ZOPPOT, FRIDAY, JULY 13TH, 1934
HALF-PAST ONE IN THE AFTERNOON
Eberhard Mock strolled along Zoppot pier, rejecting the thought of the approaching lunch with distaste. He was not hungry because he had drunk several tankards of beer between meals, interspersed with bites of hot frankfurter sausages. On top of that, for the sake of lunch, he had to relinquish watching the girls stroll by the casino, their lazy bodies provocatively taut under the slippery silk of dresses and swim suits. Mock shook his head and tried once more to chase away a nagging thought which stubbornly drew him towards that distant city suffocating in the hollow of stagnant air, towards those tight, crowded quarters of tenements and dark wells of yards, towards monumental buildings enclosed in the classicistic white of sandstone or neo-Gothic red of bricks, towards islands weighed down by churches and wrapped in the embrace of the dirty green snake of the Oder, towards residences and palaces concealed by greenery, where the “gentleman” betrays the “lady” with reciprocity and the servants merge with the panelling of the walls. The persistent thought drew Mock to the city where someone throws scorpions into the bellies of girls as beautiful as a dream and dispirited men with dirty pasts lead investigations which will always end in defeat. He knew what to call his thoughts: the qualms of conscience.
Filled with beer, sausages and heavy thoughts, Mock entered the Spa House where he was renting a so-called junker’s apartment with his wife. He was greeted in the restaurant by the beseeching eyes of his wife, standing next to two old ladies who did not leave her side for an instant. Mock realized that he was not wearing a tie and turned back to go to their apartment and repair this faux pas. As he was crossing the hotel hall he caught sight out of the corner of his eye of a tall man in dark clothes getting up and making his way towards him. Mock instinctively halted. The man stood in his path and, pressing his hat to his chest, bowed politely.
“Oh, it’s you Hermann,” Mock looked carefully at Baron von der Malten’s chauffeur’s face, grey with fatigue.
Hermann Wuttke bowed once more and handed Mock an envelope with the Baron’s golden initials. Mock read the letter three times, put it neatly back in its envelope and muttered to the chauffeur:
“Wait for me here.”
Shortly afterwards, he entered the restaurant, travel-bag in hand. He neared the table, glared at by the two ladies and followed by the distressful gaze of his wife. She was clenching her teeth so as to swallow the bitter taste of disappointment. She knew that their holiday together was coming to an end — yet one more unsuccessful rational attempt to save their marriage. He did not need to have his travel-bag with him for her to know that, in a moment, he would be leaving the health resort of which he had dreamt for years. It was enough for her to look into his eyes: hazy, melancholic and cruel — as always.
BRESLAU, THURSDAY, JULY 12TH, 1934
TEN O’CLOCK IN THE EVENING
After a two-hour walk through the city centre (Ring and the dark streets around Blucherplatz peopled with rogues and prostitutes), Anwaldt sat in Orlich’s beerhouse, Orwi, on Gartenstrasse not far from the Operetta, looking through the menu. There was a variety of coffee, cocoa, a vast choice of liqueurs and Kipke beer. But there was also something he particularly wanted. He folded the menu and the waiter was at his side. He ordered cognac and a siphon of Deinart mineral water, lit a cigarette and looked around. Soft chairs surrounded dark tables in fours, landscapes of the Riesengebirge hung over wainscotting covered in wood, green velvet discreetly veiled booths and small rooms, nickel taps poured streams of frothy beer into pot-bellied tankards. Laughter, loud conversation and the abundant fumes of aromatic tobacco filled the restaurant. Anwaldt listened attentively to customers’ conversations and tried to guess their professions. As he easily gathered, they were mainly small manufacturers and owners of large craft enterprises selling their wares in their own stores adjacent to their workshops. Nor was there a lack of agents, petty officials and students wearing the insignia of their societies. Colourfully dressed women sauntered through the place, smiling. But, for reasons unknown to him, they avoided Anwaldt’s table. He only realized why when he glanced at the marble table top: on to a napkin embroidered with Trebnitz flowers had crawled a black scorpion. It was moving its crooked abdomen dartingly, directing its venomous sting upwards, defending itself in this way against the hornet which was trying to attack it.
The policeman closed his eyes and tried to get a hold on his imagination. Warily, his hand groped for the familiar shape of the bottle which had found itself on to his table a moment ago. He uncorked it, raised it to his lips. His lips and throat burnt pleasurably with the molten gold. He opened his eyes: the monsters had vanished from the table. He wanted to laugh now at his anxieties. With an indulgent smile, he looked at the packet of Salem cigarettes with its illustration of a large wasp. He filled the balloon of thin glass and drank it in a single draught; he inhaled his cigarette. The alcohol, fortified with a hefty dose of nicotine, infiltrated his blood. The siphon bubbled amicably. Anwaldt began to listen to conversations at the neighbouring tables.
“Don’t worry, Herr Schultze … Isn’t there enough evil in this world to contend with? Really, Herr Schultze …” some elderly gentleman with a bowler hat glued to the crown of his head was mumbling. “I tell you: neither the day, nor the hour … And that’s the truth … Because take that last incident, for instance. The tram was turning into Gartenstrasse from Teichstrasse near the Hirschlik bakery … And, let me tell you, he went and hit a droschka going to the station … The rascal cabby survived, but the woman and child were killed … That’s how that swine sent … into the next world … Nobody knows the day nor the hour … Neither you, nor I, nor this one here or that one there … Hey, you who’s been beaten up, what are you staring at?”
Anwaldt lowered his eyes. The agitated siphon hissed. He lifted the tablecloth and saw two coupling hornets, abdomens interlocked. Swiftly, he smoothed down the tablecloth which changed into a sheet. The sheet used to cover Banker Schmetterling clenched in a painful knot with the beautiful schoolgirl, Erna.
He drank two glasses of cognac on the trot and glanced over to the side, avoiding the eyes of the fat drunkard who was revealing the secret wisdom of life to Herr Schultze.
“What? Under the statue of Battle and Victory on Konigsplatz? They go there, you say? Servants and nursemaids on the whole? You’re right, that is an exceptional situation. You don’t have to woo or strut … All they want from you is what you want from them …” a thin student was drinking Beaujolais straight from the bottle and becoming more and more excited. “Yes. It’s a clear situation. You approach, smile and take her home. You don’t waste your money or lose your honour. Eh, what competition are soldiers … Excuse me, but do I know you?”
“No. I was lost in thought …” Anwaldt said. (I’d like to talk to someone. Or play chess. Yes, chess. As at the orphanage once. Karl — he was one keen chess-player. We would place a cardboard suitcase between the beds and put the chessboard on it. Once, when we were playing, the drunk tutor came into the dormitory.) Anwaldt clearly heard the clatter of chess pieces scattering now and felt the kicks dealt by the tutor to both the suitcase and their bodies hiding under the beds.
Two glasses, two gulps, two hopes.
“Herr Schultze, it’s good that they threw those professors out of work. No Jew’s agoing to teach German children … Agoing to fu … fu … Agoing to foul …”
The hiss of gaslight, the impatient hiss of the siphon: another drink!
“Oh, those Polish students! They know next to nothing! And what demands! What manners! And it’s a good thing they’ve been taught some sense at the Gestapo. They’re in a German city, so let them speak German!”
Anwaldt, tripping, made towards the toilet. There were numerous obstacles in his path: uneven floorboards, tables blocking his way, waiters bustling through thick smoke. Finally, he reached the cubicle. He dropped his trousers, supported his hands on the wall and swayed from side to side. Among the uniform murmur, he heard the dull thumping of his heart. He listened intently to the sound for quite a while then suddenly heard a cry and saw Lea Friedlander’s alluring body twitching below the ceiling. He stumbled back into the room. He needed a drink to scrub the image from his eyes.
“Oh, how pleased I am to see you, Criminal Director! Only you can help me!” he shouted with joy to Mock, who was sitting at his table and smoking a fat cigar.
“Calm down, Anwaldt. It’s not true, any of it! Lea Friedlander’s alive,” the strong hand, covered with black hair, patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. We’ll solve this case.”
Anwaldt looked at the place where, a moment ago, Mock had been. Now a waiter sat there, looking at him with an amused expression.
“Well, it’s a good thing you’ve woken up, sir. It would have been awkward for me to throw a client out who gives such tips. Shall I order you a droschka or a taxi, sir?”
BRESLAU, SATURDAY, JULY 14TH, 1934
EIGHT O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING
The morning sun outlined Baron von der Malten’s Roman profile and the wave of Eberhard Mock’s black hair. They were sitting in the Baron’s garden, drinking aromatic coffee.
“How was the journey?”
“Fine, thank you. Only I was a bit worried with your chauffeur driving so fast and being so tired.”
“Oh, Hermann’s a man of iron. Have you read Anwaldt’s report?”
“Yes. Very detailed. It’s a good thing you sent it to me straight away.”
“It took him the whole of yesterday to write it. He says he writes well after a drinking binge.”
“He got drunk? Really?”
“Unfortunately. At Orlich’s, near the Operetta. What do you intend to do, Eberhard? What are your plans?”
“I intend to take care of Maass and von Kopperlingk,” Mock exhaled a thick cloud of smoke. “They’ll lead me to that Turk.”
“And what has Maass got to do with him?”
“Olivier, Baron von Kopperlingk bribed Maass with pretty rented schoolgirls from Madame le Goef’s. Anwaldt’s right: Maass is too intelligent not to know that he’s dealing with the daughters of Corinth, but on the other hand too egocentric to accept the fact. He’s of a kind with Professor Andreae, I think. Why did the Baron bribe him? That, we’ll find out. Then I’ll put some pressure on the Baron. I’m sure he’ll serve the Turk to me on a plate. Anwaldt’s not going to achieve more than he has. He doesn’t know Breslau well enough and, besides, they really scared him. Now I’m stepping into action.”
“How are you going to make them talk?”
“Olivier, please … Leave my methods to me. Ah, here is Anwaldt. Good morning! You don’t look all that good. Did you fall into some hydrochloric acid?”
“I had some minor problems,” said the convalescent, bowing to both men. Mock, embracing him cordially, said:
“Please don’t worry. The Gestapo aren’t going to harass you again. I’ve just sorted that out.” (“Yes, he sorted that out very efficiently,” thought the Baron holding out a limp hand to Anwaldt. “I wouldn’t like to be in that Forstner’s shoes.”)
“Thank you,” Anwaldt croaked. Generally, on the third day after being drunk, the physical pains would subside and a deep depression would appear. That is how it would have been now, too, if it were not for that one human being — Eberhard Mock. The sight of that angular man in his immaculately cut pale suit had a soothing effect on Anwaldt. He glanced contritely at Mock and, for the first time in his life, had the feeling that somebody cared.
“I’m sorry. I got drunk. I’ve no excuse.”
“Too true, you’ve no excuse. If you ever get drunk again, you’ll stop working with me and you’ll go back to Berlin. And Criminal Counsellor von Grappersdorff won’t be welcoming you with open arms.” Mock looked sternly at the humbly stooping Anwaldt. Suddenly, he put his arm around him. “You won’t get drunk any more. You simply won’t have any reason to. I’m back from Zoppot and I’m going to watch over you. We’re leading this investigation together. Allow us, Baron …” He turned to von der Malten, who was observing this whole episode with a degree of distaste, “to take our leave. We’ve an appointment to see the Director of the University Library, Doctor Hartner.”
BRESLAU, THAT SAME JULY 14TH, 1934
NINE O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING
Despite the early hour, the sun scorched the windows and roof of the Adler. Anwaldt was driving, Mock navigating and explaining the streets and places they passed. They drove down Krietener Weg, along which ran workmen’s blocks interspersed with small, flowery houses. They passed the border post of Breslau and found themselves in Klettendorf. The sweetish stench of Liebich’s sugar factory penetrated the thick air. The recently built Evangelical church, separated by a low fence from the presbytery concealed among trees, flashed past their right window. Mock grew pensive and stopped commenting on the neighbourhood. They were driving through a beautiful suburb full of gardens and villas.
“Ah, so we’re in Oparow, are we? Except we’ve approached it from another direction, is that right?”
“Yes. It’s Opperau, not Oparow.”
Anwaldt did not ask the way again. He parked the car outside Madame le Goef’s salon. The muffled cries of bathers — already using the sports pool some 200 metres away, despite the early hour — could be heard in the silence. Mock did not get out. He found his cigarette case and offered it to Anwaldt. The striped, blue cigarette paper grew damp to the touch.
“You’ve experienced great humiliation, Herbert.” Clouds of cigarette smoke emerged from Mock’s nose and lips with every word. “I once experienced something like that, too. That’s how I know how to stifle the bitterness inside. You have to attack, throw yourself at someone’s throat, tear and bite. Fight! Act! Who shall we attack today, Herbert? The corruptible erotomaniac Maass. Who shall we use against him?” He did not answer, but indicated, with his head, the manor standing in its burning garden. They extinguished their cigarettes and made a move. Nobody stopped them either at the gate or on the drive. The guards bowed politely to Mock. After several sharp rings, the door opened a little. With a kick, Mock flung it wide open and roared to the terrified butler:
“Where is Madame?!”
Madame ran down the stairs, wrapping a dressing gown around her. She was no less alarmed than the doorman.
“Oh, what’s happened, your Excellency? Why is your Excellency so angry?”
Mock placed one leg on a stair, put his hands on his hips and yelled so loudly that the crystals on the hall lamp swung.
“What’s the meaning of this, dammit? My associate is viciously attacked here, in this place! What am I to understand by that?”
“I’m sorry. It was a misunderstanding. The young man did not have any identification. But please, please … Do go up to my office … Kurt will bring some beer, a siphon, ice, sugar and lemons.”
Mock spread himself brusquely behind Madame’s desk, Anwaldt on the small, leather sofa. Madame sat on the edge of her chair and glanced anxiously at one, then the other in turn. Mock lengthened the silence. The servant entered.
“Four lemonades,” ordered Mock. “Two for this man.”
Four tall glasses sweated on the small table. The door closed behind the servant. Anwaldt swallowed the first lemonade almost in one gulp. The second, he savoured for longer.
“Please call the pseudo-schoolgirl and some other pretty eighteen-year-old. She’s to be a ‘virgin’. You know what I mean? Then please leave us alone with them.”
Madame smiled knowingly and retreated from the royal presence. A freshly made-up eye winked meaningfully. She was pleased that His Excellency was no longer angry.
The “schoolgirl” was accompanied by a red-haired angel with pale, hazel eyes and white, transparent skin. They did not let the girls sit, so they stood in the middle of the room, worried and helpless.
Anwaldt got up and, with his hands behind his back, paced the room. Suddenly, he stopped in front of “Erna”.
“Listen carefully to me. Today the bearded chauffeur is going to take you to see Maass. You’ll tell Maass that your friend from school wants to meet and please him. That she’s waiting for him in the hotel … Which hotel?” he asked Mock.
“The Golden Goose on Junkerstrasse 27/297.”
“You,” Anwaldt turned to the red-head, “really will be waiting for him there, in room 104. The porter will give you the key. You’re to play the innocent and surrender to Maass after a long time resisting. Madame will tell you what to do to make the client think he’s dealing with a virgin. Then you,” he pointed to “Erna”, “will join them. To put it briefly — you’re to keep Maass in that room for two hours. I wouldn’t like to be in your shoes if you don’t. That’s all. Any questions?”
“Yes,” the schoolgirl’s alto reverberated. “Will the chauffeur agree to take us there?”
“It’s all the same to him where you give yourself as long as it’s with Maass.”
“I’ve got a question, too,” the red-haired angel croaked. (Why do they all have such deep voices? Never mind. As it is, they’re more honest than Erna Stange with her melodious, quiet squeak.) “Where do I get a school uniform from?”
“Wear an ordinary dress. It’s summer and not all schools make their pupils wear uniforms. Apart from that, tell him that you were ashamed of coming to a tryst in a hotel wearing school uniform.”
Mock got up unhurriedly from behind the desk. “Any other questions?”
BRESLAU, THAT SAME JULY 14TH, 1934
TEN O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING
They parked the Adler in front of the Police Praesidium. After entering the gloomy building where the walls soothed with their cellar-like coolness, they parted ways. Mock went to see Forstner, Anwaldt to the Evidence Archives. A quarter of an hour later, they met at the porter’s counter. Each held a package under his arm. They left the thick walls of the Praesidium regretfully and choked as they breathed in the heat of the street. The police photographer, Helmut Ehlers, whose enormous bald head seemed to reflect the sun’s rays, waited beside the car. All three got in; Anwaldt drove. First, they went to Deutschmann’s tobacco shop on Schweidnitzer Strasse, where Mock bought his favourite cigars, and then turned back. They passed St Dorothy’s Church, the Hotel Monopol, the Municipal Theatre, Wertheim’s Department Store and turned right into Tauentzienstrasse. After about twenty yards, they stopped. Kurt Smolorz emerged from the shadowy gate and approached the car. He got in next to Ehlers and said:
“She’s been with him for five minutes already. Kopperlingk’s chauffeur is waiting for her over there,” he waved at the chauffeur who was leaning against the Mercedes, smoking a cigarette. Fanning himself with his somewhat too small, stiff cap, he was clearly suffocating in his dark livery with its golden buttons carrying the Baron’s monogram. After a while, on a pavement as hot as an oven, Maass appeared — plainly excited — with the schoolgirl attached to his side. An elderly lady, walking past, spat with disgust. They got into the Mercedes. The chauffeur did not look in the least surprised. The engine growled. A moment later, the elegant rear of the limousine disappeared from sight.
“Gentlemen,” Mock said quietly. “We’ve got two hours. And let Maass enjoy himself a bit at the end. Soon he’ll be with us …”
They got out and, with relief, hid in the shade of the gate. The short caretaker blocked their way and asked, a little frightened:
“Who have you come to see?”
Mock, Ehlers and Smolorz paid him no heed. Anwaldt pushed him against the wall and, with one hand, forcefully squashed his unshaven cheeks. The caretaker’s lips rolled into a frightened snout.
“We’re from the police, but you haven’t seen us. Understand, or do you want trouble?”
The caretaker nodded to show he understood and scurried into the depths of the yard. Anwaldt barely managed to climb to the first floor then pressed the brass doorknob. It gave way. Although his conversation with the caretaker and his ascent had taken no more than two minutes, both policemen and the photographer had not only silently entered the apartment, but they had also begun a methodical, detailed search. Anwaldt joined them. Wearing gloves, they picked up and examined every object, replacing it exactly where they had found it. After an hour, they met in Maass’ study which had been searched by Mock.
“Sit down,” Mock indicated the chairs spread out around a small circular table. “You’ve searched the kitchen, bathroom and living-room, have you? Good work. Find anything interesting? That’s what I thought. There is, however, one interesting thing here … This notebook. Ehlers, to work!”
The photographer unpacked his equipment, stood a vertical, portable tripod on the desk and fixed a Zeiss camera to it. On the top of the desk, he spread the rough-book found by Mock then held it in place with a pane of glass. He pressed the cable release. The flashlight shot once. The title page: “Die Chronik von Ibn Sahim. Ubersetzt von Dr Georg Maass”† was fixed on photographic film. The flash clicked and went off another fifteen times until all the pages covered in the even, small handwriting had been photographed. Mock glanced at his watch and said:
“My dear gentlemen, we’ve managed on time. Ehlers, when can you have the photographs ready?”
“At five.”
“Anwaldt will collect them from you then. Only him, understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thank you, gentlemen.”
Smolorz locked the door as easily as he had opened it. Anwaldt glanced through the stained-glass window and, in its coloured glow, made out the caretaker sweeping the yard and anxiously looking around at the windows. It was probable that he did not know which apartment they had broken into. After a few seconds, they were in the car, Mock driving. They made their way along Agnesstrasse to the Police Praesidium where Ehlers and Smolorz got out. Mock and Anwaldt turned into Schweidnitzer Strasse, and then into Zwinger Platz and, passing the coffee-roasting house and merchants’ club, drove into busy Schuhbrucke. They passed the Petersdorff and the Barasch Brothers’ Department Stores — the latter crowned with a glass globe — then left behind them the Museum of Palaeontology and the former Police Praesidium. They reached the Oder. Next to St Maciej’s Secondary School, they turned right and soon found themselves at Dominsel. Passing the medieval cathedral and the red Georgianum Seminary building, they made their way on to Adalbertstrasse. A moment later, the bellboy of the Lessing Restaurant was bowing from the waist before them.
A pleasant coolness dominated the room, which, at first, allowed them to breathe freely again, then produced a calm sleepiness. Anwaldt closed his eyes. He thought he was being rocked by gentle waves. The clatter of cutlery. Mock attacked the succulent, pink salmon swimming in horseradish sauce, with two forks. He cast an amused eye on the dozing Anwaldt.
“Wake up, Anwaldt,” he touched the sleeping man’s shoulder. “Your lunch will get cold.”
Smoking a cigar, he watched as Anwaldt greedily consumed a beefsteak with sauerkraut and potatoes.
“Please don’t be offended, Herbert,” Mock placed a hand on his bloated stomach. “I’ve eaten too much, but you, I see, have an excellent appetite. Perhaps you’d like this piece of salmon? I haven’t touched it.”
“With pleasure. Thank you,” smiled Anwaldt. Nobody had ever shared their food with him. He ate the fish with relish and took a fair draught of strong, black tea.
Mock built Anwaldt’s character profile in his thoughts. It was not complete without the details of his torture in the Gestapo cell, but no tactical question, no trick which could provoke Anwaldt into confessing, came to mind. Several times, he opened his mouth and immediately closed it again because it seemed that what he was about to say sounded silly and flat. After a while, he came to terms with the thought that he would not be reading Anwaldt’s psychological profile to Madame le Goef’s girls next week.
“It’s half-past one now. Before half-past four, please look through von Kopperlingk’s files and consider how we can pin him down. Please look through the files of all the Turks, too. Maybe you’ll find something. At half-past four, you’re to give all those files to Forstner; at five, collect the photographs from Ehlers and come to see me in my apartment. I’m leaving the car with you. Everything clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So why are you looking at me so strangely? Do you need anything?”
“Nothing, nothing … It’s just that nobody’s ever shared their food with me.”
Mock laughed out loud and patted Anwaldt on the shoulder with his small hand.
“Don’t take it as a sign of my particularly liking you,” he lied. “It’s a habit from childhood. I always had to hand in an empty plate … I’m taking a droschka home now. I need a nap. Goodbye.”
The Criminal Director was falling asleep already in the cab. On the threshold of sleep and wakefulness, he remembered a Sunday lunch a year ago. He was sitting with his wife in the dining-room, happily nibbling spare ribs in tomato sauce. His wife was also eating with great relish, going through all the meat first. At one point, she glanced pleadingly at the plate in front of Mock, who always left the best pieces to the end.
“Please, do give me a little of your meat.”
Mock did not react and stuffed all the meat still remaining on his plate into his mouth.
“I’m certain you would not even give it to your children — if you could have any, of course.” She got up, angry. (She was wrong again. I did give some to one. And to one not my own.)
BRESLAU, THAT SAME JULY 14TH, 1934
TWO O’CLOCK IN THE AFTERNOON
Anwaldt left the restaurant and climbed into the car. He glanced at the files stamped by the Gestapo, and at the package which he had collected that morning from the archives. Unwrapping it, he shuddered: strange, curved writing. Blackened blood on blue wallpaper. He rewrapped the bloody writing and got out of the car. Under his arm, he carried the Gestapo files and the blanket used by Mock to cover the back seat. He did not feel like driving through the scorching city. He made off in the direction of the slender steeples of St Michael’s Church to Waschteich Park, whose strange name Mock had explained to him during their drive: in the Middle Ages, women used to wash their linen in the pond there. Now children were shouting and running by the pond while most of the benches were occupied by nursemaids and servants. These women demonstrated an excellent capacity to divide their attention as they pursued vociferous discussions while, from time to time, shouting at the children wading in the shallow waters by the bank. The remaining benches were occupied by soldiers and local scamps proudly smoking cigarettes.
Anwaldt removed his jacket, lay on the blanket and began to examine von Kopperlingk’s files. Unfortunately, there was nothing in them that he could use to pin down the Baron. What was more: everything the Baron did in his apartment and on his property took place with the Gestapo’s full blessing. (Mock told me that even Kraus, although 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?’ ”
† The Chronicles of Ibn Sahim. Trans. Dr Georg Maass.