The Berlin Connection

by Johannes Mario Simmel

  '*I'm so sorry. You know, Fve had a wonderful experience today." But she did not talk about that, and I did not mention my troubles or my dreams. Then, we went on in silence, once in awhile looking at each other and smiling.

  We walked away from the hotel. I could not have found a reasonable explanation for this stroll with a strange woman, had I been asked. Neither could I have said what made me feel calm and at peace alongside Natasha, nor could I have explained anything else I did or what took place.

  We passed through one of this city's oldest parts, the Nicolaifleet, once the main estuary of the Alster. We stood on the Hohen Briicke looking down at the narrow canal where hundreds of years ago Hanseatic ships had anchored, now packed tightly with barges. On one side of the fleet are ancient timbered houses. They had been painted pink, pale yellow and light green. Now the paint

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  was peeling; they looked dilapidated. Beneath the pointed gable of the nearest house to the bridge I read:

  the tides are the

  traders' wealth

  1647

  MAY GOD PROTECT US ALL

  "Down here began the great fire of 1842 which destroyed a fifth of the city," said Natasha. "And a hundred years later bombs destroyed it again."

  On the other side of the fleet were ruins overgrown with weeds. In the distance the pointed, black, gothic tower of the destroyed Nicolai Church was silhouetted against the even darker sky.

  Natasha was thoughtful. "The tower is going to remain as a memorial to the war dead and as a reminder of the crimes of the Third Reich."

  It was raining hard now and we left the bridge. Shortly after midnight we were at Natasha's house. I returned the umbrella.

  "Thank you."

  "Thank you for what?"

  "You know for what," I said.

  She did not take the hand I held out to her.

  "Do you remember I told you I had had a wonderful experience today?

  "Yes, I do."

  "I'd like to show you something. Would you like to come to my apartment for a moment?"

  "Certainly."

  She unlocked the door. I followed, having forgotten Shirley, Joan, my dream, and that I had to be in the studio in a few hours. The elevator was not working. We walked up to her apartment.

  We passed through one room which contained only one bed and chair. Suitcases were overflowing and coats and

  dresses hung from a few wall hooks. In the second room Natasha switched on a little bedside lamp standing on the floor. A Httle red oil lamp flickered beneath a few old and beautiful icons. Next to the eternal light hung a little earthenware vase with flowers.

  A small bed stood in one comer of the room. A blond child, hidden by blankets, was asleep in it. A few toys were strewn around the room and the entire wall behind the bed was covered by a child's colorful and imaginative paintings and drawings. I was strangely moved.

  A little foot protruded from the blanket and Natasha gently pushed it under the bedclothes.

  I could not see the face of the child. I took one step forward and inadvertently tipped over the bedside lamp. The crash echoed in the almost empty room; Natasha looked up and smiled at my dismay.

  "He didn't hear anything."

  "I hope not."

  "He couldn't have heard it, Mr. Jordan. He is deaf."

  "Deaf?" I said, horrified.

  "And dumb, Mr. Jordan. Deaf and dumb."

  12

  "What is his name?"

  "Misha."

  "How old is he?"

  "He is four years old, Mr. Jordan," answered Natasha. "And deaf and dumb since birth."

  We had left the child's room and entered her office. An old-fashioned oil painting of a troika hanging behind the desk was a strange contrast to the instruments which glittered in glass-fronted cupboards. On a white table stood a tape recorder.

  "A colleague was supposed to rent the office. That's

  why everything is in order here. Now the poor fellow might have to wait a year or two. Who knows? Who knows anything anyway?" She took off her scarf, busied herself with the tape recorder, and out of context said, "I told you once that you reminded me very much of a man in my life."

  I nodded.

  "He was Misha's father. I mentioned it once before: he was a hopeless drunkard. He died in an institution. We had lived together maiy years."

  "How long were you married?"

  "We were never married."

  "You were—"

  Almost gayly she answered, "No, never. His wife had left him but she would not agree to a divorce. When she found out about me, there was a big scandal. You can imagine the consequences in a town as proper as Hamburg."

  "You lost your patients?"

  "Many. I was investigated by the Doctors Association. I was ignored by many influential people. Many peculiar things happened . . ." There was a strange smile in her eyes. She was the first Russian woman I had met and at that time I knew nothing of the world in the East. Today I do. Through Natasha.

  There is a universal belief that Russian women are sentimental. The woman of the East is not sentimental; she is melancholy. To sacrifice herself seems almost a pathological joy to a Russian woman in love. She would give endlessly. I was to have that experience with Natasha.

  "When the child was born its father had akeady died," said Natasha. She pushed back her glasses.

  "Misha paints beautifully, doesn't he?" she said. "At the moment he is sad. His paints and crayons are all packed in one of the trunks which have been shipped. He inherited his father's talent—and something else too."

  I stared at her. I could not speak.

  "You understand what I mean, Mr. Jordan?"

  I nodded. I wet my dry lips. Finally I managed to ask, "You ... you mean alcohol is the cause of this?"

  Natasha did not answer.

  "But why—" I began and fell silent

  "What were you going to say?"

  I shook my head.

  "You were going to say. *You are a doctor. Why didn't you prevent such a man from fathering a child?' That's what you were going to say, weren't you?"

  I nodded.

  She answered, '^Because I was selfish. I knew the man would die. I wanted to keep something of him when he left me forever. I ignored the facts. I counted on the law of averages. Even with the heaviest drinkers, congenital defects rarely are as tragic as this. I hoped to be lucky. But people have httle luck."

  My father had said that. Now Natasha said it. We were silent in the large office. I heard a clock strike once.

  "How do you make yourself understood?"

  **We use sign language. Isn't it lucky he is not blind too?"

  "Isn't there some treatment— ^

  "There is nothing I have not tried. The best hospitals; the most accomplished specialists. There is a new theory

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  that a constantly high temperature and a certain air pressure are beneficial. That is why I accepted the offer to go to Africa."

  "I see."

  "Still, I had very little real hope. I had come to terms with the fact that my little boy would never be a healthy human being—until tonight, Mr. Jordan," she said and her eyes were shining behind the glasses; her face flushed with joy. "Until tonight."

  "What happened tonight?" I asked, thinking that possibly all this, the empty apartment, the child were a figment of my imagination, of madness.

  "We were having dinner tonight and he was telling me a story." She switched on the tape recorder. "He was so excited, more than usual and then suddenly .. ." Natasha pushed back her glasses; the tap© recorder hummed. "For the first time in his life he produced sounds! He was very excited and I switched on the tape recorder and he tried again—" From the tape recorder came a hoarse sound, "Orrr . . . orr . . ." Natasha was ecstatic. "Did you hear it?" I nodded. "Wait.. . again ... there!"

  "Rraa ... rraaa ..."

  "Isn't it wonderful?" said Natasha. "Isn't it a miracle? It's a beginning, Mr. Jordan. I know he will be able t
o talk. He will be able to hear! When I was a little girl I once saw a scorpion inside a circle of fire. I often dreamt about that. Many times during the last few years I felt that my little boy and I were inside such a circle from which there was no escape."

  What did those last words remind me of?

  "We did escape the circle. Listen!"

  "Rraaa.. . rraaa . . ."

  She replayed the tape,

  "Orrr ... orrr .. ."

  "I held his hand to the tape recorder and he must have felt the vibrations. He was so excited and laughed and

  cried and at last I had to give him a sedative to calm him . . ."

  "Orrr... orrr ..."

  "I listened to the tape, again and again until you rang the bell. Now do you understand why this is the happiest day for me?"

  "Rraaa ... rraaa..."

  14

  The next morning in my car again. It was still raining. "Today you seem much better," said Schauberg.

  "I feel better too."

  "Still afraid? I'd rather not give you another one of those injections you had yesterday."

  "I won't need it."

  '*Bravo! Better that you have a drink if things get rough. How is everything? How were the rushes?"

  "Worse than ever."

  His mouth began to twitch again. I did not care. He was afraid of not getting his money. I was afraid of losing mine.

  Schauberg managed a smile and patted my back with the professional optimism common to doctors. "Just nerves. You're just too sensitive. In a couple of days you'll be fine, I'm sure."

  "Okay, okay. Did you find a student for ..."

  "I've found two. They're demanding too much money."

  "I don't care."

  *'But I do. One simply cannot ruin established prices! Now I'm playing one against the other."

  "Time is running out!"

  "I'm sure you can wait until tonight, daddy. You can rely on me."

  "Schauberg—" .

  I looked at the road but not at him when I asked the question.

  "Schauberg, is there hope for a deaf and dumb child whose father was an alcoholic?"

  Irritated he pulled his beret. "Now look here, you'll really have to pull yourself together or both of us wiU end up in a nuthouse!"

  "Answer me!"

  "Don't think about it. The child is not going to be bom."

  "Damn, I'm not talking about this child. I mean a four-year-old boy whose father died of the d.t.'s."

  "Very improbable."

  "What is very improbable?"

  "That the father's alcoholism is the cause. If the parents are drinkers the children may be feeble-minded or crippled but hardly deaf and dumb. There must also be a hereditary factor. Does the man have a history of deaf and dumb people in his family?"

  "I don't know. Is there any chance of a cure?"

  "It is not very likely."

  "The mother says the child is producing sounds now."

  "Adult deaf and dumb people can make sounds but they never learn to talk."

  "Why not?"

  "They can't hear. How could they imitate human sounds if they cannot hear them?"

  It seemed reasonable.

  "So you beheve the case is hopeless?"

  "Completely."

  **But the mother doesn't! And she is—" At the last moment I stopped myself from saying "a doctor herself."

  It would have made him suspicious. A doctor? I knew another doctor? Who was she? How did I meet her?

  Half the sentence was sufficient to make him suspicious; "What is his mother, dear Mr. Jordan?"

  "Intelligent. Very intelligent. And objective."

  "I see." He was still not sure.

  Quickly I carried on, "She knows the facts. And still she believes in a cure."

  "Because she loves her child, Mr. Jordan. A mother will cling to the slightest hope. But there is no cure. One can live when deaf and dumb."

  "What an awful life." ' ^

  "An awful life," said Schauberg, "is still better than the most beautiful death."

  15

  The first take this morning was very long and heavy on dialogue.

  According to the script I had been a child star. I was the lover of Belinda King, whose husband, Henry Wallace, wanted me to play the lead in a movie he was producing. According to the script, I had no confidence in myself and was not at all enthusiastic about resuming my acting career. Slowly I regained my confidence until at last I would have done anything to be allowed to act.

  Our film told the story of how this movie was originated in America and Germany. I became famous, the movie was a financial success, I made my comeback, was hailed a star only to be killed by the jealous Henry.

  Belinda and Henry played Evelyn and Graham Will-croft. I was Carlton Webb.

  The author was among those once investigated by the House Un-American Activities committee. For what the courts agreed was contempt of Congress, they were jailed. The big studios did not dare employ them thereafter. Only lately had there been some change. Kostasch had been able to put the author under contract for a reasonable amount of money after his years of famine.

  Take 37/A room in Willcroft's house/indoors/evening.

  CARLTON (glass in hand, near a window, watching a car pull away. Shrugging his shoulders, he crosses to the bar and refills his glass.)

  EVELYN (enters upset) Graham says you refused his contract?

  CARLTON (drinks, growls) That's right. Sorry, baby. I've thought it over. I'm not going to play. Have a httle drink? EVELYN (hysterical) For goodness sake! You and your damn whisky! What do you mean you're not going to play? You must play! You know what it means ... for you . . . for me . . . Carlton! You are an actor! This is your chance for a new career. A new life! CARLTON It won't work, baby.

  EVELYN Why not? (shputs) Stop this drinking! Why won't it work?

  CARLTON (grinning drunkenly) For one, I can't stop this, (drinks) Second, because Fm no actor. I was a handsome child. But an actor? Never!

  EVELYN That's not true. You're afraid. You haven't been in a studio for a long time. You'll get used to it again. Don't you see this is your last chance? For you and for me!

  CARLTON No one has a chance. Not you. Not I. No one at aU.

  EVELYN (strokes Carlton tenderly) You'll be all right because you are brave and courageous. And talented. CARLTON (pushes her away roughly) Courageous ... and cunning, right? Yes. That's true. I'm as cunning and brave and courageous as the Rabbi of Krotoszin. EVELYN What are you talking about? CARLTON (walking up and down, glass in hand) That's a very . . . very edifying story. You want to hear it? So listen. The Cossacks returned once again to Krotoszin. There was another pogrom. They beat up the Jews and set fire to their houses and ...

  EVELYN Carlton! Please! You're drunk! CARLTON (roughly) Shut up . . . and set fire to their houses. Finally they came to the rabbi's house . .. (sets his glass aside. Absorbed in story he acts the characters, thereby proving how good an actor he really is) ... and looted it. And then the lieutenant arrived ... (as the lieutenant) . . . and with chalk he drew a circle on the ground and said to the rabbi, "Stand inside the circle, Jew!" (as the rabbi) The rabbi stood inside the circle and while the Cossacks beat his wife and tore off his daughter's clothes the lieutenant said, (as lieutenant) "You will be silent no matter what you hear now. Whatever you see now. You will not move. If you as much as push your big toe outside this chalk circle you are a dead Jew!" EVELYN (watching Carlton, fascinated and horrified) CARLTON The Cossacks left the following morning and the survivors crawled out from the rubble of their homes. Loud laughter echoed from the house of the rabbi and they hurried there. Inside his pillaged home they found the sobbing, violated women and the rabbi still standing inside the chalk circle, and he laughed and laughed and laughed . ..

  CARLTON (acting as the neighbors) He's lost his mind ... He went mad ... (as the insane rabbi) . . . and the rabbi almost choked laughing and finally he said, "The honorable lieutenant forbade me to step outside thi
s circle no matter what I saw or heard, (laughs) But then, when-he fell upon my youngest daughter and forgot about me I carefully . . . slowly . . . pushed my big toe outside the chalk circle! And you know what? He didn't notice it! CARLTON (laughs. Suddenly breaks off. Looks at Evelyn. Pulls himself together. Reaches for his drink. He is once again himself, weak, despondent, drunk.) Do you understand, sweet? All the world is a phetto! And everyone stands inside his own chalk circle. No one can step outside it! Never. No one! And that's why I have my big toe where it is. And that's why I won't sign the contract. And

  that's why I won't act. It would be futile, senseless. And ridiculous ... (He drinks, glass slips from his hand. He sways. Whisky runs from his mouth. Evelyn stares at him. He smiles crookedly.)

  Camera shows both of them in the luxurious room, each one helpless, alone, in his own chalk circle.

  16

  From the comer of my eye I saw the camera come to a halt. Automatically I counted the seconds. Twenty-one. Twenty-two. Twenty-three. To give the cutter sufficient footage for the following takes, the director always added thirty seconds to each take.

  Twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six...

  The camera continued to run; it was still silent on the set; Seaton still did not call "Cut!"

  Why not? I had not fluffed my lines. Belinda had not made any mistakes.

  Twenty-nine. Thirty. Thirty—

  "Cut!"'

  Seaton's voice sounded strange, choked. He stared at me. Behind his chair stood Kostasch, his mouth gaping, amazement in his eyes. I saw now that the entire staff was staring at me. Someone began to applaud. Another followed. Until all of them were applauding. Behnda King embraced and kissed me. Kostasch moved, shook my hand. Seaton slapped my back so hard I stumbled.

  "Boy, oh boy, oh boy!" he groaned.

  They were around me, congratulating me, telling me how marvelous I had been, and I saw that they honestly meant what they said. All of them, each one inside his own chalk circle, must have felt relief.

  Seaton knew now that he would continue to direct this movie. He could hope to be hired for other movies.

  Kostasch did not have to vindicate himself to the Wilson Brothers or the distributor. Important people, little people. I had freed them all of the worry for their immediate future. And that's why they were all smiling.