The End of the World in Breslau Read Online Free PDF

expression.
“That assistant of yours, Smolorz, he’s a bit taciturn,” Meinerer was triumphant. “He didn’t tell you there was a universal calendar hanging on the wall, the kind you tear the pages out of. Do you know which page had been torn out last?”
“12th September?” Meinerer nodded as Mock looked at him with approval. “The one the murderer attached to the victim’s waistcoat with a pin? Do you have the calendar with you?”
“Here it is.” Meinerer brightened and handed Mock yet another brown envelope.
“Good work,” Mock said, and slipped it into his coat pocket. “I’ll take care of it; I’ll check whether the page on the waistcoat comes from this very calendar.”
Then he looked at his silent subordinate with amusement and quite unexpectedly patted him on the shoulder.
“Go and follow Erwin, Meinerer. My nephew is more important to me than all the walled- and unwalled-in corpses in this city.”

BRESLAU, THAT SAME NOVEMBER 28TH, 1927
ONE O’CLOCK IN THE AFTERNOON
    The agreeable bulldog kept leaving his place behind the bar to refill the stove. He smiled pleasantly as he did so, nodding in agreement to everything Mock said. Accepting his interlocutor’s anti-American and anti-Soviet views, he did not utter a single word throughout.
Mock downed his third beer of the day and decided to move on to something stronger. Not in the habit of drinking alone, he ordered two glasses of juniper schnapps and pushed one towards the barman, the only other person in the room. The barman grasped the glass in his dirty fingers and emptied it in one go.
Into the tavern stepped a short travelling salesman bearing a box of goods.
“Kind gentlemen, Solingen knives cut everything – even nails and hooks,” he began his sales pitch.
“This is a tavern. Either order something or clear out,” snarled the bulldog, proving he could speak after all.
The salesman reached into his pocket and, not finding a single pfennig, began to retreat.
“Hey!” Mock came to life. “I’m standing this gentleman a drink. Another juniper schnapps for us, if you please.”
The salesman took off his coat, stood his box on the ground and sat down next to Mock. The barman did his duty. A moment later, only the wet marks left by two glasses remained on the faux-marble countertop.
“They really are excellent knives,” the salesman returned to his original theme. “You can cut an onion with them quickly and efficiently, or bread, sausages, or” – here the little fellow winked at Mock – “shred your mother-in-law!”
Nobody laughed, not even the joker himself. Mock paid for another round of schnapps and leaned over to his companion.
“I’m not buying anything from you. But tell me how your business is going, how people treat you and so on. I’m a writer – I’m interested in all sorts of stories,” Mock was telling the truth, for he frequently wrote character profiles of people with whom he came in contact. Many a Breslauer would have been prepared to pay a fine sum for the information contained in these “lives of famous men”.
“I’ll tell you a story – about how these knives cut iron.” The salesman was genuinely rapturous.
“But nobody’s going to be cutting iron with them,” yelled the barman angrily. “Who needs knives like that? These scoundrels come in here, trying to force on me something I don’t need. You’re lucky this gentleman’s bought you a drink or I’d kick you out.”
The travelling salesman looked dejected. Mock stood up, put on his coat and approached the barman.
“And I say you might find these knives useful,” he said.
The salesman now blushed with satisfaction.
“And what for, may I ask?” the barman said, bewildered.
“You can use them to commit hara-kiri.” Seeing the barman did not appear to understand, Mock added, “Or dig the dirt from under your fingernails.”
The agreeable bulldog stopped being agreeable.
The weather was even less agreeable. A strong wind tore at the