Death in Breslau

by Marek Krajewski

  His imagination refused to obey. He felt a slight current of air near his lips which were stuck together by the honey and water. He opened his eyes and saw a hornet which clearly had its eye on his lips. He blew at it with all his strength. The hornet, propelled by the rush of air, settled on the cell wall. Meanwhile, the second insect had started to circle his head. Anwaldt moved abruptly with his chair and flung his head from side to side. The hornet sat on one of his collar bones and dug its sting into his skin. The prisoner pressed it down with his chin and felt a searing pain. A blue, pulsating swelling merged the jaw with the collar bone. The squashed insect contorted its black and yellow body on the floor. The other hornet broke away from the wall and made to attack – stubbornly towards the lips. Anwaldt tilted his head and the insect, instead of landing on the lips, found itself on the edge of an eye socket. The pain and swelling spilt over the entire eye. Anwaldt jerked his head and, together with the chair, tumbled on to the concrete. Darkness flooded the left eye. Then the right.

  A bucket of ice-cold water restored his consciousness. The Standartenführer dismissed the helper with his hand. He grabbed the chair by the backrest and, without the least difficulty, returned Anwaldt to a vertical position.

  “You’ve got fighting spirit,” he looked at the prisoner’s swollen face with concern. “Two hornets attacked you and you killed them both.”

  The policeman’s skin was painfully taut over the hard spheres of swelling. The hornets were still twitching on the rough floor.

  “Tell me, Anwaldt, is that enough? Or do you want me to ask those aggressive creatures for help again? Do you know, I’m even more frightened of them than you are. Tell me, Anwaldt, is that enough?”

  The prisoner affirmed with a nod. The fat torturer entered the cell and placed a chair in front of the officer. The latter sat astride it, rested his elbows on its back and looked amicably at his victim.

  “Who are you working for?”

  “The Abwehr.”

  “Your mission?”

  “To uncover the Polish spy network.”

  “Why did they bring you in all the way from Berlin? Isn’t there anybody good enough in Breslau?”

  “I don’t know. I received orders.”

  Anwaldt heard a stranger’s voice coming from his own vocal cords. Every word was accompanied by pain in his throat and facial muscles stiff between the lumps made by the stings on his eye and jaw.

  “Untie me, please,” he whispered.

  The Standartenführer observed him without a word. A warmer emotion flickered in his intelligent eye.

  “Uncovering Polish Intelligence. And what have Baron von Köpperlingk and Baron von der Malten to do with it?”

  “The man I was following was present at Baron von Köpperlingk’s ball. But von der Malten has got nothing to do with the matter.”

  “What’s the man’s name?”

  Anwaldt was taken in by the torturer’s friendly expression. He filled his lungs with air and whispered:

  “I can’t tell you …”

  The man in uniform laughed silently for a while then began a strange monologue. He asked questions in a deep voice then answered himself in a trembling falsetto:

  “Who beat you up at the Baron’s ball? Some swine, officer. Are you afraid of the swine? Yes, officer. But you’re not afraid of hornets? Oh, I am, officer. How come? After all, you did kill two! Without even using your hands! Oh, I see, Anwaldt, two’s not enough for you … You can have more …”

  The man from Gestapo finished his bass-falsetto medley and deliberately stamped his cigarette into the swelling on Anwaldt’s collar bone.

  A stranger’s voice practically tore apart Anwaldt’s swollen throat. He lay on the floor, yelling. One minute. Two. The Standartenführer called: “Konrad!” A bucket of cold water silenced the prisoner. The torturer lit a new cigarette and blew on its tip. Anwaldt stared at the glow in horror.

  “Name of the suspect?”

  “Paweł Krystek.”

  The Gestapo man got up and left. After five minutes, he entered the cell in the company of the Turk whom Anwaldt knew.

  “You’re lying, you fool. There was nobody by that name at the Baron’s, was there?” he turned to the Turk who, having put on his glasses, was going through a wad of black and silver invitations. He shook his head as he did so, confirming, in his oriental manner, the words of the Gestapo man, who was greedily inhaling the last of his cigarette.

  “You’ve wasted my time and are making a mockery of my methods. You’ve hurt my feelings. You’ve annoyed me,” he sighed and sniffed a couple of times. “Please take care of him. Maybe you’ll be more effective.”

  The Turk got two bottles of honey diluted in a small amount of water from the briefcase and slowly – both at the same time – poured them on the prisoner’s head, shoulders and stomach, particularly abundantly covering the lower abdomen and genitalia. Anwaldt started to yell. Gibberish emerged from his larynx, but the Turk understood: “I’ll talk!” The Turk took a jar from the briefcase and shoved it under the prisoner’s eyes. Some dozen hornets were stinging each other and contorting their thick abdomens.

  “I’ll talk!”

  The Turk held the jar in his outstretched hand. Over the concrete floor.

  “I’ll talk!”

  The Turk dropped the jar.

  “I’ll talk!”

  The jar neared the floor. Urine spattered all around. The jar landed on the stone floor. Anwaldt had lost control over his bladder. He was losing consciousness. The jar did not shatter. It only hit the concrete with a dull thud.

  The Turk moved away from the unconscious prisoner with revulsion as fat Konrad appeared. He untied Anwaldt from the chair and grabbed him under the arms. His legs dragged through the puddle. The Standartenführer barked:

  “Wash that piss off him and take him to Oswitzer Wald.” He closed the door behind Konrad and looked at the Turk. “Why do you look so surprised, Erkin?”

  “But you had his back up against the wall, Standartenführer Kraus. He was all ready to sing.”

  “You’re too hot-headed, Erkin.” Kraus observed the hornets thrashing around in the jar of thick Jena glass. “Did you take a good look at him? He’s got to have a rest now. I know men like him. He’ll start singing such nonsense that it’ll take us a week to check it out. And I can’t keep him here that long. Mock is still very strong and is on very good terms with the Abwehr. Apart from that, Anwaldt’s mine. If he decides to leave, my people in Berlin will get him. If he stays here, I’ll invite him for another talk. In the first and second instance, it’s enough for him to see an ordinary bee and he’ll start singing. Erkin, as of today, to that man you and I are demons who will never leave his side …”

  BRESLAU, WEDNESDAY, JULY 11TH, 1934

  THREE O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING

  A damp shroud of dew fell over the world. It pearled on the grasses, trees and the naked body of a man. On touching the burning skin, it immediately evaporated. The policeman woke up. For the first time in many days, he experienced a cool shudder. He just about managed to get up and, dragging his swollen leg, bumped against the trees and emerged on a gravel alley. He was making his way towards a dark building whose angular shadow contrasted with the brightening sky when the glare of headlights lashed him. By the building stood a car, its lights painfully carved Anwaldt’s nakedness out of the darkness. He heard the cry “Stop!”, a woman’s muffled laughter, the sound of gravel crunching under the shoes of approaching men. He touched his aching neck, a coarse eiderdown rubbed against his wounded body. He opened his eyes in the soothing glow of a bedside lamp. The wise eyes of Doctor Abraham Lanzmann, Baron von der Malten’s personal physician, were observing him from behind thick lenses.

  “Where am I?” the faint effort of a smile appeared on his lips. It amused him to think that this was the first time his loss of memory was not due to alcohol.

  “You’re in your apartment,” Doctor Lanzmann was short of sleep and serious. “You were
brought in by some policemen who were patrolling the so-called Swedish Bastion in Oswitzer Wald. A lot of girls gather there in the summer. And where they are, there’s always something shady going on. But to the point. You were barely conscious. You persistently repeated your name, Mock’s name, the Baron’s and your address. The policemen did not want to leave what they suspected was their drunk colleague and brought you home. From here, they phoned the Baron. I’ve got to leave you now. The Baron has asked me to pass this sum on to you,” his fingers caressed an envelope lying on the table. “Here’s some ointment for your swellings and cuts. You’ll find instructions about what the medication is for and how to take it on each bottle and phial. I managed to find quite a bit in my first-aid cabinet at home – considering the unusual time of day. Goodbye. I’ll come back at about midday, when you’ve had some sleep.”

  Doctor Lanzmann’s eyelids closed over his wise eyes, Anwaldt’s over his swollen ones. He could not fall asleep. The walls, reflecting the day’s heat, bothered him. With a few moves, he rolled off the bed on to the dirty carpet. Crawling on all fours, he reached the sill, pulled the heavy curtains apart and opened the window. He fell on his knees and slowly reached the bed. He lay on the eiderdown and mopped himself with a linen shawl, avoiding the swellings – volcanoes of pain. As soon as he opened his eyes, swarms of hornets flew in. When he closed the windows against them, the walls of the tenement stifled him with a burning breath, and cockroaches crawled out from the holes – some looking like scorpions. In a word, he could not fall asleep with the window closed and could not sleep with open eyes.

  BRESLAU, THURSDAY, JULY 12TH, 1934

  EIGHT O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING

  It was a little cooler in the morning. He fell asleep for two hours. When he woke, he saw four people sitting at his bedside. The Baron was talking quietly to Doctor Lanzmann. Seeing that the sick man was awake, he nodded to two orderlies standing by the wall. The two men grasped the policeman under the arms, carried him to the kitchen and put him in a huge tub of luke-warm water. One washed Anwaldt’s sore body, the other removed his dark stubble with a razor. After a while, Anwaldt was lying in bed again, on a clean, starched sheet and exposing his wounded limbs to the effects of Doctor Lanzmann’s ointments and balsams. The Baron patiently waited with his questions until the medic had finished. Anwaldt talked for about half an hour, stopping and stumbling. He had no control over his loose syntax. The Baron listened with seeming indifference. At one moment, the policeman broke off in mid-word and fell asleep. He dreamt of snow-capped peaks, icy expanses, freezing gusts of the Arctic: the wind blew and dried his skin; where was the wind coming from? the wind? He opened his eyes and in the dark setting sun saw a boy fanning him with a folded newspaper.

  “Who are you?” he could barely move his bandaged jaw.

  “Helmut Steiner, the Baron’s kitchen boy. I’m to look after you until Doctor Lanzmann comes in tomorrow to examine you.”

  “What’s the time?”

  “Seven in the evening.”

  Anwaldt tried to walk around the room. He could barely put his weight on the swollen heel. He made out his beige suit on the chair, cleaned and pressed. He quickly pulled on his underpants and looked around for some cigarettes.

  “Go to the restaurant on the corner and bring me some pork knuckle and cabbage, and beer. Buy some cigarettes, too.” He realized with rage that his cigarette case and watch had been stolen at the Gestapo. While the boy was absent, he washed himself at the kitchen sink and, exhausted, sat down at the table, trying not to catch sight of himself in the mirror. Shortly, a steaming plate stood in front of him, the quivering fat of pork knuckle bathing in a portion of young cabbage. He devoured everything in a matter of minutes. When he looked at the round-bellied bottle of Kipke beer – droplets of water streaming down its cool neck, a white, porcelain hat secured by a nickel-plated clasp in its mouth – he remembered his resolution of total abstinence. He burst out in derisive laughter and poured half a bottle of beer down his throat. He lit a cigarette and inhaled greedily.

  “I told you to buy pork knuckle and beer, didn’t I?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did I clearly say ‘beer’?”

  “Yes.”

  “Just imagine, I said that automatically. And did you know that when we speak automatically, it’s not us speaking but someone else speaking through us. So that when I told you to buy some beer it wasn’t me telling you but someone else. Do you understand?”

  “Who, for example?” the baffled boy grew interested.

  “God!” roared Anwaldt with laughter then laughed until pain almost drilled his head asunder. He fastened on to the bottle neck and, after a moment, put it aside, empty. He dressed awkwardly. He barely squeezed his hat on to his bandaged head. Hopping on one leg, he mastered the spiral staircase and found himself on a street inundated by the setting sun.

  VII

  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 Blücherplatz peopled with rogues and prostitutes), Anwaldt sat in Orlich’s beerhouse, Orwi, on Gartenstrasse not far from the Op
eretta, 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.