The Berlin Connection

by Johannes Mario Simmel

  Now I had to tell her something.

  "Are you coming?" My wife stood behind me in nightgown and robe. I left the balcony and closed the door.

  Had Joan seen anything? What did she know, think, plan? I twitched nervously.

  "But darling, I only wanted to kiss you."

  Her lips on my cheek, she whispered, "I know you're tired . .."

  "Not at all."

  "... and preoccupied ..."

  "That's not true."

  "But I see it. When I talk to you you don't listen. When I look at you, you don't notice it. You are thinking of something else. And I know what it is ..."

  "You . .. know?"

  "Naturally, darling. I know and I can understand that you're always thinking of your work, your movie. But I. . ."

  I looked at her. She lowered her head, as embarrassed as a young girl.

  "I would like to go to sleep in your arms tonight."

  I nodded, I could not speak.

  "I've taken a sedative. I'll go to sleep soon. Just to go to sleep in your arms ... after all this time ..."

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  "She is one of my fans. What can I do? She follows me. She is forever at the hotel trying to see me."

  "How do you know?"

  "I talked with one of the doormen last night."

  "I see."

  "He saw her standing outside, waving."

  "And he recognized her?"

  "Yes, he did! She hangs around here since I arrived. He also said I had given her my autograph at some time."

  "But you can't remember?"

  ^'Naturally not! I've signed hundreds of autographs." I had not signed a dozen. "Now are you satisfied?"

  "You're driving too fast," said Shirley. She was sitting next to me. It was seven-thirty. White frost covered the road. It was icy cold. Shirley wore her leopard coat and a black cap on her auburn hair.

  "Are you satisfied now!"

  "Why shouldn't I be?"

  "Now listen—"

  "Watch out!"

  I jerked the wheel over to the left to avoid a man. The car slithered on the slippery road.

  "If you can't drive more carefully let me get out."

  I clenched my teeth and eased off the gas. This was important and so I asked: "Then you don't believe me?"

  "Why shouldn't I believe you?"

  "Don't repeat everything I say!"

  "Then don't yell at me! I haven't done anything to you!"

  "Every actor has fans!"

  "Who is arguing?"

  "Don't talk like that!"

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  "Fm talking the same way you're talking!"

  "Shirley, what's the matter with you? I love you!" Ar»d she loves me. Her behavior is perfectly unders^^nHable. "Perhaps you think I've deceived you with this lady?"

  "Please. Please, let's just forget it!"

  "I want you to believe me!"

  "I do. Really. She is a fan of yours. A rather adult ^an. She saw you with two women and, because she is tactful, she didn't speak to you so as not to annoy us."

  "Right! Movie fans are poor, lonely people."

  "But tactful! That's why she waved to you only when you were alone ..."

  "Yes!"

  ". . . and you, because you are also tactful, because vou did not want to irritate us, did not wave to her unt'l vou were alone. Even though you had no idea who the lady was!"

  That was logical.

  "It's proof again of what a good person vou are. It's perfectly clear to me. Why shouldn't T believe it?"

  A logical woman. Jealous and logical.

  I wouldn't have believed the story either. Now what?

  I took the turn at high speed.

  "Where are you going?" There was fear in Shirley's voice.

  "The doctor is waitine for us up ahead." Out here the glittering frost had given the scenery a clean, fresh f^ia-^e while underneath the silver-bright surface it was dirty and rotting.

  "Where is he waiting?"

  "Behind the barn, up ahead." Now that T said it. fear gripped me. Why did Schauberg not come to meet me as always when he heard my car?

  There—

  A figure • stepped slowly from behind the barn. Slid back. I braked suddenly. It had not been a man. It had been a young woman and I knew who she was.

  I put on the brake, opened the door.

  Shirley seized my shoulder.

  "Let go!" ^

  "Where are you—"

  "Let me go!"

  "But—"

  "You stay here and don't move!"

  I jumped out of the car, slammed the door. Promptly I slipped on the ice, fell, grazed my hand, got up again. More careful now, I slid and slithered until I had reached the bam. There was Kathe, blonde, distraught eyes reddened by tears.

  "Thank God you came! I was so afraid ..."

  "How did you get here?"

  "In a taxi ... I sent it away . . ." Schauberg's girlfriend in only a suede jacket, high-heeled shoes and a thin sweater, was shaking from agitation and cold. Completely dressed, she looked almost obscene. Her pretty, vapid face was gray. Her lips were trembling. "I thought perhaps I was waiting at the wrong bam ... or something happened to you too . . ."

  I stiffened, alarmed.

  "Too?" I asked softly.

  She nodded, choked, and began to cry.

  I whispered, "Schauberg?"

  A flood of tears.

  "What is the matter with him?"

  "They arrested him. Last night," she sobbed. "In Rein-beck."

  The Fifth Tape

  The little cat in Professor Pontevivo's laboratory was completely drunk.

  She stumbled through her special cage, bumped into it, meowed sadly. Her fur was unkempt, her body emaciated.

  Today was the first time I had left my room in the clinic. Many days had passed in learning to walk again. Fearfully I had stumbled, physically weak, holding on to the bed, the window, the walls.

  The mere thought of walking in a park, dridng a car, speaking to strangers, going to a movie is agonizing enough for me to break into a cold sweat.

  Professor Pontevivo told me that my physical condition had improved to such an extent that the time had come to cure my addiction.

  "Today begins the second part of your recovery. Your tapes prove that your mind is functioning perfectly. It is necessary for you to know aU we have learned about addiction and addicts so that you will be able to work with us in restoring your health. To help you remember, I would like you to report each session to your tape recorder."

  "Very well, Professor."

  "All right, the first lesson." He showed me photographs

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  of a little well-fed cat. "This was Bianca six weeks ago. We have used her in an experiment and now she is addicted to alcohol. I hope you are not a hysterical animal lover. Hysterical animal lovers are usually misanthropes. Those who cry for the animals used in satellites probably don't shed any tears about the Jews sent to the gas ovens."

  "What did you do with Bianca?"

  "We taught her to push a button to open a little door. Every time the door opened she found some fish, hver or cheese, everything Uttle cats like. How do you feel?"

  "Fair."

  "Say: I feel fine."

  "I feel fine."

  "Bravo. We offered Bianca milk, and milk mixed with alcohol. She always drank the milk. She would rather go thirsty than touch the alcohol-milk mixture. Until we began to annoy her."

  "Annoy her?"

  "We connected a rubber hose leading to a small fan to the little door. Whenever Bianca pressed the button the fan was activated and, instead of the usual food, cold air blew into her face. Now if she pushed the button she never knew whether food would fall out or air would blow into her face. How would you describe what we had done?"

  "You created a conflict for Bianca."

  **Wonderful!" He beamed. "A mental conflict, right? Hunger drove her to push the button but with that her fear of the cold air increased. She alternated b
etween fear and greed. Repeat, please."

  "She alternated between fear and greed."

  "She did not clean herself any more, she became restless, nervous, forgetful and irritable. One day she only found the alcohol-mUk mixture. She sipped some. The alcohol befuddled her a httle but appeared to give her courage too. She pushed the button."

  "What happened?"

  "A blast of cold air hit her face. The next day she found some hver. She never knew what to expect. Every time before she pushed the button, she drank some of the alcohol-milk to give her courage. She became more and more depressed. A few days later we placed a bowl of milk in her cage. We disconnected the ventilator and Bi-anca found food whenever she pushed the button. Still she preferred the alcohol-milk to the pure milk. She always takes a sip before she pushes the button. Now, Mr. Jordan, Bianca is addicted."

  "Will she remain addicted?"

  "It depends on whether or not she will lose her fear and distrust of the little door—and whatever is waiting behind it for her."

  "Since no one can talk with her and since she probably cannot think she will probably die."

  The professor rubbed his hands. "Bravo, Mr. Jordan, bravissimo. A human being can think and free himself of his addiction—^if others will help him."

  "Poor Bianca."

  "Poor humanity. Experiments of this nature are still new. Only a short time ago we did not know why a casual drinker became a habitual drinker and why a habitual drinker became an alcoholic. Many reasons were given— character weakness, sybaritic tendencies, hereditary factors, the wish to escape. Today we know: Alcoholism is a disease, in most cases a neurosis. If problems can't be overcome, mental conflicts not resolved, one can become neurotic. Then it is easy to take to alcohol." The professor rose with extreme dignity. "This was the first lecture. Now I wiU escort you back to your room."

  We walked along a corridor, its large windows sunlit.

  Suddenly' Pontevivo said, "Now you see the progress you are making. You walked by yourself. I did not help you."

  Indeeci. I turned to look at the long corridor. It seemed incredible. And I had not been afraid.

  From the music room came the soft sounds of a piano.

  "He plays beautifully, doesn't he?" The professor looked down at the park, enchantir^ with its profusion of colorful blossoms. "He has almost completed his concerto. There comes his muse." The wife of the composer, dressed in black as usual, a basFet of oranges on her arm was walking sedately along the path.

  "She always brings oranges," I said. "Can he eat that many?"

  "He loves them. They are good for him." We had arrived at my room. "Tomorrow we'll talk further."

  I must return to Kathe, waiting for me at the bam where I usually met Schauberg. Somehow I found my voice to ask, "What did he do?"

  "He ... he ..."

  I shook her. "Come on! Tell me!"

  "He broke into a cough medicine plant."

  "He broke into a what?"

  "Into a place where they make cough medicine."

  A pharmaceutical plant. Impossible. Things like that don't happen. I was crazy. The time had come: I was insane.

  "Say that again! Where?"

  "Into a place where they make cough medicines, you know?"

  "What nonsense is that?"

  "No nonsense. And he did it for you!"

  I pressed both hands to my temples.

  The gull. The elephant. The elevator. The voices.

  No! Fm not giving in. Til fight back. I can still fight back!

  "Last night he burglarized that factory? For me?"

  *TS[o!"

  "What do you mean, no?"

  "He was arrested last night. The day before yesterday he broke in there!" Her breath formed white clouds every time she spoke.

  "For my sake he broke in there? For me?"

  "That's right! For you!"

  "How do you know that?"

  "Chariey told me."

  "Who is Chariey?"

  "The fellow who broke in with him."

  "They didn't catch him?"

  She sniffled, then came a new flood of tears.

  I forced myself to be calm. We weren't getting anywhere this way. "Now they only have Schauberg?"

  "Yes .. ."

  "What about Chariey?"

  Tears. Sniffling.

  "Answer me! Please, Kathe! Where does Charley live?"

  "I don't know. I don't know! I've never seen him before! He called me at two in the morning at Madam Misere's." She imitated the conversation of two voices. "Can I talk to Kathe?—Speaking. Who is this?— Charley.—Chariey who?—Just Chariey. Listen. Your sweety just got caught. Burglary. Cough syrup factory. You know a Peter Jordan?—^Yes.—He is the one he did it for.—He told me when and where to meet you, Mr. Jordan. Then he said, tell Jordan to send a lawyer for Schauberg. After that he is to pick up the box.—What box?—^Don't ask stupid questions, Jordan knows which box. He is to get it right away!"

  I heard a noise. I jumped back. It was Shirley. She had been listening but could not have understood anything.

  "What happened? Who is that girl?"

  "I told you to stay in the car!"

  Kathe became hystericaL *'^Mr. Jordan, I've nothing to do with all this! I want to go back!"

  "Shut up!" I yelled. Then to Shirley, "Leave us alone!"

  "If you don't tell me right away what happened I'll scream!'*

  "For chrissake, I don't know myself what happened! Now will you get back into that car and wait?"

  Shirley gave me a frightened look and backed away from me, stumbUng, and got back into the car.

  "Now listen, Kathe! I must go to the studio. Just for a little while. Stop crying and fix your face. Walk on the right side of the road toward town. I'll pick you up in about fifteen minutes. I need your help. Okay?"

  Still sniffling she nodded.

  I hurried to the car and dropped behind the wheel. The car leaped toward the road. Shirley was motionless. Kathe stumbled down the path on her high heels, sobbing, lost, without comprehension.

  The tires screamed as I made the turn onto the road. Without taking my eyes off the road I said, "The doctor was arrested. She is his girlfriend."

  Shirley began to laugh hysterically.

  "What's so funny?"

  "The doctor was arrested? This one too? That's what I had to come to Hamburg for!" She was still laughing.

  "I must help the man."

  "So you'll be arrested too?"

  "They arrested him for something else. I promise, 111 explain it all to you later."

  She looked at me, then shrugged her shoulders. "You'U never tell me the truth," she said in a low voice. "I know that now. You are in a precarious situation. Poor Peter."

  "Shirley, I swear—" I began. But I did not explain. There was no time. The box. Kathe. A lawyer. I needed Schauberg. What would I do without him?

  "What do you mean, Mr. Jordan, you have to leave?" Albrecht, furious, glared at me. The skinny production manager limped around his desk. He obviously hated me but I did not know why. "How much time would you like?"

  "An hour. An hour and a half. At most."

  "You're supposed to be ready for shooting at ten. It's eight now. Or will all of us have to wait for you?"

  I forced a smile. "Mr. Albrecht, you could do the takes without me. The ones with Hoffmann."

  "And change everything again for you? No, no! Besides, Hoffmann is still at the radio station until twelve o'clock."

  Kostasch entered. He beamed when he saw Shirley and me.

  "How nice to see you!" He kissed her. Kostasch noticed something wa"s wrong. Albrecht explained. Kostasch decided the takes would be rescheduled. Albrecht was furious, slammed the door behind him. We heard him yelling for his assistant.

  "Whatever is the matter with him?" I asked.

  "Don't be upset. It's nothing personal. He just doesn't like Americans."

  "Why not?"

  "He was in an American POW camp."

  "Tha
t breaks my heart. How could we attack Nazi Germany!"

  Kostasch laughed. "There is more to it than that! Albrecht is an old communist. The Nazis first put him in a concentration camp and then into a penal fighting imit for probation. He was taken by the Americans in Normandy. On one of those Liberty ships he reached the USA and

  was stuck into some POW camp. His best friend was with him. They had been in the same camp at Mauthausen."

  "Well, and?"

  "Well, as was common in those POW camps, the Nazis were in command again. Complete with officer's administration, ^kangaroo' courts, and strangUng anti-fascists at night. You know what went on in your country."

  I was silent. I had heard about it.

  "I bet it must have impressed the Americans how these blond, blue-eyed heroes sorted out the camp! One two three. One of those reds taken care of. Quite a few antifascists died. After Albrecht's friend had been strangled and-he had been beaten and severely injured, a senator instituted an inquiry. Albrecht and other anti-fascists were then transferred to another camp. The food there, so he said, was not as good. Ah, well." Kostasch laughed. "You see, Shirley, such are the ways by which a man acquires prejudices!"

  He had told the story while we were walking to the cutting rooms.

  "Okay, Peter. Take off." He winked at Shirley. "Since yesterday I can't refuse him anything." He took her arm. "Come with me, I'll introduce you to the other cutters."

  "I'll see you at lunch," I said to Shirley.

  She did not reply. Kostasch and Shirley were already climbing the stairs leading to the cutting rooms.

  The sun appeared a pale jdisc among the dirty gray clouds. Trees, bushes, paths, flowers, and grass were gUt-tering with the past night's frost.

  Kathe, still sniffling, was showing me the shortest route to Reinbeck, all the while lamenting her and Schauberg's

  fate. I drove fast, hoping not to attract the attention of a police patrol car.

  "Mr. Jordan, you are the only person I can rely on. Now, that they've arrested Schauberg .. ."

  "I must know exactly what happened if I am to help him. You imderstand?"

  "Yes."

  "For instance, did he really say he broke into that factory because of me? Did he reaUy say that?"

  "Yes, Mr. Jordan, he did."

  We had reached the wall of the cemetery with its crooked gravestones. Here I had waited for Schauberg that first time.

  Had he lost his mind? In my wallet was a check for eight thousand marks for him. He knew he was to get it this morning. Then why would he burgle a cough syrup factory? Why? Little by little I was losing the certainty, normal to a healthy person, that everything that happened was really happening. Day by day, not to mention the nights, my feehng increased: I am insane. What I seemed to experience were already phantasmagoria of a sick mind.