Marek Krajewski - Death in Breslau

He envied Maass and that envy had eclipsed his suspicions for a moment. He reluctantly greeted the reappearing memories, knowing that, although unpleasant, they would help kill the time. He had decided to wait for Elsa von Herfen so as to see what Maass’ seductive charm was worth.

Somehow a memory managed to drift to him. It was November 23rd, 1921. He was to be sexually initiated that day. He was the only one in his dormitory not to have known a woman. His friend Josef had promised to arrange everything. The young, stout, orphanage cook had allowed herself to be invited by the three wards to a small storeroom where the gym equipment, used sheets and towels were kept. Two bottles of wine had helped. She had arranged her sweaty body on a gym mat. The first had been Josef. The second turn had been drawn by fat Hannes. Anwaldt had waited patiently for his go. When Hannes had dragged himself off the cook, she had smiled mischievously at Anwaldt:

“Not you. I’ve had enough.”

The boy had returned to his dormitory and lost the desire to know women. Fate, however, had not let him wait for long. The nineteen-year-old prime pupil found himself employed as private tutor to the daughter of a rich industrialist. He disclosed the secret components of Greek to the seventeen-year-old, somewhat capricious girl, while she willingly repaid him by disclosing the secrets of her body. Anwaldt fell head over heads in love. When, after half a year of hard but very pleasant work, he asked her father for his remuneration, the latter, surprised, retorted that he had already handed over the remuneration through his daughter who, in her daddy’s presence, robustly confirmed the fact. The industrialist reacted appropriately. Two of his servants kicked the beaten-up “foul swindler” out of the manor.

It looked as though Anwaldt had lost all illusions. Unfortunately, he regained them yet again thanks to another schoolgirl, the poor, beautiful Erna Stange from a good working-class family in the Wedding district of Berlin. The thirty-year-old, having a career in the police ahead of him, thought about getting married. Erna’s father, an honest and hardened railwayman, had tears in his eyes as he watched the proposal. Anwaldt tried for a loan from the police coffers. He was waiting for Erna’s final exams and thinking about a place to live. After three months, he stopped thinking about anything but alcohol.

He did not believe in the disinterested passion of schoolgirls. That is why he did not quite believe in what he had seen a moment ago. A beautiful girl giving herself to an ugly creature.

The door to the apartment grated. Maass, eyes closed, was kissing his pupil. He gave the girl a hard slap on the backside once again and snapped the lock. Anwaldt heard the clatter of shoes on the stairs. He descended cautiously. The heels clattered through the gate. A flirtatious “goodbye” reached the shaggy ears of the caretaker. He, too, said goodbye to the caretaker, but he did not leave in a hurry. He emerged a little and observed: the girl was getting into a black Mercedes, the bearded chauffeur removed his hat, bowed and slowly pulled away. Anwaldt quickly ran to his Adler. He moved off with a roar, furious to see he was losing the Mercedes from sight. He accelerated and almost ran over an elderly gentleman in a top hat who was crossing the street. In two minutes, he found himself at a safe distance from the Mercedes, which was following a route known to Anwaldt: Sonnenplatz and Grubschener Strasse. Both cars plunged into the stream of cars, droschkas and a few carts. Anwaldt saw only the neck and head of the chauffeur. (She’s tired. Evidently lying on the back seat.) They kept going straight. Anwaldt watched the names of the streets: they were still driving along Grubschener Strasse. Past the cemetery wall, above which protruded a smooth tympanum. (The crematorium, no doubt; there’s one like that in Berlin.) The followed car suddenly accelerated and vanished from Anwaldt’s view. The policeman put his foot down and leapt over a bridge across a small river. On the left, a sign with the name “Breslau” flitted past. He turned into the first street on his left and found himself in a shady, beautiful alley along which ran villas and small houses concealed among lime and chestnut trees. The Mercedes was standing in front of a corner manor. Anwaldt turned right, into a small side street, and turned off his engine. He knew from experience that following someone in a car was less effective than doing so on foot. He got out of the Adler and carefully approached the crossroads. Peering out, he caught sight of the Mercedes as it turned back. In seconds, the car had disappeared, turned right and driven back towards Breslau. He had not the slightest doubt: the chauffeur was alone. He jotted down the number plate and went up to the manor from which the Mercedes had driven away. It was a stylish, neo-Gothic building. The closed shutters appeared very mysterious. A sign was visible over the entrance: NADSLEZANSKI MANOR.

“All brothels are asleep at this hour,” he muttered to himself, looking at his watch. He was proud of his photographic memory. He took the visiting card handed to him the previous day by the cabby from his wallet. He compared the address on the card to the one on the building. They tallied: Schellwitzstrasse. (This place just outside Breslau must be Opperau, as on the card.)

He pressed the bell at the gate to the drive for a long time. Finally, a man with the build of a heavyweight boxer appeared in the driveway. He walked up to the wicket gate and forestalled Anwaldt’s questions:

“Our club opens at seven.”

“I’m from the police. Criminal Department. I’d like to ask the man in charge a few questions.”

“Anyone could say that. I don’t know you and I know everyone from the Criminal Investigation Department. Besides, everyone from C.I.D. knows that the boss is a woman not a man …”

“Here’s my identification.”

“It says ‘Berlin Police’. And we in Opperau belong to Breslau.”

Anwaldt cursed his own absent-mindedness. His Breslau identification had been waiting for him in the personnel department since Saturday. He had forgotten about it. The “boxer” was looking at him with swollen eyes, detached. Anwaldt stood in a puddle of sun and counted the decorative railings.

“Either you open this gate, you pig, or I phone my chief’s deputy, Max Forstner,” he said in a raised voice. “Do you want your boss to be in trouble because of you?”

The gorilla was short of sleep and hung over. Slowly, he neared the fence:

“Clear out or …” he strained to think of something that would sound threatening, but Anwaldt had already noticed that the wicket gate was not properly closed. He threw himself at it with all his weight. The iron grille hit the gorilla plumb in the middle of his face. Finding himself on the property, Anwaldt jumped aside to avoid being stained with the blood spurting profusely from the guard’s nose. The man quickly recovered from the surprise of the blow. He took a swing and Anwaldt lost his breath: a mighty fist had hit him in the carotid artery. Stifling his cough, he dodged a second blow at the last moment. The guard’s fist whammed with full force into the iron fence. The gorilla stood for a few seconds examining his injured hand in disbelief. Immediately, the policeman was behind his back and took a swing with his leg as if to kick a ball. The aim was accurate — the pointed tip of his shoe hit the crotch. A second, accurate blow to the temple was decisive. The guard swayed at the gate like a drunk and tried, somehow, to remain upright. Out of the corner of his eye, Anwaldt noticed men running out of the manor. He did not reach for his gun; he knew he had left it in the car.

“Hold it!” a woman’s authoritative voice held back the three guards hurrying to punish adequately the man who had made mincemeat of their colleague. They stopped obediently. A stout woman was standing in the window of the first floor and examined Anwaldt. “Who are you?” she called in what was clearly a foreign accent.