“Who beat you up at the Baron’s ball? Some swine, officer. Are you afraid of the swine? Yes, officer. But you’re not afraid of hornets? Oh, I am, officer. How come? After all, you did kill two! Without even using your hands! Oh, I see, Anwaldt, two’s not enough for you … You can have more …”
The man from Gestapo finished his bass-falsetto medley and deliberately stamped his cigarette into the swelling on Anwaldt’s collar bone.
A stranger’s voice practically tore apart Anwaldt’s swollen throat. He lay on the floor, yelling. One minute. Two. The Standartenfuhrer called: “Konrad!” A bucket of cold water silenced the prisoner. The torturer lit a new cigarette and blew on its tip. Anwaldt stared at the glow in horror.
“Name of the suspect?”
“Pawel Krystek.”
The Gestapo man got up and left. After five minutes, he entered the cell in the company of the Turk whom Anwaldt knew.
“You’re lying, you fool. There was nobody by that name at the Baron’s, was there?” he turned to the Turk who, having put on his glasses, was going through a wad of black and silver invitations. He shook his head as he did so, confirming, in his oriental manner, the words of the Gestapo man, who was greedily inhaling the last of his cigarette.
“You’ve wasted my time and are making a mockery of my methods. You’ve hurt my feelings. You’ve annoyed me,” he sighed and sniffed a couple of times. “Please take care of him. Maybe you’ll be more effective.”
The Turk got two bottles of honey diluted in a small amount of water from the briefcase and slowly — both at the same time — poured them on the prisoner’s head, shoulders and stomach, particularly abundantly covering the lower abdomen and genitalia. Anwaldt started to yell. Gibberish emerged from his larynx, but the Turk understood: “I’ll talk!” The Turk took a jar from the briefcase and shoved it under the prisoner’s eyes. Some dozen hornets were stinging each other and contorting their thick abdomens.
“I’ll talk!”
The Turk held the jar in his outstretched hand. Over the concrete floor.
“I’ll talk!”
The Turk dropped the jar.
“I’ll talk!”
The jar neared the floor. Urine spattered all around. The jar landed on the stone floor. Anwaldt had lost control over his bladder. He was losing consciousness. The jar did not shatter. It only hit the concrete with a dull thud.
The Turk moved away from the unconscious prisoner with revulsion as fat Konrad appeared. He untied Anwaldt from the chair and grabbed him under the arms. His legs dragged through the puddle. The Standartenfuhrer barked:
“Wash that piss off him and take him to Oswitzer Wald.” He closed the door behind Konrad and looked at the Turk. “Why do you look so surprised, Erkin?”
“But you had his back up against the wall, Standartenfuhrer Kraus. He was all ready to sing.”
“You’re too hot-headed, Erkin.” Kraus observed the hornets thrashing around in the jar of thick Jena glass. “Did you take a good look at him? He’s got to have a rest now. I know men like him. He’ll start singing such nonsense that it’ll take us a week to check it out. And I can’t keep him here that long. Mock is still very strong and is on very good terms with the Abwehr. Apart from that, Anwaldt’s mine. If he decides to leave, my people in Berlin will get him. If he stays here, I’ll invite him for another talk. In the first and second instance, it’s enough for him to see an ordinary bee and he’ll start singing. Erkin, as of today, to that man you and I are demons who will never leave his side …”
BRESLAU, WEDNESDAY, JULY 11TH, 1934
THREE O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING
A damp shroud of dew fell over the world. It pearled on the grasses, trees and the naked body of a man. On touching the burning skin, it immediately evaporated. The policeman woke up. For the first time in many days, he experienced a cool shudder. He just about managed to get up and, dragging his swollen leg, bumped against the trees and emerged on a gravel alley. He was making his way towards a dark building whose angular shadow contrasted with the brightening sky when the glare of headlights lashed him. By the building stood a car, its lights painfully carved Anwaldt’s nakedness out of the darkness. He heard the cry “Stop!”, a woman’s muffled laughter, the sound of gravel crunching under the shoes of approaching men. He touched his aching neck, a coarse eiderdown rubbed against his wounded body. He opened his eyes in the soothing glow of a bedside lamp. The wise eyes of Doctor Abraham Lanzmann, Baron von der Malten’s personal physician, were observing him from behind thick lenses.
“Where am I?” the faint effort of a smile appeared on his lips. It amused him to think that this was the first time his loss of memory was not due to alcohol.
“You’re in your apartment,” Doctor Lanzmann was short of sleep and serious. “You were brought in by some policemen who were patrolling the so-called Swedish Bastion in Oswitzer Wald. A lot of girls gather there in the summer. And where they are, there’s always something shady going on. But to the point. You were barely conscious. You persistently repeated your name, Mock’s name, the Baron’s and your address. The policemen did not want to leave what they suspected was their drunk colleague and brought you home. From here, they phoned the Baron. I’ve got to leave you now. The Baron has asked me to pass this sum on to you,” his fingers caressed an envelope lying on the table. “Here’s some ointment for your swellings and cuts. You’ll find instructions about what the medication is for and how to take it on each bottle and phial. I managed to find quite a bit in my first-aid cabinet at home — considering the unusual time of day. Goodbye. I’ll come back at about midday, when you’ve had some sleep.”
Doctor Lanzmann’s eyelids closed over his wise eyes, Anwaldt’s over his swollen ones. He could not fall asleep. The walls, reflecting the day’s heat, bothered him. With a few moves, he rolled off the bed on to the dirty carpet. Crawling on all fours, he reached the sill, pulled the heavy curtains apart and opened the window. He fell on his knees and slowly reached the bed. He lay on the eiderdown and mopped himself with a linen shawl, avoiding the swellings — volcanoes of pain. As soon as he opened his eyes, swarms of hornets flew in. When he closed the windows against them, the walls of the tenement stifled him with a burning breath, and cockroaches crawled out from the holes — some looking like scorpions. In a word, he could not fall asleep with the window closed and could not sleep with open eyes.
BRESLAU, THURSDAY, JULY 12TH, 1934
EIGHT O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING
It was a little cooler in the morning. He fell asleep for two hours. When he woke, he saw four people sitting at his bedside. The Baron was talking quietly to Doctor Lanzmann. Seeing that the sick man was awake, he nodded to two orderlies standing by the wall. The two men grasped the policeman under the arms, carried him to the kitchen and put him in a huge tub of luke-warm water. One washed Anwaldt’s sore body, the other removed his dark stubble with a razor. After a while, Anwaldt was lying in bed again, on a clean, starched sheet and exposing his wounded limbs to the effects of Doctor Lanzmann’s ointments and balsams. The Baron patiently waited with his questions until the medic had finished. Anwaldt talked for about half an hour, stopping and stumbling. He had no control over his loose syntax. The Baron listened with seeming indifference. At one moment, the policeman broke off in mid-word and fell asleep. He dreamt of snow-capped peaks, icy expanses, freezing gusts of the Arctic: the wind blew and dried his skin; where was the wind coming from? the wind? He opened his eyes and in the dark setting sun saw a boy fanning him with a folded newspaper.
“Who are you?” he could barely move his bandaged jaw.
“Helmut Steiner, the Baron’s kitchen boy. I’m to look after you until Doctor Lanzmann comes in tomorrow to examine you.”