Read Online The End of the World in Breslau by Marek Krajewski - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Marek Krajewski
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fingers together as hard as he could, “and you, Doctor, do you, as an eminent historian, believe in this theory? Can you add any arguments to support it?”
“Like you, Baron, my attitude is emotional,” retorted the man. “You it amuses, me it horrifies. I’m no historian now, I’m a disciple …”
These lovers of the silent screen did not notice the quiet footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. The Baron started when he saw the telephone in front of his nose; one enormous hand wielded the cradle, the other the receiver.
“Hello?” the Baron accentuated the second syllable. The projector stopped clattering, switched off by the man with huge hands, and now a woman’s voice could be heard in the receiver. Though not clearly enough for a brain relaxed by sophisticated distractions to register everything fully.
“Could you repeat that, please,” he grunted. “Kurt Smolorz, right? Please, don’t worry about anything.”
He replaced the receiver and looked expectantly at the bald head and enormous moustache of the athlete dressed in wrestler’s attire.
“Did you hear that, Moritz? Police Officer Kurt Smolorz – stocky, well built, reddish hair.”
“I heard everything, Baron sir,” reported Moritz. “And I know what to do.”
BRESLAU, THAT SAME NOVEMBER 29TH, 1927
SIX O’CLOCK IN THE EVENING
The troubled barman of Petruske’s tavern placed a plate of thick, fried bacon slices in front of Mock. When Mock pointed to his empty tankard, the barman assumed an expression of someone greatly put upon. Mock decided to torment him even further by ordering some bread and horse-radish. An existential agony swept across the barman’s features.
Mock observed the effects of alcohol and anger in the eyes of the wretchedly dressed drunks crowding the tables and walls. The most genial person in the place seemed to be the blind accordionist playing a sentimental tune. Had he not been blind, he would have been glaring at Mock just as amicably as the builders, carters, cabbies and bandits crammed into the bar.
Mock tore his eyes away from his brothers in alcoholic misery, and set about his food. First he decorated the slices of bacon with mounds of horseradish, then, using a knife, pressed it into a hot mush after which, with a faint sigh, he devoured the smoked and roasted meat followed by slices of dark, wholemeal bread. He washed down the strong taste of meat and horseradish with Haas beer.
Scanning the bar with bloodshot eyes, he listened to the swearing and cursing. Foremost in this were unemployed workers, embittered at the whole world. All of a sudden a butcher joined in their laments to complain about capitalist exploiters who undervalued his rare ability to decapitate a cow with one blow.
Mock had a revelation: the supper had not been unpalatable because it consisted of foul and badly prepared food, but because his mouth was acidic with the indigestion of an unfulfilled duty. The statement by the unemployed butcher had been as effective as a chiding from Mühlhaus: it was a sign and reminder.
He spat the bitterness that filled his mouth onto the dirt floor, pulledout his police notebook and fountain pen, and got down to work, unconcerned by his slight inebriation or by the regular customers who no longer had any doubts as to the profession of this elegant, stocky man with thick, dark, wavy hair.
Mock looked at the notes he had begun to make in the Bischofskeller. He read: “Let us therefore assume that the victim is incidental; only the day on which he died is not incidental. Question: why is it not incidental? Why does the murderer kill on some days and not on others?”
“These crimes are not incidental because they have been committed on precisely these and not other days,” he whispered to himself. “Nothing is incidental. The fact that I met Sophie at a ball at the Regierungsbezirk, the fact that we still have no children.” He thought of Völlinger’s expertise. “According to astrologers, chance does not
“Like you, Baron, my attitude is emotional,” retorted the man. “You it amuses, me it horrifies. I’m no historian now, I’m a disciple …”
These lovers of the silent screen did not notice the quiet footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. The Baron started when he saw the telephone in front of his nose; one enormous hand wielded the cradle, the other the receiver.
“Hello?” the Baron accentuated the second syllable. The projector stopped clattering, switched off by the man with huge hands, and now a woman’s voice could be heard in the receiver. Though not clearly enough for a brain relaxed by sophisticated distractions to register everything fully.
“Could you repeat that, please,” he grunted. “Kurt Smolorz, right? Please, don’t worry about anything.”
He replaced the receiver and looked expectantly at the bald head and enormous moustache of the athlete dressed in wrestler’s attire.
“Did you hear that, Moritz? Police Officer Kurt Smolorz – stocky, well built, reddish hair.”
“I heard everything, Baron sir,” reported Moritz. “And I know what to do.”
BRESLAU, THAT SAME NOVEMBER 29TH, 1927
SIX O’CLOCK IN THE EVENING
The troubled barman of Petruske’s tavern placed a plate of thick, fried bacon slices in front of Mock. When Mock pointed to his empty tankard, the barman assumed an expression of someone greatly put upon. Mock decided to torment him even further by ordering some bread and horse-radish. An existential agony swept across the barman’s features.
Mock observed the effects of alcohol and anger in the eyes of the wretchedly dressed drunks crowding the tables and walls. The most genial person in the place seemed to be the blind accordionist playing a sentimental tune. Had he not been blind, he would have been glaring at Mock just as amicably as the builders, carters, cabbies and bandits crammed into the bar.
Mock tore his eyes away from his brothers in alcoholic misery, and set about his food. First he decorated the slices of bacon with mounds of horseradish, then, using a knife, pressed it into a hot mush after which, with a faint sigh, he devoured the smoked and roasted meat followed by slices of dark, wholemeal bread. He washed down the strong taste of meat and horseradish with Haas beer.
Scanning the bar with bloodshot eyes, he listened to the swearing and cursing. Foremost in this were unemployed workers, embittered at the whole world. All of a sudden a butcher joined in their laments to complain about capitalist exploiters who undervalued his rare ability to decapitate a cow with one blow.
Mock had a revelation: the supper had not been unpalatable because it consisted of foul and badly prepared food, but because his mouth was acidic with the indigestion of an unfulfilled duty. The statement by the unemployed butcher had been as effective as a chiding from Mühlhaus: it was a sign and reminder.
He spat the bitterness that filled his mouth onto the dirt floor, pulledout his police notebook and fountain pen, and got down to work, unconcerned by his slight inebriation or by the regular customers who no longer had any doubts as to the profession of this elegant, stocky man with thick, dark, wavy hair.
Mock looked at the notes he had begun to make in the Bischofskeller. He read: “Let us therefore assume that the victim is incidental; only the day on which he died is not incidental. Question: why is it not incidental? Why does the murderer kill on some days and not on others?”
“These crimes are not incidental because they have been committed on precisely these and not other days,” he whispered to himself. “Nothing is incidental. The fact that I met Sophie at a ball at the Regierungsbezirk, the fact that we still have no children.” He thought of Völlinger’s expertise. “According to astrologers, chance does not
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