End of the World in Breslau

by Marek Krajewski

  “It’s good of Director Stein to look into that for us.”

  “Not only did he look into it.” Hartner, worked up, poured yet another glass down his throat. “He also sent me a list of members belonging to that society – he is, as it happens, its president – and an extract from the Register of Loans …”

  “Did he indeed? I’m listening, Doctor. Please go on …”

  “It looks as if eight readers borrowed Barthesius’ work before Gelfrert. They all have unusual names …”

  “In what way are they unusual?”

  “In that they’re the names of historical figures.”

  “I’d be glad if you’d tell me them.”

  “My dear Counsellor, you can even see their faces. They all appear in the Leopold Lecture Theatre at our alma mater …”

  “I don’t understand,” Mock rotated his glass and observed the drops of schnapps trickling down the curved sides. “I’m rather unwell today, rather sad, rather tired … Please speak clearly.”

  “Some reader or readers borrowed Barthesius’ Antiquitates Silesiacaeto browse through in the reading room, and instead of entering their own names in the register, wrote down the names of eminent scholars and benefactors of our university whose portraits can be found in the Leopold Lecture Theatre. Unless they really were the names of the readers … Unless Franz Wentzl, Peter Canisius, Johann Carmer and Carl von Hoym visited the Municipal Library’s reading room last year …” Hartner joined Mock at the window and stared for a minute at the small number of black birds perched on a fast-moving ice ?oe. “You’ll have a lot to report to President of Police Kleibömer if Mühlhaus has managed to arrange a meeting for you. Come on, let’s drink to the end of a good day – we’ve managed to settle so much …”

  “I think the two of us are going to report this to the Mayor. We’ve finally got the swine,” Mock said quietly, then shook the Director’s hand and, without touching his schnapps, left the study.

  BRESLAU, TUESDAY, DECEMBER 20TH, 1927 EIGHT O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING

  Mock’s servants, Adalbert Goczoll and his wife Marta, were dressed in their Sunday best in order to celebrate – as Adalbert told Mock when he woke him – their employer’s happy return to health. The old butler had squeezed into a somewhat worn tailcoat and pulled on a pair of gloves, while his wife had wrapped herself in a dozen Silesian aprons. They served breakfast in silence and Mock, irritable from lack of sleep, also remained silent as he filled his protesting belly with apple strudel. Marta was delighted with her master’s appetite, Adalbert with his own pocket, which now contained their wages for the month, and Mock with the ascetic look of the apartment, which the day before had been stripped of anything that might remind him of Sophie. The Counsellor swallowed his last sips of coffee and went into the hall. He put on his ankle boots using an amber shoehorn, took his hat and coat from Adalbert, and stood in front of the mirror for a long while, pressing and smoothing the brim of his hat to give it its rightful appearance. Under his arm he slipped a briefcase he had borrowed from his servant, now filled with documents and a cake that Marta had made, and left the apartment, passing a huge sack that contained, amongst other items, a briefcase given to him once by Sophie. A sledge ordered by Adalbert was already waiting outside the tenement, its cabby talking to a newspaper vendor who was stamping his hole-ridden shoes on the icy pavement. Beneath the crumpled peak of his cap, the boy’s face was green and pale. Mock took a copy of the Breslauer Neueste Nachrichten and in return gave him a five-mark coin and Marta’s cake. Brushing off the boy’s thanks, he climbed into the sledge and collapsed onto the hard seat. The piercing pain in his neck reminded him momentarily of the existence of deceitful wives, and of caretakers and surgeons who save lives. The coachman smoothed his impressive whiskers and cracked his whip as vigorously as if he wanted to chase away all the sorrows of the world. Hidden by his newspaper, Mock looked for any mention of crimes, the city’s history and Russian aristocrats, instead of which he found mention of the Sepulchrum Mundi meeting planned for that day, negotiations concerning mutual trade between Germany and Poland, and hunger in China. The coachman disturbed him just as he was jotting down the details of von Orloff’s lecture. They had stopped outside Palais Hatzfeld, where the headquarters of Regierungsbezirk Schlesien were located. Mock reached into his pocket, handed the cabby the same amount as he had given the newspaper boy a quarter of an hour earlier, and waited for his change. As he handed over the coins, sticky with grease, the cabby reproached Mock from between his broken teeth:

  “That boy, you gave him such a good tip … It’s cold, sir, and I’m a long way from home …”

  Overcoming his disgust, the Counsellor leaned towards the cabby and whispered:

  “That boy is bound to drink it all away, and you, would you invest it in anything?”

  “In what, sir?” the walrus whiskers waggled.

  “A new pair of stockings and garters for your daughter,” Mock yelled back through the snow as he entered the palace.

  Mühlhaus was standing in the lobby and, seeing Mock, glanced at his watch.

  “You’re punctual,” he said by way of a greeting. “And what about that Hartner of yours?”

  “He’s usually late in a calculated and consistent manner. Always five minutes. But today he’s going to be on time.”

  They fell silent. They both knew that the leader of the Silesian provincial government, von Schroetter, would have more understanding for Geissen’s weaknesses than for Leo Hartner’s aristocratic lack of punctuality. But Mock was right. Neither Hartner nor von Schroetter’s secretary were late. The sleek official descended to the lobby and ceremoniously invited them up to the government leader’s office. They passed busy employees – agitated secretaries and personages of greater or lesser importance, searching vainly for happiness in the Silesian provincial capital. Von Schroetter’s office was arranged with Danzig furniture. The government leader greeted them no less ceremoniously than his assistant and, justifying himself with a sitting of the Silesian Landtag, requested that they come to the point as quickly as possible. Mühlhaus took this to heart and asked Mock to present the “calendar murderer” case.

  “Government Leader, sir.” Mock omitted the title “Excellency”. “There is a murderer at work in our city who leaves pages from a calendar at the crime scenes, and a leader of a sect, a certain Alexei von Orloff, who heralds the approach of the end of the world. The latter supports his assertions with various predictions, according to which the end of the world is preceded by terrible crimes. These crimes are a repetition of crimes committed far back in time – people are being murdered in similar circumstances. Three murders – three examples of age-old crimes …”

  Government Leader von Schroetter opened a round box from which protruded the tips of cigars. They each lit one, apart from Mühlhaus.

  “Von Orloff provides proof of his theory in his lectures.” Mock blew a smoke ring. “He claims that three murders from long ago have been replicated recently. All the details he provides have been noted by my men … Now I’m going to ask our expert, Doctor Leo Hartner, to carry on for me. I have a sore throat and can’t talk for very long …”

  “Excellency,” Hartner began, glancing at Mock’s notes. “Gentlemen. The first case recounted by von Orloff is that of the ‘sinner’s bell’. You’ve heard of it?” Even though every child in Germany was acquainted with the story, Hartner would not allow anyone to stop his flow. “The story’s been told by Wilhelm Müller in his famous poem ‘Der Glockenguss zu Breslau’.† The apprentice to a certain bell founder in fourteenth-century Breslau disobeyed his master and made a cast of a bell for the cathedral of Maria Magdalena without following his instructions. The master was so infuriated that he killed his apprentice …”

  “Von Orloff,” Mock broke in, “states that according to the most recent historical research, the apprentice was walled in alive by the bell founder in the Griffins tenement on Ring. This happened on September 12th,” he glanced at Reiner
t’s notes, “in 1342. And now let us return to the present. On November 28th, in the Griffins tenement, we found the body of Emil Gelfrert, a musician who worked at the Concert Hall. He was walled in alive. To his waistcoat was pinned a page from a calendar dated September 12th, 1927. The police pathologist, Doctor Lasarius, has confirmed that Gelfrert’s death took place some time in August or September. In the fourteenth century, a bell founder’s apprentice – that is, someone who listens to and analyses the sound of a bell – and a few months ago, someone who works with sound.”

  † ‘The Casting of the Bell in Breslau’.

  “And what about Councillor Geissen?” choked von Schroetter.

  “Let us proceed chronologically.” Mock ignored the question. “One day later, on November 29th, we found the quartered body of an unemployed man, Berthold Honnefelder. On the table lay a calendar with the date of November 17th marked. We didn’t have to ask Doctor Lasarius when that death occurred …”

  “This happened at Taschenstrasse 23–24.” Hartner adored lecturing and the Government Leader was a most appreciative listener, since he was bursting with curiosity. “In 1546, in more or less the same place, a certain boltsmith known as Tromba was quartered just where the town fortifications used to be, beyond Ohlauer Tor. We know neither the perpetrator nor the motive. I discovered all this in Barthesius’ work, Antiquitates Silesiacae. The worst thing is that the murderer seems to be playing games with us. Honnefelder lived at the house of the Golden Bell-Cast …”

  A dreadful silence descended.

  “A boltsmith then – and now an unemployed locksmith, Berthold Honnefelder,” Mock broke the silence, somewhat irritated by the ambitions of Doctor Hartner, who was stepping boldly into police territory. “The third victim was known to you, sir, and you are aware of the circumstances of that murder. Councillor Geissen and a prostitute, Rosemarie Bombosch, were murdered in exactly the same way as the Austrian Emperor Albert the Second’s chamberlain nearly five hundred years ago. The Emperor had chosen Breslau as his base for expeditions against the Polish King, Kazimierz Jagiellończyk, in his battle for the Czech throne. His chamberlain …”

  “ … went, according to Barthesius,” Hartner interrupted Mock, considering the past to be his domain, “on December 9th to a certain brothel in Nicolaivorstadt, where he was killed and robbed. The prostitute he was with didn’t survive either. Unfortunately, Barthesius gives no details of the crime …”

  “On December 9th,” concluded Mock, “Councillor Geissen was murdered in the arms of a prostitute. This was at Burgfeld 4, that is, in Nicolaivorstadt.”

  At these last words, the Government Leader flushed and reached for the case containing his fountain pen. He opened and closed the case several times, and his visitors caught a glimpse of a dedication engraved on it. The flush spread slowly across von Schroetter’s bald head and grew in intensity.

  “What, in fact, are you doing here?” he yelled suddenly and leaped to his feet. “Have you come here to ask my permission to arrest some Russky marquis?” With a chubby fist he thumped the desk with all his might. “Why isn’t that swine already locked up in your station at Schuhbrücke? Are you waiting for more crimes to be committed?”

  “With all respect,” Mühlhaus now joined in for the first time, “please kindly note, Your Excellency, that these crimes are being reported in newspapers that von Orloff is bound to read. He presents his proof at the lectures only after a crime has been committed, that is, as Counsellor Mock and Doctor Hartner ascertained in the reading room yesterday, after the appropriate paragraphs have appeared in the press. Consequently, we have absolutely no reason to arrest him. No judge is going to sentence a man simply because some murders prove useful to him as he argues the end of the world. At present this is nothing more than a trail leading us to von Orloff and throwing a shadow of suspicion over him or somebody else from his sect.”

  “Yes …” von Schroetter sat down at his desk and extinguished his cigar in the ashtray, staring for a moment at the crumbled leaves, which resembled the wings of a squashed, monstrous insect. “You’re right … There are no grounds for the arrest of von Orloff, but somehow we’ve got …”

  “Allow me, Your Excellency.” Mühlhaus filled his mouth with the taste of his beloved tobacco for the first time that day. “There is one way out. We must find out the time and place of the next murder. In that way we’ll spare the next victim and set a trap for the murderer.”

  “How do you intend to do that?” asked von Schroetter, raising a cup to his lips.

  “The murders,” Hartner once more assumed a didactic tone, “are being committed in chronological order. Unfortunately, this chronology applies only to the day’s date. So the crime models could have occurred in any century. The first took place in the Middle Ages, the second during the Renaissance, and the third in the Baroque period. So all available sources must now be studied to uncover murders that were committed after …” he hesitated. “What date is it today? Yes, from December 20th onwards … Paying attention to the date and not the year …”

  “Who is to do this?” inquired von Schroetter.

  “That’s what we’ve come to see you about, Excellency,” answered Mühlhaus. “A team of experts must now be assembled to begin researching the archives as swiftly as possible.”

  “What skills do these people need?” The Government Leader relaxed in finding himself in the role of organizer once again. “And how many of them should there be?”

  “They have to know Latin,” said Hartner. “They have to be able to read manuscripts and old publications, and work tenaciously day and night – for which they will be paid appropriately. If we want to find the date of the next crime as quickly as possible and spare any prospective victim … we would need quite a number of people …”

  “Apart from that they must be beyond any suspicion,” added Mock. “We cannot entrust someone with this task who might themselves be the murderer. We mustn’t forget that it’s someone for whom the archives hold no secrets. And these are the people among whom we will be looking for our experts.”

  “Exactly,” von Schroetter said, taking a blank sheet of paper and noting something down. “And who is going to draw up this team?”

  “The man who will lead it,” Mühlhaus replied. “Doctor Hartner.”

  BRESLAU, THAT SAME DECEMBER 20TH, 1927 HALF PAST NINE IN THE MORNING

  Mühlhaus and Mock parted with Hartner outside the door of the clerk’s office who, on the instructions of the Government Leader, was to write out an appropriate contract for the newly appointed head of this team of experts. They went down to the main hall in silence, left Palais Hatzfeld, and set off towards the Police Praesidium. Snow settled on the brims of their hats.

  “There’s one thing that interests me.” With his palm Mühlhaus rubbed his ears, frostbitten in trenches on the Russian front on the Chvina. “Are these crimes only being replicated in Breslau? And if so, how does von Orloff explain this? Why does the end of the world have to take place right here in our town?”

  “No.” Mock observed two men clad in greatcoats load balls of frozen horse manure onto a cart. “Not only in Breslau, but in Wiesbaden too. I’ve got to telephone someone there. But it’s a good question. We’ll have to ask von Orloff.”

  “He might tell you the crimes are being committed by Satan, or by an exterminating angel heralding the end of the world.”

  “If the end of the world really is to come about, then it should have been an actual bell founder’s apprentice living in the Griffins tenement. As it is we have a strange substitute, a drunken musician transported to the Griffins tenement by some dark angel … This angel reminds me of a schoolboy who cheats at exams, even though he’s perfectly capable of answering the questions himself …”

  BRESLAU, THAT SAME DECEMBER 20TH, 1927 THREE O’CLOCK IN THE AFTERNOON

  The usual lunchtime bustle reigned in Schweidnitzer Keller. Baker women stood in their usual spots at the entrance, selling bread rolls and sausages
. Waiters dressed in cassocks as if from centuries gone by rushed around like busy bees, carrying trays of plates, jugs, glasses and tankards above their heads. Some bore large wooden trays with wine cups the size of two Silesian quarts. These were filled with “white” or “dark sheep”, as the products of the Keller’s brewery had been called since time immemorial. Their ankle-length aprons and the napkins thrown neatly over their arms glowed white in the dim light of the restaurant. On the walls gleamed squares of wood panelling. At one of the tables, under the insignia of student associations, shone the white cuffs of a shirt: a man was assiduously reading some documents, tilting back his head from time to time – as far as his surgical corset permitted – and staring at the ceiling. He looked as if he was trying to learn something by heart. He raised his tankard to drink the last drops of his beer. The head waiter, whose eyes had hardly left him, immediately sent a junior waiter to this peruser of documents to ask if there was anything else Criminal Counsellor Mock wished. Mock did wish something else. He wished another Fabian beer. This request was swiftly fulfilled by the waiter, who was speechless at the thought of talking to a famous police officer. The hero of Breslau took a long draught of the beer and looked once more at the list of members belonging to Breslau’s occult societies, prepared for him by Domagalla. Next to the names of those listed was no more than a short note: their age, their profession, and whether or not they were mentioned in any police files. Similar details appeared on another list prepared by the Director of the Municipal Library, Theodor Stein. Those people listed by Stein, however, were distinguished by an entirely different, far safer and more down to earth passion: they were devotees of Silesia and Breslau. Mock’s suspicious nature did not allow him to put aside any of the lists, and he kept sowing questions such as: “Why did the forty-five-year-old housewife, Christel Buschhorn, get involved in the Rosicrucian movement?”, or “How did roaming the cobbled streets of Breslau and studying the town inspire the thirty-eight-year-old postman, Paul Fink, to join the Society of Devotees of the Silesian Fatherland?”