Berlin Wild

by Elly Welt

  She lay panting and warm and sweating in my arms for twenty minutes, and we did it again and again . . . and again.

  Toward dawn, we fell into a deep sleep, and I dreamed a new dream—of my father’s feet, with shoes and spats, standing beside my secret cave in our back yard. I awakened, thinking I was in the hole in my own yard, but when I opened my eyes, I realized that I was lying on my back, with Frau Doktor in my arms, her nose shoved into my neck, in Mitzka’s secret place, thinking, again, about the feet of my father.

  Our actual escape through the apples was anticlimactic. Leaving behind the wire basket, the map of the park, and our white lab coats, we crawled through the fence and walked, as we’d planned—slowly, hand-in-hand through the orchard and the fields—hoping to look like lovers. She wore her long hair free to complete the picture.

  “We are lovers,” I said.

  “Even though I’m old enough to be your mother.” She said it ruefully.

  “Only if you were married at ten.”

  “Fifteen. I am thirty-four years old,” she offered.

  “I hope you’re not sorry.”

  “That I am thirty-four?”

  “You know that isn’t what I meant.”

  “Not at all, my dear. I feel so lucky to have known you in this way before we parted.”

  “I am the lucky one, Frau Doktor.”

  “Ruth.”

  “Ruth.”

  By design, we bypassed the S-Bahn station in Hagen, walking the five kilometers to the next stop. The train was jammed beyond capacity and went only as far as Gesund-brunnen. The underground tunnels had been flooded during those last days of the war and were not yet in use, and the rail lines circling the city above ground—the Berlin Circle—were, in parts, still hopelessly torn up. So we walked through the dust and rubble that was once Berlin—at its best it was an ugly city—ten or so kilometers, from the Russian Sector, through the French, stopping, finally, in the vicinity of the zoo—Zoologischer Garten—which was well within the safety of the British Sector. We then stopped to make love one more time, before parting, in a basement under a house which had collapsed.

  PART V

  October 10, 1967,

  Iowa City

  CHAPTER NINE

  Kaddish

  Dr Josef Bernhardt—the brown leather briefcase with the succinylocholine and Librium under his left arm, his elbow crooked to secure it—raced across the campus of the University of Iowa toward his safety box in the vault of the First National Bank: across the green lawn of the hospital complex, down twenty-eight steps to the little landscaped ravine—a blur of October greens and browns, reds and yellows—and up and around the corkscrew pass over Riverside Drive; he, who in his youth had been a runner, squeaking and creaking like the ungreased wheels of a railway carriage. On the bridge over the Iowa River he slowed to a jog, then, feeling that his heart would burst and his lungs collapse, to a walking limp the last short block to the wide cement stairs leading up to Old Capitol—the heart of the Pentacrest. Wheezing and gasping, right fist pounding his chest to ease the substernal pain, Josef threw himself onto the lawn at the foot of the steps and dropped his briefcase beside him.

  He was so obviously in distress that he attracted the attention of some of the students hurrying by and of others sprawled on the green grass enjoying the beautiful autumn day. Almost all, Josef noticed through the wavy distortion of his tears, were wearing the student uniform—faded and patched blue jeans, blue work shirts or colorful T-shirts—and carrying khaki knapsacks.

  “Hey, mister. You O.K.?” A flat midwestern twang. The students formed a friendly ring about him, some on the sidewalk, others on the lawn.

  “What is he? Having a heart attack or something?”

  “Maybe he’s stoned.”

  “People dressed like that don’t get stoned.”

  “Maybe he’s drunk.”

  “You O.K.?”

  Prostrate on the green lawn, charcoal suit soaked through with sweat, mouth open to maximize air intake, eyes wide with the strain, lungs emitting rasping and gasping asthmatic counterpoint, Josef realized he must have looked like a lunatic and, hit by the irony of his maniacal race toward death, he twisted his yawning mouth into a crazy grimace and tried to laugh. But it came out as a convulsive, shuddering sound. Mitzka had been racing toward the apples when they got him.

  The circle of concerned eyes watched Josef until, within a minute or so, the music in his lungs quieted, the chest pain waned to discomfort, and he tried to stand. Hands reached out and lifted him to his feet; a long-haired student picked up the brown leather briefcase from the grass and gave it to him. Josef doffed an imaginary hat and bowed as he had been taught in Dancing and Social Behavior class. Then, to aid his respiration, he hunched over and straightened—as though rowing a skiff—and sailed up the incline and around Old Capitol. Imminent death gave one the freedom of a madman. Correct? Or was he right? And what did it matter if he dropped dead on the spot from an infarct?

  The First National Bank was two blocks farther, and he had five minutes before closing. He had gained two in the run and lost them again in the grass . . . Alas . . . There had been such speed in his little body and such lightness in his footfall, he could hardly believe he was so out of shape. He walked quickly across the Pentacrest toward Clinton Street and cut through a line of war protesters in patched denim uniforms passively picketing on the sidewalk, phlegmatically waving banners and posters, watched by two equally passive city police in dark blue uniforms with shiny buttons, sitting in a black- and-white parked at the curb right where Josef intended to jaywalk across Clinton.

  “Dr Bernhardt!” A female voice.

  Josef turned and looked at the line of war protesters.

  GET THE TROOPS OUT OF VIETNAM

  MAKE LOVE NOT WAR

  FUCK THE DRAFT

  FUCK ME

  “Dr Bernhardt,” she cried, again, stepping out of the picket line.

  It took him a moment to realize it was the nurse from Four North, Susan Ingram. She looked so different: instead of the stiff nurse’s cap and the white uniform, buttoned to the throat, she wore a blue work shirt, unbuttoned and tied at midriff, and jeans, hugging her hips well below the navel, revealing a firm, flat gut—an altogether attractive upper and lower quadrant. Her brown hair hung in two long braids.

  Josef bowed slightly to her, pointed to his watch, turned again toward Clinton, and stepped off the curb right in front of the parked black-and-white.

  “Look out for the police,” she yelled.

  Josef looked up and down Clinton. No cars coming. He started to walk.

  “Hey, fella!” shouted the officer out the squad car window.

  Josef kept on walking. A capital crime? The officer jumped out. Josef heard the car door slam but did not stop.

  “Hey, you there!”

  “Pig. Pig. Pig. Pig. Pig,” chanted the war protesters.

  The policeman grabbed Josef by his suit sleeve. “Hey! You can’t jaywalk here.”

  Josef looked up at the tall young officer and then down at the huge pistol in his holster low on one hip. “Vot yay-vok?” he asked, smiling idiotically.

  “Let me see your driver’s license,” said the officer as he pulled Josef by the sleeve toward the curb.

  “Pig. Pig. Pig. Pig.”

  There were cars now, and two bicycles and a motorcycle stopped by the obstruction, and their drivers honked and some joined the cantors: “Pig. Pig. Pig. Pig.”

  Although he came along willingly, Josef’s suit jacket was pulled clean off one shoulder by the time they reached the curb in front of the squad car.

  “Your driver’s license,” the officer repeated.

  “Pig. Pig. Pig. Pig.”

  Josef shrugged, smiled, and threw out a hand to indicate that he did not understand. With the other hand, he clutched the briefcase. The cantors cheered.

  The other policeman, still in the car, stuck his head out the window. “Hey, you, where you from?”
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  “Ich bin ein Berliner,” said Josef in harsh Schweizerdeutsch.

  “Oh, great,” said the arresting officer, “he don’t even talk English.”

  “Let him go,” said the one in the squad car. “He’s just a dumb foreigner.” And he pulled his head in and shut the window.

  Josef noticed Susan Ingram walking toward him, a look of concern on her face.

  The officer tugged at Josef’s sleeve to get his attention. “Cross at the corners,” he said very loud and very slow. He pointed first to one intersection and then to the other while Josef, nodding vigorously, mimicked the action, pointing with index finger to one intersection, then to the other, then to himself.

  “That’s right,” the officer articulated carefully. “Cross at the corners.” And, satisfied, he opened the car door, bent his long frame double, and slipped into the driver’s seat.

  The cantors applauded, booed, and hissed. “sssssssssSSSSSSS pig!”

  Josef, on the curb again in front of the black-and-white, looked at his watch. He had lost three minutes, leaving only two to cover the block and a half to the bank.

  Susan Ingram was beside him.

  “I’m late,” he said, looking down her cleavage. Kirsti Krupinsky. She wore no bra, and the peace symbol on the delicate gold chain rested between her full breasts. He glanced, then, to his left—no cars; to his right—a double-take. Carlos Borbon.

  Still in hospital greens, mask dangling and flopping about his neck, Carlos was galloping across the intersection, without fear of Uncle Philip, against a red light, toward the First National Bank.

  Josef made a diagonal dash to the left across Clinton. He could her the policeman hollering, “Hey. You. Fella,” and the students’ monotone, monosyllabic song, “Pig. Pig. Pig. Pig.” At the corner, he stepped onto the curb and found himself in a scene that looked like the day after Kristallnacht, a bookstore, the huge display windows boarded over, and also the doors where the glass had been. There was a placard on the door:

  VARSITY BOOK IS OPEN

  Without looking back to see if he was being followed, Josef slipped inside, panting and gasping, and leaned against the doorframe, his head thrown back, his eyes closed.

  “You’ll have to park your bag,” said a flat male voice.

  Josef, bewildered, opened his eyes and was startled to see a uniformed police officer—city police—with sidearm in holster.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You’ll have to park your bag,” repeated the guard, pointing to the brown leather briefcase under Josef’s left arm.

  Josef straightened up and looked around. There were lockers lining the walls in front of the boarded windows. Tightening his grip on the briefcase, he moved forward to the checkout counters, the guard following. There were no customers on this spacious first floor—and no books—only supplies: papers, pencils, greeting cards, calendars, mugs, cups, and other paraphernalia, T-shirts, sweatshirts, and other clothing, all in yellow with black lettering, all printed either with University of Iowa or with the university logo, an ugly beaked hawk. The Hawkeye State.

  “Who broke the windows?” Josef turned to the guard standing at his elbow.

  “Students.”

  “When?”

  “Every time they put them back in.”

  “Why?”

  The guard shrugged. “You can put it in one of the lockers and take the key.”

  “Thank you very much, officer. I prefer to carry it with me.”

  “You can’t. It’s the rule.” the man said peevishly, tugging at the briefcase.

  “What do you mean, I can’t?” Josef snapped at him, pulling the briefcase and nudging the guard with his elbow.

  “Can I help you?” A pleasant-faced man, young middle-age, in his uniform—a pale blue smock coat—monogrammed over the breast pocket, Varsity Book, underneath which was pinned an identification card, with the man’s name, his title, Mgr, and, so there could not possibly be a mistake, his picture. Apparently one needed more security clearance to enter a bookstore in Iowa in 1967 than to enter the Kaiser Wilhelm Institute in Berlin-Hagen during the Second World War.

  “I want to buy a book.”

  “Books are downstairs,” said the manager obligingly. “Anything special I can help you with . . . uh . . . er . . . Professor?”

  “Doctor. M.D.” Josef watched the manager’s eyes light up with dollar signs. Medical texts are expensive.

  The guard, a sullen expression on his face, moved back to the lockers lining the front wall.

  “We have a large selection of medical texts, doctor.” The manager was affable. “I’ll take you down myself and show you around. If you’ll just park your briefcase with the security man over there?”

  “I’ll take it with me,” said Josef, agreeably, moving toward the stairs to the lower level. He was stopped by a restraining hand on his arm.

  “We can’t make exceptions. You understand.” The voice was still congenial.

  “No, as a matter of fact, I don’t understand.”

  “Oh, come on now, doctor.” The manager slipped from affability to condescension, then slid halfway back to conciliation. “If we let them in here with their bags and sacks, they would steal us blind.”

  “Do you mean the students?”

  “Yes. And if you make an exception, even in the case of a fine citizen like yourself . . .”

  “They would break your windows.”

  “You’ve got it.”

  “I see.” Josef nodded his head as though in agreement, reached in his back pocket for his wallet, from which he extracted his card, still with his Montréal address, and handed it to the manager. “Here’s my card. Give me a call when you put fresh crystal in those windows,” and he turned and strode to the entrance.

  “Dr Bernhardt!” The manager’s voice was all sarcasm. “This is the only store in the state with any selection of medical books. There are no other medical schools in Iowa.”

  “You’re breaking my heart,” said Josef.

  “Of course, you could drive to Chicago, or, same distance, to Omaha, Nebraska. They have two medical schools in Omaha—only six hours each way.”

  Josef enunciated each syllable clearly and distinctly. “I wanted to buy a po-et-ry book,” he said and opened the door.

  “Try Epstein’s,” he heard the manager call after him. “It’s right up Clinton.”

  He was a wanted man. Josef flattened himself against the boarded-up windows outside Varsity Book and stealthily scanned Clinton, his eyes coming to rest on Susan Ingram and the other war protesters mid-block across the street. The black-and-white was nowhere in sight, nor was that green prick Borbon. As he suspected, Elizabeth had not waited until two fifty en punto to telephone but had obviously reached Carlos at once and sent him stalking the streets of Iowa City. Josef curbed his impulse to run, for he did not want to draw attention to himself. Instead, he walked quickly three storefronts up Clinton to a bar-cafe which had large plate-glass windows—crystal still intact.

  He stepped inside and surveyed: two empty tables in front of the windows; a long bar against the wall opposite the entrance extending halfway into the long, narrow room, also empty; the inevitable booths toward the back, one filled with four students. The predominant smell was of freshly popped corn.

  Despite the brightness of the day and the large windows, the interior was dim, and Josef felt he would be safe at the far end of the bar with his back to the light. But the moment he settled himself on the barstool and laid his briefcase on the bar, he realized that he hadn’t the vaguest idea what to do next. The banks were closed now, and Carlos was, no doubt, still cruising the streets. He couldn’t get into his safety box until the next day: his mother’s jewelry; his father’s rings and studs, tie pins and cuff links and gold cigarette case—Josef patted his breast, then side pockets, for cigarettes; image of Carlos reaching across the desk for the pack of Camels—three pocket watches in gold cases, Swiss, one from each grandfather and one from his fath
er, and underneath all the artifacts, in the back of the largest safety-deposit box he could rent, under the Swiss bank account books and stocks, under the wills, under the insurance policies and passport was the package he wanted. He would destroy it, make a fire and burn it. All the rest could be sent to Tatiana in Berlin. Josef felt blood rushing to his face. Trembling, flushed, he inhaled deeply and was able to push the air noisily from his lungs and breathe again. What is it one has to show for a lifetime? One potato peeler, first-rate; a schoolgirl’s love poem, in her own hand, on a tattered sheet of blue linen stationery; one tarnished silver napkin ring, engraved with an O for Otto or for O Lord, when will the Savior come to this land; one short, final letter from one’s mother, apropos of nothing that had to do with any reality he had ever wished to live; and one old Hebrew prayer book handed down from Grandfather Josef Jacoby to Uncle Otto Jacoby to him. Gold watches and prayer books. He found it on his desk, the prayer book, the day he returned to his father’s house after leaving Frau Doktor—Ruth—at noon, after loving her one more time in the basement of a collapsed house, in the safety of the British Sector, near the zoo. From Zoologischer Garten, he had taken a trolley, the main trolley of his childhood, No. 177, which was the most direct route from Gartenfeld to the pet shop in Steglitz, where he bought the semi-rotten meat for Dritt and Mies; to Uncle Otto’s original apartment buildings and furniture-manufacturing plant in Schöneberg; to his father’s office in Tiergarten; or to the zoo, which, when he was quite young, he and his mother often visited, a ride of half an hour in the late 1920s and early 1930s, but which in August 1945, with sections of rail still missing so that the passengers had, several times, to leave the tram car and walk a block or two, took twice as long—an hour. So after making love to Ruth one more time, after the hugs and kisses, the tears and lamentations, finally, he left her, and, an hour later, arrived at his father’s house, shortly after one in the afternoon, planning to pack a few things in a suitcase and leave immediately, without speaking to his father, this resolve reinforced when the next-door neighbor, that idiot Baron von Chiemsee, opened Josef’s front door.