Phantoms of Breslau (10 page)

“Are you talking about chess or my hunger therapy?”

“Both.”

Mock no longer felt like playing and as a sign of surrender laid his king on the chessboard.

BRESLAU, THAT SAME SEPTEMBER 3RD, 1919
TEN O’CLOCK AT NIGHT

In one of the discreet alcoves beside the dance floor at the Hungarian King Hotel, the head waiter was taking down an enormous order. The slim figure of the distinguished, greying man who was giving it might have suggested a completely different taste in food than what was being jotted down on the order pad.

Another man, a few years younger, was nodding in agreement at his companion’s culinary decisions, but remained silent.

“Yes, as I said, Eberhard,” said the first man as he dismissed the waiter with a perfunctory gesture. “First comes the painful part of
the therapy. Do you know how young smokers are encouraged to give up their addiction? They’re told to inhale the smoke and cough. Try it, go on try …”

Eberhard took a drag of his cigarette and coughed. He felt pain in his lungs and bitter bile rose to his mouth. For some time he breathed in the smoky air as the cigarette burned down in the huge ashtray. The orchestra was playing a foxtrot and two shapely dance-hostesses were dancing alone, illuminated by bulbs that flickered all around the dance floor, while single, ageing men drank glass after glass to give themselves the courage to dance and debauch. Giggling and snorting could be heard from behind the drawn curtains of the alcoves. “Probably some ladies snorting white powder,” said one waiter to another. A wheezing reverberated in Mock’s alcove. “Probably some asthmatic choking,” the other waiter retorted.

“Come on, Cornelius,” Mock groaned. “Look what you’ve done to me …”

“So now you’ve experienced the hideous taste of tobacco,” Cornelius said, staring at the dance-hostesses. “But that’s not the addiction we want to destroy in you … We want you to eliminate your addiction to supper, to devouring mountains of meat in the evenings … This evening you’re going to experience the awful consequences of overeating on your own skin, or rather your own liver. Your brain is going to pick up signals from your burdened bowels, and it’s going to respond in a way that will punish you – with nightmares… Mock, are you hungry now?”

“I’m starving.” Mock reached into the ashtray and ground his cigarette butt into the powdered ash. “I did as you told me. I haven’t eaten a single thing since coffee and cakes this afternoon at your place.”

“So now eat to your heart’s content, until you’re full.” Cornelius watched the waiter lay out the hors d’oeuvres on the table. “Think of our conversations in the trenches at Dünaburg. That’s all we talked about, nothing but food … We didn’t have the courage to talk about women …
We didn’t know each other well enough then.” Cornelius grasped the slender neck of the litre carafe of schnapps and filled their glasses. “You could talk about Silesian meatloaves for hours, while I responded with the characteristics of plaice
à la
Teutonic Knights, which the medieval knights liked so much.”

Mock poured a burning stream of Krsinsik’s lemon schnapps down his throat and plunged his knife into the thick cube of butter garnished with a spring of parsley. He spread some onto a slice of wheat bread and then with his fork broke into the delicate insides of pigs’ trotters in aspic. The cubes and oblongs of aspic, in which wedges of eggs, cloves of garlic and strips of pork had been set, disappeared into Mock’s mouth. As he swallowed he touched the rim of both empty glasses with his fork, creating a pure sound.

“Zack, zack,” Mock said, looking at the oily consistency of the chilled lemon schnapps he was pouring. “Here’s to you, Rühtgard. To the health of the one who’s paying.”

He then emptied his glass, holding it by its fragile stem, and started on the fried herrings which lay on a long dish in a puddle of vinegar marinade. He crushed flakes of the fish joyfully between his teeth, delighted that the bones, softened by the vinegar, were pliable and harmless.

“That’s how it was.” The two large shots of schnapps were evident in Rühtgard’s voice. “We talked about women much later. When we were no longer ashamed of our feelings. When …”

“When we had got to know what friendship is.” Mock scraped his fork across the empty dish and sprawled out comfortably on the couch. “When we had grasped that, in a world of shrapnel, splinters and vermin, it was the only thing that made sense. Not the Fatherland, not conquering yet another
barbaricum
bridge-head, but friendship …”

“Don’t be so pompous, Mock, old comrade.” Rühtgard smiled at the sight of two waiters laying the table with silver dishes whose dome covers
were embellished with the two-headed Austrian eagle. “Look” – he lifted a cover as if to sit it on his head – “This is what our helmets looked like …”

Mock laughed out loud as a drop of hot fat rolled off the cover and landed on Rühtgard’s neck. While the doctor whacked himself violently, as if stung by a mosquito, Mock filled the empty glasses, gradually increasing the distance between bottle and glass. The last drops fell from a height little short of ten centimetres.

“Pathos was a poor background to what we experienced during those two years.” Rühtgard got to his feet and drew the curtains of their alcove. “The wrong background. Friendship and comradeship aren’t born in the face of death. There are no friends then. Everyone faces death alone, and stinks of fear. Our comradeship was sealed by the daily humiliation, the daily contempt we experienced. Do you know when I realized that?”

“When?” Mock asked, lifting the covers off the dishes.

“When we had to crap on command.” Rühtgard broke off to clink glasses with Mock and swallow the burning liquid. His throat barely accepted it. “Captain Mantzelmann would come along and order the entire platoon to crap at the same time. Even me, a medical orderly. When he decided it was time to crap, we’d squat in the trenches with the icy wind lashing our backsides. Mantzelmann marked out the time for us to crap. Pity he didn’t mark out the time to die. Mock, damn it!” he yelled. “There’s only the two of us in this world! You and I!”

“Be quiet, and stop drinking.” Mock tied a starched napkin around his neck. “You’re not having supper, so you shouldn’t drink so much. Three large shots are more than enough.”

Four browned goose necks landed on Mock’s plate. He cut this delicacy into strips and arranged them on round, crunchy slices of potato. Enclosed in a sheath of goose skin was a stuffing made from onion, liver and goose fat. Mock placed soft, braised onion rings on top of these
pyramids and began a concentrated assault. He ate slowly and methodically. First he plunged his cutlery into a dish where hunks of roast pork swam in a thick sauce of flour and cream. On top of a piece of meat now speared on his fork, he balanced a mound of potato and goose. When he had devoured this complicated formation he slid a layer of fried cabbage with crackling onto his fork as if it were a shovel. The plates gradually emptied.

“We spoke about women later,” Rühtgard said, lighting a cigarette, “when the Russians started singing their dumkas.
^†
We’d stare at the starry sky and each one of us would think about warm bodies, soft breasts, smooth thighs …”

“Cornelius, stop making things up.” Mock pushed aside the empty plates, lit a cigarette and poured another two shots from the carafe. “We didn’t talk about
women
, but about one woman. Each one of us spoke about one woman. I told you about my romantic ideal, about the mysterious, red-headed, unknown Lorelei from the hospital in Königsberg, while you only talked about …”

“My daughter, Christel.” Rühtgard drank without waiting for Mock. “About my little princess Christel who now flirts with men, who smells of rutting …”

“Let it go.” Mock was suddenly very thirsty. He pulled the curtain aside to summon a waiter with a frothy tankard. “Your little princess is now a grown-up young lady and ought to be getting married.”

Rühtgard threw off his jacket and began to unbutton his waistcoat.

“Mock, my brother!” he shouted. “Our friendship is 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 the
gas 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 always knocking it back”. He half-opened the hatch and peered into the depths of the butcher’s shop. Light footsteps on the stairs. From the square of darkness loomed a head
and neck. Wisps of pomaded hair were arranged in an intricate curl; the neck was covered with flaking eczema. The head tipped back to reveal congealed red lava flowing from its eyes. The mouth opened and spat a bubble of blood. More appeared, bursting without a sound. Director Julius Wohsedt looked far less handsome than he had at the launching of the ship Wodan.

Mock quickly backed away from the trapdoor and tripped over a basket of logs. Flapping his arms, he knocked down a large bottle of paraffin.

“Ebi, wake up, damn it!” His father was shaking his arm. “Look what you’ve done!”

Sitting amongst the shards of glass, he felt the burning of small cuts on his legs and buttocks. Threads of his blood meandered over the surface of the paraffin. The hatch was closed.

“I must be a lunatic, Father,” he croaked, his breath reeking of four large shots of schnapps.

“Knocking it back, always knocking it back.” The old man waved him aside and shuffled over to his bed. “Clean it up – it stinks and it’ll stop me sleeping. We’ll have to air the room.” He opened the window and looked at the sky. “You’re a drunkard, not a lunatic. There’s no moon tonight, you idiot.” He yawned and clambered into the warm refuge of his quilt.

Mock took the first-aid kit which hung on the wall. His father had put it together himself when they moved in: “So that no inspector picks on us. Every workshop ought to have a first-aid kit. That’s what the labour law says.” Hammering little nails into the pale planks, he had did not want to hear the fact that the apartment was not a craftsman’s workshop and that he himself had not been a shoemaker for some time.

Mock gathered up the shards, removed his nightshirt and used it to wipe the floor. He felt the cold instantly. “Not surprising,” he thought.
“After all, I’m naked.” He threw over his shoulders an old coat which served him in winter for his trips to the toilet, took an iron candlestick from the kitchen and opened the hatch. His back prickled. In the weak glow of the street lamp outside the shop, he looked down the stairs. Empty and dark. Cursing his own fear under his breath, he lit his way with the candle. There was no bucket below, nor any trace of spilled water. Mock squatted to study the drain in the floor, listening for sqeaking rats. Nothing. Silence. A shadow glided across the wall. Mock felt a rush of adrenaline, his hair stood on end and he began to sweat. Postman Dosche and his dog with its upset bowels had crossed Plesserstrasse. Mock felt a gust of cold wind. All of a sudden he remembered his grandmother, Hildegard, who considered a downy duvet a remedy for everything. In her well-scrubbed kitchen in Waldenburg, she would wrap the duvet around little Franz and little Eberhard, saying: “Hide your heads in the duvet. The room’s cold. And where it is cold there are evil spirits. It’s a sign from them.”