The Berlin Stories (16 page)

“Thank you very much.”

The remarkably handsome chauffeur saluted pertly, tucked us into the depths of the vast black limousine. As we slid forward along the Kurfürstendamm, Kuno took my hand under the fur rug.

“You’re still angry with me,” he murmured reproachfully.

“Why should I be?”

“Oh yes, excuse me, you are.”

“Really, I’m not.”

Kuno gave my hand a limp squeeze.

“May I ask you something?”

“Ask away.”

“You see, I don’t wish to be personal. Do you believe in Platonic friendship?”

“I expect so,” 1 said, guardedly.

The answer seemed to satisfy him. His tone became more confidential: “You’re sure you won’t come up and see my flat? Not for five minutes?”

“Not tonight.”

“Quite sure?” He squeezed.

“Quite, quite sure.”

“Some other evening?” Another squeeze.

I laughed: “I think I should see it better in the daytime, shouldn’t I?”

Kuno sighed gently, but did not pursue the subject. A few moments later, the limousine stopped outside my door. Glancing up at Arthur’s window, I saw that the light was burning. I didn’t remark on this to Kuno, however.

“Well, good night, and thank you for the lift.”

“Do not mention it, please.” < I nodded towards the chauffeur: “Shall I tell him to take you home?”

“No, thank you,” Kuno spoke rather sadly, but with an attempt at a smile. “I’m afraid not. Not just yet.”

He sank back upon the cushions, the smile still frozen on his face, his monocle catching a ghostly glassy gleam from the street lamp as he was driven away.

As I entered the flat, Arthur appeared, in shirtsleeves, at his bedroom doorway. He seemed rather perturbed.

“Back already, William?”

I grinned: “Aren’t you pleased to see me, Arthur?”

“Of course, dear boy. What a question! I didn’t expect you quite so soon, that’s all.”

“I know you didn’t. Your appointment doesn’t seem to have kept you very long, either “

“It—er—fell through.” Arthur yawned. He was too sleepy even to tell lies.

I laughed: “You meant well, I know. Don’t worry. We parted on the best of terms.”

He brightened at once: “You did? Oh, I’m so very glad. For the moment, I was afraid some little hitch might have occurred. Now I can go to sleep with a mind relieved. Once again, William, I must thank you for your invaluable support.”

“Always glad to oblige,” I said. “Good night.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The first week in November came and the traffic strike was declared. It was ghastly, sopping weather. Everything out of doors was covered with a layer of greasy, fallen dirt. A few trams were running, policemen posted fore and aft. Some of these were attacked, the windows smashed and the passengers forced to get out. The streets were deserted, wet, raw and grey. Von Papen’s Government was expected to proclaim martial law. Berlin seemed profoundly indifferent. Proclamations, shootings, arrests; they were all nothing new. Helen Pratt was putting her money on Schleicher: “He’s the foxiest of the lot,” she told me. “Look here, Bill, I’ll bet you five marks he’s in before Christmas. Like to take me on?” I declined.

Hitler’s negotiations with the Right had broken down; the Hakenkreuz was even flirting mildly with the Hammer and Sickle. Telephone conversations, so Arthur told me, had already taken place between the enemy camps. Nazi storm-troopers joined with Communists in the crowds which jeered at the black-legs and pelted them with stones. Meanwhile, on the soaked advertisement pillars, Nazi posters represented the K. P. D. as a bogy skeleton in Red Army uniform. In a few days there would be another election; our fourth this year. Political meetings were well attended; they were cheaper than going to the movies or getting drunk. Elderly people sat indoors, in the damp, shabby houses, brewing malt coffee or weak tea and talking without animation of the Smash.

On November 7th, the election results were out. The Nazis had lost two million votes. The Communists had gained eleven seats. They had a majority of over 100,000 in Berlin.

“You see,” I told Frl. Schroeder, “it’s all your doing.” We had persuaded her to go down to the beer-shop at the corner and vote, for the first time in her life. And now she was as delighted as if she’d backed a winner: “Herr Norris! Herr Norris! Only think! I did just what you told me; and it’s all come out as you said! The porter’s wife’s ever so cross. She’s followed the elections for years, and she would have it that the Nazis were going to win another million this time. I had a good laugh at her, I can tell you. ‘Aha, Frau Schneider!’ I said to her, ‘I understand something about politics, too, you see!’ “

During the morning, Arthur and I went round to the Wilhelmstrasse, to Bayer’s office, “for a little taste,” as he put it, “of the fruits of victory.” Several hundred others seemed to have had the same idea. There was such a crowd of people coming and going on the stairs that we had difficulty in getting into the building at all. Everybody was in the best of spirits, shouting to each other, greeting, whistling, singing. As we struggled upwards, we met Otto on his way down. He nearly wrung my hand off in his excitement.

“Mensch! Willi! Jetzt geht’s los! Just let them talk about forbidding the Party now! If they do we’ll fight! The old Nazis are done for, that’s certain. In six months, Hitler won’t have any storm-troops left!”

Half a dozen of his friends were with him. They all shook my hand with the warmth of long-lost brothers. Meanwhile, Otto had flung himself upon Arthur like a young bear. “What, Arthur, you old sow, you here too? Isn’t it fine? Isn’t it grand? Why, I’m so pleased I could knock you into the middle of next week!”

He dealt Arthur an affectionate hook in the ribs which made him squirm. Several of the bystanders laughed sympathetically. “Good old Arthur!” exclaimed one of Otto’s friends loudly. The name was overheard, taken up, passed from mouth to mouth. “Arthur… who’s Arthur? Why, man, don’t you know who Arthur is?” No, they didn’t know. Equally, they didn’t care. It was a name, a focus-point for the enthusiasm of all these excited young people; it served its purpose. “Arthur! Arthur!” was caught up on all sides. People were shouting it on the floor above us; in the hallway below. “Arthur’s here!”

“Arthur for ever!”

“We want Arthur!” The storm of voices had risen in a moment. A mighty cheer, exuberant, half-humorous, burst spontaneously from a hundred throats. Another followed it, and another. The crazy old staircase shook; a tiny flake of plaster was dislodged from the ceiling. In this confined space, the reverberation was terrific; the crowd was excited to find what a noise it could make. There was a powerful, convulsive, surging movement inwards, towards the unseen object of admiration. A wave of admirers elbowed their way up the stairs, to collide with another wave, cascading down from above. Everybody wanted to touch Arthur. A rain of hand-claps descended on his wincing shoulders. An ill-timed attempt to hoist him into the air nearly resulted in his being pitched headlong over the bannisters. His hat had been knocked off. I had managed to save it and was fully expecting to have to rescue his wig as well. Gasping for breath, Arthur tried, in a muddled way, to rise to the occasion: “Thank you…” he managed to articulate. “Most kind… really don’t deserve… good gracious! Oh dear!”

He might have been quite seriously injured, had not Otto and his friends forced a way for him to the top of the staircase. We scrambled in the wake of their powerful, barging bodies. Arthur clutched my arm, half scared, half shyly pleased. “Fancy their knowing me, William,” he panted into my ear.

But the crowd hadn’t done with him yet. Now that we had reached the office door, we occupied a position of vantage and could be seen by the mass of struggling people wedged in the staircase below. At the sight of Arthur, another terrific cheer shook the building. “Speech!” yelled somebody. And the cry was echoed: “Speech! Speech! Speech!” Those on the stairs began a rhythmical stamping and shouting; the heavy tread of their boots was as formidable as the stroke of a giant piston. If Arthur didn’t do something to stop it, it seemed probable that the entire staircase would collapse.

At this critical moment, the door of the office opened. It was Bayer himself, come out to see what all the noise was about. His smiling eyes took in the scene with the amusement of a tolerant schoolmaster. The uproar did not disconcert him in the least; he was used to it. Smiling, he shook hands with the scared and embarrassed Arthur, laying a reassuring hand upon his shoulder. “Ludwig!” roared the onlookers. “Ludwig! Arthur! Speech!” Bayer laughed at them and made a good-humoured gesture of salute and dismissal. Then he turned, escorting Arthur and myself into the office. The noise outside gradually subsided into singing and shouted jokes. In the outer office the typists were doing their best to carry on work amidst groups of eagerly arguing men and women. The walls were plastered with news-sheets displaying the election results. We elbowed our way into Bayer’s little room. Arthur sank at once into a chair and began fanning himself with his recovered hat.

“Well, well… dear me! I feel quite carried away, as it were, in the whirl of history; distinctly battered. This is indeed a red-letter day for the Cause.”

Bayer’s eyes regarded him with vivid, faintly amused interest.

“It surprises you, eh?”

“Well—er—I must admit that hardly, in my most sanguine dreams, had I dared to expect such a very decisive—er—victory.”

Bayer nodded encouragingly.

“It is good, yes. But it will be unwise, I think, to exaggerate the importances of this success. Many factors have contributed to it. It is, how do you call, symptomic?”

“Symptomatic,” Arthur corrected, with a little cough. His blue eyes shifted uneasily over the litter of papers on Bayer’s writing-table. Bayer gave him a brilliant smile.

“Ah, yes. Symptomatic. It is symptomatic of the phase through which we are at present passing. We are not yet ready to cross the Wilhelmstrasse.” He made a humorous gesture of his hand, indicating, through the window, the direction of the Foreign Office and Hindenburg’s residence. “No. Not quite yet.”

“Do you think,” I asked, “that this means the Nazis are done for?”

He shook his head with decision. “Unfortunately, no. We may not be so optimistic. This reverse is for them of a temporary character only. You see, Mr. Bradshaw, the economic situation is in their favour. We shall hear much more of our friends, I think.”

“Oh, please don’t say anything so unpleasant,” murmured Arthur, fidgeting with his hat. His eyes continued furtively to explore the writing-table. Bayer’s glance followed them.

“You do not like the Nazis, eh, Norris?”

His tone was rich with amusement. He appeared to find Arthur extremely funny at this precise moment. I was at a loss to understand why. Moving over to the table, he began, as if abstractedly, to handle the papers which lay there.

“Really!” protested Arthur, in shocked tones. “How can you ask? Naturally, I dislike them. Odious creatures….”

“Ah, but you should not!” With great deliberation, Bayer took a key from his pocket, unlocked a drawer in the writing-table, and drew from it a heavy sealed packet. His red-brown eyes sparkled teasingly. “This outlook is quite false. The Nazi of to-day can be the communist of tomorrow. When they have seen where their leaders’ programme has brought them, they may not be so very difficult to convince. I wish all opposition could be thus overcome. There are others, you see, who will not listen to such arguments.”

Smiling, he turned the packet in his hands. Arthur’s eyes were fastened upon it, as if in unwilling fascination; Bayer seemed to be amusing himself by exerting his hypnotic powers. At all events, Arthur was plainly most uncomfortable.

“Er—yes. Well… you may be right…,”

There was a curious silence. Bayer was smiling to himself, subtly, with the corners of his lips. I had never seen him in this mood before. Suddenly, he appeared to become aware of what he was holding.

“Why, of course, my dear Norris… These are the documents I had promised to show you. Can you be so kind as to let me have them tomorrow again? We have to forward them, you know, as quickly as possible.”

“Certainly. Of course….” Arthur had fairly jumped out of his seat to receive the packet. He was like a dog which has been put on trust for a lump of sugar. “I’ll take the greatest care of them, I assure you.”

Bayer smiled, but said nothing.

Some minutes later, he escorted us affably out of the premises by the back staircase which led down into the courtyard. Arthur thus avoided another encounter with his admirers.

As we walked away along the street, he seemed thoughtful and vaguely unhappy. Twice he sighed.

“Feeling tired?” I asked.

“Not tired, dear boy. No… I was merely indulging in my favourite vice of philosophising. When you get to my age you’ll see more and more clearly how very strange and complex life is. Take this morning, for instance. The simple enthusiasm of all those young people; it touched me very deeply. On such occasions, one feels oneself so unworthy. I suppose there are individuals who do not suffer from a conscience. But I am not one of them.”

The strangest thing about this odd outburst was that Arthur obviously meant what he said. It was a genuine fragment of a confession, but I could make nothing of it.

“Yes,” I encouraged experimentally, “I sometimes feel like that myself.”

Arthur didn’t respond. He merely sighed for the third time. A sudden shadow of anxiety passed over his face; hastily he fingered the bulge in his pocket made by the papers which Bayer had given him. They were still there. He breathed relief.

November passed without much event. I had more pupils again, and was busy. Bayer gave me two long manuscripts to translate.

There were rumours that the K. P. D. would be forbidden; soon, in a few weeks. Otto was scornful. The Government would never dare, he said. The Party would fight. All the members of his cell had revolvers. They hung them, he told me, by strings from the bars of a cellar-grating in their Lokal, so that the police shouldn’t find them. The police were very active these days. Berlin, we heard, was to be cleaned up. Plain-clothes men had paid several unexpected calls on Olga, but had failed, so far, to find anything. She was being very careful.