The End of the World in Breslau Read Free Page B

a new coat.

BRESLAU, THAT SAME NOVEMBER 28TH, 1927
SIX O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING
    Mock opened his eyes and listened for a while to the persistent calls of milkmen. The coldness of the morning penetrated his body, squeezed as it was into an armchair. He opened his mouth with difficulty and ran his parched tongue over the sandpaper of his palate. Since no position in the armchair was less than painful, Mock decided to stand up. He wrapped himself in his dressing gown and padded down the sandstone floor of the hall in his bare feet. Argos the dog expressed his usual morning delirium, not shared to any degree by his master. In the bathroom, Mock dipped his toothbrush into a box of Phönix powder and began his oral ablutions. The result was such that to the acidic-alcoholic effluvium was added an acrid aftertaste of cement. Mock furiously spat the grey paste into the basin and soaped his huge badger brush with Peri shaving cream. The razor was an object he should have used that day only under close supervision. A sharp prick, and he realized he had cut himself. The small trickle of blood was very light, much lighter than the blood which had poured from Sophie’s nose the previous night. Mock studied his reflection.
“How is it that I can look you boldly in the eye?” He wiped his face dry and patted it with Welzel eau-de-cologne. “Because nothing happened yesterday. Besides, I remember nothing.”
Their servant, Marta Goczoll, was busy in the kitchen while her husband, the butler Adalbert, stood straight as an arrow, holding more than a dozen ties in one hand and a hanger with a suit and white shirt in the other. Mock dressed hurriedly and tied a deep-red tie around his neck. Marta tucked its fat knot under the wings of his collar. Mock just managed to squeeze his swollen feet into his shoes – freshly polished by Adalbert – threw his pale, cashmere coat over his shoulders, donned his hat and left the apartment. On the landing, a large Pomeranian began to fawn on him. Mock stroked the dog. Its owner, the lawyer Patschkowsky,looked with contempt at his neighbour from whom, as every day, emanated a smell of alcohol and eau-de-cologne.
“There was a terrible noise coming from your apartment last night. My wife couldn’t get to sleep until morning,” Patschkowsky drawled.
“I was training the dog,” Mock mumbled.
“Your wife, more likely,” Patschkowsky’s pince-nez glinted in the yellow light of the hallway lamp. “You think you’re allowed to do anything, don’t you? That dog of yours wailed with a human voice.”
“Some animals speak with a human voice a month before Christmas Eve.” Mock felt the urge to throw his neighbour down the stairs.
“Is that so?” Patschkowsky raised his eyebrows in surprise.
“I’m talking to one of them even now.”
The lawyer stood as if turned to stone, staring for a moment into Mock’s bloodshot eyes. Then he walked slowly downstairs, plucking up the courage to offer one last witty “Is that so?”
Mock turned back to his apartment. Finding that the door to the bedroom was locked from the inside, he reeled into the kitchen. Adalbert and Marta were sitting anxiously at the table.
“You haven’t eaten any breakfast, sir. I’ve made scrambled eggs with chanterelle mushrooms.” Marta revealed the gaps in her teeth.
“Enjoy it yourselves,” Mock smiled effusively. “I wanted to wish you a good day. May it be as good as last night. You slept well, did you?”
“Yes, sir.” It seemed to Adalbert that he could still hear Sophie’s dreadful screams and the dull scratching of the dog’s paws against the closed bedroom door.
Mock left the apartment, squeezing his eyes shut and gritting his teeth.

BRESLAU, THAT SAME NOVEMBER 28TH, 1927
NINE O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING
    Criminal Sergeant Kurt Smolorz was one of the finest employees of the Breslau Police Praesidium. His brutality was cursed by villains and his laconic reports praised by his bosses. One of his superiors valued