Nights in Berlin

by Janice Law

  “You deal with him?”

  “Just about every month. There’s always something. I pawn my coat, gold bracelet, earrings—usual stage gypsy stuff. I redeem them when I get paid. Portable wealth is what you need in this racket,” she said and patted my knee.

  Good advice. That way if Uncle Lastings reemerged and wanted his camera, I could hand him the ticket.

  Outside the flat, Muriel gave me a hug and hailed a cab. I walked to the tram stop and arrived back at Fritz’s shortly before noon, intending to collect my things and head to the pawnbroker. I found his father up and out of his horse blanket. This was unusual and not necessarily a good sign. Although as disheveled and badly shaved as ever, the old man was fully dressed in a couple of thick sweaters as if expecting one of his rare visitors. But this time he had added an army greatcoat, worn and dirty enough to have seen the trenches, and he had his wooden foot on and his crutches at the ready. He was going out.

  “I won’t disturb you,” I said, hoping he was well away from the western front at the moment. “I’m off for good.” I put the key that Fritz used to hide for me on the table.

  He stuck out one of his crutches to block my way. “You can’t go now,” he said, showing a lot of worn, yellowed teeth. “I’ve an appointment. You need to make yourself useful and watch the stove. See she doesn’t overheat.” He patted the stove as if it were a horse with a dubious temperament and gave me a malicious smile.

  “All right.” If he was going, I wanted him out of the way promptly since I didn’t figure to stick around one minute more than needed. I’d check the fire and leave as soon as I thought he’d be clear of the building.

  He stumped to the door. “Keep an eye on it, lest you burn the place down,” he said and, noisy with his crutches and his wooden foot, he made his way out. I changed my clothes and packed my bag. I hung the camera around my neck and went out to check the stove: hot but safely low on fuel.

  Right! Auf Wiedersehen! to Fritz and crazy war vets. Bag in hand, I went to the door and turned the handle. Nothing. The old rascal had locked me in, and a glance at the table told me that he’d pocketed the extra key.

  Damn! I kicked the table angrily and overturned a kitchen chair. That it was my own fault for leaving the key on the table only made me angrier. Herr Brotz could be out for an hour. He could be out for half a day. Seven flights down and up. Even if the old man walked better than I imagined, the stairs alone would be slow going, and delay could be fatal. Although as far as I could tell, there’d been nothing in any of the morning papers, I wouldn’t put it past the enterprising Mordkommission to deliver my picture to the afternoon prints.

  The big presses would already be churning out the afternoon news. Maybe with my photo. Maybe with a headline: Wanted in Connection with the White Cat Murder. Maybe with the information that there was a reward for one Francis Bacon, 5’10”, fair complexion, last seen wearing a black dinner jacket. In my anxiety, billboard-size images of my face appeared on every street corner, and newsboys cried my name.

  But there was nothing for it at the moment. As Nan says, what can’t be cured must be endured. After a few moments of aimless panic, I began searching for something that might get the door open from the inside. I was beside the stove, poking through the old man’s odds and ends, when I heard the key in the door.

  Herr Brotz couldn’t have gotten even as far as the ground floor. I straightened up warily, thinking that perhaps he had forgotten something. I was expecting him to stump in shouting about his things and nosy tenants but, no, it was not Fritz’s father. Instead, two youngish men filled the doorway, both in dark jackets with soft workman’s caps pulled down over their eyes. One carried a length of pipe. The other was large enough not to need anything except the massive paws that he now took out of his pockets, ready for action.

  “Guten Tag,” I said, though my heart almost jumped out of my chest. “Herr Brotz hier nicht.” I tried unsuccessfully to smile. They were part of the crowd from the White Cat. I was sure of it.

  The one with the pipe showed his teeth. “Wo ist Herr Marsden?”

  “Ich weiss nicht.” I elaborated in my best mix of Deutsch and English that Herr Marsden—whom they must not discover was my uncle—had taken the Zug from the Hauptbahnhof. He was unreliable, he was gone, he was a dealer on the Schwarzmarkt, the black market. “Ich weiss nicht,” I repeated and stumbled into English to add that they were welcome to search the flat. It’s amazing how a foreign vocabulary dissolves with nerves.

  They looked at each other, and the big one nodded—body language I understood. They recognized me, I was sure of it, and they had come to do me damage. Heart thumping and gut contracting, I stepped back, brushed the top of the stove with my hand, and made contact with the bayonet belonging to Herr Brotz, previously Feldwebel Brotz of the western front.

  The big man leaned casually against the door jam; clearly he didn’t think he’d be needed. His partner took two steps into the room and raised the pipe. He had small, quick eyes and a nasty smirk—this wasn’t work for him; this was pleasure.

  Not for me. I was dreadfully frightened and angry, too, so I closed my hand around the bayonet with the sudden conviction that I would use it. I edged away from the entangling horse blanket and the various bits and bobs of Brotz Senior, keeping the chair between us so that they would not see the bayonet.

  Could I avoid the man with the pipe? Could I somehow manage the hall? Or was my best hope to run into the bedroom and try to barricade the door? Indecisive, I made a feint toward the door, and the man swung the pipe at my head. I jerked back, the pipe landed against the padding of the chair, and, terrified, I thrust at his arm, which instantly opened red. He gave a yelp and dropped the pipe. Shoving the chair aside, I lunged forward, frantic to reach the hall and the stairs. The bigger man was blocking the way, but he was slow to react. Clutching the bayonet in both hands, I drove it through his jacket and into his side, just like the soldiers I had seen practicing so long ago at their base near the Curragh.

  He gave a terrible cry and fell back into the hallway, ripping the weapon from my hands. I leaped past him and raced down the stairs, risking a fall at every step, pivoting around the banister posts at each landing. I heard Herr Brotz’s voice a floor down, but whatever he shouted was lost in the clatter of my feet and in the shouts above. Keep going, keep going, I told myself. By the fourth floor, I was beginning to stumble, and I paused for a moment, grasping the railing and willing my protesting lungs to calm down.

  On to the third, the second. I risked a glance above, but there was no one on the stairs. The bayonet had been razor sharp, and they had plenty to deal with. I stopped to catch my breath, which was momentarily threatening a permanent departure, when a door opened. I was at Lisl’s flat, and the child was standing wide-eyed in the doorway. I gestured to warn her, but she held the door open and beckoned.

  I shook my head and waved her away.

  “Es einen Mann außerhalb,” she said and rattled on in great excitement. Out of all the verbiage, I understood einen Mann. The nosey little thing had spotted another man outside, who was waiting in case the victim escaped, with or without the help of a fine Prussian weapon. That was always their way, she said, and I believed her.

  Lisl pulled me into the apartment and bolted the heavy door, then led me to the window. Through the heavy net curtain, I saw a man pacing back and forth before the main door. I couldn’t see his face, only the top of his soft cap and the plume of smoke from his cigarette. “Ja?” Lisl said.

  “Ja.” I sat down heavily on the floor, and it was a few minutes before I could get back onto my feet. “Danke,” I said and apologized for not having any chocolate.

  She gave an unsettling smile and said that I could help her instead.

  “Gute,” I said, but I didn’t want to make trouble for her family.

  “Those men won’t come here.” She rubbed her fingers together in t
he universal sign for money. “Papa explains,” she said and, with that, she led me into a back room and told me to wait.

  Chapter Five

  Noises in the hall. Someone rattled doorknobs in the corridor then ran up the stairs. A heavy tread—boots were much favored by the quasi-military fighters. The apartment building fell silent again; most of the residents were at work or nursing their sorrows elsewhere. Then, several minutes later, more commotion with a great deal of profane German, some of it new to me. The wounded combatants were being helped down the stairs, and I was relieved. They couldn’t be too badly hurt. Understand that I had no regrets, but I was already of interest to the police, and the business with the bayonet probably qualified as an “assault with a deadly weapon.”

  More noise. The shuffling, stumbling, dragging of wounded limbs, past the second floor and down to the bleak lobby. Lisl ran in and called me to the window. Through the lacy mesh of the curtain, I saw three men: the two who had attacked me and their sentry. One had his arm wrapped up in what looked like a shirt. The other was bent over like a man of seventy, clutching his side. Their uninjured companion set off at a trot, returning a few minutes later with a cab, and helped the other two inside.

  Lisl nodded and gave me a quick, sly grin. They were bad men, she told me. I agreed and thought that it was time to leave. Although I could kiss my dinner jacket and my collection of gallery catalogues good-bye, I had escaped two homicidal thugs. I also had my leather jacket, thirty pfennigs, and the Leica. With luck, I’d get out of Germany, and I was about to wish her auf Wiedersehen when Lisl pulled me back from the window.

  The cab was driving away with my two assailants, but their sentry was still on duty, and he had turned to scan the building. There was only one exit, and he knew it. Would he come looking upstairs? Even if he didn’t, I couldn’t leave, not under his nose. I was frightened, imagining pictures of the mysterious Herr Bacon in every paper, as well as alert coppers, tattletale citizens, and my probable arrest and eventual detention in some ghastly Prussian institution.

  It took me a few minutes to remember what Nan used to say when I was carrying on about something: You’re not the only pebble on the beach, Francis. How important was I after all? Possibly there was no drawing or a very poor one or even a good one that might pass unnoticed. I was overreacting. If I could remain for a few hours at the Schmitt’s, I could use the dark to make my exit.

  That was the plan I unfolded to Herr Schmitt, Lisl’s papa, who arrived in time for supper with the rest of the family. At first glance—and at second glance, too—the Schmitts were a typical bourgeois family. Shabby but genteel dress, mended coats, and polished but well-worn shoes. Frau Schmitt was a blowsy blonde with a red face and a stout figure. She had small blue eyes with white eyelashes and a pursed red mouth.

  The girls, no older than I, were slimmer versions of their mother. Both wore short dresses and high-laced boots. They had stiff, nearly white bleached hair, and smooth, hard faces that suggested they could take care of themselves. Their brother, Klaus, was another matter. Big, over six feet, and broad with enormous hands and feet, he had a vague, puzzled expression and a slack red mouth. He carried a tiny toy truck in one hand, and he was humming softly to himself.

  Lisl got out a big iron pan and began frying sausages and onions and heating sauerkraut, and her papa laid a loaf of bread on the table, arousing hopes of dinner. Lisl introduced me with much excitement, and her parents exchanged glances. Then Herr Schmitt signaled for me to follow him into the back room. He was not at all what I expected, with a thin, dry face and graying hair. His eyes were light hazel, much enlarged by his thick glasses. He looked more like an accountant than the impresario of a sex show. He spoke clear, if careful, English.

  He demanded an account, and I told him that two men had broken into Herr Brotz’s. Thieves, I thought. I was attacked but, fortunately, I’d remembered Herr Brotz’s souvenir bayonet. There were injuries—not too severe, I assured him—but one of their colleagues was still lurking below. I added that as I was leaving Berlin as soon as possible, and I would prefer not like to involve the police.

  Then I waited while Herr Schmitt thought things over, a process that took some time. I was almost ready to take my chances on the street or—maybe equally daring—to return to Fritz’s flat, when he said, “I know the man outside. A bad type, ex-Freikorps­. Possibly you were mistaken for someone else.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” I said, as though this new idea was both plausible and reassuring. “But I don’t want to bring trouble.” Actually, except for Lisl, I wouldn’t have worried for a minute.

  “Oh, you are safe here.” His tone was smug. “The police take an interest in our little operation.”

  He must have seen my alarm, because he added, “We attract steady clients as well as the tourists. All very safe because alle in der Familie.” He pronounced their business motto with satisfaction. “The police appreciate that. Conducive to good order. Good order, good fun—that’s our aim.”

  I had a sudden appreciation of what Uncle Lastings called being down the rabbit hole. “If I could stay, please, until I can leave safely …” I said and added, in case he expected money, “Unfortunately, most of what I own is still in Herr Brotz’s flat.”

  “Do not think of going there!” he said. “Brotz is in with a bunch of Freikorps vets. Not that we reject any contribution.”

  I pulled out my thirty pfennings. “Otherwise my pockets are empty.”

  He waved away this trifle. “No matter. We have a special tonight, and Lisl dislikes working with Klaus. He is a sweet boy, but acting is hard for him.”

  I could imagine that, and other quite disgusting things. I couldn’t help saying, “Lisl is maybe—ten?”

  “Twelve. Old enough.” His eyes were chilly. “She was never hungry, though in this very building some starved to death. But Klaus is big, and she is small. You”—he gave me a speculative look—“maybe are not so interested in women?”

  I allowed this.

  “Perfect. Stay and eat with us, and I can explain this evening’s program. Something artistic,” he said, with creepy enthusiasm. “I think you will—how do you say—do extra good?”

  “Excel?”

  “Ja, I think you will excel in the role.”

  The prospect of my theatrical debut almost, but not quite, took away my appetite.

  After supper, the Schmitts cleared a space in their front room, moved in a metal bed with a collection of pillows, and arranged an assortment of chairs to form a little theater. The heavy curtains were closed, a selection of gramophone records organized, and some quite elaborate lighting readied. “So important for the mood,” Herr Schmitt told me.

  Mine wasn’t very good, despite a supper of sausages, bread, and kraut. If the sentry hadn’t persisted in lurking below, I’d have made my escape, even though I wouldn’t have to do anything complicated. But as this was a command performance, Herr Schmitt let me know that my part was crucial. He was depending on me, he said, and he actually spoke of “taste and discretion,” which normally would have driven me to some excess.

  Lisl was a different matter. She had her hair in two braids so that she looked like a child of eight. She was dressed in a pinafore with crotchless lace bloomers underneath, white stockings, and black patent leather child’s shoes. There was something for every appetite in Berlin, but this one left a bad taste. Still, Lisl was depending on me, and she came and put one small hand on my knee and looked into my eyes.

  There is no fairness in life. I am thirsty for sensation, the stronger the better most times, and I only occasionally get what I want. She was the opposite. She’d experienced too much, I guessed, and wanted to feel less. Or nothing. I nodded to her and pointed to her lipstick.

  She produced a tube from the pocket of her pinafore, a ridiculous garment that reminded me of my sisters’ dresses. I picked up the dog whip and ran the lips
tick along the one side. I slapped the untouched side on my hand, then turned the whip over and slapped with the other side. A fine red line ran across my palm. “Ja?”

  “Sehr gute!”

  So I was into the spirit of the thing, and we were ready. I sat down on the only seat left, a sagging hassock, and Lisl sat on my lap as if this were the most natural thing in the world. Around us, her sisters were squeezing into peculiar corsets, and Frau Schmitt, already attired in a fluttery negligee, was finishing up with a spritz of perfume and clouds of powder.

  Out front, the patrons—Herr Schmitt called them “our honored guests”—were arriving. The gramophone was playing some noisy syncopation, and the red shaded lamps were casting what now seemed to me a sinister glow, especially since at least one audience member was in military dress and another was clearly police. Fortunately, Herr Schmitt, set to perform with his wife after a “Lesbian Interlude” with the two girls, produced a mask for me.

  “Special request,” he said. He was flushed, and without his glasses, I could see that his eyes were dilated, no doubt with the ubiquitous white powder of the Berlin night. He said, “A good time to be had by all.”

  He waited until I put on the mask and pronounced himself satisfied. “Not so young now.”

  Fine. I felt like twelve again and ready to step out for some horrid school play, but in moments I would impersonate a lecherous schoolmaster eager to strip and then beat Lisl—bruises optional but blood highly desirable. Hence the lipstick. I put a second coat on the dog whip and put the tube in my pocket as a reserve.

  Making noises out front, Frau Schmitt was doing her best to enhance her husband’s efforts. It was what Nan would have called a fine to-do. You bet. Meanwhile, I struggled to keep from wheezing amid the musk and powder of the “dressing room” and the cigar smoke creeping in from the audience. At last, applause. Frau Schmitt appeared wrapped in a sheet with Herr Schmitt behind her, belting a red velvet dressing gown. He had hairy legs and a hairy white chest.