‘Ne jem Polak,’ the man said, genuinely outraged, ‘jestem Prußakiem.’
Rath raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture. ‘Easy now, easy! I’m not sure what you thought you heard, but I don’t have anything against Poles.’
The man wouldn’t be appeased. Already alarmingly close, he took another step towards Rath and emitted a Babylonian torrent of words, accompanying the outburst by slamming his fist on the table. Rath took a step back. He’d never have guessed the residents here, whether Polish or German, could say so much in one go.
Some of the patrons were amused, others got to their feet. Rath didn’t imagine they’d be on his side if things turned nasty. He doubted whether they had actually been privy to the exchange; more likely, they were simply spoiling for a fight, glad to show this big-city type what they thought of him.
He should have brought Kowalski after all! In any low dive in Berlin he could resolve this, but here, without a local by his side, he felt helpless. He was debating how identifying himself as a police officer would play when the man in the linen suit and wire-framed spectacles stood up, placed his serviette next to his roast potatoes and said something to the old-timer and the men beside him.
Rath could have sworn that he, too, was speaking in Polish. After his experience with the old man, however, he resolved to keep his counsel, standing with his fists inwardly raised, waiting to see what would happen.
Glasses man seemed to have found the right words, even if Rath hadn’t understood them. The men laughed heartily and clapped the old-timer on the shoulder. He returned to his schnapps, which the landlord refilled, and the men, who moments before had been itching for a fight, did likewise. One of them said something to his neighbour and pointed at Rath, and they burst out laughing again.
He turned to face his saviour, who took him by the arm. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Leave Pritzkus here a few marks for your beer and for Adamek’s Korn, then get your hat and coat. It’s best we go elsewhere. Who knows how long the mood will hold.’
Rath did as bidden, remembering his cigarettes from the table, and the pair exited the lounge. ‘Thanks again,’ he said when they reached the marketplace. ‘Things could have got nasty in there.’ He opened his cigarette case, and offered an Overstolz.
‘No problem,’ the man said, lighting up. ‘Strangers rarely venture inside Pritzkus’s. You have to do your bit to prevent misunderstandings.’
‘No kidding. I don’t have any Polish.’
‘That wasn’t Polish Adamek was speaking.’
‘I still didn’t understand a word.’
‘It was Masurian,’ the man continued. ‘A variant of Polish, maybe, but the people here are proud Prussians. They don’t consider themselves Polish.’
‘I’m Prussian too,’ Rath said. ‘Rhine-Prussian.’
‘A “Booty-Prussian” then. These people are Ur-Prussians. They’ve always been great patriots, even in times when no one spoke German apart from the parish priest and estate owner.’
‘Some of them still don’t seem to have learned any German.’
‘Old Adamek understands everything, believe me. He just feels more at home in his native language, especially after a few schnapps. But he’s a Prussian patriot through and through.’
‘Yes, I realise that.’
‘Forget about it, it’s over now. But you should be more careful about using the word Polish, especially here in Treuburg, where people are proud of the fact that only two votes were cast for Poland in the entire district.’
‘You know your stuff.’
‘It’s my job.’ The man stretched out a hand. ‘Rammoser,’ he said. ‘Karl Rammoser. I’m the teacher over at the village school in Wielitzken. A good place to contemplate the vagaries of the passage of time.’
‘Rath, CID Berlin.’
‘Delighted. But there’s no need for introductions. News here travels fast.’
‘In that case, since we’re already acquainted, let me stand you a beer.’
‘Gladly.’
‘Then you can tell me what kind of Prussian you are. Going by your name, I’d say Alpine-Prussian. But as far as I know, Old Fritz only occupied Silesia, not Tyrol as well.’
Rammoser nodded. ‘Alpine-Prussian,’ he repeated. ‘First time I’ve heard it – but it rings true. Or, at least, true enough.’
A short time later they sat in a more welcoming bar, suggested by Rammoser. ‘A Rhine-Prussian like you won’t stand out quite so much in the Kronprinzen. It’s even open to holidaymakers.’
Indeed, it looked like there were a few eating their supper on the adjoining table. From Berlin, judging by all the big mouths, from father down to youngest daughter. Still, anything was better than the Salzburger Hof, where staff would keep Chief Constable Grigat informed of Rath’s every move. ‘It’s nice here,’ he said. ‘Why would you go to Pritzkus’s?’
‘Because,’ Rammoser raised his glass, ‘it’s cheap and the food’s good. How much do you think a Prussian village schoolmaster earns?’
‘You’re speaking to a fellow comrade-in-suffering,’ Rath said, likewise raising his glass. ‘To Prussia and its destitute officials.’ The men clinked glasses. ‘Rammoser doesn’t sound very Prussian to me. Are you from Bavaria?’
‘Try telling my father he wasn’t Prussian. He’d have challenged you to a duel.’ He set his beer glass down. ‘No, my family came to Prussia from Salzburg two hundred years ago, like many other Protestants who were expelled at that time.’
‘Then you’re a refugee, a kind of Huguenot?’
‘Something like that,’ Rammoser said. ‘You wouldn’t believe how many nationalities have been subject to Prussian rule down the years. Germans, French, Dutch, Silesians, Lithuanians, Jews, and, of course, Poles. And they all consider themselves Prussian. More Prussian, at any rate, than some Rhinelander looted from Napoleon’s bankruptcy assets.’
‘So that’s why the old man reacted so sensitively. I thought he was Polish.’
‘Do you know what bound the Poles across the generations, even when they no longer had a nation to call their own? It wasn’t language, but religion. And do you know why twelve years ago nearly all Masurians voted for Prussia? In spite of the language?’
‘Religion.’ Rath felt as if he were back at school.
‘Correct,’ Rammoser said. ‘The Masurians have lived under Prussian rule for years. They’re Protestant through and through, as well as being Prussian patriots. Ordinary people here have always spoken Polish – or Masurian, which is a Polish dialect, as opposed to a German one. We, the teachers, are responsible for the fact that the younger generation speaks German. But at home, with their grandparents, I’d be willing to bet that most still speak Masurian.’
‘So they are kind of Polish, then?’
‘That’s a delicate subject since the 1920 plebiscite. No one wanted to be suspected of harbouring Polish sympathies, least of all the Masurians.’ He lowered his voice. ‘There were some pretty ugly scenes. Beatings, broken windows, arson attacks and worse. Some people here turned into real Pole-bashers. The relationship’s been poisoned ever since. Not that the newly created Polish state was entirely blameless, of course; if they’d had their way they’d have annexed all of East Prussia. They would still. At least, that’s what people around here think, and they’re wary as a result. You have to understand that old Adamek probably thought you were trying to insult him.’
‘If he really wants to be German, then perhaps he should speak the language.’
‘First, he doesn’t want to be German, but, above all, Prussian. Second, after five or six Doppelkorn Adamek only speaks Masurian – but that doesn’t make him any less German. Any claims to the contrary, and you’ll have me to deal with!’