Nightmare in Berlin (15 page)

‘I think we'll just go back to the dear old caretaker's wife for now. She's sure to have a sofa or some sort of couch where you can lie down. And in the meantime I'll find something else.'

And since at that moment they couldn't think of any alternative, they decided to do just that. The endless return trek began: travelling in overcrowded underground trains, where it didn't occur to anybody to offer the sick woman a seat, toiling up and down stairs, being pushed, shoved, and berated because they were going so slowly. He had the little suitcase in his hand, with their last crust of bread inside — the meat and the coffee were all gone now. It was lunchtime, they had no apartment and no ration cards, and no immediate prospect of getting any. And after Alma's extravagant purchase of cigarettes, they had less than two hundred marks left to their name.

We're facing utter ruin
, thought Doll.
How would we do it? We don't have access to poison. Water? We both swim too well. The noose? Couldn't face that! Gas? But we don't even have a kitchen with a gas stove any more.
And then aloud to his wife, who was leaning against him: ‘You've nearly made it! We're nearly home!'

‘Home', she answered with a smile, and just a hint of irony. Then she added with a sudden rush of remorse: ‘But you'll see, I
will
make a wonderful home for us!'

‘Of course you will', said he. ‘A wonderful home — I'm already looking forward to it.'

CHAPTER SIX

A new burden to bear

And then it really was almost as if they were at home. Alma Doll lay on a couch that belonged to the caretaker's wife, covered with a duvet, because she suddenly felt very cold. Her teeth were chattering. He sat on the edge of the couch, held her hands, and gazed anxiously into her face, which had become so thin.

Then the shivering attack abated, and she lay still for a long time, as if utterly drained. Now she opened her eyes. ‘Dearest', she said, ‘will you mind very much if I send you off on another errand? I think I need a doctor …'

‘Of course I'll go', he replied. ‘And I don't mind one bit. I'll go and find a doctor right away.'

She pulled his face down to hers and kissed him. He felt her dry, cracked lips coming to life again under his kiss, filling with blood again, and becoming soft and pliable.

‘I'm such a burden to you', she whispered. ‘I know I am, I know. But I'll make it up to you — you know me. Just you wait till your Alma's back on her feet again, and I'll pamper you like before, you know that!'

‘My wonderful pamperer!' he said tenderly. ‘Yes, I know, I know you will.' He kissed her once more. ‘And now I'm going.'

‘You don't have to go far', she called after him. ‘There are six or eight doctors living right here in this street.'

They had indeed lived there, or were living there still, but it turned out that none of them had time for a house call right now. One of them could not come until the late evening; another, not before the following day. He couldn't possibly leave his wife lying in pain for all that time. He went on further, trudging up and down stairs, semi-stupified with fatigue and hunger, his feet hot and sore …

He did eventually find a doctor who was prepared to come with him immediately. Not exactly the right kind of doctor — this one specialised in dermato-venereal diseases — but right now he couldn't care less. All that mattered was that she was seen by a doctor.
I can't go back to her having failed again! We've had enough failures already today. Our whole life is just one long series of failures.

The doctor had a face that appeared to be covered not with skin, but with thin parchment paper, stretched so taut that it looked about to tear. He had a ghostly air about him, with slow, careful movements, as if he might shatter into pieces at any moment, and with a soft, almost soundless way of speaking, as if he was speaking into fog …

They walked along the street side by side. The doctor was carrying his case containing some medical instruments. Suddenly he asked: ‘You are a writer, Mr. Doll?' Doll said that he was. ‘I'm a writer myself', said the doctor, still speaking in the same soft, impersonal manner. ‘Did you know?'

Doll tried to remember the name on the doctor's nameplate. But all he could remember was the reference to ‘dermato-venereal diseases'. ‘No', he replied. ‘I didn't know that.'

‘Oh yes!' the doctor insisted. ‘I was even a very famous writer once. And it's not all that long ago.' He paused, and then added out of the blue: ‘My wife killed herself out on the highway, by the way.'

What a spooky character!
thought Doll, shocked by this revelation.
Of all the people I had to bring to Alma's sick-bed! I hope she doesn't find him too scary!

But the doctor behaved quite normally at Alma's bedside. Something like a smile even flitted across his parchment features when he saw the pretty, childlike face of the young woman. ‘Now then, what seems to be the trouble, my dear child?' he inquired gently. He examined her briefly, and then said, speaking more to Doll than to the young woman: ‘The early stages of blood poisoning. The best thing would be for the young woman to go straight to hospital. I'll write you a referral.'

‘And what's to become of my husband in the meantime?' cried Alma. ‘I don't want to go into hospital. I'm not leaving my husband alone now!'

Doll tried to persuade her: ‘You know our situation, my dear. It may be the best solution for the time being. In hospital, you will at least have a bed. And meals. And rest. And proper care. Please say yes, Alma!'

‘And what about you? What about you?' she kept on asking. ‘Where are you going to be, while I'm having rest and meals and a bed and proper care? Do you think I'm going to live a life of ease while you're struggling to get by? Never! Never!'

During this exchange, the strange doctor had sat with bowed head, not saying a word. Now he picked up his bag and said in a flat, toneless voice: ‘I'm going to give you an injection for now, which will take away the pain and let you sleep for a bit. I'll call in again this evening.'

‘But we have to vacate this couch before tonight!' countered Doll. ‘This is where the caretaker's wife sleeps. By this evening we might be sleeping on the street!'

The doctor didn't answer, but carried on with the injection. The effect was immediate: no sooner had the needle gone in than Doll saw the relaxed, almost happy, expression spread across his wife's face. (It wasn't her first morphine injection, of course. She'd had them before — for her bilious attacks.) She suddenly smiled, stretched herself out at her ease, and snuggled down into the sheets. ‘God, that feels good', she whispered, and closed her eyes.

In the space of just five seconds, she had forgotten her husband, her pain and disappointments, and her hunger. She had forgotten a lot more besides. She had forgotten that she was married and had a child. She was completely alone with herself, in her own world. A smile played about her lips, and there it stayed. Doll watched her breathing gently, and understood that the very act of breathing was pleasurable for her now.

The doctor had packed his syringe away again. ‘I'll walk a little way with you, Doctor', said Doll. For the moment, it seemed to him impossible to sit with this woman who was now so far away. Through all their differences over the past weeks and months, he had never once felt so alone as he did now.

‘I'll call in again this evening', said the doctor, exactly as before, as if he had not heard a word Doll had said. ‘Between eight and nine. Please make sure that the street door is not locked.'

Doll didn't bother to object again; there seemed no point with this doctor, who didn't listen anyway. For a while they walked along side by side in silence. Then the doctor started up again: ‘It seems a very long time ago now, but back then I really was a very well-known writer.'

There was no hint of vanity; it sounded more like an observation from a train of thought that haunted him obsessively. And the observation he now came out with appeared to belong to the same train of thought: ‘The injection I gave your wife came from my suicide pack. It contains scopolamine, around 30 per cent. She'll be asleep when you get back.'

And again after a further pause: ‘Yes, I'll be committing suicide, maybe tomorrow, maybe in a year's time.' He extended a limp, damp hand to Doll. ‘This is where I live. Thank you for walking with me. Of course, I didn't have a large readership like you. Anyway, I'll call in again this evening — don't forget about the street door.'

And as they took their leave of each other: ‘I definitely won't be committing suicide today. You know, of course, that your wife is a real addict?'

Doll sat by his wife. She was sleeping soundly. Her face now looked carefree and happy; she was sleeping like a child. Through the open window came autumn sunshine and fresh air from the street, and the happy sound of children playing outside. Doll was not a happy man; he was feeling very tired and utterly despondent. He was also suffering the pangs of hunger. The last piece of bread had been eaten a long time ago. They had nothing left.

Why on earth
, Doll thought to himself,
didn't I get him to give me an injection too? To forget it all for a while, just for once! That half-crazed doctor would have done it. So he's called Pernies. I remember, he
was
famous once. I don't think I've ever read anything by him; he was probably more someone who wrote about art than an actual artist himself. And now he's talking about suicide, and his wife killed herself out on the highway!

Doll started up on his chair. He had nearly fallen asleep, and yet something had to be done. It would be dark in less than three hours, and the night afforded them no shelter.

He stood up. Even as he was leaving the apartment, he had no idea where he was going. So he climbed the stairs again to their old apartment.

This time, the door was opened as soon as he rang the bell. And it was not the snippy dancer who opened it, but Mrs. Schulz, the woman whom Alma had asked to look after their things while they were away, and whose honesty had now been called into question by the caretaker's wife.

The white and rather podgy face of Major Schulz's widow lit up when she saw Doll. ‘There you are, Dr. Doll! I fought like a lion for your apartment — if only you had come two weeks earlier! Now you'll have trouble with the housing office and with that woman living at the front. So where is your wife? She's sleeping? That's good — if she's sleeping, that gives me time to get the room sorted out for you. You'll have to manage with
one
couch for the first night — the other one has gone, but you only need to go and ask for it back. Would you like a cigarette? What, you haven't got any more? Here, take the whole pack! Don't be silly, I can get as many as I want, even American brands, for five marks apiece, German money … Look, I was just brewing up a pot of coffee when you arrived, so you must have a cup of coffee with me. Not the artificial stuff, but real coffee! I got some for four hundred marks a pound. That's cheap, my dear, I only buy things cheap. We'll have some white bread with it, and I've also got a tin of cheese here, and I think there's a bit of butter left.

‘You can talk! You say you've lost everything? Well, my dear, you've no idea what it's like for me, I literally don't have a thing! Just the clothes on my back. No, no, today you're my guest! Should we perhaps wake the young lady up? No, you're right, we'll put something back for her. But you eat up everything that's here; I'll be getting more later today. They all spoil me … And I never have to pay extortionate prices. Yes, the quilt has gone, stolen. I know who took it, too, but I can't prove it, so I'm not going to speak out of turn.

‘You've heard that her husband has gone, I suppose? They came and took him away, of course — paid-up Nazi that he was. They should come and get the wife as well, she was worse than him! I've had the wall put up and plastered a bit — I've made a note of the cost somewhere, I'll let you know later. It wasn't much, a tradesman did it for me more as a favour. The two window frames with the cellophane and plywood are just borrowed, but there's no hurry, they can stay in the wall for the time being.

‘But of course the room is available for you to use — it is your room, after all, and it's your furniture, too. The crockery and kitchen utensils belong to you as well. I can always sleep at a friend's place, and you'll get the housing office to evict the little singer and her family. They're decent enough people — but so what? These days, everyone has to look out for themselves. She's so scared of you! They've got nothing at all of their own, not so much as a spoon or a cup … By the way, the teapot I've just made the coffee in doesn't belong to you — all your teapots got smashed in the air raid. An old lady gave it to me; she doesn't want any money for it, of course. I thought I might give her a pound of sugar and a loaf of bread. That's not much, my dear: sugar is now going for a hundred, and a loaf of bread for eighty — and you must have a teapot! I can discuss it with your wife later.

‘You can eat all of the white loaf, if you like; it tastes nice, but it doesn't fill you up. I'll go and get some fresh now. I might get some jam, too. If you'd come yesterday I'd have been able to offer you cake — proper butter cake with lots of sugar on the top. Pity. But I know what, I'll have a cake baked for you for Sunday. My baker will do it for you very cheaply …'