Presently she took the camera and went away with it.
On the following Sunday John and I had been walking in the Grunewald with the dogs when Max passed us with his usually good-tempered face looking set and angry. He gave us the most formal of greetings, only stopping to help untangle John’s kite-string, and striding on across the heath as if he were pursued by devils.
It was so unlike Max that we were astonished until, further on down by the lake, we found Ursula. She was sitting there on a tree-stump looking at the filthy water. The lake had changed little since the end of the war, but some of the old tanks and guns were gradually being removed. There were still huge and dangerous craters all over the Grunewald, and in some parts there was scarcely a tree left now—all had been ruthlessly knocked down for firewood.
“Have you been quarrelling with Max?” I asked her. “We passed him just now looking like a thundercloud.”
She said, “He is quite unreasonable, and now he is furious with me.”
John wandered off with the dogs and I sat down beside her. Her face was sullen and her mouth set tight. She was thinner and had faint shadows under her eyes.
I said bluntly, “What’s the matter, Ursula?” And when she didn’t answer I asked her boldly if it were Max. “You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”
She said violently, “I’m paying for my sins all right. One has to pay for everything in this world. Well, I’m paying now. Max called me vile names. He says I’m selling myself. What does he know about being hungry and cold? He’s never gone without anything, he doesn’t even ask where the meat and butter that Mutti puts before him come from. He just takes it for granted. Doesn’t he know that those things can’t be paid for with money? What right has he got to criticise me?”
I knew that a great deal of the food at the Altmanns’ came from Joe, who got it from the U.S. Commissariat. Frau Altmann had never made any comment to me on the matter and always accepted any small gifts of tea or coffee or food which I gave her gratefully, but with dignity. She invariably made me some small return, which I accepted. I knew that Ursula and Joe frequently “flogged” both food and spirits on the Black Market and were thus acquiring quite a collection of valuables to take back to the States with them. Joe obviously did not need money. His family appeared to be well off and he was the only son.
“I wish Max had never come back!” said Ursula stormily, “Everything was all right until he came to live with us.”
I said, “You’re angry with him because you are in love with him. You wouldn’t care what he said if he meant nothing to you.”
It was only last year that she had told me there was no such thing as love, and now here she was, caught on the wheel herself.
She didn’t answer me for some time; then she said, “It’s the first time I’ve minded about all the others; now I’d give anything to wipe them out.”
“And Joe?” I said.
“Joe’s a good guy,” she said flatly; “I’m not breaking my bargain with him.”
“You’re going to marry him although you’re in love with Max?”
She nodded.
I asked what Max thought about that. She said dully that he had merely expressed the opinion that she would get what she deserved if she married one of the Occupation.
I was surprised. Max had not struck me as being anti-British or anti-American. Apparently he was not, but he had strong ideas on just how far one should go with the Occupational Powers—and marriage was not included.
I asked if Max wanted to marry her himself. She looked at me in surprise, and said quietly, “He wouldn’t marry me after all those others. Max is the sort who wants an unchalked slate.”
The misery on her face was unbearable. I said that Max had not the right to judge her if he was not willing to help her himself.
“But he is, that’s just it. He wants me to get a job in the Control Commission so that I’ll earn better money, and give up all this Black Market—and Joe.”
“And you won’t?”
“I’m going to marry Joe,” she said firmly. “He likes me as I am—he’s been good to me. Don’t let’s talk about it any more.”
We joined John and the dogs, and she was soon racing about with them as if she hadn’t a care in the world.
I thought about her all that evening at a party in the French sector at Frohnau. We were dancing in the Bagatelle Club to a new series of tunes, including the Rhapsody in Blue. Our French friends were very indignant over the whole blockade position. They were much less patient than we were, but saw only too well that short of war there was nothing to be done. They were also going to be moved out into the French Zone to Mainz and Baden Baden. The whole Allied Control Commission was going to be dotted about over the zones because of this Russian boycott of the Allied Kommandatura Council. The Allies foresaw a blockade and possible further trouble and had made their plans when Sokolovsky walked out on them.
The blockade of Berlin and the acute shortage of food, combined with the illness of his father, were two of the factors which hastened Joe’s departure; there were two more which brought it to a climax. The first was the currency reform which came into force on June 20th, and put a stop for the time being to racketeering and Black Market deals—and the other was Max.
Joe was a quiet person, but he was no fool. He was quite aware of the attraction Max had for Ursula, and he began to resent more and more his frequent absences from Berlin, when she was left with Max. Outwardly unperturbed, and always chewing the eternal gum or with a cigarette hanging from the side of his mouth, he took the situation in and acted. We were sitting with Frau Altmann one evening when he and Ursula dropped a bombshell by saying that they would be getting married in a month or so.
Frau Altmann took it with her chin up. Without a quiver in her voice she inquired if that meant that he would be leaving Germany sooner than he had planned.
“Yeah! that’s right, the old man’s sick and wants me home—they’ve granted me compassionate shortening of my overseas service. We’ll be getting married almost right away.”
“So!” That was all, but there was a wealth of feeling in that “So!”
Ursula jumped up and ran to her mother.
“But you are to come with us, Mutti; Joe has arranged it all. You are either to come with us or to follow on as soon as Joe has arranged your papers from the other side.”
Frau Altmann untangled herself from Ursula’s arms and said firmly, “No. It is kind of you young people to want to take me with you—but no, I am too old to want to leave my country. I shall stay here and wait for Kurt and Fritz to come home. This is their home. The house is theirs. I have no right to it. If it is empty it will be requisitioned at once or squatters will take possession of it, and one can never get it back again.”
She looked at me appealingly. I felt for her. There was but the faintest chance that Kurt would come back from Russia, and the blockade had put an end to her hopes that the feeling between Russia and the other Allies would improve and that Germany would be united so that Fritz could come home to her again.
Stampie changed the subject happily. “What does your Dad do for a living?” he asked Joe.
“Plays around with his meat-canning factory,” said Joe, chewing again, “and I’ll sure have to do the playing around now if he’s sick.”
“Does your father own the factory?” asked Frau Altmann.
“Sure—his old man built it up—it’ll be mine when my old man is for the high jump—and it sure looks that way now.”
“And what is the nature of your father’s illness?” asked Frau Altmann.
“Dunno! Old age, I reckon—the old man’s nearly fifty.”
Frau Altmann got up with the sharp movement which showed her disapproval at the way Joe spoke of his father, but at the same time I caught a gleam of satisfaction in her face at the mention of the fact that Joe was the prospective owner of a factory.
She said stiffly, “You must decide on the day of your wedding, then
, so that I can inform the pastor.”
“What’s it got to do with him?” drawled Joe. “I reckoned to get us tied up at the Attorney’s, or Burgomaster’s or whatever the rule is here—Ursi and I don’t want any fuss.”
“I have only one daughter now, I should be sorry indeed if she were to be married without the blessing of the Church.” Frau Altmann’s voice was like ice.
Ursula’s face was mutinous, but Joe, whose patience seemed as inexhaustible as his good nature, put a hand on the old woman’s arm.
“Now, now, you don’t want to take on, Mam, it’s all the same with me. I don’t reckon to belong to any religious denomination, but if Ursi likes Mother Church, well, I guess she’s entitled to the old lady.”
“It takes two, you know, to get married. Ursula can’t just go along there by herself,” Frau Altmann said acidly.
Joe looked bewildered.
“Sure, aren’t I telling you—I’m going along all right, I’m telling you folks that what Ursi says goes with this guy, see?”
Frau Altmann picked up her knitting. “In my country the husband gives the orders. His wishes are law,” she said firmly.
“Well, in the States we reckon to let the skirts do the bossing—we just tag along and pay.” Joe’s voice held just the faintest edge of impatience now. He was easily bored and had already talked a great deal for him.
“Mutti!” cried Ursula despairingly, “please do let us do things as we like. The world has changed—it is changing every day. People don’t make such a fuss any more about getting married.”
“There is no need,” was her mother’s dry comment, “when in the country to which you are going a marriage need last only a few months. That is why it is probably fashionable to dispense with the Church.”
I saw Ursula flinch, but her eyes were angry.
Frau Altmann was getting bitter now, I thought, and bitterness was a quality she had never shown me before. Was it that she could not like Joe? Or was it the natural antipathy between this daughter and herself?
It was that evening that Stampie came to see me. Gisela came in at dinner and said that he was outside and was very mysterious, but wanted to see me urgently.
I was alone and asked him to come in. He looked ill at ease until I put a brandy in his hand.
“This is the stuff!” he said, drinking it down in one gulp, “but not as good as Danziger Lachs. Have you ever tasted it?”
I shook my head.
“Bring you a bottle tomorrow,” he said, “but mind how you drink it—it affects your eyes. Funny thing, I see the world on a slant after that stuff. Perfectly normal world, but on a slant.”
I said it would interest me as a painter to see the world at such an angle. He talked of this and that and then came to the point of his visit. He had come to tell me, he said, that there would be a few things coming for me the following day. I was not to be surprised. The fact was, he had heard rumours—persistent rumours—that there was to be currency reform, he was not taking any risks. He was spending all his reichsmarks.
I asked him if he had many.
“Not now,” he grinned; “I’ve bought solidly for the last five days. Now I’m nearly cleared out—they can bring in currency reform tomorrow for all I care.”
I suggested that the rumours might be false, in which case he had spent all his money.
“No matter, there’s plenty more where that came from.” He fidgeted a moment, then asked me sheepishly if the Boss, as he still called my husband, would know anything about the date of currency reform.
I told him firmly that I knew nothing—my husband would not dream of telling me such a thing even if he knew it himself.
“About these things,” he continued, “there’s some plants and knick-knacks—oh, no value,” he said hastily as he saw me about to protest, “and some things for John—trains and things.”
It was no use arguing with him. He sat there playing with the cat and the dogs, who were still all three great friends; then asked if he could see John, who was in bed but not asleep.
The next day “the things” as he called them began arriving. He had been very clever. There was absolutely nothing that did not come within the prescribed rules for the Occupation Forces. The thing I liked best was a jacket made of floor cloths with many pockets and wooden buttons, which had been made to my measurements. It was extremely smart. Lotte told me that he had asked her for my measurements, explaining that he didn’t like to see me in such dirty painting overalls, and when I remonstrated with him for it, he explained glibly that he knew a “little girl” who made these jackets for a living, and that he had been doing her a kindness by giving her an order. Gisela liked it so much that she went to order one for herself. The “little girl” was a buxom and attractive blonde who was managing to feed her two children by the making of these original jackets. She sat and talked about Mr Stamp to Gisela for an hour. She thought that next to Herr Hitler he was the greatest man in the world.
A few weeks later Stampie was proved right in his premonition, and everyone woke up to the news that the reichsmark was no longer of any value or negotiable. There was a new Deutsche Mark now, and the first issue of forty marks for each person was to be made through the food offices upon presentation of ration books and identity cards. There was no discrimination. Everyone got forty marks and that was that.
There was dismay, astonishment, disbelief and anger, all to no avail. Furthermore, the full forty marks were not all given out at once. People had got so accustomed to paying huge sums in reichsmarks for simple necessities that forty marks seemed at first a pittance. All reichsmarks had to be handed in. It was possible that a payment might be made at a later date of one mark to ten.
Two other people who had been buying hard in the week before the change were Joe and Ursula. I went with Ursula to one of the most elegant dress salons I have visited anywhere in the world, to choose her wedding dress.
Seated on pale silver-grey velvet chairs, our feet on a pale grey carpet at least two inches thick, we watched some really beautiful mannequins parade for us in the latest creations of Kurfūrstendamm. It was incredible to think that one was in Berlin. The prices were fantastic, but Ursula was quite undaunted by them. Supplied by Joe with great wads of notes, she sat like a queen casting a critical eye on each model as its wearer glided past. She might have been born to this world, I thought, as she tried on one or two which we liked. “Wouldn’t they be surprised if they knew that an hour ago I was washing dishes?” she giggled as an exquisite gown was slipped over her head.
“I can do it like those mannequins too,” she said delightedly as, arrayed in this creation, she turned, twisted, and preened herself in the galaxy of mirrors.
We chose a dress of a soft mushroom grey-pink. There was a matching coat, and a little cap of flower petals. Ursula looked absolutely charming in them. She decided on black gloves and a silver fox fur to wear with it. Joe, she said, wanted her to look nice. He had invited a number of his friends, including his commanding officer, to their wedding.
I asked her what had finally been settled, and heard that there was to be a legal ceremony followed by a church one. “Neither Joe nor I want the church ceremony,” she said, “but we can’t upset Mother.”
And now one could buy nothing on the Black Market. The shops were empty—they were taking no chances and were holding back their stocks until they saw which way the cat was going to jump. The Black Marketeers were also chary. It was no use their accepting the old useless currency, and they were doubtful if the new one would survive, for the Russians were denouncing it in a violent newspaper and radio campaign. They had begun the campaign well before the new mark was launched, with General Sokolovsky’s violent denunciation of the separate money reform on June 18th. The other three Powers, tired of their fruitless efforts to come to an agreement with Russia, had formed a tripartite administration in place of the former quadripartite at the A.C.A., and the new currency was the result. The electricity plant for the ci
ty unfortunately lay in the Russian sector, and the angry Russians plunged the other sectors into darkness. The Berliners, only too used to groping about in candle-light from the endless electricity cuts in the past years, now found it impossible to get any candles, for the shops would not part with their stocks until they saw the results of this new Russian crisis. We groped about in the light of the Christmas tree candle-stumps, for the Naafi supplies soon ran out. People went about with lanterns, and the Army delivered two enormous hurricane paraffin lamps to each household without a supply of paraffin for use in them. As usual Stampie came to everyone’s rescue with an unending supply of yellow tallow candles.
“Very holy, these are,” he told me. “They send the prayers up quicker to the Almighty than any other kind.”
Frau Altmann was scandalized, but she accepted them just the same. The British retaliation for this Stygian darkness, the stopping for the flow of steel and metal goods from Berlin into the Soviet Zone, brought back the power again to a city now resigned to anything.
The British were moving out branch after branch of their Government into the Zone, as were the French and Americans. The Soviet radio and the Tägliche Rundschau were quick to take advantage of these moves to report that we intended to evacuate Berlin and leave the Berliners to the Soviet, and although this was refuted by the Foreign Office, much damage had been done to our prestige with the Germans, which of course was the Soviet’s intention.
It was difficult to calm the fears of the mothers and children at the Fürsorge. They did not read much, but they listened to the radio news, and unfortunately many of the Soviet-controlled programmes cut through ours. They had not forgotten the horrors of the sack of the city, and wanted reassurance that the British and Americans would not leave them to their fate. Dr Annemarie was through all this crisis calmly confident and placidly reassuring. Dr Gaupp had left for a large hospital in Stuttgart. Her doctors considered that Berlin would be too great a strain on her for complete recovery. She wrote happily from her new work, telling me how very generous and helpful she found the American authorities in her dealings with them. She was head of a very big children’s hospital and loved it.
The Dancing Bear Page 17
