Death in Breslau (22 page)

Mock gave Zupitza the signal. The rod found itself in Konrad’s jaws again and Zupitza yanked the pliers down. What remained of the broken tooth crunched in its gum. At the next signal, Zupitza broke off a bit of the second upper first. Konrad choked on blood, wheezed and sobbed. After a minute, they removed the rod from his teeth. Unfortunately, Schmidt could not say anything because his jaw was dislocated. It took Smolorz a long time to put it back in place.

“I am asking you again. Who is that Turk? What is his name and what is he doing at the Gestapo?”

“I don’t know. I swear.”

This time Schmidt pressed his jaws together so tightly as to make it impossible for them to reintroduce the rod. Then Wirth took a hammer and positioned a huge nail on the hand of the bound man. He slammed at the hammer. Konrad screamed. Not for the first time that day, Zupitza demonstrated his reflexes. When the Gestapo-man’s jaws flew open, the rod quickly found itself between them.

“Are you going to talk or do you want to lose some more teeth?” asked Anwaldt. “Are you going to talk?”

The prisoner nodded. The rod was removed.

“Kemal Erkin. He came to the Gestapo in order to train. The boss holds him in high esteem. I don’t know any more.”

“Where does he live?”

“I don’t know.”

Mock was certain that Konrad had told them everything. Unfortunately – even too much. Because in the broken, stifled phrase
“For you, it’s …” he had touched on the murky secret of Mock’s agreement with Piontek. Luckily, he had only brushed up against it. Mock did not know whether any of the men present could guess the rest of the sentence. He looked at the tired but clearly moved Anwaldt and at Smolorz, calm as usual.
(No, they probably haven’t guessed.)
Wirth and Zupitza looked at Mock in expectation.

“We won’t get any more out of him, gentlemen.” He got up close to Konrad and gagged him again. “Wirth, there’s to be no trace left of this man, understood? Apart from that, I advise you leave Germany. You were seen in that tavern butchering Schmidt. If you’d acted like professionals and waited for him to go outside, you could safely carry on with your business. But you got carried away. Did you have to deal with him in the tavern? I had no idea you got so violent when someone offers you vodka. Too bad. Tomorrow, when Konrad doesn’t turn up for work … the day after tomorrow at the latest, the entire Gestapo in Breslau will be looking for your distinctive mugs. In three days, they’re going to be looking for you all over Germany. I advise you to leave the country. Go somewhere far away … I consider your debt repaid.”

X

BRESLAU, MONDAY, JULY 16TH, 1934
NINE O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING

Konrad Schmidt’s body had been lying at the bottom of the Oder beyond Hollandwiesen for ten hours already when Mock and Anwaldt lit up their choice Bairam cigars from Przedecki’s and were having their first sip of strong, Arabic coffee. Leo Hartner did not conceal his pleasure. He was sure he was going to surprise and interest his listeners. Pacing his office, he constructed in his mind a plan of how to present his report, appropriately distributing the turning-points, composing apt recapitulations. Seeing that his guests were growing impatient with the prevailing silence, he began his lecture with apparent retardation.

“My dear friends, in his
Geschichte der persischen Litteratur
Wilhelm Grünhagen mentioned a lost historical work from the fourteenth century describing the Crusades. This work, entitled
The War of Allah’s Army against the Infidels
, was supposed to have been written by a certain educated Persian, an Ibn Sahim. Gentlemen – ‘So what?’ – you may say. After all, many works have disappeared … here’s … yet another old manuscript … Such disdain would, however, be unfounded. If Ibn Sahim’s work had survived to this day, we would be in possession of yet one more source of the fascinating history of the Crusades, a source all the
more interesting in that it was written by a man from the other side of the barricades – a Musulman.”

Mock and Anwaldt lived up to the lecturer’s hopes. The epic delay of the narration did not disconcert either of the would-be Classicists. Hartner was excited. He placed his slim hand on the pile of papers:

“My dear gentlemen, the dream of many an historian and Oriental specialist has been fulfilled. In front of me lies the lost work of Ibn Sahim. Who discovered it? Yes, yes – it was Georg Maass. True enough, I don’t know how he discovered that the manuscript was to be found in the University of Breslau’s library, whether he was the one who found a clue or whether someone gave it to him. And it is not easy to find a manuscript which – as this one is – has been bound with two other, lesser manuscripts. To put it briefly, this discovery will bring Maass world fame … The more so since, working on the piece, he is simultaneously translating it into German. And – this I do have to concede – he is translating faithfully and most beautifully. The photographic prints which you gave me are a literal translation of a very interesting fragment of that chronicle. It speaks of a macabre murder committed in the year 1205 by two men – a Turk and a Crusader – on the children of Al-Shausi, the leader of the Yesidi sect. Those who know the history of the Crusades will be surprised, for in 1205, during the fourth Crusade, the Crusaders did not go beyond Constantinople! But one cannot exclude single sallies of at least a few detachments even into the distant territories of Anatolia or, perhaps, Mesopotamia. These seekers of adventure and riches plundered what they could, sometimes in excellent mutual understanding with the Muslims. The Yesidis frequently became the target of their attacks …”

Anwaldt sat listening, all ears. Mock glanced at his watch and opened his mouth politely to ask Hartner to get to the point. The latter, fortunately, understood his intention:

“Yes, yes, your Excellency, I’m just going to explain who these Yesidis
were. This rather secret sect, which came into being in the twelfth century and exists to this day, is commonly considered as being satanic. This is a great simplification. Indeed, the Yesidis do worship Satan, but a Satan that is already being punished for his sins. Despite the punishment, however, he is still omnipotent. They call this god of evil Malek Tau, represent him in the guise of a peacock, and believe that he rules the world with the help of six or seven angels, also represented as iron or bronze peacocks. To put it briefly, the Yesidi religion is a mixture of Islam, Christianity, Judaism and Mazdaism, that is, all the faiths whose representatives crossed the mountains in the centre of Mesopotamia, west of Mosul, leaving behind crumbs of their beliefs. On a day-to-day basis, the Yesidis are a peaceful, honest and clean people – and this the nineteenth-century traveller and archaeologist, Austen Henry Layard, clearly emphasized – who have been persecuted over entire centuries by everyone: the Crusaders, Arabs, Turks and Kurds. So do not be surprised that alliances against the Yesidis were forged even between those who fought each other, such as the Crusaders and the Saracens. For all these persecutors, the cult of the god of evil was a stumbling block which justified the cruellest of slaughters. The decimated Yesidis avenged themselves on their enemies in the same way, passing down the dictates of ancestral revenge from generation to generation. To this day, they live on the borders of Turkey and Persia, retaining their unaltered customs and strange faith …”

“Doctor Hartner,” the impatient Mock could no longer bear it. “What you’re saying is very interesting, but please tell us, does this interesting story from centuries ago – apart from the fact that Maass brought it into the light of day – have any bearing on our case?”

“Yes. A great deal,” Hartner adored surprises. “But let us be precise, gentlemen: it is not Maass who brought this chronicle out into the light of day, but the person who murdered Marietta von der Malten,” he relished the astonished expression of his listeners. “I declare with full responsibility
that the writing on the wall of the saloon carriage where that unfortunate girl was found comes from precisely that Persian chronicle. In translation, it reads: ‘And scorpions did in their innards dance’. Keep calm, I will try to answer all of your questions presently … Now I’ll give you one more piece of important information. An anonymous source from the end of the thirteenth century, recorded in the writings of a Frankish chronicler, states that the teenage children of the Yesidi leader, Al-Shausi, were murdered by a ‘German knight’. Only two of our compatriots took part in the fourth Crusade. One of them died in Constantinople. The other was Godfryd von der Malten. Yes, gentlemen, our Baron’s ancestor.”

Mock choked on his coffee, black drops sprayed his pale suit. Anwaldt gave a start and experienced the action of that hormone which, in human beings, is responsible for making bodily hair stand on end. Both then smoked in silence. Observing the impression he had made on his listeners, Hartner could scarcely contain himself for joy, which contrasted rather strangely with the gloomy history of the Yesidis and Crusaders. Mock broke the silence:

“I’m lost for words to thank you, sir, for such an insightful, expert appraisal. My assistant and myself, we are deeply moved, bearing in mind that this whole story throws new light on our puzzle. Will you allow me, sir, to ask you a few questions? This will inevitably mean betraying a few secrets concerning the investigation, which you will be so kind as to keep to yourself.”

“Naturally. I’m listening.”

“From your expert report, one could conclude that Marietta von der Malten’s murder was revenge taken after centuries. The bloody writing in the saloon carriage, taken from a work unknown to anyone and generally considered to be lost, testifies to this. My first question is: could Professor Andreae who is, after all, well acquainted with Eastern writings and languages, for some reason be unable to decipher the quotation?
Because if you exclude that, it will be clear that he deliberately misled us.”

“My dear sir, Andreae did not understand the writing. It’s obvious. This scholar is, above all, a specialist in Turkish studies and, as far as I know, knows no Eastern language apart from Turkish, Arabic, Hebrew, Syrian and Coptic. Whereas Ibn Sahim’s chronicle is written in Persian. The Yesidis spoke Persian; today they use Kurdish. Try giving an expert – however excellent – in the Hebrew language a text in Yiddish but written in the Hebraic alphabet, and I assure you that without knowing Yiddish, he’ll be helpless. Andreae knew Arabic writing because, until recently, Turkish texts used to be written only in Arabic. But he does not know Persian, I know that perfectly well because I used to be one of his students. So, he saw a text written in the Arabic alphabet, which he knows, but he hardly understood any of the text. Since he is trying, at any price, to salvage his academic prestige, he concocted a translation from, as it were, ancient Syrian. And he has, by the by, concocted more than once. He once invented some Coptic inscriptions basing his post-doctoral thesis on them …”

“If Maass discovered the chronicle …” – this time it was Anwaldt who spoke – “a fragment of which was found on the wall of the saloon carriage … that means he’s the murderer. Unless someone else, who had dealings with the text before him, slipped it to Maass for some reason. Did anyone before Maass use any of the three manuscripts bound together?”

“I checked most meticulously the reading-room loan register of the last twenty years, and the answer is: no. Since 1913 – because that’s the date the records start – no-one before Maass made use of the manuscripts which are bound together.”

“Dear Herbert,” Mock’s voice resounded, “Maass has a cast-iron alibi. On May 12th, 1933, he gave two lectures in Königsberg, and this has been confirmed by six of his listeners. On the other hand he does undoubtedly have something to do with the murderers. Why otherwise
would he deceive us and translate the text from the carriage quite differently? And apart from that, how did he know that the manuscript could be found here? Maybe he stumbled on the traces of this Persian chronicle when he was researching Marietta’s obituary? But, I should apologize, these questions are for Maass. Sir,” he addressed Hartner again, “is it possible that someone could have read this manuscript without leaving any trace in the records?”

“No librarian will lend out a manuscript without writing it down in the notebook. Besides, only scholars with appropriate references from the university can handle the manuscripts.”

“Unless the librarian colluded with the reader and did not make the rightful entry.”

“Such a collusion, I cannot exclude.”

“Do you employ anyone who has completed their Oriental Studies?”

“Not at the moment. Two years ago, a librarian who was a specialist in Arabic worked for me; he moved to Marburg where he was appointed to a chair at the university.”

“Name?”

“Otto Specht.”

“There’s one question gnawing at me,” Anwaldt said quietly, while putting the name in his notebook. “Why was Marietta von der Malten’s murder so contrived? Is it perhaps because the children of the arch-Yesidi, so to speak, were killed in an equally cruel manner? Is it that the means used in vengeance have to correspond exactly to the crime committed centuries ago? What really happened? What does the chronicler write about it?”

Hartner shuddered with the cold and poured himself another cup of steaming coffee.

“A very good question. Let us give the voice to the Persian chronicle.”

XI

MESOPOTAMIA, DJABAL SINDJAR MOUNTAINS, THREE DAYS ON HORSEBACK WEST OF MOSUL. SECOND SAFAR OF THE SIX HUNDRED FIRST YEAR OF HIDJRA

Here speaks Ibn Sahim, son of Hussain, may Allah have mercy on him. This chapter contains information about the just vengeance taken by Allah’s soldier on the children of the Satanic
pir,
may his name be cursed for ever and ever …

The evening sun was slipping ever lower across the blue firmament. The outlines of the mountains were becoming sharper and the air clearer. Above the steep crag, the suite of riders moved slowly. At its head rode two leaders: a Crusader and a Turkish warrior. When they had reached the edge of the mountainous ravine beyond which stretched a gentle slope, they brought their horses to a halt and with obvious satisfaction stretched out beneath the stone meanderings of rocks which brought to mind cathedral spires. About forty of the accompanying riders, half of them Christian, half Muslim, did the same. With relief, the Crusader removed his helmet, called a
salada
, the elongated back end of which had impressed a red,
swollen band on his wet neck. Rivulets of sweat escaped from beneath the basinet and ran down the tunic adorned with Maltese crosses. His mount, harnessed in a nose-band of finely wrought work, was breathing freely; white sheets of froth slipped down its sides.