Dear Excellency, I wrote that I know why revenge has not been taken. Unfortunately, I do not know why this elder had insight and announced ceremoniously that the moment of vengeance had come. The only living male descendant of Godfryd von der Malten, Olivier, did not, at the time of the hermit’s insight, have any other children apart from the hapless Marietta. So that her terrible murder is a tragic mistake of a demented old shaman, caused by the hashish which is so popular in his country.
I finish my overly long letter and apologize for not verifiying Maass’ translation of Friedlander’s last two prophecies. A lack of time rendered it impossible; much time was spent in my examining the Yesidi’s curse and on complicated family matters which unexpectedly hastened my departure. I remain sincerely yours, Doctor Leo Hartner.
Mock and Anwaldt looked at each other. They knew that the prophecies of the holy elder from the desert were not the drug-induced babble of a demented shaman. They left the cathedral and, without a word, got into the Adler, which was parked in the shade of an enormous chestnut tree, of which many grew in the Cathedral Square.
“Don’t worry, son,” Mock looked at Anwaldt with compassion. This was no slip of the tongue. He had uttered the word “son” consciously. He remembered the Baron, clinging to the train window and shouting: “He is my son”. “I’ll take you home now. Your apartment may not be safe. I’ll send Smolorz to get your things. You stay at my place, get some sleep, do not answer any telephone calls and do not open the door to anyone. In the evening, I’ll take you somewhere where you’ll forget about your daddy and all insects.”
XV
BRESLAU, THAT SAME WEDNESDAY, JULY 18TH, 1934
EIGHT O’CLOCK IN THE EVENING
Wednesday frolics at Madame le Goef’s salon were kept in the style of Antiquity. In the evening, a naked slave, painted the colour of mahogany, struck an enormous gong, the curtain rose and the set was revealed in front of the audience: the facade of a Roman temple with naked men and women dancing against this background amidst rose petals floating from the ceiling. These Bacchanalia — where dancers only mimicked sexual congress — lasted about twenty minutes, after which there followed an interval of a similar duration. During this time, some guests retreated to discreet rooms while others fortified themselves and drank. After the break, the slave struck the gong once again and on stage there appeared several “Roman men and women” dressed in thin tunics, which they promptly discarded. More rose petals fell, the room became airless; this time, the bacchanalia were real. After half an hour of such games, the actors and actresses left the stage — exhausted, the hall emptied while the withdrawing rooms burst at the seams.
That evening, Rainer von Hardenburg, Eberhard Mock and Herbert Anwaldt sat in a small gallery, observing the introductory mimicry of a Bacchanalian orgy from above. At the very outset of the performance, already, Anwaldt was clearly stirred. Seeing this, Mock got up and went to Madame’s office. He greeted her effusively and presented her with his request. Madame agreed without hesitation and picked up the telephone. Mock returned to his seat. Anwaldt leaned over to him and whispered:
“Where does one get the keys to one of the rooms?”
“Wait a minute. What’s the hurry?” Mock laughed coarsely.
“Look: all the prettiest ones are being taken.”
“They’re all pretty here. See: those coming in our direction, for example.”
Two girls in school uniforms were approaching their table. Both policemen knew them well; the girls, on the other hand, pretended to be seeing the men for the first time. Both gazed at Anwaldt with rapture. Suddenly, the one resembling Erna touched his hand and smiled. He got up, put his arms around the girls’ slender backs, turned to Mock and said “thank you”. The three withdrew to a room in the middle of which stood a round table with a beautifully embossed chessboard. Von Hardenburg glanced at Mock with a smile. He relaxed in Madame le Goef’s salon and was not so exacting with titles.
“You knew how to make that boy happy. Who is he?”
“A close relative from Berlin. Also a policeman.”
“So we’ll hear a Berliner’s opinion of the best club in Breslau. Or rather just outside of Breslau.”
“What do Berliners know? They’ll always laugh at us. But not my relative. He’s too well behaved. You know, they have to treat their complexes somehow. Especially those who come from Breslau. You know the saying ‘a true Berliner has to come from Breslau’?”
“Yes. Take Kraus, for example,” von Hardenburg adjusted his monocle. “He spent two years in Berlin then, after Heines’, Bruckner’s and Piontek’s downfalls, von Woyrsch transferred him to Breslau as Chief of Gestapo. Kraus took his promotion as a kick upstairs. So, to hide his disappointment, our spiteful and wooden-headed eager beaver started to turn his nose up. And here is the two-year-old Berliner criticizing Silesian provincialism at every step. I checked — do you know where he’s from? From Lower Silesian Frankenstein.”
The men laughed out loud and clinked their wine glasses. The actresses on stage bowed, generously bestowing the audience with their charms. Mock pulled out some Turkish cigarettes and offered them to von Hardenburg. He knew that the Chief of the Abwehr did not like to be hurried and would reveal all the information he had managed to acquire on Erkin of his own free will and at the moment that suited him. Mock expected to hear more than he had deduced from Hartner’s expertise and letter. He wanted to learn Kemal Erkin’s whereabouts.
“People like Kraus cannot stand our tradition of nobility, family and culture,” von Hardenburg continued on the subject of Silesia. “All those von Schaffgotsches, von Carmers and von Donnersmarcks. That’s why they boost their self-esteem by deriding the fossilization of junkers and coal Barons. Let them laugh …”
Silence fell. Von Hardenburg watched the “performances”; Mock wondered whether today’s light-hearted evening was a good opportunity to touch on important, practical matters. After much thought, he decided:
“A propos Kraus … I’ve a favour to ask of you …”
“Eberhard,” von Hardenburg was becoming increasingly familiar. “I still haven’t granted you the first favour, the Turkish-Kurdish one, and you already have another … No, no, that was a joke. Proceed.”
“Count,” Mock, in contrast to his interlocutor, had become formal. “I would like to work for the Abwehr.”
“Oh, and why is that?” von Hardenburg’s monocle reflected the glint of candles and discreetly dimmed table lamps.
“Because my department is being infiltrated by Kraus’ rabble,” Mock replied. “He’s already looking down on me, soon he’s going to be giving me orders. I’ll become a nominal Chief, a dummy, a puppet dependent on uncouth thugs, barbarians from the Gestapo. Count, I come from a poor, craftsman’s family from Waldenburg. But in spite of that, or maybe because of it, I want to be integer vitae scelerisque purus.”†
“Oh, Eberhard — despite your descent, you are in spirit a true aristocrat. But surely you realize that working for us, it is not easy to behave according to Horace’s maxim.”