “vice” for an alcoholic and fat Konrad certainly wasn’t one. The second entry ran: “Easily provoked into a brawl.” Smolorz could not imagine that this fact could be used against Schmidt, but it was not up to him, after all, to do the thinking. The third and last annotation: “Is probably a sexual pervert, sadist”, brought some hope that his week-long, strenuous labour would not go to waste.
He was also cross at Mock for forbidding him to use the usual official channels of communication which meant that he, Smolorz — instead of drinking cold beer somewhere now after having left the report on his boss’ desk — had to keep watch near Mock’s house for Lord knows how long.
It was not, as it turned out, long. A quarter of an hour later, Smolorz was sitting in Mock’s apartment with his much-desired, perspiring tankard and waiting with some impatience for his boss’ opinion. The opinion was more of a stylistic nature.
“What’s this, Smolorz, can’t you formulate your thoughts appropriately and officially?” The Criminal Director laughed out loud. “In official documents we write ‘tendency to intoxicating drink’ and not ‘drinking vodka’. Alright, alright, I’m pleased with you. And now, go home. I have to take a nap before I make an important visit.”
BRESLAU, THAT SAME SATURDAY, JULY 14TH, 1934
HALF-PAST FIVE IN THE AFTERNOON
The newly nominated Director of the University Library, Doctor Leo Hartner, stretched his bony torso and for the hundredth time cursed the architect who had designed the Baroque Augustinian monastery, now the magnificent building of the University Library on Neue Sandstrasse. The architect’s mistake, according to Harnter, lay in locating the elegant quarters, serving as the Director’s study at present, on the north side, thanks to which the room was cool — pleasant to everyone but its occupant. His aversion to temperatures below 20 °C was founded. This excellent specialist of Oriental languages had returned from the Sahara a few weeks ago after having spent close to three years studying the languages and customs of desert tribes. Now Breslau, in its summer heat, provided him with much-loved warmth but this, unfortunately, ended at the threshold of his study. The thick walls, the stone, heat-resistant barriers irritated him more than the freezing Sahara nights when deep sleep had isolated him from the prevailing cold. But here — within the closed expanse of his study — he had to act, make decisions and sign masses of documents with numb hands.
The coolness which prevailed in the room acted entirely differently on the two men comfortably ensconced on the leather armchairs. Both were breathing deeply and, instead of the swelter and dust of the street, they inhaled the bacteria and spores of mould born on the yellowing pages of volumes.
Hartner strolled nervously across the room. He held the piece of wallpaper with the “death verses”.
“Strange … The writing is similar to some I saw in Cairo in eleventh- or twelfth-century Arabian manuscripts.” His intelligent, slender face froze in thought. The short, grey hair bristled on the top of his head. “But it’s not the Arabic I know. To be honest, this doesn’t look Semitic to me at all. Well, please leave it with me for a few days; maybe I’ll break the code when I put some other language under the Arabic text … I see you’ve got something else for me. What photographs are these, Herr, Herr …?”
“Anwaldt. They’re copies of Doctor Georg Maass’ notes, which he himself described as being a translation of the Arabic chronicle of Ibn Sahim. We’d like to ask you, sir, for some more information about this chronicle, its author, and also the translation.”
Hartner skimmed Maass’ text. After a few minutes, his lips twisted into a pitiful smile.
