female. Forstner had felt safe under the wing of the omnipotent Piontek, all the more so as his chief had still remained ignorant as to the private life and contacts of his assistant. He had not been worried about Mock, although he knew from Piontek that, after Baron von Köpperlingk’s unfortunate remark, the Counsellor had been acquiring ever more information about him. He had been lulled and entirely anaesthetised by his spectacular promotion to the position of Deputy Chief of the Criminal Department. When, during “the night of the long knives”, Heines, Piontek and all the top people of Breslau’s S.A. fell, Forstner – previously an employee of the Criminal Department – had been spared; but he had lost the ground under his feet. He had become entirely dependent on Mock. One word whispered into Kraus’ ear about Forstner’s contacts would plunge him into inexistence, following in the footsteps of his protectors. As a homosexual, he could be certain of the double cruelty of Kraus. His very first day in office, the new Chief of Gestapo had announced that “if he were to find a queer within his department, he would end up like Heines”. Even if he did not make good his threat when confronted with Forstner, who was, after all, a policeman from a different department, he would most assuredly withdraw his support. And then Mock would devour him with wild relish.
Forstner tried to calm his nerves with a fourth, significantly smaller, schnapps. He put a splodge of horseradish and fat left by the frankfurter on a roll, swallowed it and grimaced. He had realized that it was Mock, not Kraus, who was squeezing the vice with doubled force. He had decided to suspend his co-operation with the Gestapo for the length ofAnwaldt’s secret investigation. His silence vis-à-vis Kraus could be justified by the exceptional secrecy of the investigation. If, however, he were to incur Mock’s displeasure by refusing to co-operate, disaster was unavoidable.
Separating the truth from probability in this way, Forstner heaved a sigh of some relief. He wrote Mock’s informal instructions into his notebook: “to draw up a detailed dossier on Baron Olivier von der Malten’s servants.” Then he raised his frosted glass high and drank it down in one go.
BRESLAU, THAT SAME JULY 8TH, 1934
QUARTER TO FOUR IN THE AFTERNOON
Anwaldt sat on tram 18 contemplating with great interest the unusual cabled bridge he was just crossing. The tram rumbled over the bridge; red-brick buildings and a church wrapped in old chestnut trees flitted by on the right, solid tenements on the left. The tram stopped in a very busy square. Anwaldt counted the stops. He was to alight at the next one. The tram moved away and quickly gathered speed. Anwaldt prayed for it to go even faster. The reason for his supplications was an enormous wasp which had begun its mad dance around the Assistant’s head. At first, he had tried at all costs to keep calm, and moved his head as little as possible, once to the right, once to the left. These moves greatly intrigued the insect, which had taken a clear liking to Anwaldt’s nose. (I remember: the sticky jar of cherry juice in the delicatessen store in Berlin, angry wasps stinging little Herbert, the shopkeeper’s laughter, the reek of onion peelings applied to the stings.) He lost control and flapped his arms. He felt he had struck the wasp. With a slight flick, it fell to the tram floor. He was about to squash it with his shoe when the tram suddenly braked and the policeman tumbled on to a corpulent lady. The wasp started up with abuzz and sat on Anwaldt’s hand, who, instead of a sting, felt the hard blow of a newspaper, then heard a distinctive crunch. He looked with gratitude at his saviour – a not very tall, old man of endearing appearance, who had just stamped on the assailant. Anwaldt thanked him politely (Where do I know this old man from?) and got off at the tram stop. Following Mock’s instructions, he crossed
Forstner tried to calm his nerves with a fourth, significantly smaller, schnapps. He put a splodge of horseradish and fat left by the frankfurter on a roll, swallowed it and grimaced. He had realized that it was Mock, not Kraus, who was squeezing the vice with doubled force. He had decided to suspend his co-operation with the Gestapo for the length ofAnwaldt’s secret investigation. His silence vis-à-vis Kraus could be justified by the exceptional secrecy of the investigation. If, however, he were to incur Mock’s displeasure by refusing to co-operate, disaster was unavoidable.
Separating the truth from probability in this way, Forstner heaved a sigh of some relief. He wrote Mock’s informal instructions into his notebook: “to draw up a detailed dossier on Baron Olivier von der Malten’s servants.” Then he raised his frosted glass high and drank it down in one go.
BRESLAU, THAT SAME JULY 8TH, 1934
QUARTER TO FOUR IN THE AFTERNOON
Anwaldt sat on tram 18 contemplating with great interest the unusual cabled bridge he was just crossing. The tram rumbled over the bridge; red-brick buildings and a church wrapped in old chestnut trees flitted by on the right, solid tenements on the left. The tram stopped in a very busy square. Anwaldt counted the stops. He was to alight at the next one. The tram moved away and quickly gathered speed. Anwaldt prayed for it to go even faster. The reason for his supplications was an enormous wasp which had begun its mad dance around the Assistant’s head. At first, he had tried at all costs to keep calm, and moved his head as little as possible, once to the right, once to the left. These moves greatly intrigued the insect, which had taken a clear liking to Anwaldt’s nose. (I remember: the sticky jar of cherry juice in the delicatessen store in Berlin, angry wasps stinging little Herbert, the shopkeeper’s laughter, the reek of onion peelings applied to the stings.) He lost control and flapped his arms. He felt he had struck the wasp. With a slight flick, it fell to the tram floor. He was about to squash it with his shoe when the tram suddenly braked and the policeman tumbled on to a corpulent lady. The wasp started up with abuzz and sat on Anwaldt’s hand, who, instead of a sting, felt the hard blow of a newspaper, then heard a distinctive crunch. He looked with gratitude at his saviour – a not very tall, old man of endearing appearance, who had just stamped on the assailant. Anwaldt thanked him politely (Where do I know this old man from?) and got off at the tram stop. Following Mock’s instructions, he crossed
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