Nightmare in Berlin (23 page)

He hadn't been sitting eating his bread and jam for long before he was disturbed for the second time: somebody rang the bell to the door of the apartment. When he opened the door, there stood the tall young man from the previous evening — the one who had let him into the house and thereby brought him in out of the cold.

‘Oh, it's you, Dr. Doll!' he said, momentarily wrong-footed, then quickly collected himself. ‘I thought you'd still be asleep, and I just wanted to drop this off …' He produced a large package. ‘It's a coat', he explained quickly. ‘Only a summer coat, I'm afraid, but there's a hat, too. I'm taller than you, but it might just fit. It's just a loan, of course — I hope you don't mind. But I thought you could wear it until you get something else …'

‘But Mr. —', Doll started to say, quite overcome. ‘See, I've even forgotten your name …'

‘Oh, never mind the name! Anyway, even though it's only a summer coat, it's better than nothing …' The package had meanwhile changed hands, and the two men had exchanged a vigorous handshake …

‘That is really so kind of you, Mr —', began Doll, but then interrupted himself again. ‘Look, you really must tell me your name—'. Doll felt as if he couldn't really thank the man properly unless he knew his name …

‘Grundlos', he replied. ‘Franz Xaver Grundlos. But look, I really must be going — I have to get to work. The underground—'

The last words echoed from the stairwell. Just when Doll could have thanked Mr. Grundlos properly, he was gone.

For the second time this morning, Doll found himself unpacking gifts. It was as if Christmas and his birthday had come on the same day. How wrongly he had judged the Germans in his depression!
Decency, plain old-fashioned integrity — they haven't died out yet; they will never die out. They will flourish and grow strong again, overwhelming and choking the rank weeds of Nazi denunciation, envy, and hatred!

Only a light summer coat, and too big for him — the man was right on both counts. But it was a smart, blue-grey cloth coat, partially lined with silk.
So people are helping each other out again, nobody is completely alone in the world, everyone can help, everyone can be helped.
The coat was a bit too long, certainly, but what of it?

He kept the coat on, and put on the hat as well — a little velvet number in the Bavarian style. There was a time when he wouldn't have been seen dead with such a thing on his head. But it wasn't so stiflingly warm in the kitchen that you couldn't wear a summer coat while eating your bread and jam. And he did not sit down to resume his meal. He suddenly felt a pressing need to get down to the ration card office. He'd put it off for months, but now he would show the major's lady wife that he too had ration cards, that he was no longer dependent on her! And today was the day he would show her!

There was one problem, though: where was he going to put his groceries while he was out? He didn't trust anyone. In the end, he crept along to the fire-ravaged front room, which was filled with rubble and general clutter, and hid the bags in a drawer of Petta's scorched changing table.

He inspected himself one more time in the mirror.
Good!
he said to himself.
Or at any rate, a thousand per cent better than I have looked in the last few months. And now it's time to get down to the Food Office with all guns blazing! I hope to God that some of the people down there are as decent as the three I've met in the last twenty-four hours. But this is my lucky day, and I can't go wrong!

It was well before eight when Doll left the house, and it was way past noon when he returned — a very different Doll. He sat down without a word on the kitchen chair next to the gas stove. He was utterly exhausted. Miss Gwenda, who was keeping an eye on her potato soup on the stove — it had been sitting there for four hours, and should surely have come to the boil by now, but the gas pressure was so feeble — asked him for the key to the door of the apartment, which she assumed he had taken. Doll stood up without a word. He saw at a glance that the keys to both pantries and the kitchen dresser were now back in their locks. He took them out, put them in his pocket, and made to leave the kitchen.

The two women — Gwenda and the widow of Major Schulz — exchanged a quick glance and came to a mutual understanding: they should just let the poor lunatic have his way for now. Mrs. Schulz was all dolled up now, her hair in coquettishly tight little curls, and she said in honeyed tones: ‘If you want to speak to me, Dr. Doll, I am at your disposal. I have come specially to see you.'

But he was not at her disposal. He went along the passageway to Mrs. Schulz's room. He entered, locked the door behind him, and sat down in an armchair. He was feeling really under the weather, dead tired and pretty desperate. The morning had been too much for the feeble strength of a man who was still convalescing. All he wanted to do now was rest … He leaned back and closed his eyes. But he opened them again immediately. He felt cold — really, really cold! He was still wearing the coat, but … He struggled to his feet again and moved the electric fire right next to his legs. He fetched the quilt from Mrs. Schulz's bed-settee and wrapped it tightly around him …

He closed his eyes for a second time. Before nodding off, he thought to himself:
I mustn't sleep later than four o'clock. I need to be with Alma by five. Though I don't know what I'm going to tell her about my brilliantly successful brush with officialdom … But I mustn't think about that now, otherwise I'll never get to sleep!

He slowly drifted off. But he hadn't been asleep for more than five minutes before there was a knock at the door and Mrs. Schulz was chirping: ‘Dr. Doll, have you got a minute? I thought you wanted to speak to me?'

He pretended not to hear. He was sleeping. He had to get some sleep.

‘Be a dear, Dr. Doll, and open the door just for a minute, so that I can at least get my hat and bag! I have to go out!'

Doll slept on. But when she had pleaded with him for a third time, he jumped up, knocked the electric stove over, lunged towards the door, turned the key in the lock, flung the door open, and shouted angrily: ‘Go to blazes! If you don't get away from this door right now, I'll move you myself, down all four flights of stairs — do you understand, woman?!'

This angry outburst was so effective that Mrs. Schulz fled before him down the passageway. ‘I'm going, I'm going!' she shrieked in terror. ‘I'm sorry I disturbed you! It won't happen again, I promise!'

Doll then slept soundly, falling into a deep, peaceful sleep immediately after his angry outburst, as if this storm had cleared the air. When he woke again, it was already getting dark in the room. He felt wonderfully rested and refreshed — better than for a long time. His first healthy sleep without any kind of sleeping aids! He stayed sitting quietly in the armchair, and was now able to reflect more calmly on the outcome of his morning visit to the ration card and housing offices.

He pictured himself again, standing along with so many others in a long line at the ration card office. Even though he had arrived early, there were nearly a hundred people there before him. Once again, he saw how the other people waiting with him were constantly bickering and needling each other. He saw people nearly come to blows over a single word, which was often just a simple misunderstanding, and the unbelievable outbursts of fury when they thought someone was trying to jump the queue. Waiting for three hours in this hate-filled atmosphere inevitably put paid to Doll's early-morning conviviality. He tried to fight it, but this depressing mood was all-pervasive.

Eventually, he was standing in the room, at a table, in front of a girl or a woman, with people talking behind him and beside him, and now it was Doll's turn to speak, to say what he had thought about and rehearsed in his head a hundred times …

But he didn't get beyond the third sentence. ‘First you need to bring your police registration form and your housing referral form', explained the girl. ‘Without them we can't issue any cards here. You'll have to go to the housing office first! — Next, please!'

‘But Miss!' he cried. ‘It's always been our apartment, we were never de-registered, so why do I need to go and register again? You can check in your card index!'

‘Then you'll have to get confirmation from the housing office! And anyway …' She gave him a dismissive look. ‘Next, please!'

Doll was wasting his breath. One thing she had learned at work was the knack of not hearing. His words were like the buzzing of a fly to her. He had to leave, and he'd wasted more than three hours and a lot of energy just to be told that!

He went off in search of the housing office, and found it. This time he didn't have to queue for so long. He was only waiting an hour and a half. But he got nowhere at the housing office either. Once again a lady listened to his story, and felt doubtful about his case. He should have registered before the 30th of September, and now it was almost December! The lady passed him on to a male colleague, a very excitable gentleman, who, as Doll noted from his treatment of a man before him in the queue, was not a great listener, and preferred to do the talking himself.

Doll placed various pieces of paper in front of this man: old rent receipts for his apartment, proof of his appointment as mayor of the small town, written confirmation that the Dolls had spent time in hospital in the district town …

The man behind the desk blinked briefly, then pushed all the papers together in a heap and said quickly: ‘I'm not interested in any of that. You can put it all back in your pocket, though you might just as well toss it into the wastepaper basket! Next!'

‘And what about my certificate of residence?' persisted Doll, now quite angry.

‘Your certificate of residence? That's a good one!' cried the excitable gentleman, now in full flight. ‘On what grounds? I can't think of any! I've no intention of issuing one of those! Next!'

‘So what kind of documents do you want, then?' inquired Doll doggedly.

‘I don't want anything! You're the one who wants something! Next, please, and quick about it!' This ‘Next!' appeared to be a kind of linguistic tic, the way other people end every sentence with ‘… you see?' He added quickly: ‘Bring me a sworn statement from your landlord that you've occupied the apartment since 1939. Bring me a notice of departure from your last address in the town you were evacuated to, plus confirmation that you are signed off the ration card register.'

‘I was never evacuated. And there was nothing to sign off from, because they haven't got ration cards there.'

‘Ridiculous!' cried the official. ‘Stuff and nonsense, a bunch of excuses! You just want to worm your way into Berlin, that's all! But you're not getting anything from me, nothing at all, and I don't care how many certificates you produce!' He slammed his hand down on the table. He was getting more and more worked up. ‘I know your sort as soon as I clap eyes on them — you'll never get anything from me. Next!'

Suddenly his tone of voice changed. Now it was just sullen: ‘And anyway …'

It was the second time this morning that Doll had heard the words ‘And anyway', and it sounded like some kind of dark threat against him. After these absurd rantings and accusations, Doll's own blood was up now, and he asked sharply: ‘“And anyway”? What's that supposed to mean? What are you getting at?'

‘Oh, come off it!' said the official, suddenly acting very bored, ‘You know very well. Don't pretend you don't!' He studied his fingernails, then looked up at Doll: ‘Or are you going to tell me what you and your family have been living off here in Berlin since the 1st of September?' He ploughed on triumphantly, and all the other people in the room were looking at Doll and enjoying his discomfiture as he got it in the neck. ‘Either you didn't move here on 1 September, but only just now, in which case you have missed the deadline, and there is no way you are going to get a certificate out of me! Or you've been living off the black market since the 1st of September, in which case I have to report you to the police!'

Doll flared up angrily, failing to see in his agitation and his uncritical self-regard that the man was at least partly right: ‘If you had looked at the paperwork properly, instead of just binning it without even reading it, you'd have seen that I was in hospital until yesterday — so I got all my meals there. And my wife is still in hospital, you can get written confirmation of that any time …'

‘I'm not interested in any of that! It's got nothing to do with me! Next! I've told you what paperwork I need from you. Right: next!'

This time, his final word was not just a verbal flourish tacked on to the end of a sentence: he really did turn his attention to the next man in the queue. Doll walked slowly out of the office. He could feel the other man's disdainful, taunting gaze in his back; he knew that he was relishing his triumph and thinking:
I gave him what for! He won't be back again in a hurry!
And Doll knew with equal certainty that the next man in line would have no trouble getting what he wanted, no matter how shaky his case might look. He would even receive friendly treatment, because the official was now keen to demonstrate to himself, his office, and the waiting public that he really was a decent sort of fellow. But he wasn't: he was one of the millions of petty tyrants who had wielded their sceptres in this land of commissars and corporals since the beginning of time.