The End of the World in Breslau (14 page)

This rhythm has been broken. This morning I experienced a moment of dread in that awful, empty house when I looked into the eyes of a little girl who had emerged from hypnosis and was watching your highest ecstasies with terror. That little orphan standing at our bed was depraved in a most hideous manner, for she saw something she will never forget to her dying day. I am totally convinced of this, since I myself was a witness to such an act committed by my parents, and their bestiality tore asunder the most sensitive strings of my soul. The saddest thing is that the orphan looked with unimaginable dread and helplessness into my eyes, the eyes of a woman who could be her mother – bah! – who would like to have been her mother. Today I was not purified, today I cannot give myself to Eberhard for all the riches in the world. Instead of revenge, I have plunged myself into the depths of despair. I am evil and dirty. I do not know what can purify me. Perhaps death alone.

That is all, my love. I end this sad letter and embrace you, wishing you happiness.

Yours,

Sophie

BRESLAU, THAT SAME DECEMBER 1ST, 1927
EIGHT O’CLOCK IN THE EVENING

The usual evening lull reigned in Grajeck’s restaurant. Ladies of the night fixed their eyes in vain on the hard-working citizens who, in turn, drowned their eyes in perspiring tankards of beer. One man was doing so for the tenth time that day – Criminal Sergeant Kurt Smolorz. He smiled wryly when he caught sight of his chief, awakening in Mock vague suspicions as to his subordinate’s sobriety. The golden beverage worked wonders for Smolorz’s facial expressions, but not for the rather poor formulations of his tongue.

“As usual,” the sergeant tried to speak clearly. “Ten till two: Miss Pflüger, music. After two, home.”

“As usual, you say,” Mock said sullenly, accepting a glass of cognac and a coffee from the waiter. “But something isn’t ‘as usual’, and that’s the condition you’re in. When did you start drinking again?”

“A few days ago.”

“What happened? You haven’t been drinking since the ‘four sailors’ case.”

“Nothing.”

“Any problems?”

“No.”

“What have you been drinking?”

“Beer.”

“How many?”

“Five.”

“You’re sitting here drinking instead of keeping an eye on my wife?”

“Sorry, Counsellor, but I’d drop in for a beer then go back and watch the window. Your window. That ended up being five beers.”

In the next room, a customer had made his way to the piano. His
playing hinted at his profession – he was a butcher. From force of habit, he played as if he were hacking up carcasses on the keyboard.

Deep in thought, Mock blew out smoke rings. He knew his subordinate well; five beers would not be enough to bring a smile to his gloomy face. And there was no doubt the grimace Smolorz had produced on his arrival had been a smile. He must, therefore, have drunk more. Smolorz got to his feet, put on his hat and bowed as politely as he could.

“With that bow of yours, you could take part in a school performance,” muttered Mock, without shaking Smolorz’s hand as he usually did. Watching as his sergeant’s angular figure made its way out, Mock wondered why his subordinate had broken his vow of abstinence, and why he had lied about the amount of alcohol he had consumed. He stood up, approached the bar and raised a finger to call the rather mature barmaid. The latter spun willingly on her heel and gestured to Mock’s empty glass.

“No, thank you,” he said, placing a five-mark coin on the counter, which hastened the barmaid and quickened the heartbeats of the lonely girls who sat about. “There’s something I want to know.”

“Yes?” The barmaid carefully slipped the coin between her breasts. A safe and comfortable hiding-place.

“That man I was talking to, how long has he been sitting here and how many beers has he had?” Mock asked softly.

“He’s been here since three, drank four large beers,” the barmaid answered just as softly.

“Did he go out at any point?”

“No. I don’t think he felt like going out. He looked all broken up.”

“How can you tell?”

“I can’t explain. After twenty years working behind bars I can recognize customers who drink to forget.” The barmaid was not lying. She may not have known much, but she knew everything there was to know about
men. “Your friend pretends to be hard and uncouth, but he’s completely soft on the inside.”

Mock, not waiting for a psychological dissection of his own character, looked into her wise and arrogant eyes, tipped his hat, paid for the cognac and stepped into the street. “Even he’s lying to me,” he thought. “Even Smolorz, who owes me so much. Sophie could have been up to anything while he’s been drinking.”

Light flakes of snow were falling to the ground. Mock got into his Adler and drove towards Rehdigerplatz, a hundred metres away. He was exploding with fury; a violent rhythm pulsated in his veins and arteries, and the pressure of his blood pressed onto his cranium. He stopped outside his house and opened the car window. The frosty air and snow that blew in cooled his emotions for a while. He recalled the previous evening: the passion on the staircase; rescuing Erwin; the mink stole lying on the doormat; the bedroom pitilessly locked; the burning schnapps trickling down to his stomach. “I’ll spend tonight cuddled up to Sophie,” he thought. “We’ll just lie next to each other. An excess of alcohol might not be to my advantage today – tomorrow I’ll be full of virile strength, and I’ll give her the necklace. Is it definitely tomorrow?”

He reached into his briefcase for astrologer Völlinger’s chart and turned it towards the bluish glow of the gas-light. He skimmed through the cosmograms and personality profiles of both Mr and Mrs Mock, and his attention was drawn to the prognostic report. Suddenly blood was drumming in his ears. He blew away the flakes of snow that had settled on the page and read with horror: “best date for conception – 1st December, 1927”. He squeezed his eyes shut as hard as he could and imagined Sophie waiting in their dining-room. She is determined and unapproachable, but a moment later her face lights up at the sight of the ruby necklace. She kisses her husband, skimming his strong neck with her hand …

Mock took the jeweller’s business card from his silver card-holder and carefully read the home address. “Breslau, Drabitziusstrasse 4”. Without shutting the window, he fired the engine and abruptly pulled away. A journey across the entire snow-covered city awaited him.

BRESLAU, THAT SAME DECEMBER 1ST, 1927
NINE O’CLOCK IN THE EVENING

Paul Sommé the jeweller found it hard to swallow the saliva that aggravated his swollen throat. He felt his fever mounting. At times like this, he found comfort in one activity alone: perusing his numismatic collection. So he lay wrapped in his navy-blue dressing gown with purple lapels, browsing through his collection of old coins. His expert eyes, sparkling with high fever and armed with a powerful magnifying glass, caressed seventeenth-century Danzig guldens, Silesian gshyvnas and Tsarist imperials. He imagined his ancestors hoarding stacks of gold in their money bags, then buying property, homes, farms, women and titles. Given surety by the generously rewarded sheriffs, provosts and other officers of the law, he imagined their satiated, peaceful sleep during the wars and pogroms in Poland and Russia. Policemen always awoke warm feelings in Sommé. Even now, laid out as he was with a bad cold and torn from pursuing his collector’s passion by the sudden sound of the bell, he was happy to receive Criminal Counsellor Eberhard Mock’s business card from the butler.

“Show him in,” he said to his servant and, with relief, lay his shivering body on the soft pillows of his chaise-longue.

The sight of Mock’s broad figure filled him with just as much pleasure as had his business card. He esteemed the Criminal Counsellor for two reasons: firstly, Mock was a policeman; secondly, he was the husband of a beautiful and capricious woman twenty years his junior, whose changeable
emotions frequently encouraged her husband to pay a visit to the jewellers. He himself, older than his wife by more than thirty years, was well acquainted with the sulking, melancholy and migraines of women. Only this did he have in common with Mock. His response to these phenomena was different, however; unlike the Counsellor, he was wise, understanding and tolerant.

“Please do not justify yourself, Excellency.” Despite his burning throat he would not let Mock get a word in edgeways. “I go to bed late. Besides, no visit of yours is ever inopportune. How can I be of help?”

“My dear Mr Sommé,” Mock, as always, was overcome by the impression made on him by the Dutch masters hanging on the walls of the jeweller’s office. “I’d like to buy that ruby necklace we spoke about. I absolutely have to have it today, but I can’t pay you until tomorrow or the day after. I beg you to grant me this favour. I will certainly pay.”

“I know I can trust you,” the jeweller hesitated. His fever was distorting objects and perspective, and he thought there were two Mocks scanning his walls. “But I’m not very well. I have a high temperature … That’s the main problem …”

Mock eyed the canvases and recalled the previous evening in Risse’s office – and the samurai with a knife-point held to his eye.

“I would dearly like to grant you this favour, Excellency. I’m really not looking for excuses,” Sommé’s voice was breaking in agitation. His head fell back onto the hot, damp rut in his pillow. “We can call my doctor, Doctor Grünberg, right now – he can confirm that he’s forbidden me to leave the house.”

Seeing the change in Mock’s face, Sommé quickly got up from his chaise-longue. He felt violently dizzy, and beads of sweat, occasioned both by his illness and the fear of losing a client, broke out all over his flushed face. He leaned heavily against the desk and whispered:

“But that’s irrelevant. Please wait a moment. I’ll be ready in a minute.”

The jeweller slowly made for the door of his bedroom. He pulled an old-fashioned nightcap onto his wet, bald head.

“Mr Sommé,” Mock held him back. “Could your wife not go to the shop with me? You really are sick. I wouldn’t want to put you at risk.”

“Ah, how considerate of you, Counsellor sir,” the jeweller mustered unfeigned admiration. “But that would be impossible. My beloved Edith left this morning to go to an auction of old silver in Leipzig. During her absence and my illness, our trusted assistant is looking after the shop. But that’s no good anyway. That is, the assistant can’t help you. I’m the only one who knows the code for the safe where the necklace is kept. I’ll just get dressed and we’ll go.”

Sommé went into the bedroom next to the office and slowly closed the door. Mock heard the distinctive rustle of a body sinking to the floor and the thud of a chair or stool hitting floorboards. He ran into the bedroom, and saw the jeweller lying on the floor in a faint. He rolled him onto his back and slapped him across one burning cheek. Sommé came to and smiled to his dreams. He thought he saw his beloved Edith, her hair flowing, during their last holiday in the Eulengebirge mountains. Mock, however, had an entirely different vision: Edith Sommé, decked with jewels from the display cases, her neck entwined with his rubies, lying in a swoon with her legs spread on the ottoman at the back of the jeweller’s shop, and a handsome male, satiated with her body, yelling Reutter’s song as loud as he could.

“There is nothing like a trusted assistant,” he thought, leaving the delirious Sommé in the care of his butler.

BRESLAU, THAT SAME DECEMBER 1ST, 1927
TEN O’CLOCK IN THE EVENING

Mock entered his apartment and looked about. He was surprised by the silence and emptiness. Apart from the dog, nobody greeted him, nobody was pleased to see him return, nobody was waiting for him. As usual, when the servants had the evening off. Marta had gone to visit relatives near Oppeln, and Adalbert, who was suffering from the same ailment as the jeweller, was stretched out in the servants’ quarters. Mock removed his hat and coat and pushed down the handle of the bedroom door. Sophie was asleep, huddled under her eiderdown. Her arms were protecting her head as if warding off a blow, her fingers were wrapped around her thumbs. Mock had read somewhere that this unconscious configuration of a sleeping body signified uncertainty and helplessness. The tenderness he felt triggered a memory: Sophie and Eberhard at a station. He was leaving for Berlin to receive a medal for solving a difficult case, she was tenderly bidding him goodbye. A kiss and a request: “If you come back during the night, wake me up. You know how.”

Mock could hear Sophie’s low, debauched laughter even now. He heard it as he took a bath, as he closed the bedroom door and turned the key on the inside. It resonated in his ears as he lay down beside his wife and began to wake her in the way she so loved. Sophie sighed and gently moved away from her husband, but he stubbornly persisted with his endeavours. Soon she was wide awake, looking into his glazed eyes.

“Today’s the day,” he whispered. “The day we are to conceive our child.”

“Do you believe in that rubbish?” she asked sleepily.

“Today’s the day,” he said again. “I’m sorry about last night. I had to help Erwin.”