telephone. The voice of Counsellor Herbert Domagalla from the Vice Department grated in the receiver:
“Eberhard, come over to the ‘chocolatier’ straight away. I’m here with Ebners and Völlinger. We can play a couple of rounds of bridge.”
Mock concluded that he would be able to return to the point of departure equally well the next day and decided to have his dry wine at Schaal’s chocolate shop instead.
† Eat first, then philosophize.
BRESLAU, THAT SAME NOVEMBER 29TH, 1927
TWO O’CLOCK IN THE AFTERNOON
Winter sun flooded the white parlour. Its walls flaunted white-painted panelling; the white varnish of the furniture glistened, the white upholstery tempted with its softness; the white-glazed grand piano elegantly raised its wing. This whiteness was broken by the cream tapestries that hung on the wall, and by the unnatural flush on Sophie’s cheeks as she passionately struck the keyboard, transforming the piano into a percussion instrument. Elisabeth’s violin sobbed and squeaked, attempting – in vain – to break through the piano’s crescendo. The bare branch of a maple tree, thrashed by the wind, beat an accompaniment against the window-pane, down which trickled pitiful remnants of snow. They also trickled down caretaker Gurwitsch’s inadequately wiped shoes as, having let himself in through the front door with his key, he unceremoniously and without knocking opened the door to the parlour. With relief the women interrupted their playing and rubbed their chilled fingers. A small, dirty coal-caddy on wheels rolled across the white parquet. The caretaker opened the stove door and poured in a few generous shovelfuls of coal. He then stood straight as an arrow and looked expectantly at Elisabeth, who felt a headache coming on when she saw the muddy patches left by his boots. The violinist reached for her purse, handed Gurwitsch half a mark and politely thanked him. The recipient clearly did not intend to leave.
“I realize, Miss Pflüger,” the tenement’s most important occupant smiled cordially, “that half a mark is enough for bringing in the coal. That’s what I always get,” he explained to Sophie, “when Miss Pflüger has given her servants the day off. But today,” he looked at Elisabeth again, “I deserve more.”
“And why is that, my good man?” Sophie, irritated by this banter, stood up from the piano.
“Because today …” Gurwitsch turned up his walrus moustache and glanced lecherously at Miss Pflüger’s friend. “Because today I could have revealed many truths about Miss Pflüger, but instead I told a pack of lies.”
“How dare you!” Sophie’s affected tone had no effect on Elisabeth, who quickly asked:
“You lied? To whom? Who was asking about me?”
Gurwitsch folded his arms over his protruding belly and twiddled his thumbs. As he did so he winked knowingly at Sophie, gradually infuriating her with his impertinence. Elisabeth reached for her purse once more, and Gurwitsch’s willingness to continue the conversation returned.
“The plain-clothes policeman who came after you arrived this morning, that’s who.”
“And what did you tell him?” Elisabeth said.
“He wanted to know who comes to see Miss Pflüger, whether men visit, whether they spend the night, whether Miss Pflüger drinks or snorts snow, what state she comes home in and at what time. He also asked about the other lady. Whether she visits Miss Pflüger frequently, and whether there are any men with her.” The caretaker smiled at the five-mark note Elisabeth had rolled into a narrow straw. “And I said that Miss Pflüger is an extremely respectable lady who is sometimes visited by her mother.”
Gurwitsch held out his hand for the money, astounded by his own perspicacity and intelligence, thanks to which he had earned a week’s worth of vouchers for the canteen.
“Wait,” Sophie said, taking the rolled-up note from her friend’s fingers. “How do we know all this isn’t a lie, that our good
“Eberhard, come over to the ‘chocolatier’ straight away. I’m here with Ebners and Völlinger. We can play a couple of rounds of bridge.”
Mock concluded that he would be able to return to the point of departure equally well the next day and decided to have his dry wine at Schaal’s chocolate shop instead.
† Eat first, then philosophize.
BRESLAU, THAT SAME NOVEMBER 29TH, 1927
TWO O’CLOCK IN THE AFTERNOON
Winter sun flooded the white parlour. Its walls flaunted white-painted panelling; the white varnish of the furniture glistened, the white upholstery tempted with its softness; the white-glazed grand piano elegantly raised its wing. This whiteness was broken by the cream tapestries that hung on the wall, and by the unnatural flush on Sophie’s cheeks as she passionately struck the keyboard, transforming the piano into a percussion instrument. Elisabeth’s violin sobbed and squeaked, attempting – in vain – to break through the piano’s crescendo. The bare branch of a maple tree, thrashed by the wind, beat an accompaniment against the window-pane, down which trickled pitiful remnants of snow. They also trickled down caretaker Gurwitsch’s inadequately wiped shoes as, having let himself in through the front door with his key, he unceremoniously and without knocking opened the door to the parlour. With relief the women interrupted their playing and rubbed their chilled fingers. A small, dirty coal-caddy on wheels rolled across the white parquet. The caretaker opened the stove door and poured in a few generous shovelfuls of coal. He then stood straight as an arrow and looked expectantly at Elisabeth, who felt a headache coming on when she saw the muddy patches left by his boots. The violinist reached for her purse, handed Gurwitsch half a mark and politely thanked him. The recipient clearly did not intend to leave.
“I realize, Miss Pflüger,” the tenement’s most important occupant smiled cordially, “that half a mark is enough for bringing in the coal. That’s what I always get,” he explained to Sophie, “when Miss Pflüger has given her servants the day off. But today,” he looked at Elisabeth again, “I deserve more.”
“And why is that, my good man?” Sophie, irritated by this banter, stood up from the piano.
“Because today …” Gurwitsch turned up his walrus moustache and glanced lecherously at Miss Pflüger’s friend. “Because today I could have revealed many truths about Miss Pflüger, but instead I told a pack of lies.”
“How dare you!” Sophie’s affected tone had no effect on Elisabeth, who quickly asked:
“You lied? To whom? Who was asking about me?”
Gurwitsch folded his arms over his protruding belly and twiddled his thumbs. As he did so he winked knowingly at Sophie, gradually infuriating her with his impertinence. Elisabeth reached for her purse once more, and Gurwitsch’s willingness to continue the conversation returned.
“The plain-clothes policeman who came after you arrived this morning, that’s who.”
“And what did you tell him?” Elisabeth said.
“He wanted to know who comes to see Miss Pflüger, whether men visit, whether they spend the night, whether Miss Pflüger drinks or snorts snow, what state she comes home in and at what time. He also asked about the other lady. Whether she visits Miss Pflüger frequently, and whether there are any men with her.” The caretaker smiled at the five-mark note Elisabeth had rolled into a narrow straw. “And I said that Miss Pflüger is an extremely respectable lady who is sometimes visited by her mother.”
Gurwitsch held out his hand for the money, astounded by his own perspicacity and intelligence, thanks to which he had earned a week’s worth of vouchers for the canteen.
“Wait,” Sophie said, taking the rolled-up note from her friend’s fingers. “How do we know all this isn’t a lie, that our good
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