"Eine Einführung in eine Geschichte über Geschichten."
The midday twilight hung over the city, it's smoggy clouds darting through the streets like the tributaries of a great river, the mard magnificence of the gilt peaks atop the Oberpfarr - barely visible in the thick air. And there beneath the chemical aggression trod Wachtmeister Haas, always Luka and not for reasons of friendliness. Luka was a tall man with a matching face, his nose was stubby and with his "moderne" pencil mustache he gave the unfortunate impression of a slightly startled clock, that is he would if his face could be seen under his respirator mask. Instead all that could be seen of Hier Haas was the faint glow of his illuminators and the faint outline of his narrow frame, but what Hier Haas could see (or what could be seen of him) was irrelevant what mattered at this exact moment was what he could hear. Behind him ,like the ticking of his absent watch, came the a flat footed step. "step yet quick, step gentil, step quiet. . ." he breathed as an inching mouse away from a lion. Hunched double he slipped his feet across the smog-oiled cobbles and round from his prior walked path. And then as suddenly as they had come the footsteps stopped. Pricked and panicked Luka desperately held his breath as he searched for a sound, and there time stood still for Luka.
The blade was pulled out with the swiftest precision of the bootless assailant. And as quick as he had come he was gone. And there alone under the chemical aggression, slumped against a gaslamp, sat Luka Haas.
As the fiery ring, of chemical reactors and distillation plants and foundries that encircled the city, shut down Berlin breathed a sigh of relief. By morning light the choking grip about the city would have lifted enough to see and by that following afternoon the city's parks and open places would be packed with the young and youthful, making the most of their daylight hours, respirator free, partnered and paired they'd mark there love in words and niceties outlining their labours fruits and the better days yet unfulfilled. Yet on monday's morn the last light of the sun would be lifted as the hellfires lit once more and the nauseous mixture filled the air, and with respirators on and glazed eyes ahead the factory workers of the outer city would slump into work as young-things that managed and marshall their floors and held in their lines. And over all this the greying eyes of the upper-managment, gilt, glinting, bespectacled and ever-present, would sweep the floor. And ever quiet, and ever flinching, whirred the second floor typists and accountants clipped and quick they sweat and crumple as a lion roams in his domain.
Hans, to his "friends", Heir Gebhardt, to those that displeased him, loomed over the desk of administrative clerk Zucker. "Heir Zucker, how long have you worked this department?", Hans saw the man's mind spinning and clicking desperate to pre-guess the answer, "Umm . . . four years . . . I think", with unnecessary swiftness Zucker was cut short, "Four years now Heir Zucker, Four years, two days and three months you have been on our payroll." there sat silence. "Now Heir Zucker I am of the understanding that we may have had some sort of minor clerical error, it seems that you have been paid for One-Thousand Four-Hundred ,Three and Twenty of those days, Congratulations Heir Zucker that is a lot of days, especial since ,by my counting you have not actually worked all of those day's. Quite impressive. . ." Hans laughed ,shrilly. Zucker chuckled limply, sweat dripped from the man's brow, he now saw his doom. "But wait one moment Heir Zucker this can't be right, administrative assistant Heir Weiger has been in our employ for . . . four years, five days and two months and yet . . . he has been paid for . . . lets see . . ."his razor-thin fingers scratched a line into his clipboard. "One-Thousand Four-Hundred, Seven and Ninety days." he paused and smiled "now lets see if we add the four years of 'generous' holiday, ignore that Heir Weiger kindly worked overtime on his holidays bar Weinacht of course, then account for the extra days you have been in our employ . . . then, correct me If I'm wrong . . . you have been paid for about 100 days that you have not worked. Is it a clerical error Heir Zucker!?" his last words hissed forth like a veil serpent's tongue. "No Heir Gebhardt . . ." Zucker mumbled, "NO! Then care to explain your self Heir Zucker, as friends I must know what ails you so gravely." The twisted attempt at consern formed across his face, but as his lips pulled to try and restrain his boiling mixture of amusement and anger they snapped into a snarl. At this Zucker began to sob and Hans pounced, he well knew the story of the Zuckers. They were Austrian immigrant Jews desperately trying to "feed off of good working Germans". "I-I'm sorry Heir Gebhardt but the late Heir Eisenach and I had an agreement, I would work for 10 years in his company on reduced pay and I return I would be given 100 days of pay to care for my wife, and our child." his face low Hans began to tut "Heir Zucker, I will ignore your greedy disdain of you more that sufficient pay but, as you well know, city bylaw 98 states '. . .all and any agreements made on person must be kept till death. . . And by that, . . . any that are broken must fulfill forfeit set by the wounded party and agreed by court.' Now as you know the Young Heir Eisenach is not so fond of the Jews and as a man of some standing he has many friends. Now I may not agree with Heir Eisenach on all things . . ." a gentle grin revealed his malice. ". . . but there is one thing I do not like. . . LAZINESS, HEIR ZUCKER LAZINESS!" the man cowered "no please, my daughter . . . I can't . . . please Hans . . . I"m begging you . . . as a friend" Zucker new his words had failed to impress. "Heir Zucker, you attempt to take advantage of our friendship, I am officially dismissing you of your duties and obligations from now till a date indeterminate, under company policy you are entitled to take three administrative dossiers as proof of employ at this department, as a four year worker you are entitled to keep you typewriter, If asked why you left your previous employ you must either disclose all details listed in paragraphs 4, 7 and 9 of the following document or hand the document over to a relevant authority for it to be logged on your record . . ." Gebhardt wiped out a stamp, slapped the document on Zucker's desk and slammed down with enough force to make the typewriter gitter. ". . . I therefore must inform you that your work quality has been compromised due to lack of full and ,foremost ,prompt engagement and therefore you will be docked your final weeks pay in order to fully investigate all works that you completed in the last 24 months. We hope you find all unmentioned information in you document of lack of compliance." to this Gebhardt pulled from his finely tailored waistcoat another document, placed it on the desk, turned and walked away from Zucker's desk. The door slammed and there silence sat.
The steeled halls of industry hold their grip about the city through the weak and scared the night with thick, syrupy smog that sits like a cancer, and whilst through the weekend a well to do man might play the gent straw-hatted and stripped, but in the week nights he has but the indoors to swallow his sorrow. Bars might drown sorrow and anger and might nullify pity but they cannot quench lust nor lift spirits. And so these lonely and hollowed men turn to the darker corners of the inner city, the basements and sub-basements of major office blocks and apartments and estranged buildings left unused, and their they find their comfort and sucker. It is in one of these scarlet and sequinsed establishments that Madam Sympa found her employ. She sat still and heavy breathing gazing startled in the mirror; her black hair carefully curled; her lips rouged and pert; her blue eyes were as still as a whirlpool in a small pond, deep and focused. And finally she blinked as the slightest of teardrops rolled down her cheeks, dragging her miscarra with them, they tensed against her powdered face forcing them into the gentlest ovelets. She lifted the frayed and feathered hat, lifting it gently, and placed it at a considered jaunty angle. At that a knock came at the door. A slight male whisper uttered forth "Madame, deux minute s'il vous plaît". Standing cautiously, her looming hat well balanced, she walked towards the door. "On my way Henri" her voice was not deep and husky as one might expect or shrill and empty as might be feared, instead it was full and of a median tone, it was, like her actions, both considerate and purposeful. The front tables were filled and bustling but at once they stilled as the music began, at once it was longing and playful, painful and joyous and above all it was quiet.
In the far back of the Cabaret sat a dark figure his face obscured and his garb was meticulously blatant and unnoteworthy, seemingly conspicuous in all conditions and at great distance, and yet he was unnoticed by everyone in the room, all eyes were elsewhere . . . all eyes but one pair of brightest blue, ocean deep, whirlpool eyes.
He had enjoyed the show. It might have been suspect place to find a Polizeioberkommissar under Von Baden, but after war with Russia, the revolution and the compromise between the Keiser and the SPD, near enough anything was possible. And that was the attitude now, when the young Wachtmeister walked up to the bar one of the lesser cocaine dealers , Erich die Ärmel, tried to interest "the discerning young gentleman in a small amount of powdered stimulant." The boy was keen, he asked Erich for his permit of trade, asked who had licensed it, and under which sales tarif he was operating. All textbook, all correct, but he failed to notice the Erich was sweating a small river and answered every question with a fixed, confused, pause and a grin. That reminded him, he needed to pull Erich over for a quick chat, about how many grams in favours the young mister Baumgaertner owe. His mind refocused. Poor Haas, he was a good Wachtmeister. Unfortunate name but good at hiding, and a sight better at listening that this new boy. He remembered the first night Haas was on desk. He had been keen too , they all were, the poor bastard had drifted off to sleep after putting in two shifts the night befor. How was the boy to know that Frau Eichel came in every friday to complain about "the sinful and destitute nature of the force." And here he was, it had been a neat job, quick, quiet and most importantly, public . . . it would have been hard to notice him on a friday night, but a saturday . . . let alone a sunday, the place was packed full it didn't make sense. He'd only be spotted on the monday morning, not sunday when the church was bustling and full of the god-fearing, not saturday when the parks were filled with children and young couples. "Are we absolutely sure he was killed on the friday." he turned to the gangly lab assistant standing behind him "Yes, Heir kommissar. If not the friday then the thursday. . . all things considered.". "Right . . . doesn't it strike you as odd that no one reported him." the assistant looked surprised, she appeared to be in complete shock, as it it was inconceivable that she had not preempted the question. "Well . . . it is a bit odd . . I suppose he must have have been hidden from sight." He looked around, whilst it was true Haas was obscured from the park by a shrub and this was the rear end of the far side of the church, but it wasn't by sight that a corpse like this was found, almost on cue one of the standing Wachtmeister gaged, lifted his respirator and let out a veil stream of bile. He glanced up at her covered face and saw it wince. "Strange."