The Berlin Connection

by Johannes Mario Simmel

  Shapiro became enthusiastic. The official capacity of this hospital was fifteen hundred patients.

  "Do you know how many patients are here now? About twenty-seven hundred! There are never less than twenty-five hundred!"

  Extra beds had been placed in hallways and some day rooms. Because of insufficient space, old and young, ad-

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  diets, degenerates, criminals, the harmless, and children were crowded together.

  "It is criminal that children should be living among all these people!"

  "How long have you been here?" I asked.

  "Three years. Before I was admitted I used up to 50 ampoules of dope a day. I think I will be discharged this summer. I've been treated very well. This building dates from 1880. It used to be a barrack. Today there is no money to build new hospitals. Nowadays they have to build new barracks."

  I was again startled when I heard the same terrifying screams from above that I had heard that morning.

  "Why won't you say who you are?"

  I did not reply.

  Shapiro smiled. "I like you. You can use my electric

  razor."

  "I have this rash ..."

  "Well, I do too. Look at me!" The light in the room was so dim that I had not noticed it right away. Shapiro's face was covered with eczema. The faces of some other patients were also disfigured. A man near the window looked the worst.

  "The medication," said Shapiro. "Mostly from^paralde-hyde."

  "Paraldehyde?"

  "It's a sedative. That's the stuff you can smeU everywhere here."

  "Who is the man near the window?"

  "King Washington Napoleon."

  The man looked up and bowed politely when he heard his name.

  "He's an artist. Fell from the high wire during his act. Head injury. He's engaged to the princess."

  "Princess?"

  "Margaret Rose. Of England. He writes her daily."

  I met the other inmates of the room during the evening

  meal. That consisted of sandwiches and herb tea. The cups and plates were dirty, the sandwiches unappetizing. When I pushed it away Shapiro said, "Eat it. Come on. Only stupid people throw it out of the window." He pointed to a pale, skinny man who was just throwing his food into the yard. I remembered the fat crows.

  "You must eat. You must keep up your strength or you'll never make it. Go on—no matter how much you loathe it!"

  I forced myself to eat. The tea tasted of saccharin. The man who had thrown his sandwiches into the yard had begun to drink at the age of fourteen, Shapiro told me. He used to be a pharmacist. Six times he had been in prison for raping minors. Now he was here permanently.

  Kurt, the man who had been lying underneath his bed, had been a carpenter. As a result of alcoholism both his arms were paralyzed. Shapiro fed him patiently. Shapiro was well-liked. He helped where he could, he cleaned, he was always in good spirit. Dr. Trotha had permitted him to keep his small radio.

  Then I learned about Butt-Dieter. He was the oldest, the one who stood facing the wall. He only said two sentences, "Today is my birthday. Have you a butt for me?"

  Cigarettes! They were as important and precious as they had been for people in Germany after the war. We were allowed to smoke in the hallway where we were taken after the meal.

  Two attendants led a troupe of children past us. I was horrified at the sight of these little human wrecks.

  "Children of alcoholics. Even some of them have had withdrawal treatment. You should see their parents on visiting day!"

  At eight-thirty we were sent back into our rooms. A young doctor accompanied by two attendants gave out medication. I was given an injection. Most of the patients received paraldehyde, a liquid of dreadful smell and taste

  which quickly induced sleep. I was beginning to adjust to the awful odor.

  I was surprised that I did not have an attack. I had not had any whisky aU day yet I did not feel bad, merely weak. Very weak. The hghts went out at eight-forty-five. Shapiro*s little radio played softly.

  Butt-Dieter began to snore. The snoring became a rasping in his throat which in turn became a rattling cough.

  Shapiro said, "I clean his phlegm up in the morning. Poor Dieter was in the firestorm in Hamburg—^the air raid in 1943. He recognizes no one any more."

  Now I bad to think. Who was looking for me? Kostasch? Natasha? Had I been missed in the hotel? The police would accept a missing person's report only after forty-eight hours. Not even twenty-four hours had passed since my arrest. I had telephoned Schauberg just before that. He must be worried. But if Schauberg of all people—

  I could assume that the police would not search for me before tomorrow night. Tomorrow was also Christmas. Would civil departments work at full strength? I wondered if the fracas in the bar had been reported in the newspapers? I had mentioned my name to Goldstein.

  Had I?

  I could not remember. The paraldehyde was as soporific as a potent sedative.

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  They had left me my watch.

  I was awakened by Shapiro's panic-stricken dream at midnight. He was continually calling his wife not to let him drown because he could not swim. Attendants gave him a little more paraldehyde and he fell asleep again.

  I was now wide awake. From the upper floor, and the women's wing as well, I heard screams, slaps, stamping,

  whimpering, crying, howling laughter. Sounds made by humans, but inhuman, idiot sounds. Members of the staff shouted and hurried about, bells clanged; twice a siren screamed. There was no letup. I finally fell asleep only to be roused by more shouting: "Time to get up! To the washrooms!"

  December twenty-fourth was a dreary gray day. Breakfast consisted of sandwiches and tea. Two doctors accompanied by attendants made their rounds. With so many patients to see, the time with each had to be very limited. I was given a sedative and an injection. Before falling asleep I watched some patients leave for their daily chores: cleaning, helping in the kitchen. I slept till the afternoon. Shapiro sat staring on his bed. Butt-Dieter stood facing the wall. King Washington Napoleon was writing to Princess Margaret Rose.

  From the women's wing came singing.

  "Silent night, holy night . . ."

  Attendants brought aluminum plates with fruits, chocolate, gingerbread cookies decorated with pine branches. They also brought opened letters and packages for some patients.

  An attendant came in and pointed to me. "Come along!"

  "Where to?" I was frightened.

  "Quickly, hurry, before he gets rough," said Shapiro to me softly. I put on the old robe and slippers and followed the man to a door, visiting room.

  He pushed me inside.

  Two people were waiting there for me.

  Dr. Trotha and Natasha.

  Natasha came toward me. She bumped into a chair and dropped her handbag. Simultaneously Dr. Trotha and the attendant bent down to pick it up. Natasha pushed something into my hand. It was a hard object wrapped in paper. Immediately I put it into the pocket of my robe.

  Both men had straightened up, Natasha took her bag and thanked them. She looked at me almost clinically, as if she had never seen me before. It took a desperate effort for me to do the same.

  "Well, Doctor," asked Trotha. "Is he the one?"

  Natasha shook her head.

  "No," she said, "No, he isn't"

  "You are quite certain?"

  "I'm positive. Peter Jordan looks quite different."

  "Take the man back to his room," said Trotha. Natasha turned away.

  In my room again, Shapiro asked, "Visitor?"

  "Negative. A woman looking for her husband."

  I waited about fifteen minutes before I knocked on the locked door. When another attendant opened I asked to go to the bathroom. There I unwrapped the httle package Natasha had given me. The hard object was a square-cut key that unlocked aU doors and was wrapped in a typewritten note.

  "You must get out of here tonight. Two thirds of the s
taff are off. I bribed the guard who is on duty tonight at 8 o'clock at the main entrance. He sold me the key. He will let you pass. I shall be waiting in a car around the comer of the first street to the right . . ."

  There was a sketch that showed where I was to go once I left the institution.

  "I'll have a change of clothes with me. The evening pa-

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  pers had a report of a man who, after a fight in a bar, had been sent to this institution. They also say that the man refuses to identify himself. By tomorrow morning, at the latest, someone from the studio will surely come to this place.

  "Once your identity has been established you will no longer be able to leave Germany. But you must go to Professor Ppntevivo. I have sleeping-car tickets for eleven-fifty. I shall be expecting you between nine and nine-thirty. It is your only chance."

  I tore the letter into small pieces and flushed it away. Then I went out in the hall where the attendant was waiting for me.

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  The Ninth Tape

  The voice announcing the arrival of the Alps Express reverberated through the loudspeaker in the quiet low-lying hall of the Hamburg Hauptbahnhof. It was almost midnight on Christmas Eve, 1959.

  Only a dozen or so travelers standing in little groups were waiting for the train. A big Christmas tree, its lights and decorations glittering, stood at the head of the stairs.

  Natasha was by my side. But for her support I would have fallen. The glistening railroad tracks, the tree, the few people, hghts in the distance all seemed to sway. The overcoat Natasha had bought for me was too large, the suit too small, the new shoes too tight. A suitcase and bag were nearby. The express rolled into the station. Natasha helped me to a sleeping car. A porter brought the baggage. The entire train was almost empty. The talkative conductor, smelling of liquor, told us that he had already celebrated Christmas with his family that afternoon.

  "Had a little drink too. Nothing much doing on Christmas Eve.'*

  An announcer's voice wished us a pleasant trip and after a few gentle jerks the train started its long journey south.

  I had sat down on a berth. We crossed a few bridges,

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  the lights of many ships reflecting in the black water. I felt ill yet elated. Despairing yet hopeful. The wish to die mingled with the wish to live.

  Natasha had left the compartment. She returned with the cheerful conductor who brought soda, three glasses and ice.

  Natasha opened the bag, brought out a bottle of whisky and prepared drinks. She first served the conductor. A toast, "happy Christmas," then he drank and left us.

  We drank. I began to weep. Natasha comforted me. "It's all right, Peter. Go ahead and cry. I know, it's merely nerves."

  I blubbered, "You remembered to bring whisky."

  "You can drink all you want. It makes no difference now. The day after tomorrow you'll be at Pontevivo's."

  The few minutes involved in a dangerous adventure had given us a greater intimacy than any other event since first we met. But our familiarity did not stem merely from being accomplices...

  The train was moving fast through the snow-covered countryside. Natasha refilled my glass.

  "Not so much."

  "You'll sleep better if you have a few drinks. It's a long trip. We'll only have reached Munich by morning."

  I drank, thinking that I was probably dreaming, that I was still on my bed in room seventeen. It was all too fantastic. In a moment I would be awakened by Shapiro's screaming during one of his attacks.

  "Natasha .. . Natasha..."

  "What is it?"

  "I'm so afraid I'm dreaming."

  "You're not dreaming. You're awake. We're on our way to Rome."

  "I'm not... I'm no longer in that place?"

  "No, Peter." Her look, her hand on mine was what I most needed for belief. Four hours ago I had still been there...

  After T had read Natasha's note and stuffed the kev in the pocket of my robe the attendant took me back to my room. The singing of Christmas songs came from all wards. Christmas dinner consisted of chicken and asparagus. The fat crows in the yard were having a special feast.

  Once the plates had been collected we were sent out into the hall where smoking was permitted. At eisht-thirty we received our usual medication. Another iniection and again paraldehyde.;Although I was nauseated by it I managed to keep it in my mouth until the attendants had left. Then T spat it under the bed. I dared not risk sleep.

  The lights went off at eight-forty-five. I waited until T thought everyone in my ward was asleep. The screamins and yelling, stamping and crying from upstairs began and from afar I heard church bells.

  My eyes were on my watch. I had but one fear: that Shapiro would have an attack. He did not.

  Shortly after nine I rose silently, put on the robe and slippers and crept to the door. It opened soundlessly as I turned the square-cut key. Just as quietly I closed it.

  The hall was empty and sparsely lit. I carried my slippers and hurried to the stairs. As I turned the corner I collided with the attendant who had taken me to the bathroom earlier. He promptly recognized me. I hit him, the key in my fist, as hard as I could. He fell forward, groaned and did not move.

  As I raced down the stairs, I saw the light of the guardroom. The moment the guard heard steps he bent even lower over his newspaper. I crossed the foyer and ran past him. The entrance door was not locked. I was outside.

  I ran down deserted streets to the first crossroad. In the scuffle with the attendant I had dropped my slippers. The snow bothered my bare feet, I turned the corner. In the narrow road the lights of a car came on. Its engine

  started, one of its doors was flung open. I dropped into the front seat. Natasha stepped on the gas.

  "How far is Hamburg?"

  "About thirty kilometers." A little later she stopped near some trees. "The clothes are in the backseat. You better change here."

  I changed hurriedly and threw the hospital garb beneath a hedge. We continued on our way.

  "Whose car is this?"

  "I borrowed it from friends. We'll leave it outside their house." About three quarters of an hour later we left the car and walked in search for a taxi. Hamburg seemed deserted. Christmas trees gleaming behind windows. From radios came the songs and music of Christmas as we sought a cab.

  "Where is Misha?"

  "With friends. I told him I had to take a trip for a few days." Her voice was quite matter-of-fact. No hint of excitement, sentiment or fear. She had evolved a plan and was efficiently carrying it out.

  We finally found a taxi to the railroad station. It was eleven-fifteen then. Outside we walked up and down. When I felt faint Natasha told me to sit on a suitcase.

  "It is better we go to the platform at the last minute. Perhaps they are already searching for you. There are always police at the station."

  "How will I get across the frontier? I have no passport."

  "Yes, you have Bruno's." She handed me a German passport once held by Misha's father. I looked at the photograph. A man with glasses. A sensitive face.

  "He doesn't resemble me at all!"

  "I never said he did."

  "Yes, you did. You said—^"

  "I said you remind me of him."

  "But if I don't resemble him—"

  She handed me a pair of glasses.

  "Here. The lenses are plain glass. Besides you have this rash. The same short hair. It will be all right if you wear the glasses. You must memorize the dates."

  Bruno Kerst. Born March 21st 1920. Profession—Artist.

  "Shortly before I took him to Pontevivo he needed a new passport. It is valid until 1961. I did not throw it away. All lucky coincidences, aren't they?"

  "Yes," I said, "all lucky coincidences indeed."

  "Do you think that you injured the attendant badly?"

  "I don't think so."

  "Eleven-thirty," said Natasha. "Now we can slowly make our way to the platform."

  The wheels of the f
ast train were pounding.

  I drank and listened to Natasha. Her hand on my arm—that brought calm.

  "We made it just in time. The film people think that you've met with an accident. At the hotel they thought you might have been the victim of a crime. They wanted the police to search for you even before the usual forty-eight hours had passed."

  "How did you learn that?"

  "I went to the hotel. I'm known there. That's where your friends were all waiting."

  "Strange that no one thought I might be in an institution."

  "That's not so strange. No one knew of the precarious state of your health. Only I. I became alarmed right away that something like that might have happened."

  "Natasha—" I began but tears choked my voice.

  "You must endure this trip, Peter. You must get out of Germany before a warrant for your arrest is issued."

  "The man I stabbed—^have you heard anything about him?"

  "He is very ill but not critically ill."

  "Don't you want to know why I did it?"

  "You'll tell me," she said. "You'll tell me everything, Peter."

  "He beat up a Jew."

  "Later," she said. "Don't talk now. You've already had too much excitement."

  "Natasha—"

  "Don't talk." She j511ed my glass again.

  "I must! You must not come with me. You must leave the train ... at the next station. You must return to Hamburg. You'll be involved in this matter."

  "I already am."

  "That's why you must get ojff the train. If ... if they catch me they'll not only try me for this knifing ... there is also an insurance fraud ... Shirley ... the attendant I struck..."

  "I know."

  "Think of Misha!"

  "I'm thinking of you now," she said. "Alone you'll never get to Rome. Someone will have to be with you. A doctor."

  "But this is insanity! I don't want you to—"

  She stroked my hair. "Have some more to drink, Peter. And get undressed. There are, pajamas in the bag, a razor and everything else you'll need."

  "Natasha..."

  She had already left the compartment

  I staggered and swayed but made ready for bed. My face was now covered with pustules and eczema. I was sickened by my appearance.

  Once more I filled my glass and emptied it looking at| the snow-covered country outside. I went to my berth.