Morley Torgov - The Mastersinger from Minsk

Socransky’s eyes narrowed. “Something doesn’t make sense, Preiss,” he said at last. “If you have proof, why would you offer me an opportunity to leave the country? Why wouldn’t you simply do your duty, arrest me, imprison me while I await trial for my alleged crime? I don’t understand what is happening here … I mean, what is really happening.”

“I don’t owe you an explanation,” I said, “but I suppose it would be unfair that you be exiled to Minsk only to spend the rest of your days wondering why.”

“Excuse the interruption,” Socransky said politely, “but aren’t you being a bit presumptuous? You did offer two choices — ”

“Don’t be a fool, Socransky. I have enough evidence to convince a court of law that you had a perfect motive and a perfect opportunity to do away with the woman, and that you have an equally perfect motive to take some drastic form of revenge against Wagner and need only a perfect opportunity … which I am not about to hand you. No, my young friend, go east, and leave Richard Wagner’s fate to others. Trust me, Socransky: the authorities to whom I answer have their priorities well set when it comes to Wagner. Trying one murderer for murdering another murderer doesn’t rate so much as a single phrase on their agenda.”

“In other words,” Socransky said, without bitterness, “you can’t wait to get rid of me — ”

“Yes, I suppose that sums up my message pretty succinctly — ”

“- while Richard Wagner remains at large, so to speak.”

“For the time being, yes.”

Socransky studied me for a few moments, then stared into his empty coffee cup, biting his lips, mulling over the choices. Then, looking up, he gave me a smile best described as a sign of subtle defiance. “One of the things I’ve learned about you, Inspector Preiss, is that you have a reputation for making allowances for people whom you regard as special … geniuses like Robert Schumann, his wife Clara, and now Wagner. Why in God’s name would you take it upon yourself to shield a villain like him?”

“A villain, yes,” I replied, “but a rare villain, one who does not besmirch everything he touches. Even you must admit that.”

“I admit no such thing. You cannot separate the man from his creation no matter how great his music. To me that is crystal clear, and if you will pardon my frankness, Inspector, I’m shocked that you show such ambivalence.”

“When you have spent years and years dealing with every kind of human emotion imaginable, as I have, you learn — if you have any brains at all — that a healthy dose of ambivalence is like a tonic. Clarity, on the other hand, often comes back to haunt you and stop you in your tracks. Take my advice, Socransky. Whatever grievance you have, leave it to destiny. Destiny, if you let it be, eventually veers toward some kind of just resolution.”

I signalled to the waiter for the cheque. “And now, enough talk,” I said. “You need time to get your things in order, pack, and so on. I should let you go about your business.”

“You do appreciate that today is June twentieth, Inspector,” Socransky said. “Tomorrow night, seven o’clock — ” He shrugged.

“The world will not come to an end,” I said. “Besides, the tenor hired to replace Grilling as Beckmesser is familiar with your role. His understudy can sing the part of Beckmesser.”

“So you have it all neatly figured out, I see. You Germans are so efficient!”

“Efficiency is our religion,” I said, “although that, too, often comes back to haunt us. Your train leaves for the east at ten. I will meet you a half-hour earlier at the Ostbahnhof and clear the way for you with the officials. By the way, I’ve arranged a first-class ticket for you, courtesy of the taxpayers of Munich. It’s a long journey, but at least it will be a comfortable one.” The Ostbahnhof is the second largest railway station in Munich and handles most of the railway travel towards the east. I hoped to see Socransky at one of those trains.

“And how do you propose to break the news of my sudden departure to the Maestro?”

“Ah yes,” I replied with a rueful chuckle, “that little detail will be attended to the moment you and I wave our last goodbyes to each other.” I gave the young tenor a playful jab on the arm. “You see, Socransky, whenever you ask me a question, unlike you I respond with an answer, not another question. Nine-thirty at the Ostbahnhof?”

Socransky returned the playful jab. “Why not?” he replied.

At the Ostbahnhof I took a position in the rotunda directly under the ornate gold dome, a central spot that enabled me best to keep my eyes on the constant waves of humanity flooding in and out of the terminal. There is a clock mounted on the wall just above the main entrance, its face large and bright as the sun, its classic Roman numerals giving time an extraordinary measure of elegance. When it announces the hours and half-hours, the terrazzo floor underfoot trembles and one would swear God Himself had struck the chimes.

Tucked securely under my arm was a leather portfolio containing all the necessary paperwork hastily prepared to clear the way for Socransky’s return to Russia, including a personal note from Commissioner von Mannstein addressed to the German border authorities certifying the young tenor to be a visitor of good reputation bound for his homeland with the blessing of the entire population of Munich. (Shaking his head as he handed me the note, von Mannstein muttered, “I’ll never for the life of me understand why these Slavs love their country.”)

As I had promised Socransky, I arrived precisely at nine-thirty, just in time to feel the ground beneath the Ostbahnhof quaking as the big clock did its job.

At precisely ten o’clock the train leaving Munich for the east departed, right on schedule. On the station platform now, I watched the last passenger car grow smaller and smaller, heard the train’s whistle grow fainter and fainter, until there was nothing but darkness and silence at the end of the tunnel leading away from the terminal.

Everything was accomplished on schedule. Everything was in perfect order … with only one exception: Hershel Socransky was not aboard the train. In fact, he failed to show up at all.

And so I was left standing on the platform, now nearly deserted, my arms limp at my sides, one hand still clutching a sheaf of crisp official documents I had gone to much trouble to procure, all in vain, all useless. I would have cursed every bone, every drop of blood in Hershel Socransky’s body for betraying my trust in him, had I not been too busy cursing every bone and every drop of blood in my own body for having trusted him in the first place. Our parting words earlier in the day came back to me:

Nine-thirty at the Ostbahnhof?

Why not?

Always … always … a question answered with a question! Of course the man hadn’t the slightest intention of leaving on that train. Even a fledgling police cadet would have seen through Socransky’s vaporous response.

An unseen hand forcefully pushed me out of the Ostbahnhof. A voice belonging to someone … was it mine? … hailed a cab and ordered the driver to deliver me to the place where the young tenor had rented lodgings since his arrival in Munich. There I was met by the superintendent, at this hour already in his nightclothes and bathrobe.

“Oh, you mean that nice young man, Schramm is it? Well, I’m sorry, Inspector, but he checked out just before the supper hour. Paid his rent right up-to-date like a decent fellow. You know, Inspector, most of the time those itinerant types leave in the middle of — ”