Marek Krajewski: Death in Breslau

Hans with the beautiful eyes was already closing the door behind them when Mock remembered something. Announced a second time by the butler, he met once more the somewhat vexed countenance of the Baron.

“Do you buy the paintings yourself or do the servants do it for you?”

“I rely on my chauffeur’s tastes in that respect.”

“What does he look like?”

“A well-built, bearded man with a comically receding chin.”

Mock was clearly satisfied with this answer.

BRESLAU, THAT SAME MAY 14TH, 1933

NOON

Forstner did not want a lift to the university archives. He claimed he would willingly walk down the embankment along the Oder. Mock did not try to persuade him and, quietly singing an operatic couplet to himself, drove across Emperor Bridge, past the municipal gym and the park where Heinrich Goppert, the founder of the Botanical Gardens, stood on a plinth, left the Dominican Church on his right and the Main Post Office on his left and drove into beautiful Albrechtstrasse which started at the huge mass of the Hatzfeld Palace. He reached Ring and turned left into Schweidnitzer Strasse. He passed Dresdner Bank, Speier’s shop where he bought his shoes, Woolworth’s office block, into Karlstrasse, glanced out of the corner of his eye at the People’s Theatre, past Duno’s Haberdasheries and into Graupnerstrasse. An almost summer heat hung over the city, so he was not surprised by the sight of a long queue standing in front of a shop selling Italian ice-cream. After a dozen or so yards, he turned into Wallstrasse and drove up to a rather neglected tenement marked number 27. Friedlander’s Pet Shop was closed on Sundays. An inquisitive caretaker soon appeared and explained to Mock that Friedlander’s apartment was next door to the shop.

The door was opened by a slim, dark-haired girl, Lea Friedlander, it turned out, Isidor’s daughter. She made a great impression on the Counsellor. Without even looking at his identification, she asked him into a modestly furnished apartment.

“Father will come shortly. Please wait,” she stammered, clearly embarrassed by the way Mock was looking at her. Mock did not have time to avert his eyes from her curvaceous hips and breasts before Isidor Friedlander, a short, stout man, came in. He sat down in the chair opposite Mock, crossed one leg over the other and hit his knee several times with the back of his hand, causing the limb to jerk involuntarily. Mock observed him for a while, then started a series of rapid questions:

“Surname?”

“Friedlander.”

“First name?”

“Isidor.”

“Age.”

“Sixty.”

“Place of birth?”

“Goldberg.”

“Education?”

“I finished Yeshivo in Lublin.”

“What languages do you know?”

“Apart from German and Hebrew, a little Yiddish and a little Polish.”

“How old is your daughter?”

Friedlander suddenly interrupted the experiment with his knee and looked at Mock with eyes that had practically no pupils. He panted heavily, rose and, in a bound and flash, leapt at the Counsellor who had not had time to get up. The latter suddenly found himself on the floor, crushed under Friedlander’s weight. He tried to pull the gun from his pocket, but his right hand was immobilized by his opponent’s shoulder. Suddenly the pressure eased — a coarse beard prickled Mock in the neck, Friedlander’s body stiffened and convulsed rhythmically.

Lea pulled her father off Mock. “Help me. We have got to lay him down on the bed.”

“Please move away. I’ll put him there myself.”

The Counsellor felt like a teenager wanting to show off his strength. With the greatest of difficulty, he dragged the ninety kilograms on to the sofa. Lea, in the meantime, had prepared a mixture and was pouring it carefully into her father’s mouth. Friedlander choked, but he swallowed the liquid. After a while, there was a steady, intermittent snoring.

“I’m twenty,” Lea still avoided Mock’s eyes, “and my father suffers from epilepsy. He forgot to take his medication today. The dose I gave him will enable him to function normally for two days.”

Mock shook down his clothes.

“Where is your mother?”

“She died four years ago.”

“Do you have any siblings?”

“No.”

“Your father suffered the attack after I asked him your age. Is that a coincidence?”

“Actually I’ve already answered you. I’m everything to my father. If a man shows any interest in me, Father starts to get worried. And if he forgets to take his medication, he suffers an attack.”

Lea raised her head and, for the first time, looked Mock in the eyes. Despite himself, he began the mating dance: precisely measured moves, lingering looks, deep timbre of voice.

“I think Father provokes these attacks on purpose.” The girl would not have been able to explain why she confided in this man in particular. (Perhaps it was his ample belly.)

But the Counsellor misunderstood this small token of trust. Questions were already pressing on his lips — about a possible boyfriend, invitations to lunch or dinner — when he noticed a dark stain spread over Friedlander’s trousers.

“This often happens during or after an attack.” Lea quickly slipped an oilcloth under her father’s thighs and buttocks. Her beige dress stretched over her hips, her slender calves were a fascinating overture to other parts. Mock glanced once more at the sleeping dealer and remembered why he had come.

“When will your father be conscious again? I’d like to ask him some questions.”

“In an hour.”

“Maybe you can help me. The caretaker told me that you work in your father’s shop. Can one buy a scorpion there?”

“Father brought in several scorpions some time ago through a Greek company in Berlin.”

“What does that mean, some time ago?”

“Three, perhaps four years ago.”

“Who ordered them?”

“I don’t remember. We’d have to check the invoices.”

“Do you remember the name of the company?”

“No … I know it’s in Berlin.”

Mock followed her into the counting-room. As Lea was going through hefty, navy-blue files, he posed one more question:

“Has there been another policeman here apart from me in the last few days?”

“Caretaker Kempsky did say that there was somebody from the police here yesterday. We weren’t home in the morning. I had taken Father for his check-up at the Jewish Hospital on Menzelstrasse.”

“What’s the name of your father’s doctor?”

“Doctor Hermann Weinsberg. Ah, here’s the invoice. Three scorpions were imported for Baron von Kopperlingk in September 1930 by the Berlin company Kekridis and Sons. May I ask you,” — she looked imploringly at Mock — “to come back in an hour? Then Father will be himself again …”

Mock was understanding to beautiful women. He got up and put on his hat.

“Thank you, Fraulein Friedlander. I am sorry that we had to meet in such sad circumstances although no circumstances are inappropriate when one meets such a beautiful young lady.”

Mock’s courtly goodbye did not impress Lea in the least. She sat down heavily on the divan. Minutes passed, the clock ticked loudly. She heard a murmur coming from the next room where her father was lying and went in with a false smile.

“Oh, you’ve woken up so quickly, Papa. That’s very good. Can I go to Regina Weiss?”

Isidor Friedlander looked at his daughter anxiously: “Please don’t go … Don’t leave me alone …”

Lea was thinking about her sick father, about Regina Weiss with whom she was supposed to be going to the “Deli” cinema to see Clark Gable’s new film, about all the men who had undressed her with their eyes, about Doctor Weinsberg who was hopelessly in love with her, and about the squeaking of the guinea pigs in the dark, damp shop.