by MARY HOCKING
‘On the contrary, the less one knows the better. I have merely to perform one task. Before doing it, I have to make up my mind whether the price is right.’
‘But how can you do that, if you don’t . . .?’
‘I shall expect you to produce something of more substance than a word picture of rotting vegetation in Kent,’ Mitchell snapped. He was more on edge than Alperin now; he seemed to realize this, because he added in a more casual tone, ‘Incidentally, just to satisfy my own curiosity, how is this sort of devastation achieved?’
‘Various ways. Do you remember a poem of Auden’s, I wonder, in which there is a line, “Something is going to fall like rain, and it won’t be flowers”?’
‘Auden isn’t a scientist.’
‘But he has the right kind of vision for this century—a world in which something has shifted a little out of true. Don’t you agree?’
Mitchell looked away again. Alperin, anxious not to lose his interest, went on eagerly:
‘But there are other methods besides spraying, which is really a very unsophisticated method. Some of the latest discoveries have astonished even us. Do you remember a lot of fuss a couple of years ago about a farm where all the crops suddenly died of a mysterious disease?’
‘I’ve been in Berlin a long time.’
‘You wouldn’t know about it, then. The authorities were very puzzled. They decided that a team of experts should be sent to investigate. But before the experts arrived there was another catastrophe. Some petrol cans which had inexplicably been left in a shed on a piece of waste ground near to the farm were ignited and the whole of the farm land was ravaged. Nothing will grow there now.’ He looked expectantly at Mitchell, who responded somewhat woodenly:
‘Are you telling me that this was some sort of exercise carried out by your people?’
‘Good God, no! We wouldn’t dare do that kind of thing.’
‘Then?’
‘An accident. Someone dropped a capsule.’
‘A capsule!’
‘Yes.’ Alperin glowed, delighted to have achieved an effect. ‘One small capsule, about the size of a cod-liver oil capsule and not at all dissimilar in appearance. It was a tremendous demonstration of success for us.’
‘And the fire?’
‘Fire purifies. And, of course, we couldn’t have allowed the investigation to proceed. Our establishment is very near that farm.’
‘Have you evidence of this?’
‘I have newspaper cuttings about the disaster.’
‘And the capsule?’
Alperin touched his forehead. ‘I have that, too.’
‘I might arrange for you to talk to someone about the capsule.’
‘There have been improvements since then, of course. We are now able to produce micro-organisms of extreme virulence.’ Alperin leant forward, words coming fast. ‘Don’t imagine that this is the extent of my knowledge, will you? There are other things, infinitely worse, I do assure you. You said that you were concerned with people; the devastation wreaked on the land is nothing compared to what we can do to human beings. We are on the verge of producing a virus so deadly that it could create an epidemic in which people would die as the rabbits died from myxomatosis; the whole population of a country could be wiped out.’
Mitchell looked at Alperin with an expression on his face that Alperin could not understand.
‘You’re thinking how ghastly this is?’ Alperin nodded his head energetically. ‘Don’t imagine I don’t realize it! Why do you think I’m trying to get away from it all?’ His voice spiralled. ‘It’s because I’m not the kind who can drug himself with platitudes; I can’t tell myself that these dreadful discoveries will be kept in reserve, that we shall never be the first to use them.’ He laughed bitterly, ‘I would have thought that Hiroshima had given the lie to that.’
Mitchell said, ‘You needn’t justify yourself to me.’
‘But I do worry about it.’ Alperin stared earnestly at Mitchell. ‘It’s only natural, isn’t it? People will call me a traitor. It’s not a nice word.’
‘It’s a word you will have to learn to live with.’
‘Yes. Yes, you’re right, of course. I suppose one loses this absurd sensitivity after a time?’
An angry frown betrayed Mitchell’s ragged temper. He got up and walked across to the writing desk where Alperin’s notes were spread out.
‘I don’t think you will have much time for sensitivity from now on. This paper that you have to prepare for the conference should occupy your mind.’
‘Does the paper matter now?’
‘Certainly it matters.’
‘But . . .’
‘You wouldn’t want anyone to get the impression that you were not returning to England, would you?’
Alperin looked sly and shook his head.
‘And if you were returning, you would have to make a reasonably efficient job of this paper, wouldn’t you?’
Alperin looked wise and nodded his head.
‘So you must start working on it. And it had better be rather impressive.’
Mitchell turned away quickly before Alperin could register agreement to this. Alperin watched him. He was longing for kindness, for a hand stretched out in the dark. But when Mitchell spoke again, his tone was more brusque than ever.
‘Don’t talk to anyone about this.’
‘No.’
‘Other people may approach you, but . . .’
‘You mean that man, Huber?’
‘For one.’
‘I can promise you I shall have nothing to do with him!’
‘It isn’t Huber with whom I am primarily concerned. You must not give any indication of this meeting, by word or action, to my companion.’
‘I thought you were working together,’ Alperin said, but not as though it really mattered. He was beginning to look rather dejected.
‘No. We are not working together and you must be very careful of him.’
Alperin said, ‘Yes, I’ll be careful.’
Mitchell went out of the room. Alperin sat staring at the closed door, doleful as a disappointed child. After a few minutes, he got up and went to the writing desk. He began to make notes for his speech at the conference; but every so often he looked up and his eyes moved uneasily round the room. It had been exciting to find someone to whom he could talk and he had experienced an extraordinary desire to form a friendship with the man to whom he had made this tremendous declaration. But now the excitement was draining away, leaving him exhausted and apprehensive.
Chapter Fifteen
A scrap of paper twisted in the evening breeze on the platform. This unexpected hint of the slovenly combined with the greyness of late evening took him back to Berlin. He had expected that she would come transformed by hope, but the scrap of paper and the chill breeze dispersed this romantic illusion even before he saw her walking down the platform, stiff and straight, balanced on the razor’s edge between hope and despair.
In front, a man and a woman greeted each other, arms encircled clumsily. Mitchell hesitated, shaken by a strong impulse to run away. Then, as she neared him she caught her foot in a strap trailing from a trolley and stumbled. He stepped forward and she was in his arms. He said, ‘Everything depends on this,’ and bending down, kissed her. It wasn’t well done, but the other couple had been clumsy, too. He held her close to give her time to compose herself; he could feel her heart beating as though it must break free of her body, it was an uncomfortable sensation, but not without pleasure. When he released her, she did not look at him. The dark hair clamped across her forehead and formed dark furrows between her brows, the heavy lids pressed down on the eyes, the lips pressed inwards; she might have been willing herself a thousand miles from him. He said lightly, but with a trace of irritation he could not hide:
‘You’ll have to do better than that!’
He took her case, so small it made him feel ridiculous carrying it; he put his arm on her elbow and guided her forward.
&nb
sp; ‘You couldn’t manage a smile? It’s important that people should think you have come here for me alone.’
A taxi swung round in the yard in front of them; he pulled her back and she jumped violently at the sudden pressure on her arm. He said angrily:
‘We shan’t reach the hotel alive at this rate!’
She flashed him one of her most resentful looks. So far she had not spoken and her mouth was shut tight as though she never intended to speak. He hailed the taxi and bundled her inside. The sooner they reached the hotel and talked things over, the better. The taxi driver was watching them. Mitchell put his arm round her and drew her close; he bent his head so that the man could not see her stony face. She was very still, as though she feared that the slightest movement of the flesh might excite him. He whispered against her ear, ‘I won’t hurt you. I promise I won’t hurt you in any way.’ She moved her head and her cheek brushed against his mouth. She shivered. Her body became more tense than ever; it generated a current of excitement that made him wish that he had indeed asked her here for the conventional reason. It was a relief when they reached the hotel.
The hotel was large and impersonal and the staff were bored and incurious; it had seemed a good choice for his purpose when he booked the room. Now, seeing Miriam staring up at the heavy chandelier as though at any moment it might descend and blot out the universe, he cursed himself for lack of imagination. He brought her forward to sign the register. The receptionist gave her one brief up-and-down glance and looked away; she was not impressed, but she was not surprised, either. It was a long time since the hotel had had the kind of custom that went with the chandelier; now it relied mainly on bookings from the cheaper tour companies. Even the bellboy who relieved Mitchell of Miriam’s inadequate case was not surprised.
‘I’ll see you settled in,’ Mitchell said as he stepped into the lift with Miriam.
He despatched the bellboy quickly once they were in the room. There was a light film of sweat on his brow; he had not been so ill at ease in such a situation since he was nineteen. He went to the window.
‘You’ve got a nice view of the lake,’ he informed her.
He had chosen the room carefully. It was at the end of this wing of the building and it was separated from the next room by a linen cupboard. There was no balcony. Nevertheless, he closed the window before he turned back to the room.
‘I like windows open,’ she said.
‘There are times when I prefer them closed.’
She was sitting on the edge of the divan, her knees pressed together, her head bent, her shoulders hunched forward; he could see the bones at the back of her neck where her hair parted, they looked brittle. The feeling of fear and excitement was almost tangible, demanding a physical response. One way and another, the chances of having a quiet talk seemed rather remote.
‘Why don’t you lie down?’ he said. ‘You’ve had a tiring day.’ For a moment she did not seem to hear; then she swung her legs on to the divan and stretched out. She was so taut she might have been on the rack.
He said, ‘Try to relax.’ He sat beside her and put one hand on her thigh. He was not quite sure what he intended to do and he was spared making a decision by the divan which gave slightly beneath his weight, throwing him against her. The next moment he was on the ground and there was blood in his mouth. He pulled her down beside him before her heels could gouge out his eyes. She used her nails after that, they were razor sharp; it was a good job there was no glass on the bedside table, he didn’t like to think what she would have done with broken glass. She was remarkably strong, it took him all his strength to pin her down. Her face was ghastly, smeared with his blood, the eyes desperate as though reason was gradually being shredded away. ‘What do you think you’re playing at!’ he shouted. ‘There’s no better way of rousing a man.’ She spat at him. He hit her hard across the face, twice; it was much more effective than shouting at her. When he was satisfied that the fight had gone out of her, he got up and went across to the wash basin. He rinsed his face, feeling shaken and very sorry for himself. He could hear her moving behind him; although there was a mirror over the wash basin he did not look in it, he did not care what happened now. He had thought that he could work a miracle for her; but she did not believe in him, and without her belief he could do nothing.
When he turned round she was lying on the divan, her hands folded across her stomach; there was a bruise across one cheek, but she looked quite calm and her eyes met his without resentment. He found a chair and placed it at a distance from the divan; he sat down, holding his handkerchief against his face which was still bleeding. He said wretchedly:
‘Why did you come if you didn’t trust me?’
She did not answer and he said angrily, ‘That was a stupid question, wasn’t it? You can’t pick and choose; you have to accept help wherever it comes from, even from rats like Curt Lesser.’
He heard the divan creak as she slipped off it; he heard her feet padding across the room, the scrape of a chair as she dragged it across the boards. He mopped at his face again while she sat down and took a squashed packet of cigarettes from her handbag. She gave him a cigarette and lit it for him.
‘You must not compare yourself to Curt Lesser.’
She spoke more gently than he had ever heard her speak before; but she did not say that she trusted him.
‘You said you could help me,’ she prompted.
‘Only if you believe in me.’
‘I do believe in you.’ She accepted his rephrasing eagerly. ‘Will you do what I tell you? It won’t involve going to bed with me.’
‘Yes.’
‘Without question?’
‘Yes.’ She sounded impatient.
‘Think about that, it won’t be easy.’
She shrugged her shoulders. ‘If you ask questions you find out too much.’
He finished smoking the cigarette in silence. It was stuffy in the room, he wished he had not shut the window. He felt uneasy, trapped by her calm acceptance. One moment he was helpless because she did not believe in him, the next moment he was frightened because she accepted too much. He stubbed out the cigarette and said:
‘There are questions I have to ask. One in particular. You won’t like it.’
‘Never mind.’
‘How can you be sure that your husband is still alive?’
She looked at him without flinching. ‘I know it.’
He was not impressed by this kind of certainty.
‘Do you mean you have heard from him lately, or that it is something you feel?’
‘If he was dead, I would know . . .’
If he was dead, she would not want to go on living, so she believed he was alive. Mitchell said:
‘That isn’t proof enough for me.’
‘But I have no proof.’
‘Then we must find it.’
‘But that is impossible.’
‘On the contrary, it is quite easily arranged. Only I shall need your help. I want you to think very carefully tonight and see whether you can remember something that only your husband would know—some joke you had between yourselves, perhaps.’ Looking at her now it was hard to imagine they ever had jokes. ‘Whatever it is, it must be . . . one of the last things he would forget.’
He did not want to put his doubt into words, but he saw by the expression on her face that she understood; she had, after all, grown up in a concentration camp. He said quickly to divert her attention:
‘It must be something quite simple, a name for a doll your child played with, provided it is unusual enough, or the beginning of a sentence that he alone could complete.’
‘Yes . . .’ She sounded doubtful. He guessed that now that the opportunity to find out about her husband’s fate had been presented to her, she was a little afraid. In the morning he would help her, but he was too tired now. He said:
‘There is one other thing I want you to do. It is important that people should think that you are my mistress. You understand that?’
>
‘Yes.’
He took out his wallet and counted out notes.
‘Buy yourself some clothes. Act as though you are enjoying doing something you haven’t been able to do for a long time. Be brazen about it. You understand?’
‘Yes.’
She took the money and stuffed it away in her bag. He got up and looked at himself in the mirror.
‘And finally, I think you will have to go out and get some sticking plaster. I can’t go out like this.’
When she had gone, he opened the window. It was dark now. He could see a pleasure boat moving towards the jetty; the sound of music carried over the water. He remembered standing at the door of Claus’s flat; it seemed a long time ago.
When Miriam came back she had sticking plaster, a bottle and a roll of cotton wool. She wanted to tend him, and although her hands were rather dirty he did not argue; they had hurt each other enough already. She shook a few drops from the bottle on to the cotton wool and dabbed at the scratches on his face. It hurt and he gritted his teeth.
‘Oh, you are so English!’ she chided. ‘Why don’t you cry out, make a fuss? It will feel better then.’
She took the towel and held it under the tap, then she bathed his face; she was more expert than he had imagined, and more gentle. She put the plaster on, one strip above the left temple, the other on the right cheek. She took time smoothing it out; and then, as though reluctant to finish their work, her fingers travelled lightly across the cheekbone, down the side of the mouth. He pressed his head against her breast like a child demanding comfort and she held him close. It was a long time since any demand had been made on her tenderness; she had thought the source had withered, but now she was filled with the longing to be a woman again. She let him go and backed away from him. He looked up, surprised, a little awed. She turned away quickly.
‘You must go now.’
The blood pulsed in her veins; she could hear nothing but the beating of her heart. Her body was rent with the bitter pain, the incredible, ecstatic wonder of being a woman again. The room seemed to be full of light. The curtains swayed towards her, almost as though someone had passed through them, then the life went out of them and they fell limp against the window frame. She did not realize at first that the draught had been caused by the opening and shutting of the door. When she turned round, the room was empty.
