Death in Breslau iem-1

by Marek Krajewski

  Mock choked on his coffee, black drops sprayed his pale suit. Anwaldt gave a start and experienced the action of that hormone which, in human beings, is responsible for making bodily hair stand on end. Both then smoked in silence. Observing the impression he had made on his listeners, Hartner could scarcely contain himself for joy, which contrasted rather strangely with the gloomy history of the Yesidis and Crusaders. Mock broke the silence:

  “I’m lost for words to thank you, sir, for such an insightful, expert appraisal. My assistant and myself, we are deeply moved, bearing in mind that this whole story throws new light on our puzzle. Will you allow me, sir, to ask you a few questions? This will inevitably mean betraying a few secrets concerning the investigation, which you will be so kind as to keep to yourself.”

  “Naturally. I’m listening.”

  “From your expert report, one could conclude that Marietta von der Malten’s murder was revenge taken after centuries. The bloody writing in the saloon carriage, taken from a work unknown to anyone and generally considered to be lost, testifies to this. My first question is: could Professor Andreae who is, after all, well acquainted with Eastern writings and languages, for some reason be unable to decipher the quotation? Because if you exclude that, it will be clear that he deliberately misled us.”

  “My dear sir, Andreae did not understand the writing. It’s obvious. This scholar is, above all, a specialist in Turkish studies and, as far as I know, knows no Eastern language apart from Turkish, Arabic, Hebrew, Syrian and Coptic. Whereas Ibn Sahim’s chronicle is written in Persian. The Yesidis spoke Persian; today they use Kurdish. Try giving an expert — however excellent — in the Hebrew language a text in Yiddish but written in the Hebraic alphabet, and I assure you that without knowing Yiddish, he’ll be helpless. Andreae knew Arabic writing because, until recently, Turkish texts used to be written only in Arabic. But he does not know Persian, I know that perfectly well because I used to be one of his students. So, he saw a text written in the Arabic alphabet, which he knows, but he hardly understood any of the text. Since he is trying, at any price, to salvage his academic prestige, he concocted a translation from, as it were, ancient Syrian. And he has, by the by, concocted more than once. He once invented some Coptic inscriptions basing his post-doctoral thesis on them …”

  “If Maass discovered the chronicle …” — this time it was Anwaldt who spoke — “a fragment of which was found on the wall of the saloon carriage … that means he’s the murderer. Unless someone else, who had dealings with the text before him, slipped it to Maass for some reason. Did anyone before Maass use any of the three manuscripts bound together?”

  “I checked most meticulously the reading-room loan register of the last twenty years, and the answer is: no. Since 1913 — because that’s the date the records start — no-one before Maass made use of the manuscripts which are bound together.”

  “Dear Herbert,” Mock’s voice resounded, “Maass has a cast-iron alibi. On May 12th, 1933, he gave two lectures in Konigsberg, and this has been confirmed by six of his listeners. On the other hand he does undoubtedly have something to do with the murderers. Why otherwise would he deceive us and translate the text from the carriage quite differently? And apart from that, how did he know that the manuscript could be found here? Maybe he stumbled on the traces of this Persian chronicle when he was researching Marietta’s obituary? But, I should apologize, these questions are for Maass. Sir,” he addressed Hartner again, “is it possible that someone could have read this manuscript without leaving any trace in the records?”

  “No librarian will lend out a manuscript without writing it down in the notebook. Besides, only scholars with appropriate references from the university can handle the manuscripts.”

  “Unless the librarian colluded with the reader and did not make the rightful entry.”

  “Such a collusion, I cannot exclude.”

  “Do you employ anyone who has completed their Oriental Studies?”

  “Not at the moment. Two years ago, a librarian who was a specialist in Arabic worked for me; he moved to Marburg where he was appointed to a chair at the university.”

  “Name?”

  “Otto Specht.”

  “There’s one question gnawing at me,” Anwaldt said quietly, while putting the name in his notebook. “Why was Marietta von der Malten’s murder so contrived? Is it perhaps because the children of the arch-Yesidi, so to speak, were killed in an equally cruel manner? Is it that the means used in vengeance have to correspond exactly to the crime committed centuries ago? What really happened? What does the chronicler write about it?”

  Hartner shuddered with the cold and poured himself another cup of steaming coffee.

  “A very good question. Let us give the voice to the Persian chronicle.”

  XI

  MESOPOTAMIA, DJABAL SINDJAR MOUNTAINS, THREE DAYS ON HORSEBACK WEST OF MOSUL. SECOND SAFAR OF THE SIX HUNDRED FIRST YEAR OF HIDJRA

  Here speaks Ibn Sahim, son of Hussain, may Allah have mercy on him. This chapter contains information about the just vengeance taken by Allah’s soldier on the children of the Satanic pir, may his name be cursed for ever and ever …

  The evening sun was slipping ever lower across the blue firmament. The outlines of the mountains were becoming sharper and the air clearer. Above the steep crag, the suite of riders moved slowly. At its head rode two leaders: a Crusader and a Turkish warrior. When they had reached the edge of the mountainous ravine beyond which stretched a gentle slope, they brought their horses to a halt and with obvious satisfaction stretched out beneath the stone meanderings of rocks which brought to mind cathedral spires. About forty of the accompanying riders, half of them Christian, half Muslim, did the same. With relief, the Crusader removed his helmet, called a salada, the elongated back end of which had impressed a red, swollen band on his wet neck. Rivulets of sweat escaped from beneath the basinet and ran down the tunic adorned with Maltese crosses. His mount, harnessed in a nose-band of finely wrought work, was breathing freely; white sheets of froth slipped down its sides.

  Tiredness did not seem to trouble so much the Turkish knight, who was examining the Crusader’s crossbow with curiosity. He wore, as did his soldiers, a basinet, a helmet bound in a piece of white material, a coat of mail, white trousers reaching just below his knees, and high, black boots. The weapons of the Turk and his men consisted of horn bows and quivers with three-feathered arrows, and Arabian swords called saif. On top of that, the leader wielded an iron pick-axe embossed with silver in shapes of Arabic ornaments.

  After a moment had passed, the Christian knight stopped wiping away the sweat, the Saracen lost interest in the crossbow. Both attentively observed the valley which stretched beyond the rocky slope. A low yet wide temple stood among green palm trees. Small alcoves had been hewn into its walls where olive lamps burned, blackening all around with smoke. Every now and then, someone approached the fire, passed their right hand over the flame and, with blackened hand, touched their right brow. The horsemen were paying less attention to this strange behaviour; they were more interested in the number of people in the valley. With a great effort and independently of each other, they counted and arrived at a similar result: in the vicinity of the temple and houses adjoined to it, milled around about two hundred people of both sexes and all ages. The men dressed in tight hair shirts and black turbans drew their attention in particular — they were making sure that not a single oil lamp went out. When a lamp began to burn down, they dipped fresh wicks into olive oil and the flame, hissing, fired up again.

  Night fell on the land. In the light of the oil lamps began rituals — wild, violent dances. Singing, full of passion, soared over the valley. Guttural cries tore the air. The Crusader was sure he was witnessing an orgy to Semiramida, the Turk felt a painful arousal. They looked each other over and gave orders to their soldiers. Slowly, cautiously, they rode down the gentle slope of the hill. The names of seven angels vibrated in the air: “Djibrail”, “Muchail”, “Rufail”, �
�Azrail”, “Dedrail”, “Azrafil”, “Shamkil”. The thunder of drums, flutes and tambourines split the valley. The women were falling into a trance. The men, as if hypnotized, spun around their own axis. The priests were now offering sheep and their extremities in sacrifice, and feeding the meat to the poor. Those waiting for their turn were nibbling on strings of dried figs.

  The stampede of horses’ hooves thundered; the faithful — terrified — turned their faces from the sacred fire. It had begun. The armoured horses, covered in crosses, trampled and jumped over living barriers. The Crusader, cleaving human torsos with his sword, was intoxicated by the sweet sensation of justice: here, under his loyal instrument of God’s glory, were falling the worshippers of Satan and the seven fallen angels, whose names had reverberated so proudly in the air a moment ago. The Turk showered arrows into the smoke of the bonfires and oil lamps. Blood poured over brightly dyed jackets and colourful turbans. A few of those attacked drew fantastically curved weapons from their belts and tried to stand up to the enraged assailants. The hiss and whistle of crossbow strings created strange music. Arrows pierced soft flesh, crunched against bone, tore apart tense muscle fibres. A moment later, the assailants’ passion was turned against the women, the only survivors. In the embraces of steel arms, the brown faces paled, the beautiful, regular features froze; under stress from abrupt and violent movement, the intricately plaited braids fell apart, the flowers decorating the hair withered, the silver and gold coins tinkled on their temples, the polished stones covering foreheads clanked, glass beads cracked. Some of the women hid in the alcoves and rocky ravines. The Crusaders and Saracens dragged them out and took them in frenzied convulsions. Those who had not yet come upon such a reward were finishing off the few men still alive. The captive women humbly accepted their fate. They knew they would be put up at the slave market. Over the valley silence gradually fell, only rarely interrupted by moans of pain or ecstasy.

  Both leaders stood in the temple courtyard in front of the entrance to the home of the man for whom they had been searching so long: the holy pir Al-Shausi. Five symbols were hewn in the walls of the house: a serpent, an axe, a comb, a scorpion and a small human figure. Next to them appeared a delicately engraved Arabic sign: GOD. THERE IS NO GOD BUT HE, THE LOVING, THE ETERNAL. ALL THAT DWELLS IN THE HEAVENS AND ON EARTH BELONGS TO HIM.

  The Turk looked at the Crusader and said in Arabic:

  “It’s a verse from The Throne of the Second Sura of the Koran.”

  The Crusader was acquainted with this famous fragment. He had heard it on the lips of dying Saracens, listened to it in the evenings coming from the lips of praying Arabian captive women. But he was not put out by the lofty sacred inscription intended to protect and bless Al-Shausi’s house just as a year ago he had not been troubled by the Byzantine God when, in search of loot, he had desecrated and defiled the temple in Constantinople.

  They entered. Two Turkish soldiers blocked the door so that nobody could slip out; the rest went in search of the holy elder. Instead of him, they brought in two rolled carpets which were moving violently. These they unfurled and, at the leader’s feet, there appeared a desperate, perhaps thirteen-year-old girl and her slightly older brother — children of the man they were looking for and who had escaped into the desert. The leader of the Crusaders threw himself at the girl without a word, pushed her to the uneven, stone floor and, very shortly afterwards, won his successive spoil of war. The girl’s brother said something about their father and vengeance. In the light of the oil lamps, the rapist saw several scorpions which had crawled out of a broken clay vat. He wasn’t afraid of them; on the contrary — the presence of these sinister creatures flamed his passion all the more. All around, men were yelling — aroused, olive oil stank, shadows danced on walls. The satiated Crusader had decided: the children of the satanic cult’s highest priest would be punished by way of example. He ordered the boy’s and the girl’s bellies to be stripped bare. He raised his sword, the faithful companion in the fight ad maiorem Dei gloriam and dealt a sure but not very hard blow. The blade traced a semi-circle and with its tip tore the girl’s velvet belly and the boy’s, covered with its first growth. The skin separated, revealing their innards. The Crusader removed his helmet and very efficiently, with the help of his dagger, threw several scorpions into it. Then he tipped it like a sacrificial vessel over the victims’ entrails. The enraged, arching scorpions found themselves among warm intestines. They stung blindly with the sharp thorn of their abdomens and slid around in the blood. The victims lived a long while yet and did not take their flaming eyes off their executioner.

  XII

  BRESLAU, THAT SAME MONDAY, JULY 16TH, 1934

  FOUR O’CLOCK IN THE AFTERNOON

  The heat had increased after lunch but, strangely, neither Mock nor Anwaldt seemed to feel it. The latter, however, was troubled by a pain in his gum where, an hour ago, the dentist had extracted a root. Both men were sitting in their offices in the Police Praesidium. But it was not just the place that brought them together — their minds, too, were preoccupied by the same case. They had found the murderer. It was Kemal Erkin. Both had confirmed their first, still intuitive suspicions, reached by a simple association: the tattoo of a scorpion on the Turk’s hand … scorpions in the Baron’s daughter’s belly … the Turk is the murderer. This conclusion, after Hartner’s expert appraisal, had acquired something without which any investigation would be groping around in the dark: a motive. In killing Marietta von der Malten, the Turk had taken vengeance on a seven-century-old crime which the Baron’s ancestor, the Crusader Godfryd von der Malten had committed, in 1205, on the children of Al-Shausi, leader of the Yesidi sect. As Hartner had said, the imperative of vengeance was passed down from generation to generation. However, some doubt did arise: why was it committed only now, after seven hundred years? In order to disperse the doubt and turn suspicion into unwavering certainty, it was necessary to answer the question: was Erkin a Yesidi? Unfortunately it would remain unanswered as long as nothing more was known about Erkin than his name, nationality and fat Konrad’s babbling “He came to the Gestapo in order to train”. This could mean that the Turk was undergoing something like a practice period with the Gestapo, an apprenticeship. One thing was certain: the suspect had to be captured using all possible means. And interrogated. Likewise using all possible means.

  At this point, the parallel thinking of the two policemen came up against a serious obstacle: the Gestapo guarded its secrets. In all certainty, Forstner, freed of his “vice” by the death of Baron von Kopperlingk, wouldn’t want to co-operate with a man he loathed, Mock. Getting hold of basic information about Erkin, therefore, was extremely difficult, not to speak of finding any proof of his belonging to any secret organisation or sect. Mock did not even have to stretch his memory to know that he had never in the Police Praesidium met anyone resembling Erkin. The former Political Department of the Police Praesidium, which occupied the west wing of the building on Schweidnitzer Stadtgraben 2/6, after Piontek’s downfall and Forstner’s domination, constituted territory where Mock’s feelers did not extend. Long infiltrated by Hitler’s men and officially under their control after Goring’s decree in February, it constituted an independent and secretive organism whose numerous sections were located in rented villas in beautiful Kleinburg, utterly inaccessible to anyone from the outside. Erkin might be working in just one of these villas and only be in the “Brown House” on Neudorfstrasse from time to time. In the old days, Mock would have simply turned to the chief of a particular department in the Police Praesidium for information. Now, there was no question of it. The Chief of Gestapo, Erich Kraus — the right hand of the notorious chief of Breslau’s S.S., Udo von Woyrsch — hostile as he was to Mock, would sooner own up to being of Jewish descent than to pass even the tritest of rumours beyond the purlieus of his department.

  How to obtain facts about Erkin and then arrest him was where Mock’s and Anwaldt’s plans — identical to this point — diverged. The Direct
or’s thoughts tended to the chief of Breslau’s Abwehr, Rainer von Hardenburg; Anwaldt’s hopes focussed on Doctor Georg Maass.

  Remembering the warning he had received that morning — that one of the telephonists was the lover of Kraus’ Deputy, Dietmar Fob — Mock left the police building and, crossing Schweidnitzer Stadtgraben, made his way to the square near Wertheim’s Department Store. Suffocating from heat in the glass telephone kiosk, he dialled von Hardenburg’s number.

  In the meantime, Anwaldt, wandering through the Praesidium building, tried in vain to find his chief. Impatient, he resolved to take the decision into his own hands. He opened the door to the Criminal Assistants’ room. Kurt Smolorz was quick on the uptake and followed him into the corridor.

  “Take one man, Smolorz, and we’ll go and get Maass. Maybe we’ll sit him in the dentist’s chair.”

  Mock and Anwaldt simultaneously felt the heat turn tropical.

  BRESLAU, THAT SAME JULY 16TH, 1934

  FIVE O’CLOCK IN THE AFTERNOON

  An indescribable mess reigned in Maass’ apartment. Anwaldt and Smolorz, tired after their hurried search, sat in the games room and panted heavily. Smolorz kept going to the window and peeping out at the drunk who, glued to the wall, swept his strangely sober eyes all around. Maass was not coming yet.

  Anwaldt stared at the typing paper, covered in handwriting, which lay in front of him. It was something like an unfinished draft of a report, two chaotic sentences. On the top of the paper was written: “Hanne Schlossarczyk, Rawicz. Mother?” Underneath: “Investigation in Rawicz. Paid to Adolf Jenderko Detective Agency: 100 marks”. Anwaldt no longer paid attention to either the heat, or the sound of a piano upstairs, or the too-tight shirt which clung to him or even the throbbing pain caused by the extraction of the tooth nerve. He sunk his eyes into the sheet of paper and desperately tried to remember where, in the not too distant past, he had come across the name “Schlossarczyk”. He glanced at Smolorz, who was nervously shuffling the papers which lay on the cake platter, and emitted Archimedes’ cry. He knew: the name had appeared in the dossier of von der Malten’s servants, which he had gone through the previous night. He sighed with relief: Hanne Schlossarczyk would not be an unknown factor, as was Erkin. He muttered to himself: