Phantoms of Breslau (22 page)

“Use the telephone,” he said, and this time neither Domagalla nor the woman were surprised.

With eyes gouged out whole, and hearts pierced with pins,
This violent vampire’s offering’s grim
O, dear Commissioner, when is it ending,
The vampire’s fearful and terrible hymn?

Only Mock knows the truth, only he understands
In all of the world it is only he,
O, dear Commissioner, when can you stop this?
Why all this killing? Pray tell this to me.

Mock dialled the number of Smolorz’s neighbour, the lawyer Max Grötzschl, and asked him to let the Criminal Sergeant know that he had called. Ten minutes later a polite voice, polished by appearances at tribunals, informed him that a tearful Mrs Ursula Smolorz did not have the slightest idea where her inebriated husband had gone the previous day. Mock thanked Mr Grötzschl and hung up in a fury, almost overturning the telephone. Unlike Mrs Smolorz, he knew perfectly well that for the past two days her husband had been mingling with Breslau’s aristocracy.

The vampire sends notes to Commissioner Mock,
In which he reveals those motives of his.
Read these aloud to the folk of your city
Tell the people of Breslau the horror that is.

Another thought silenced the nagging of the little organ grinder’s daughter in Mock’s head. Smolorz was not the only member of his informal investigative team. There were others he could trust absolutely. He dialled the number of Bimkraut & Eberstein, the forwarding agency. After two rings he heard a voice which did not belong to either Bimkraut or Eberstein; nor could it, since both had died long since and their names, carefully copied from gravestones in the old St Bernard’s cemetery, had been used as a front to register a business whose boss was somebody completely different, and whose undertakings had little to do with the forwarding of goods.

“Listen, Wirth,” Mock said, but his eyes followed the prostitute who, with a charming smile, whispered something in Domagalla’s ear as she left. “What? What’s that you said?” Mock continued. “Don’t be vulgar … Sorg and Kohlisch are forcing themselves on Miss Käthe, you say! … Yes, keep her away from them! And now stop bothering me with your nonsense and listen! We’re making a move …” Mock glanced at Domagalla as he left with his charge and immediately issued instructions. In his head, Elfriede the organ grinder’s daughter was singing her last verse:

When will my organ stop grinding so sadly
This terrible story, this tearful song?
How long, Commissioner, must our torment endure?
Please tell us, dear Mock, oh for how long?

BRESLAU, THAT SAME SEPTEMBER 6TH, 1919
TWO O’CLOCK IN THE AFTERNOON

Erich Frenzel, the caretaker of a block of houses between Gartenstrasse, Agnesstrasse, Tauentzienstrasse and Schweidnitzerstrasse, was sitting in the yard he administered, straining his uncomplicated brain to its limits over an equally uncomplicated problem: whether to spend Saturday night there, in Bartsch’s Inn, with a tankard and bowl of black pudding, peas and bacon, or in the back rooms of Café Orlich, with walnut schnapps and cabbage with crackling. The first possibility was tempting because of the new accordionist in Bartsch’s who came from Swabia, like Frenzel, and played beautiful tunes from the fatherland; the second possibility, on the other hand, appealed to Frenzel’s love of gambling. In a secret room at the back of Café Orlich at Gartenstrasse 51, brawny men gathered
for arm-wrestling contests across the tables, flexing their muscles and entirely ignoring gamblers like Frenzel as they looked on and cheered. Remembering one strongman who was coming to Breslau from Poland, and his own substantial loss the previous week, he was gradually inclining towards the latter option.

He did not make a final decision, however, because his entire attention was drawn to a huge wagon which had rolled through the gates and into the yard from Agnesstrasse. The wagon was empty. Being short-sighted, Frenzel could not decipher the company name on the tarpaulin, which fluttered freely in the wind and revealed the empty interior. He got to his feet, buttoned up his jacket, adjusted his cap with its broken peak and, feeling like a soldier, clattered loudly across the cobbles in his tall, highly polished boots. He was fuming with rage at the audacious carter who had the cheek to drive into the yard, despite the clear no entry sign hanging above the gate. His presence – which was, after all, forbidden in his yard – could not in any way be justified since there was no business in that block of tenements to which any sort of goods could be delivered. Frenzel snorted in anger as he passed three little girls, two of whom were turning a thick piece of rope while the third skipped over it, performing all kinds of acrobatics. He grew red with fury when he saw a short man jump from the box, stand with his legs apart facing the old linden tree planted by Frenzel’s father, and unfasten his trousers.

“Hey, you undertaker!” shouted Frenzel as he charged towards the wagon. “You don’t piss here, you little shit! Children play here!”

The shorter carter looked up in surprise at the approaching caretaker, fastened his flies and clasped his hands together pleadingly. His gesture made no impression on Frenzel. He was now drawing near, his moustache bristling. Once more he was Frenzel, the bombardier who had lived through so much and had sent many a man packing. He took a swing of his broom. The short man did not turn a hair, quite unabashed by the
caretaker’s threatening gesture. Frenzel took another swing, this time aiming at the intruder’s head. But the broom was stopped in mid-air. The caretaker stared at his implement, which now looked tiny in the hands of a powerfully built man dressed much like Frenzel himself: peaked cap, waistcoat and high boots. This image was the last Frenzel would recall of that sleepy afternoon. After that came darkness.

BRESLAU, THAT SAME SEPTEMBER 6TH, 1919
THREE O’CLOCK IN THE AFTERNOON

Eberhard Mock walked slowly out onto Schuhbrücke, which was drenched in blistering sunshine. He looked about him and strolled along the pavement towards the vast mass of Matthiasgymnasium. The chestnut trees by the statue of St John Nepomuk were taking on new autumn colours. Contemplating nature’s changing ways, Mock stepped into the Matthiasgymnasium church. A minute later, a tall man appeared at the door through which Mock had disappeared and watched with suspicion anyone who approached the church. An elderly matron dressed in black walked up to the door of God’s house. The man barred her way.

“The church is closed today,” he said politely.

The woman’s eyes bulged in surprise. She soon collected herself and said in a condescending tone:

“My good man, this is not a shop that can be closed. The church is always open and you’ll find room for yourself in there too, I assure you.”

“Are you going to make yourself scarce, Madame, or do I have to kick you up the arse?” the church’s Cerberus asked in the same polite tone.

“You lout!” shouted the lady, looking around. As she did not see anybody who could help her, she turned and marched off towards Ursulinenstrasse, angrily tossing her considerable rump.

Another guard stood at the church’s sacristy door, which gave on to the school garden. The door opened abruptly and the guard watched as Mock and the parish priest shook hands. A moment later, Mock was beside him.

“Nobody?” he asked.

“Nobody,” was the answer.

“Duksch is at the main entrance. Tell him he’s free to go. You can go too.”

Mock took the small, narrow street and out onto Burgstrasse. The school warden locked the church door behind him. At Mock’s back stood the Matthiasgymnasium building, in front of him a low wall beyond which the murky Oder flowed sluggishly by. He watched the traffic on Burgstrasse for a while, then dashed across the road and walked alongside the wall, observing the river’s current and the people walking down the street. He stopped at the beginning of Sandbrücke, leaned against a pillar plastered with posters informing people about Lo Kittay’s seances of non-tactile telepathy, and stood motionless for about twenty minutes. Everyone he had seen on Burgstrasse had disappeared, yet Mock still stood surveying the busy street. All at once, he briskly crossed Sandbrücke. He passed several houses and the Phönix watermill before ending up on Hinterbleiche. Ignoring a swarm of schoolboys who were releasing the stress brought on by their poor knowledge of elliptical equations and Latin conjunctions in clouds of cigarette smoke, he passed Hennig’s distillery and ran on to the footbridge leading to Matthiasstrasse. As he set foot on the wooden planks, two uniformed policemen appeared behind him. With their massive shoulders they barricaded access to the footbridge to anyone who might have wished to cross to the opposite bank. Mock ran across the bridge, making it sway gently, and found himself on a wide riverside boulevard. A large Horch stood at the curb. Mock jumped into the car and fired the engine. He immediately accelerated and made
towards Schultheiss brewery, which was smoking in the distance. Now he could be sure nobody was tailing him.

BRESLAU, THAT SAME SEPTEMBER 6TH, 1919
FIVE O’CLOCK IN THE AFTERNOON

Someone removed the hood from Frenzel’s head. He gasped for air and looked around. He was in a semi-circular room whose bare brick walls were illuminated by two small windows. The stool he sat on was the only piece of furniture. His eyes, at first unaccustomed to the darkness, could make out only two other objects, one of which he supposed to be a wardrobe, the other a small nematode. A moment later, he recognized the wardrobe as the man who had blocked his broom, and the nematode as the short carter who had tried to answer Nature’s little call in his yard. He pulled a watch from his pocket. Its hands – as well as his aching neck – were irrefutable proof that he had spent three hours in a jolting wagon before trekking up countless stairs. He got to his feet and stretched his shoulders, then made his way hesitantly towards one of the windows. The wardrobe moved fast. Frenzel stood still, terrified.

“Let him look at the view of the city,” the other man said quietly and gestured enigmatically with his hand.

Frenzel walked to the window and was spellbound. The orange autumn sun enhanced the squat building of the church of St John the Baptist on Hohenzollernstrasse and slid along the elaborate cornices of the Post Office building and Juventus manor, leaving the magnificent art-nouveau tenements which circled Kaiser-Wilhelm-Platz in soft shadow. Further afield he identified the church of Carolus Boromeo and the modest tenements of the working-class district of Gabitz. He was about to look eastwards, towards the wooded cemeteries beyond Lohestrasse, but stopped short as he heard a new sound. Someone was issuing halting
instructions in a hoarse voice and muttering something in approval. Frenzel turned and in the dim light saw a well-built man in a pale frock coat and bowler hat. Beneath the folded wings of his gleaming white collar was the fat knot of a black silk tie, cut through with crimson zigzags. The picture was rounded off with a pair of carefully polished, patent-leather shoes. “Either a pastor, out whoring secretly, or a gangster,” thought Frenzel.

“I’m from the police.” The dandy’s hoarse voice dispersed Frenzel’s doubts. “Don’t ask me why I’m interrogating you here – I’ll only say it’s none of your business. Don’t ask me any questions at all. I want answers, O.K.?”

“Yes, sir,” retorted Frenzel dutifully.

“Stand in the light so I can see you.” The police officer sat on the stool, exhaled, unbuttoned his jacket, removed his bowler hat and placed it on one knee. His ribcage and belly constituted one unified mass. His face suggested future corpulence.

“Name?”

“Erich Frenzel.”

“Profession?”

“Caretaker.”

“Place of work?”

“I look after the yard on Gartenstrasse, behind Hirsch’s furniture shop.”

“Do you know these men?” The dandy shoved a photograph under Frenzel’s nose.

“Yes, yes,” Frenzel said as he studied the stiffened features of the four sailors. “Oh hell, so that’s why I haven’t seen them for a week … I knew they’d end up like this …”

“Who were they? Give me their names.”

“I don’t know their real names. They lived in an annexe on
Gartenstrasse. Gartenstrasse 46, apartment 20, to be precise. At the very top. The cheapest there is …”

“What do you mean you don’t know their names? They must have registered somehow. Who did they register with? The tenement’s landlord? Who owns it?” Frenzel was inundated with questions.

“A man called Mr Rosenthal, Karlsstrasse 28. I’m his right-hand man at the tenement. The apartment was standing empty, and that worried Mr Rosenthal. These four came along in June. A bunch of wastrels – like so many others discharged from the army after the war. They were a bit tipsy and, by the look of things, they hadn’t a pfennig to their names. I told them there weren’t any vacancies, but they asked politely. One of them showed me some money and said: ‘This is a good spot, old man. We’ll conduct our business here and pay you regularly.’ Somehow he managed to talk me round. I get a commission from Mr Rosenthal for every new lodger.”

“You didn’t ask for their names?”

“I did. And they said: Johann Schmidt, Friedrich Schmidt, Alois Schmidt and Helmut Schmidt. That’s what I noted down. They said they were brothers. But they didn’t look like each other somehow. I know what life’s like, Commissioner sir. No shortage of chaps like that after the war. They loiter, steal, haven’t got anything to do … They prefer to conceal their real identities …”

“And you took the risk for a few measly pfennigs and registered who knows who, bandits maybe?”

“If I had a suit like you, sir, I wouldn’t be registering anyone …” Frenzel said quietly, and was immediately alarmed by his impudence.

“And they paid up regularly?” His comment left no impression on his interrogator’s face.