Marek Krajewski: Phantoms of Breslau

At last he found himself outside the door to number 20. He rapped out the rhythm of “Schlesierlied”: slow-slow-slow, pause, slow-slow-slow-slow-quick-quick. Silence. In a low voice he sang “ Kehr ich einst zur Heimat wieder ”. †Pausing to check that he had remembered the rhythm correctly, he tapped it out again. He was answered by abuse from a neigh-bour on the floor below who had opened his door and was spouting gutter obscenities.

Mock went down one flight of stairs to watch the man raging in the corridor and allowed the stream of abuse to flow on. But when the neigh-bour — who was clearly drunk and dressed in one-piece long-johns — became fully awake and came at him with a coal scuttle, Mock lost his patience. He felt a whoosh of air by his head, dodged the scuttle at the last moment and with the point of his polished brogue kicked the assailant in the shin. The blow was not hard, but it was painful enough for the scuttle’s owner to need to rub the spot. For a moment both his hands were occupied, one rubbing his smarting leg, the other holding his warlike scuttle at the ready. Mock took a swing very like the one he had aimed at the invalid during the seance, and the outer side of his palm came down hard on his assailant’s collarbone. His hand, sprained once already that day, burned with a raging fire as he felt the crunch of tiny bones in his wrist. Mock’s assailant let go of his scuttle and clutched his neck. Then all he heard was material ripping and shirt buttons hitting the wall of the corridor. He plunged down the stairs, his head struck the door to the toilet on the half-landing, and he heard nothing more.

Mock ran back up to the top floor. He pressed his entire weight against the rickety banister and threw himself at the door to apartment 20, aiming his shoulder at a point just above the handle. There was a terrible crash, but the door did not give way. Other doors did open, however, and on every floor. The tenement residents and their four-legged friends edged out into the stairwell. Mock gathered speed once more, charged at the door and tumbled into the apartment. Bits of rubble pattered against his bowler hat and dust poured down his shirt collar.

He lay on the floor in the hallway, on top of the door, and took stock of the apartment. Smolorz was lying down too, but on the kitchen floor. He was smiling in his sleep, misting the empty stoneware bottle of liqueur at his lips with his breath. Mock turned his head, got to his feet and went into the main room. It was empty; only Erika’s hat hung on the back of a chair. He picked it up with two fingers. On the bed sat Rossdeutscher, shouting: “Vengeance will come, Mock. The Erinyes born of the corpses of those closest to you will find you. Those whom you love, Mock … Tell us, where are they now …” Mock collapsed onto the bed and tried to catch the scent of Erika in the clean sheets which had been there for three weeks, and had not yet lost their starchy smell. Try as he may, he could detect nothing other than the sterile smell of cleanliness. There was no Rossdeutscher, no Erika.

The neighbours of the four sailors stood uncertainly in the doorway watching the two men, one of whom was trying to clamber to his feet, while the other did not want to get off the bed. Suddenly a dog howled and barked at the threshold, and Mock got up and glared at the small crowd gathered at the door.

“Get the fuck out of here!” he roared, and grabbed the chair in the hall and spun it as if throwing a discus.

“We’re going, we’re going.” said Frenzel the caretaker, urging his neighbours to leave. “I know him. He’s a police officer. It’s best not to stand in his way …”

The neighbours jumped away from the door and the chair hit Smolorz on the head. Mock’s red-headed subordinate clutched his forehead and red trickles ran through his fingers. Mock raised the chair once more and brought it down with a crash. He watched as a sizeable haematoma swelled and split on the bald patch at the back of Smolorz’s head. He kicked the chair into a corner of the kitchen and grabbed the poker from a bucket on top of a small pile of coal. He took a swing and struck. The cartilage in Smolorz’s ear crunched beneath the spiralled end of the poker. He lay in a foetal position with both hands over his head. Mock grabbed him by the arms and dragged him to the kitchen door, positioning his head against the doorframe. He grasped the door handle and swung the door shut as hard as he could. He thought he heard Smolorz’s skull crack.

It was not Smolorz’s skull but the kitchen door he had heard as the bottom of it rammed over the poker. Splinters flew off it and Smolorz looked up with drunken eyes.

“Sorry,” he croaked in a schnapps-baritone. “I was supposed to keep an eye on her … I don’t remember a thing …”

Mock knelt on the floor and took several deep breaths, allowing his fury to subside. Streams of sweat ran down his neck and seeped into the pale layer of dust that covered the collar of his best shirt. His cuffs were red with Smolorz’s blood, his shoes scuffed from the kicks, his jacket torn from breaking down the door, his hands black with soot from the poker.

“I’m sorry,” Smolorz said as he cowered by the doorframe. Something had happened to his eye: it was open, bloodshot, and so big that the eyelid could not cover it. “For the love of God, I swear on my Arthur’s soul …”

“You son of a whore,” hissed Mock. “Never swear on a child!”

“On my soul, then” Smolorz groaned. “I’ll never touch alcohol …”

“You son of a whore,” Mock repeated, tossing his head to the side. Drops of sweat darkened the newly polished floorboards. “Get up, pour some soap down your throat and get to work. I’ll tell you what you have to do …”

As Mock spoke, so Smolorz sobered; with every word Mock uttered he grew more and more amazed.

BRESLAU, THAT SAME SEPTEMBER 28TH, 1919

THREE O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING

It was the second time Sister Hermina had seen the younger Herr Mock that day, and this time he made a far worse impression on her. His suit was covered in dust and torn at the sleeve, his shirt was bloodied and his brogues scuffed at the toe. Small pieces of stone, like bits of rubble, were lodged in the brim of his bowler hat. Herr Mock ran into the corridor of the Surgical Ward repeating something under his breath, something Sister Hermina could not quite make out. It was as if he were saying: “Those closest … Where are they now …?”

“Herr Mock!” she called after him as he passed the duty room, muttering to himself. “Where do you think you’re going?”

He paid no attention to her and ran towards his father’s private room. Sister Hermina set her thin, tall body into motion and her heels clicked loudly down the hospital corridor. Her bonnet with its four folds flapped in all directions like a sailing boat finding its course. Hearing the sound of her heels, patients woke from their painful torpor which none could call sleep, pulled themselves up in bed and waited for a merciful injection, for the gentle touch of her dry, bony hand, for a sympathetic, comforting smile. Sister Hermina’s telepathic receptors did not pick up the patients’ mute complaints and requests this time, however; they were more sensitive to the anxiety and unease of the dark-haired man who was stumbling from wall to wall, heading for the empty private room. Herr Mock tumbled in and slammed the door. Sister Hermina heard a stifled cry. Perhaps one of her patients was sharing his pain with the others?

But it was not a patient. The younger Herr Mock was lying on his stomach with his arms spread across the clean, freshly made bed, moaning. She rushed over and shook him.

“Doctor Ruhtgard came to collect your father an hour ago,” she said. “The gentleman felt much better and Doctor Ruhtgard took him home with him …”