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 amp; 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 Kathe, 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 Cafe 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 Cafe 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 Schuhbrucke, 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 Sandbrucke, 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 Sandbrucke. He passed several houses and the Phonix 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.