Magic Hoffmann (20 page)

 

The walls and ceiling were painted with mauve stars and slogans, fifties standard lamps cast a yellow light, at the window stood two school desks full of cacti, and there was a smell of turpentine and dirty dog. The floor was concealed beneath a coat of mauve paint. In a basket, also painted mauve, Antifa lay slavering at a plastic bone. Fred squatted on a grey mattress in front of a low wooden table, while Schmitti leafed through albums in the corner. Schmitti's tea tasted vile. Fred put down the mug and read the slogans on the walls.

‘The good old Doors?' asked Schmitti over his shoulder.

Shortly afterwards, they sat opposite each other to the sound of melancholy chords, and Fred wondered if Jim Morrison's floor had also been mauve.

Riders on the storm, riders on the storm...

Schmitti was sitting cross-legged and nodding his head. ‘What do you think of my pad?'

‘Fabulous.'

‘Each of us has his room and can do what he wants with it. It was a lot of work. You can see what a state the house is in.'

‘Hmhm.'

‘Have you seen my cactus collection?'

‘Yes,' Fred replied rapidly.

Schmitti happily took a sip of tea, and his head nodded a little more energetically, as he said: ‘I'm totally thrilled you're here - honestly. Another drop of tea?'

‘Thanks, I still have some.'

‘Don't you want to know how we live and work together here?'

‘I can imagine.'

‘You're not very political then?'

Fred shrugged and sneaked a look at the time. Only fifteen minutes to go...

Schmitti raised his eyebrows and shook his head, as if to say, let's hope for the best. ‘One should take some interest in the country one lives in.'

‘I thought,' Fred pointed at Schmitti's T-shirt, ‘it was meant to perish.'

‘But you have to do something to achieve that.'

‘I'd rather do something for myself. Apropos, shouldn't we slowly...'

‘If everyone thought like that. I mean, political work isn't everything, but without political work, it all comes to nothing.'

‘Maybe, Schmitti, but it's above my head. Besides, I'm leaving in a week, and I couldn't care less if everyone here is working to make something perish or not. Now I'd like...'

‘You couldn't care less if fascism is on the doorstep?' Schmitti's voice was almost tripping over itself.

‘I don't have a doorstep.'

There was a pause. Schmitti stared furiously at Fred.

‘So you don't take it seriously? Reunification, burning refugee hostels, Neo-Nazis, terror on the streets, non-Germans who don't dare to walk around! To begin with it's only ever other people, but when it eventually gets you? Or one of your friends!'

At worst my friends are stuffing themselves with mushy rice, thought Fred and stood up.

‘Thanks for the tea, I'd like to go back down now.'

‘I really wouldn't have thought it, that you'd be just another bourgeois. Looking after your own back yard, not giving a damn what happens to anyone else.'

Fred hesitated. He'd just heard something similar that morning.

‘Listen here, Schmitti, I've been out of jail for two weeks now, and I hear Germany, Germany from all sides, and somehow it always sounds the same. You're the third person to give me a hard time because I simply want to get away. You can all kiss my arse.'

And then Fred left the room. He found his way into the cellar, and five minutes later the stone wall opened and Fred got his passport: Hans-Jörg Heim, born: Bielefeld, resident: Berlin Tempelhof.

When Fred emerged from the cellar, the clouds had dispersed, and for the first time since he had been in Berlin, the moon shone. The courtyard was bathed in milky light, and the wet cobbles gleamed. Fred stood still and breathed deeply. A huge weight fell from his shoulders... Admittedly not everything in recent weeks had gone according to plan, but now the world was his oyster again: he had his money and a passport. What happened happened, and after that, at last it was up to him again.

He drank two glasses of champagne to himself and his future in the nearest bar, then he had them phone for a taxi to take him back to the Hotel Luck.

 

Next evening Fred took Moni to dinner at le Parisien. He didn't care if Annette was there. This was to be his last evening in Berlin, and le Parisien was the finest and most expensive restaurant he knew. He ordered champagne, and Moni, who wore a kind of aviator's outfit of dark red felt, with a hairdo backcombed specially for the occasion by her hairdresser that resembled a pointed sea slug, translated the menu for him. She had often heard of le Parisien as the archetypal Berlin artist's restaurant, but she had never been there. Like Fred, she was thrilled by the decor. They were both barely conscious of the other guests.

After they had ordered from all parts of the menu and the waiter, who failed to recognise Fred with his pinstripe suit and new haircut, had gone, they talked about Fred's journey. He wanted to cross the border into Holland and board a freighter with passenger cabins bound for Canada in Rotterdam. Moni wanted to visit him in September.

‘I'll definitely have a house by the time you come: with a terrace overlooking the lake and a wooden jetty with a boat and water skis.'

‘Have you ever been water skiing?'

‘Sure... old sailor's sport!'

They laughed and gave another champagne toast. Soon the first bottle was empty and Fred signalled for the next one.

‘I imagine the orchard will begin right behind the house,' Fred explained, drawing with his finger on the table, ‘roughly this big. At the back is the factory where the apple wine is pressed and bottled. And up above in neon letters: HOPEMAN'S APPLE WINE.'

‘What does apple wine taste like?'

‘Like sharp apple juice with a shot of alcohol.'

Moni pulled a face.

‘But much, much better.' said Fred rapidly.

When the waiter brought the champagne, Fred asked if they served apple wine, whereupon the waiter answered that they had an excellent French
cidre
, but Fred, who didn't know whether the waiter would play one of his little tasting games again, declined.

The waiter disappeared, and Fred declared: ‘September is harvest time. You'll be able to taste enough then.' And he raised the refilled champagne glass. ‘Three more months...'

Moni raised her glass and smiled: ‘Deal's a deal!'

Fred paused for a moment...Yes, a deal's a deal
- what a sweet and wonderful princess.

‘To Canada,' said Moni, and they drank.

Over cognac and coffee Moni said for the first time that she loved him, and Fred remembered one of Grandma Ranunkel's old sayings: partings bring fair weather.

‘And I'll try to audition with a few ballet companies in Canada.'

Fred was speechless. He looked into Moni's eyes, which were shimmering in the candlelight, and felt as if he were sinking into soft warm cream. After four years of prison and four weeks of setbacks, after Annette and Nickel, the police and the manhunt, after all that shit, here he was sitting in the finest restaurant with money to burn, and this woman, who he believed would know a hundred more attractive men, wanted to follow him to Canada... Almost imperceptibly, he shook his head:
Magic Hoffmann goes lucky
!

‘You'll be the greatest prima ballet thingammy in all America.'

Moni laughed. She could scarcely believe it herself, but on the evening when she had left Fred's room because of his stupid remark about ballet dancers, and on subsequent occasions sitting in front of her sewing machine, she realised: this strange peasant with the goggle eyes had done it to her. She didn't want him to go, still less that he should be caught by the police, so there was only one possibility. Moni was amazed at how quickly she got used to the idea of leaving Berlin. Of course it was only a thought, and they were cheap, but Moni wasn't a dreamer, and she didn't waste any time on meaningless thoughts.

At the end of the evening Fred suggested going to Ringo's bar for a night-cap.

The landlord recognised Fred and was visibly pleased that he had grasped the fact that there was no need to fear the police in his bar. Two of the old boys were there as well, and all congratulated Fred on his charming companion. Several rounds of malt whisky later, Moni and Fred were drunk. Fred declared Berlin to be a magnificent city, and he was pressed into coming back soon, and Moni had to state how many children she wanted to have with Fred, and whether he would treat her like such a pretty little thing deserved.

Everyone embraced as they departed, then Fred and Moni staggered home. The moon shone and they kissed in doorways.

‘Maybe I will come in August.'

‘Or in July?'

‘Why not June?'

‘Yes, why not?'

‘Then let go, I have to go home quickly and pack.'

They laughed.

‘Main thing is you come,' said Fred.

‘I'll come,' Moni swore.

The fresh air sobered them up. They reached the hotel and climbed to Moni's room. It was their last night, and as the birds began to sing, they slept, exhausted, in each other's arms.

 

Next day the sun shone for the first time since Fred's arrival. And all Berlin seemed to have dolled itself up. The first green shoots were appearing on the trees along the street, windows stood open, music drifted out, the pavements were full of men in bright lightweight shirts and women with airy blouses, and the cafes had put out tables. So Grandma Ranunkel's saying was right.

The taxi that had stopped in front of the hotel had the windows wound down, and the driver's arm hung casually in the sun. Fred threw his suitcase in the boot and sat down with Moni in the back seat.

‘Zoo station, please.'

The driver turned round. ‘Is this some kind of joke? Those few metres?'

Fred gave him a twenty mark note. He was hung over, and the nearer his departure, the sadder he became. Again and again he had contemplated staying a few days longer, but the risk of being caught by the police once more was too great. Moni wore a headscarf and hid her face behind enormous sunglasses. During the past two days of farewell she hadn't got around to paying off her debts with the seven thousand marks Fred had given her, and she was afraid of running into her creditors now of all times. Even with money it wouldn't be a pretty sight, and anyway, she had more important things on her mind this particular morning.

‘You'll write with your address?'

Fred nodded. ‘As soon as I have one.'

Moni leaned across to his ear: ‘Take your time at the Dutch border. Stay at a hotel if you have to, and take a look around.'

‘It'll be OK.'

‘And call me when you're in Rotterdam.'

‘Of course.'

The taxi stopped at the entrance to the station, and they got out. In the concourse, Moni stayed with Fred's suitcase at a snack counter.

‘See you in a minute,'said Fred, and he was about to set off, when Moni grabbed him and drew him to her. The people standing at the counter smiled.

They untangled themselves after a long kiss, and Fred went to the ticket counter with a heavy heart. His train left in half an hour. As he waited in the queue he cursed the Café Budapest. How wonderful it would be, to be able to stay in Berlin now. Where the sun was shining and everything looked magnificent. He had to pull himself together. Three more months till Moni had finished her school... Three short, godawful months... He would get everything prepared: furnish the house, build a big ballet room for Moni's training, buy a sailing boat...

Suddenly the doors to the booking hall burst open, and a group of skins wearing paratroopers boots and bomber jackets marched in. Fred gave a start and turned away quickly. Then he glanced across casually to see if they were his friends from the tube. Maybe, maybe not - it was hard to spot differences with the gear they were wearing. Let's have no trouble now, thought Fred. And as if they had listened to his silent plea, the skins went around with a friendly smile distributing fliers, bearing the caption: ‘So that no-one can claim ignorance later!'

The skins also gave the passengers, as a kind of promotional gimmick, baseball caps bearing the slogan: ‘Red, black or brown - Germans for German towns.' The flier explained that scientific estimates placed the world's population in the year 2020 at ten billion people, and that it was nothing to do with nationalism or racism if one said that Germany would be on a par with Zimbabwe, for example. All peoples and cultures were equal, but in that situation only the strong would survive - and the strong would be the ones that stuck together. ‘Think of your children and grandchildren, your husband or boyfriend, your wife or girlfriend - think of those you love!'

Fred accepted both flier and baseball cap, and breathed a sigh of relief when the skins left the booking hall. People round about him were reading the fliers, whispering, laughing and shaking their heads. Baseball caps were swiftly stuffed into pockets and jackets. Several stared with strenuous outrage in the direction of the closed doors, and with a sudden outburst of scorn, flung down both flier and baseball cap for all to see. Only a few children actually put the caps on.

Fred paid for his ticket, left the booking office and went to the left luggage lockers. He saw the skins swarming through the station. With a glance he reassured himself that Moni was still at the snack counter.

He put the key in the lock and opened the door. He looked around briefly before removing the black suitcase full of money. No-one was watching him. But something else made him pause: a second group of boot boys stormed through the main entrance, stopped at a command and gathered themselves into an attacking formation complete with truncheons and chains. In contrast to the skins they wore leather jackets and colourful spikey hair.

‘Oh shit!' mumbled Fred, grabbing the suitcase and slamming the locker door.

Some twenty clenched fists punched the air, and a sound like a single piercing cry rang through the station: ‘Red Front! Nazis out!' The slogan faded, and for a moment time seemed to stand still. The formation held their line provocatively, while skins, travellers and other members of the public were rooted to the spot, bewildered, terrified or stunned. Silence descended over the station, only the public address system could be heard. Then the first fliers hit the floor, and the skins took baseball bats from their jackets. The snack counter at which Moni was waiting lay almost exactly in the middle of the two groups of boot boys.

Fred ran. As he reached Moni, the skins were marching towards the formation, declaiming: ‘Red Front die!' Those nearby beat a hasty retreat, and a kind of boxing ring formed in the middle of the station. A lone policeman stood at the edge desperately whispering into his walkie-talkie.

‘Quickly!' hissed Moni, who had taken off her headscarf and was dragging Fred towards the exit. Suddenly the formation broke up and ran screaming at the skins. Before Moni and Fred knew it, they were in the middle of the fighting. Batons and baseball bats whirred around them, chains were swung, boots lashed out, fists slammed, people screamed with pain and hatred, others kept getting in their way. Everywhere was deafening, raging animal chaos. Fred, who had dragged Moni behind his back, was able to fend off the first blows with the suitcase, but then a skin appeared right in front of him, screamed ‘red swine!' and knocked the case from Fred's hands.

Fred yelled: ‘We've nothing to do with it. We're only passengers!' and was about to put his hands up as proof of their neutrality, when he got a kick in the stomach. Fred stumbled and blanked out for a moment. Then in the midst of the turmoil he heard a strange dull sound...

When Fred turned round, Moni was already on the ground. Fred was staggered, then he stood stock-still. Moni's face was nothing but blood. A second blow with the baseball bat had shattered her skull.

Fred opened his mouth, but no sound came out. While the fight raged on around him, he flopped on his knees in front of Moni, grasped her head and lifted it into his lap.

He was still sitting like that when all the boot boys had long gone, a group of bewildered people had formed around him and police and ambulance were arriving.