Second Generation

by Howard Fast

  Then the fit passed, the rage drained out of her, and she stopped struggling and stood trembling and sobbing in the grasp of the three men; yet even in that moment of anguish and indignity, she noticed that no one moved a step to help her. No one but the men in the raincoats moved or spoke, not the two sanitation workers, not the onlookers, not the old people with the brooms. They watched in silence as the man she had hit with her purse raised his hand to strike her again. One of the men who held her barked at him, let go of Barbara, and pushed the fourth man away. He then turned to Barbara, speaking quickly and angrily.

  “I don’t speak German,” she managed to say.

  The fourth man in the raincoat, the one who had been beating the old man—who now had collapsed on the pavement, blood running from his nose—the fourth man walked up to Barbara until his face was only a few inches from hers. One of the men holding her said something to him. He shook his head and smiled. Then he spat in Barbara’s face.

  The act had an electrifying effect upon her. She stopped trembling, stopped sobbing. She felt that something deep inside of her had turned into ice, and she said, slowly and precisely, “You filthy Nazi pig. I am not afraid of you. Not afraid of you at all. Do you understand me?”

  His companion pushed him back and spoke to the other two. Then he turned to the sweepers and barked at them. The two men who held Barbara began to lead her off toward where the black sedans were parked. At first she held back. Then, rather than submit to the further indignity of being dragged across the filthy street, she walked with them to the cars. They opened the back door of one of them and motioned for her to get in. She felt cold, tired, weak, used up, but no longer half-hysterical, no longer afraid. One of the men got in next to her. The other went back to where her purse had fallen on the street, picked it up, and, returning, gave it to her. Then he got into the car and they drove off.

  She took a handkerchief from her purse and wiped her face, then she looked at herself in her hand mirror. There was a red welt on her cheek where she had been struck, but her eye just above it was not bruised or swollen. Both the man beside her and the driver were silent. It was no use asking them where they were taking her. They either did not speak English or refused to. She leaned back in her seat, bereft of emotion. There was nothing she could do but wait.

  They drove for only a few minutes, no more than a kilometer, she decided, then entered a narrow street and pulled up in front of a gray stone building. Over the door, brass letters spelled out POLIZEIAMT. Barbara breathed a sigh of relief. At least they were taking her to a police station, not to some dreaded Gestapo house.

  The man next to her got out and motioned for her to follow him; then, with a raincoat on either side of her, she was ushered into the building. Barbara had never been inside a police station, in America or elsewhere, so she had no measure of comparison. There was a wide entranceway painted dark green, with a cement floor, benches on either side, a staircase going up to a second floor, a wooden railing with a gate in the middle, and behind it a man in uniform at a desk. They went through the gate, and then she was standing in front of the desk, the men in raincoats on either side of her. One of them spoke to the man at the desk; Barbara stood there while the conversation went on, the man at the desk making notes on a pad in front of him. Then the two men in raincoats turned and walked out, leaving Barbara standing there while the officer behind the desk continued to write on his pad.

  He finally stopped writing and looked up at her thoughtfully. He was a stout man, with a round face, tiny blue eyes, and a very small mouth, which he pursed constantly.

  “Englisch?” he asked her.

  “I’m an American.”

  “Ah, Amerikanerin.” It was evidently the extent of his conversation in English. He pointed to one of the benches. “Sitzen!” Barbara walked to the bench and sat down. A clock on the wall facing her said one o’clock. Where had the morning gone? It seemed to be a gap in her existence, as if what had happened out there on Kurfürstendamm had happened an eternity ago. The man at the desk picked up a telephone and talked into it. Then again silence. It was strangely quiet for a police station. Then a man in ordinary clothes came down the stairway. Barbara was looking at a large photograph of Adolf Hitler hanging on the wall alongside the staircase, thinking, as she had in the past, of how ridiculous the tiny Chaplinesque mustache was—and then she noticed the man on the staircase: no mustache, but nevertheless a striking resemblance. Did he realize it, she wondered? And then it struck her that, for some reason, she could not focus clearly on her present situation, in a police station in a foreign country, apparently under arrest, unable to speak the language—and sliding into some sort of daydream. Yet it was like a dream, vicious, stupid, impossible.

  The man who looked like Hitler without the mustache walked to the desk and said something to the officer sitting there, who pointed to Barbara. He came over to Barbara and said, in English, “My name is Schlemer, Inspector Schlemer. What is your name, Fräulein?”

  “Barbara Lavette.”

  “Yes. Good. Come with me, please.” He had a heavy accent, but otherwise his English was fluent and grammatical. He led Barbara up the stairs and down a hallway, where he opened the door to a small room that contained a desk, several wooden chairs, a bookshelf, a filing cabinet, and on the wall facing the door another picture of the Führer.

  “Please, sit down, Fräulein,” he said, indicating a chair. There was a window in the room. Schlemer switched on his desk lamp, evidently to increase the light, and he peered at Barbara’s face. “How did you get that bruise?”

  “One of your men enjoys striking women—and old men.”

  Schlemer walked around his desk and sat down behind it, facing Barbara. “They are not my men. My men don’t enjoy striking women or old men.”

  “They arrested me—if I am under arrest. They tore my clothes and dragged me through the street,” Barbara said coldly, angrily.

  “Do you wish a doctor to look at you, Fräulein?”

  “No, I’m quite all right. I just wish to know why I was thrown into a car and brought here.”

  “You are an American?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is your business in Germany?”

  “I’m a journalist. I’m here on assignment for my magazine. And you haven’t answered my question.”

  “In time, in time. Where do you live, Fräulein?”

  “I’m staying at the Adlon.”

  The expression on his otherwise impassive face changed ever so slightly. Barbara noticed this. “Am I under arrest?” she insisted.

  “Please tell me what happened.”

  “I was walking down the street—”

  “On Kurfürstendamm? Do you have friends there?”

  “I was taking a walk.”

  “I see. Strolling.”

  “Yes. And then I saw these old people sweeping filth on the street. Four men in raincoats were supervising them. Then one of these men in raincoats insisted that an old man pick up the filth with his hands and put it into a metal can. The old man refused. The thug in the raincoat then began to beat the old man. I tried to make him stop. That’s when he struck me. Then the other three grabbed me, dragged me into a car, and here I am.”

  “So. You should not have interfered, Fräulein. The sweepers were Jews, put to useful work for the common health of the city. They should be grateful that they are allowed to contribute in whatever way they can for the good of the Reich. When they become stubborn and willful, they must be disciplined.”

  “By beating an old man? By flinging him face down in that filth?”

  “There are things you do not understand, Fräulein.”

  “Thank God!”

  “Your own position is difficult. Are you under arrest?” He shrugged. “I have no alternative. You interfered with security officers in the performance of their duties. You attacked them. You str
uck one of them.”

  “I don’t believe this!” Barbara exclaimed.

  “You say you are a journalist. It’s very odd for a journalist to be living at the Adlon.”

  “I assure you, Inspector, that I did not choose the Adlon. But what if I did? Have I no right to stay at the hotel I choose?”

  “Every right, Fräulein. But if you did not choose the Adlon, who did?”

  “Baron Von Harbin insisted that I stay there.”

  The inspector stared at her thoughtfully, a long moment passing before he said, “Is the Baron a friend of yours?”

  “Yes.”

  Again, moments of silence. Then Schlemer rose. “If you will excuse me for a few minutes, Fräulein—” He left the room, closing the door behind him. Barbara sat there, ill at ease, dissatisfied with herself, angry at herself for having mentioned Harbin’s name, telling herself that she would rather rot in a cell than turn to Harbin for help. Right at this moment, Harbin symbolized everything that had happened to her this day, and she realized that she lacked the courage to say, “No, he’s no friend of mine. I have only contempt for him.”

  Well, she admitted to herself, there it is, Barbara. You are not the stuff of which heroes or heroines are made. You are scared. And then she whispered, “Oh, God, I am scared, terrified. What if they put me in one of their jails or a concentration camp. I never thought of that.”

  She sat there, pleading inwardly for Schlemer to return and tell her what her fate was to be. Would they allow her to communicate with the American Embassy? Would they allow her to reach her parents, to speak to anyone?

  And then the inspector returned. She rose to face him.

  “I am sorry for what has occurred, Fräulein,” he said to her. “You must understand that those men were not my men, not Berlin policemen. I have arranged for a car to take you back to your hotel. I trust that you will understand that this is not the normal order of things in Berlin.”

  “Do you mean that I’m free to go?” Barbara asked uncertainly.

  “Please. I will take you downstairs.”

  Back at the Adlon, Barbara went up to her suite and dropped tiredly into a chair. What a mess she had made of things! And what now? Did she dare go again to Kurfürstendamm and seek out Professor Schmidt? Could she stay in Berlin? Could she sleep at night?

  She looked down and noticed that her stockings and shoes were covered with filth. Why hadn’t she noticed that before? Disgusted, she kicked off the shoes, pulled off her stockings, and then threw both into the trash basket. Again she sat down, closing her eyes, stretching out her bare feet. At least she was free, not in a police station, not in a Gestapo house, but free. That was something. No, that was everything. She had always been free; she had never realized the sweet taste of it. Even here in Berlin, even with all the problems facing her, the taste of freedom was as sweet as honey. And then her sense of relief gave way to the picture of the old Jew lying with his bleeding face in the sewage. She felt suddenly nauseated and ran into the bathroom, where she vomited. She hung over the toilet bowl, vomiting convulsively until her stomach was empty. The vomiting relieved her. She felt clean and empty for the first time since the incident began, and she went to the sink, scrubbed her face, and brushed her teeth. Just as she finished, there was a knock at the door.

  “One moment!” she called out. She rinsed her mouth, dried her hands, and then went barefoot to the door and opened it.

  Harbin stood there. “May I come in?” he asked her.

  She closed the door behind him. Harbin walked slowly around the room, glanced at the wastebasket, where she had thrown her shoes and stockings, then at her bare feet. Barbara stood watching him. Then he walked over to her and touched her cheek gently.

  “Does it hurt?”

  She shook her head.

  “Sit down please, Barbara.” She dropped into a chair. “Have you had lunch? Do you want some?”

  “I’m not hungry, thank you.”

  He placed his hat on the table where the yellow roses were, then sat on the couch, facing her.

  “They called you, and you told them to let me go. Isn’t that it?” Barbara asked him.

  He nodded.

  “Thank you. I was very frightened. I’m grateful to you.”

  “Yes.” Then he sat silently, staring at her.

  “About my feet,” she said nervously, “the shoes and stockings were filthy. I couldn’t stand to touch them. I threw them away.”

  “I understand. Your blouse is torn. Do you want to change?”

  She glanced down. Why hadn’t she noticed the tear in her blouse before? Or had she?

  “Go in and change,” he said tonelessly. “Put on shoes and stockings.”

  Her torn blouse was off and she was standing in her brassiere and slip when Harbin came into the bedroom. He stopped just inside the bedroom door. “Finish dressing,” he told her. “We will talk while you dress and pack.”

  She pulled on a fresh blouse. “What do you mean, pack?”

  “You are leaving Germany. You have a reservation on the four-thirty train for Paris. That doesn’t give us too much time.”

  Strangely, she was not disturbed by his presence in the bedroom. He had erected a wall between them. “No,” she said defiantly. “Why should I leave? I have things to do here.” Then she added, “Is it because of what happened?”

  “On Kurfürstendamm? No, that was childish and impetuous. The other thing was stupid.”

  She had stepped into her skirt and zipped it closed. “What other thing?”

  “Finish dressing. The university.”

  She was taking stockings out of a drawer, and now she paused to look at him, the stockings in her hand.

  “You play the game like a fool, like a child,” he said harshly. “Are you a communist?”

  “No,” she whispered.

  “No. Even a stupid communist would know better. What then, a sympathizer?”

  “No.”

  “Well, it doesn’t matter now. Did you think you could go to the university and make inquiries about Schmidt and have it end there?”

  “I went there to interview him,” she said hopelessly.

  “What nonsense! Did your editor send you to Berlin to interview a fool who thought that by writing idiotic books he could pull the wool over our eyes? We have plenty of idiotic books, but they are written by idiots and not by quixotic fools. How did you even hear about Schmidt? His books were never published in France. You don’t read German. Didn’t you think of these things?”

  It occurred to her to insist that she had read Aryan Philosophy in English, and then she realized that such a protestation would make no more sense than anything else she had done. She bit her lip and finished pulling on her stockings.

  “And then you calmly walked to Kurfürstendamm. Luckily, you were arrested before you ever reached Schmidt’s apartment. The Gestapo is still searching his apartment, taking it apart bit by bit. Oh, it would have been a fine thing for you to walk in there and ask for Professor Schmidt. Because, my dear Barbara, Professor Wolfgang Schmidt died yesterday. He died after three days and three nights of questioning by the Gestapo. Let me be more brutally frank. He was beaten to death. And the same Gestapo, my dear, is waiting for you to try to contact Professor Schmidt. I am not saying that you would be beaten to death. After all, you are a correspondent and an American citizen and the daughter of a very wealthy family. As yet, they don’t know what your associations in Paris were, but they can find out, believe me. And it would be damned unpleasant for you, very damned unpleasant.”

  He paused. Barbara said nothing, only watching him. “Put on your shoes, and pack,” he said.

  She put on a pair of shoes, and then she opened a suitcase and began mechanically to put clothes into it. Harbin watched her. Then she stopped and turned to him.

  “Why are you doing
this? Why are you telling me all this?”

  “Because unless you open your eyes, you will never survive in this world. You don’t belong in Europe. Go home. Or else your insane innocence will destroy you. Don’t you have any idea of what I am, of what this place is? Or what kind of a crazy game you are playing? Do you know why they chose you? Because you are an innocent, because it shines out of your eyes, because you are sick with the belief that people are good. Yes! Sick with it! It’s no virtue today. It’s a sickness. You talk so blithely of interviewing Hitler and Goring. Do you know what they are, what we all are? Do you know where I was yesterday morning? I was watching them finish off Professor Schmidt. That was my amusement for half an hour.”

  She finished packing, unable to speak, unable to respond in any way. When her bags were packed, Harbin phoned for a porter. Going down in the elevator, Barbara said, “I must pay my bill.”

  “It has been taken care of.”

  “No,” she protested. “I can’t let you—”

  “It has been taken care of,” he said severely. “We don’t have any time to waste.”

  The same black Mercedes that had driven her from the railroad station to the Adlon was waiting outside the hotel. Harbin held open the door for her and then got in after her. He gave no directions to the chauffeur, who evidently knew where they were going, and when they were on their way, he reached into his breast pocket and handed Barbara her passport and railroad ticket. He said nothing at all while they were in the car. It was only after her bags had been checked through to her compartment and when they were standing on the platform next to the railway car, with no more than fifteen minutes before the train would depart, that Harbin faced her and said, “I am too old to be in love, Barbara, and too cynical and much too cold inside. I try to live with the illusion that I am a Junker, a Prussian gentleman, a person of character and honor. But my honor is a sham, and my pretensions are lies, and I serve a pig in a pigsty—which is not to say that I am any better than the other pigs. But I want you to know that if you had remained here, I would have behaved to you as a gentleman should. For a little while, you helped to feed the illusion that I could still feel, that I could love, that I could retrieve something of what men used to call honor. But that was as much a dream as the rest of my pretensions.”