Kathe said, "Sometimes I thmk I'm crazy and I'm just dreaming."
"You too?"
"Excuse me?"
"Nothing. Tell me about Schauberg."
"He came to see me three days ago. You know what he did?"
"What?"
"He cried."
"No!" Schauberg and tears. Devil and halo. General and peace. "Why did he cry?"
"He had just seen you."
"Yes, that's right. So?"
"He was at his wit's end. He told me you had said your movie is not going to be finished. And he is not going to
get any more money from you. He still has money to come from you, hasn't he? He never said what for and naturally I've never asked him. But he did say the movie was not going to be finished. So I guessed it had something to do with that. . ."
There it was. My premonition had been right. I ought not to have told him about the conversation in the empty projection room I had overheard between Kostasch and Seaton. But I had told him. And this was the result.
"He said then he had to accept this job."
"This job was the burglary?"
"Must have been. He said there was money in that too. Not as much. But still. He said he was going to do this job and then he would leave Germany. He was going to do it with a friend, he told me."
"Friend Charley."
"Yes. Probably. Didn't you read about it in the papers?"
"What did it say?"
"In yesterday's paper it said, *A truckload of cough medicine was stolen from a pharmaceutical plant.' "
A truckload!
That was the reason why Schauberg had laughed so heartily when I complained about my throat and asked him for some cough medicine.
Now did it make sense? No. None at aU.
I stepped on the brake. We had arrived at the camp with its barbed-wire fences; the dilapidated barracks without doors or roofs.
"Get out. Kathe. Hurry up."
Barracks. Graves. Little lake, frozen. Dynamited shelters.
"Quickly! Hurry up!"
"I can't. My high heels . . . and I'm afraid. What if there are people here . . . policemen . .."
"Only the dead are here," I said.
We pulled the heavy olive-green box from the rubble of the third shelter and dragged it back to the car. I felt better once it was locked into the trunk of the car and we were driving back toward Hamburg.
Nine-forty-five.
I thought fleetingly of Albrecht but more pressing things were on my mind and the film seemed almost unimportant.
"I'll let you off in Hamburg," I said to Kathe. "T can find my v/ay from here. I have to hurry. I'll call Madam Misere. I'll see you tonight. By then we'll know more about Schauberg."
"You will help him, won't you?"
"Ill do everything possible. But you'll have to be smart now, Kathe. If the pohce question you, you tell them that you are lovers. You can tell them that you are going to be married."
"Yes, Mr. Jordan."
"You must not mention me or this box. They can't know that Schauberg and I worked together."
"I understand. I'll do everything you say."
"I must not become involved in this. The cough medicine job has nothing to do with me. Really. If they should ask you about me—it is most unlikely—or if they should show you a photograph of me, or supposing I arrive when they are there, you know me only as a customer."
"Only as a customer. Yes. Of course."
"You could say that I come to see you."
"Because you like my dialect, right?"
"Now, get out here. Don't cry. We'll get your Walter released. You'll see."
"I believe that, I really do," said Kathe.
Ten-fifteen.
I stopped at a park with a deserted playground where I opened the trunk and then the padlock of the green box. Schauberg had already given me a duplicate key the second time I saw him. "One never knows. Should something happen to me you'll take care of this box." I opened the lid and took out the sealed envelope. Carefully I locked box and trunk and entered a bar opposite the park. An unshaven but well-dressed man was the only other customer at this early hour.
I ordered a beer.
"And a cognac. The gentleman is my guest," said the unshaven man. I noticed a little package wrapped in newspaper on the bar near him.
"Thank you, but I don't care for cognac." I went to a table near a window.
"You don't want to drink with me, eh?"
"It's not that. But at this early hour—"
"Please, Doctor." The bartender appeared embarrassed and winked at me as if asking me to make allowance.
The unshaven one said to him, "You keep out of this." And to me, "You could tell right away, couldn't you?"
"Tell what?"
The bartender standing behind the man touched one finger to his forehead, still smiling. At the same time the other one pushed up his sleeve. On the inside of his wrist I saw several numbers preceded by an A. I had seen such tattoos in American magazines. The man had been in a concentration camp.
"Excuse me. I didn't know—^"
"Then you are going to have a drink with me?"
"Yes. Yes. Of course." The bartender placed a drink
before me. We drank. The man had a very prominent forehead, almost no hair, and large melancholy eyes. His complexion was yellow. His hands shook. A 2 456 954. "Really. I did not mean to hurt your feehngs!" "You didn't. It was only a test." He spoke with a cultivated and low voice. His dark searching eyes, seemingly filled with six thousand years of sadness, dominated his face. "I don't want to disturb you any further." I offered him my hand. He shook it and said, "Thank you."
I ordered the same again for the man, went to the table near the window. From there I could keep an eye on my car.
I broke the seal of the envelope and read the message written in single letters in Schauberg's small script. Dear Friend,
When you read this letter I might have had an accident, escaped, be very ill, in jail, or dead. Most likely dead,
I am as ill as you are and just as afraid of death as you are. Since we are both men who have no faith in anything our fear is understandable.
Christian doctrine teaches us that our life in this miserable vale is merely the step toward something perfect, wonderful — to paradise, if only one had lived in accordance with God's commandments.
And yet!
In the many years of my profession I have observed that very often even men of the cloth and devout nuns, whose salvation was — so to speak — practically guaranteed, did not want to go to the land of bliss. One would have expected them to have rejoiced that the time had finally come. Elucidate for me the mysteries of Christian faith!
Being proper delinquents and heathens we won't rely on such people or even God's impenetrable ways. But I must do all I can to help you toward yoW goal in the event I should not be around.
You are no medical man.
Following is a precise hill of fare for your treatment using the medications in this box . ..
Schauberg' was a conscientious man. He explained symptoms and drugs for treatment. He gave names, times, dosages. Instructions about how to inject myself and cautionary advice.
While I was reading, a workman entered the bar and the unshaven man again tried his test. The workman reacted as I had.
"The only difficulty would arise if you should ever again feel the way you did on that first evening at the camp and on the evening of your first day of shooting. You will probably remember that I then gave you an intravenous injection."
Yes, I remembered: The wonderful transition from paralyzing fear to peace, warmth, security.
"Should such an attack reoccur, another intravenous injection would be imperative. For that you would need a doctor or at least a trained nurse. I would advise you to try and find somebody you could trust since your survival would depend on him. The medication is in the yellow box which I have marked with a green circle.
"Hoping (for you and for m
e) that you will never receive this letter I remain your blasphemous associate.*'
I called the bartender to pay for my beer and the cognac I had not touched and the drinks for the unshaven man who was still talking to the workman.
"He's a poor, unfortunate man," said the bartender.
"Have you known him for a long time?"
"He's a regular here. He's been around the bars in Hamburg for years. Used to be a successful lawyer. Lost everything."
"What is he doing now?"
"He's drinking himself to death, as you can see. He still has some money."
"This *test' is a crazy idea, isn't it? Even the most fa-
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natic Nazi would not refuse to drink with him if he shows him the tattoo."
"That's what I keep telling him!"
"And?"
The bartender shrugged his shoulders.
The unshaven poor man had opened his little package. He showed the workman a pair of children's shoes.
The bartender said quietly, "He always shows these shoes once he's found someone who wlQ listen to him. He was in Auschwitz. After the Russians came he returned once more and found a huge pile of children's shoes behind some barrack. The poor man had had a wife and a small child. They both died at Auschwitz. So he took a pair of those shoes. It's hardly likely they belonged to his little Monika. Still he has been carrying them around for the last fifteen years. He shows them to everybody."
"What about the people? Do they beUeve the story about the shoes?"
"Maybe one or two. They just drink his beer and cognac. He's well-known around here. They say he's crazy."
I rose and nodded to the man from Auschwitz. He bowed and I left the bar. I never thought I would see him again. But soon this man would figure in the most terrible episode of my life.
I returned to my car and opened the trunk and the green box. I searched a little, then I found it. If the worst should come to pass this was my only hope of survival— the yellow box with the green circle.
It was now ten-thirty. I was to be ready for shooting at eleven-thirty. Make-up would take an hour. And I was not even at the studio. Albrecht would be in a rage and rightfully so.
Fleetingly, but sincerely, I regretted the circumstances which had existed in some American POW camps in 1944. Had the anti-fascists received fairer treatment in Texas and Oklahoma fifteen years ago I might have had a friend in Hamburg, at least not an enemy.
That is the way of life. Our lives weave the fabric of existence, an inescapable web with a detestable pattern.
I made my telephone call to Madam Misere from a call box. Perhaps the police were already there. Possibly her telephone was being tapped. Why had Schauberg really been arrested?
"Kathe came to see me this morning."
"Yes, I know." Madam did not say, 'Yes, I know, Mr. Jordan.' One could rely on her.
"I'm sorry for the girl."
"It is terrible for her. She seems to love him very much. I hardly know him."
"I don't know him at all. What is his name?"
"Schauberg. He came to see her here several times. He made an excellent impression on me."
"I heard he is a doctor?"
"That's right."
"And a doctor breaks in somewhere?"
"I think the entire business is a tragic mistake which will soon be cleared up."
"Kathe begged me for help. I'd be glad to help ber. I'd be glad to help her financially. Since I don't know any lawyers here I thought that perhaps you could ..."
"Kathe is one of my best girls. I have already arranged for a lawyer. I like to be a second mother to my girls. Thank you for your concern."
"Well, if one can be of help .. ."
"Always on the side of the underdoe," said the keeper of the bordello who apparently had been raised in the best English tradition. "I'm sure it is an error. It will be cleared up. The police will arrive at the truth. My lawyer will assist them in that."
"Well, then, if it is a question of money . . ."
"Thank you so much. It is not very often one meets such a generous and warm-hearted man such as ynu. I hope you will honor us soon with a visit. Please call first so I may make the best arrangements.*'
"Thank you, I will." Kathe should arrive there soon and announce that I would be there this evening.
Out of superstition I drove out to the old barn where I usually met Schauberg. There, carefully following his directions, I gave myself an injection. I broke the first ampoule. The injection was" painful. If anyone had seen me there, clothes in disarray, contorted limbs and distorted face, they would have called a psychiatrist right away.
".. . Should such an attack reoccur you would need an intravenous injection . . ."
Who would give me that injection?
Natasha Petrovna? She would not do it. She would call the police. Or send me away.
Should such an attack reoccur ...
There would be another attack. Why not? Then what? A person whom I could trust. No such person. No one would trust me not without reason.
Since man hopes so long as there is life in him, T hooed we could get Schauberg oflf quickly. Perhaps everything would turn out well. In spite of everything.
8
Naturally T was not ready for shooting at eleven-thirty. Tired out, I arrived at the studio just after eleven.
My dressing-room assistant told me Albrecht was furious. He had had to change the schedule because of my absence and had now advanced the lunch period. I took two of Schauberg's red pills and gradually felt calmer.
After make-up and dressing I went to the cutting de-
_ 257
partment to talk to Shirley. She was not alone. The chief cutter, Jaky, and his very handsome German assistant were there too. Shirley was operating an editing machine. She did not look at me.
"Have a look at that, Mr. Jordan," said Jaky. To Shirley, "Show it to daddy." Shirley started the editor. Number 427 was rolling. I saw Wallace kill me with the bronze lamp.
I said, "What's the problem?"
"The sound stinks," said Jaky.
"This scene is supposed to be reshot," I said. "Just like the others we did in the first few days."
"Not this one," said the German assistant. He seemed to like Shirley. He was staring at her a great deal.
"That's right," said Jaky. "But where did you get that sound, man? Couldn't you find anything better than this?"
The good-looking assistant was offended. "We've tried other sound effects. This is the best they had in the archives."
"It has to be a real skull, a read head," said Jaky pensively.
"Why don't you use your own," said his assistant, annoyed.
Jaky ignored him. "I'll get enough skulls for three remakes. It will only take an hour."
The loudspeaker clicked. "Mr. Jordan, you are wanted in Studio Three. Mr. Jordan, please."
Shirley had said nothing. She had not once looked at me.
At three o'clock I had a few free minutes. In the cutting department was only one film splicer.
"They are aU at the Sound Department." I found Shirley in Hall Three. She was squatting on the floor, a microphone above her. On the floor before her were six pig's heads. The heavy hammer she had used to smash the heads of those dismembered pigs was still in her hand.
"Okay, Shirley!" Jaky was pleased. "That sound is authentic. Wait a minute and we'll get the effect."
Jaky and his assistant disappeared. Shirley and I were alone. I helped her up. Her face was white; she looked ill and helpless as she sank down on a chair. I was moved.
"Were you sick again?"
She nodded. "What about this doctor?"
"I'll know by tonight. A lawyer is already looking into it." I lied. "And if he is not successful I have another doctor. Don't worry, darling. We'll help you. In a few days it will be over, I swear."
Now she looked at me and held her hand out to me. It was cold and narrow, and without strength. Her beautiful ey
es, no longer burning with this morning's fury and jealousy, were dull, her voice apathetic. "I'm sorry about this morning."
"Shirley—"
"And for my behavior last night too. Please forgive me, Peter."
Seeing Shirley, seeing her brave struggling to overcome her despair, I was suddenly mortified. What had I done? Could this be love? Love which destroyed the loved one? Wasn^t I only in love with myself? Had that woman been right who once had said, "You are incapable of love. You don't even know what love is."
"Shirley, tonight on our way home—" T began but realized that tonight I was to go to Madam Misere's. I started again. "Tonight at the hotel I'll explain—"
"Don't," she said. Her tired voice held no anger. "No, I don't want you to explain anything."
"But—"
She pressed my hand. "Let me talk. You'll be called back to the studio in a moment."
"Shirley," I said, "my sweet, my all, trust me. I love you. Please believe me. I love you. You're all I live for. I think only of you. Of the secrets between us, the letters we wrote, read and then burned. Our meetings. The small
hotels. The telephone calls. Flowers without notes. All this forbidden life, this love. It is my only, my true love, Shirley..."
"Mine too." She lowered her head as if we were both talking of someone dead, someone to grieve for.
"The little bar. Our song. I love you Shirley. Believe
me.
"I do believe you. But I also believe that you are in some trouble here in Hamburg."
"If you mean the blonde girl this morning— **
"Not only the girl. There are other things."
"Shirley—"
"I think you are very unhappy right now. I think you would have to lie if you were to teU me what happened here. That's why I don't want you to explain anything. I trust you. There is nothing I can do. I'll see what happens. I just don't want to be lied to any more."
"I would not lie to you," I said and thought: I'm lying right now.
"Yes, Peter, you would. All m_y life Tve heard lies. From Joan. From you. From my friends. From boys. Many, many lies. I love you, too, with all my heart. I know you'U do the best you can for both of us. But I could not bear to be told any more lies."
The Berlin Connection Page 21
