Phantoms of Breslau by Marek Krajewski Page A

like that of Patroclus and Achilles! Let’s exchange waistcoats, as Homer’s heroes exchanged their armour!”
    As he said this Rühtgard threw off his waistcoat and sat down heavily. A moment later black sleep, brother of death, descended over him. Mock left the alcove to look for a waiter, but instead caught sight of the drunken smile of the Jewish-looking girl who was swaying on the dance floor, alone, her handbag slung over her neck. He also saw spilled schnapps, stained tablecloths and the white dust of cocaine; he saw a soldier hiding pamphlets under his greatcoat; he saw his friend, Doctor Rühtgard, who had once saved his life in a town on the Pregolya. He clicked his fingers and a young waiter appeared.
    “Be so kind,” Mock could scarely pronounce the syllables as he went through the notes in his wallet, “as to call a droschka for me and my friend… And then help me carry him to it …”
    “I can’t do that, sir,” said the lad, putting the ten-mark note in his pocket, “because our manager, Mr Bilkowsky, doesn’t allow the hiring of fiacres. Their horses foul the pavement in front of the hotel. For important patrons such as yourself, sir – I saw you here yesterday, and again today – and your friend, we provide our own automobile. The chauffeur has just arrived outside, and he’s probably still free.”
    The young waiter disappeared. Mock returned to his alcove, paid the head waiter for his supper, and then spent a long time tying his laces, a task much hindered by a belly bloated with the heavy delicacies. Puffing and panting, he helped Doctor Rühtgard to the beautiful Opel whose roof was adorned with a flag bearing the Austrian eagle and the name of the hotel. The automobile made its way through the city. The night was warm. The people of Breslau were preparing for sleep. Only one man was preparing himself for a meeting with phantoms.

BRESLAU, THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 4TH, 1919
TWO O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING
    The net curtain billowed at the open window. Mock sat at the table, listening to his father’s snoring. Beyond the window, a shaft of light from thegas lamp in the square yard illuminated the pump where Pastor Gerds’ maid stood stretching lazily and gazing at Mock’s window with a smile. She stroked the arm of the pump and wrapped her whole body around it. The pump played a rusty tune into the night. Water poured into a bucket while the pastor’s maid, swinging on the lever, kept on smiling up at Mock’s window. Once the bucket was full, she slid lower and squatted, holding on to the upper part of the lever. Her nightdress strained across her buttocks, the pump lever protruding between them. Smiling, she glanced one more time at Mock’s window, picked up the bucket and made towards the gate. Mock listened intently. The bucket clanked against the window of what used to be the butcher’s shop. The bell tinkled gently. He heard light footsteps on the stairs. Mock got up and looked closely at his father, fast asleep. Then he crept to his bedroom alcove, lay on his bed and pulled his nightshirt up to his chest. He waited, tense. The hatch in the floor squeaked. He waited. A window casement blew against the wall. Crash. The trapdoor in the corner of the room hit the floor with a dull thud. His father muttered something in his sleep. Mock got up to close the window and, at that very moment, heard what he had feared. The tin bucket tumbled down the stairs. Every stair forced from it an ear-piercing racket. The empty bucket rasped against the sandstone slabs and landed in a puddle.
    “Do you have to make such a noise, damn it?” said his father, opening his eyes and immediately closing them again. He turned over and began to snore.
    Mock doubled over to conceal his arousal, then covered himself with his nightshirt and tiptoed to approach the hatch. He knew how to open it without it squeaking; he had done so many a time when he returned drunk and did not want to hear his father say: “You’re