Second Violin

by John Lawton

  ‘Tell me, Herr Troy . . . did you go to one of those private English schools where they beat you black and blue and roasted your arse by a roaring fire?’

  Rod didn’t get it for a second, then he realised Siebert was referring to Tom Brown’s Schooldays, one of those English ‘classics’ Rod had never bothered to read, but whose plot seemed to be part of the general knowledge of English culture – books you never had to read as long as you knew the odd bit of plot and could fill in the author’s name in answer to a crossword clue. But then that, Rod had long ago concluded, was the purpose of English culture – to enable one to do the crossword on the back page of a newspaper.

  ‘As a matter of fact I did . . .’

  12 down.

  ‘. . . And I think you mean a bloke called Flashman. The school bully.’

  ‘Imagine, if you will, that the school bullies take over the school, and then, not content with the schools, the city . . . the nation . . . half Europe.’

  3 across.

  ‘The Brownshirts?’

  ‘Schoolyard bullies given a whole city to play with.’

  7 down.

  ‘In England . . . they wear black.’

  ‘Really? It would be so much easier if all the fascists would wear the same outfit. Imagine visiting abroad and not being able to tell a Nazi thug from a postman.’

  Rod began to giggle. A failing he had long since given up trying to control.

  ‘One might think that the Führer would have opened an account for them all at the same department store – “Oh, joining the fascists are you sir? . . . then you want the Hitler list . . . Mr Hitler was in the other day and picked out the shirts personally . . . he’ll be back for the trousers next week. Right now he’s favouring something in green corduroy, but we can’t be sure he’ll stick to it once he sees the cavalry twill” . . .’

  Rod laughed out loud. Siebert smirked a little at his own wit and swigged once more on the brandy.

  ‘“The good news, sir, is that the Führer has chosen something in tasteful brown for the shirt – a shade we in the trade call ‘dung’.”’

  A man ran past them in a huge grey overcoat and stockinged feet. He was pursued by a mob of children all chanting ‘Run, Big Ears, run!’

  Big Ears ran, great flat feet slapping, the great grey overcoat flapping. By now it was an encumbrance – Hummel sloughed it off and let it fall in the street behind him. With any luck one or two of the little bastards might trip over it. One child did, and another ran straight into him, and then another shunted the first two and they fell in a pile. Hummel made it to the next corner. Brownshirts heading towards him. He swung around, a pirouette on one foot, and charged into the mob of kids. One or two went flying, the rest kept chanting ‘Run, Big Ears, run’. And two little shits grabbed hold of his right leg. Much to Hummel’s surprise either they were weightless or the flight/fright boost of adrenaline had given him strength he never knew he had. He picked up his left leg and plonked it down, he picked up his right with the two kids attached and plonked that down – fee fi fo fum – one more step and he was running, the kids slamming down onto the cobbles and screaming.

  When he saw Hummel turn and charge the mob of kids like a lone nutcase going over the top at the Somme, Rod Troy dashed from the shop doorway, flailing at the kids as he did so in a fruitless attempt at discipline – some utterly erroneous instinct that told him children did what grown-ups told them as long as one was firm with them.

  ‘Stop it! Stop it at once! Stop it and go home to your parents.’

  He was behaving less like St George, more like the most ineffectual schoolmaster in the world – and he looked to Siebert like the worst traffic cop in the world. He thought the Englishman would be lucky to escape alive.

  ‘Oh shit,’ he muttered to himself, just as the Brownshirts caught up with the kids, ran between him and Troy and sent him flying. He spun to earth, dropped the hip flask, reached for his gun, and a blow to the head sent the world bright green for a minute or more . . . and when his head cleared the street had cleared and he found himself sitting on the cobbles alone. No kids, no Brownshirts, no big-eared Jew . . . and no Englishman.

  ‘Oh shit,’ he said. ‘Oh shit, shit, shit.’

  § 32

  Hummel staggered into Krugstrasse. Leaned a moment on the cold brick wall, hearing only the beating of his own heart and the roar of blood in his ears. Then he turned the corner to face the row of tailors’ shops and heard for the first time the commotion at the end of the street. They’d stormed the city by the light of burning torches. Now the torches were out, and with the sun behind them, he saw the outline of another bunch of Brownshirts. They were everywhere, a universal stain upon the fabric of the city. His best hope seemed to him to be a dash for home. He made it to his own doorstep, fumbled in his pocket for the house key, and realising that it had been not in his trouser pocket but in the pocket of his father’s overcoat, stuck his hand through the letter box to grab the string from which the spare key had always hung. Which was when they grabbed him. Yanked him to his feet by the scruff of his neck.

  ‘My my,’ said a voice behind him. ‘We’ve caught ourselves a big one this time.’

  ‘If you please, sir,’ Hummel said. ‘You have caught me once this night already and chose to let me go. I have served my time, and have already had my beating, thank you, sir.’

  Another punch in the kidneys brought Hummel to his knees again.

  The same voice said, ‘This your shop then, Jew-boy?’

  And a very familiar voice answered, ‘Who wants to know?’

  The man holding Hummel let him fall. Hummel counted up the feet. Eight pairs including one pair of German Army boots.

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’

  ‘Oberschütze Trager, Infantry. Or did you think field grey was fancy dress? This is a real uniform. Grey, not the shit brown of you part-timers. And this is my patrol. My beat. Has been since we came and liberated you dozy Ostfuckers.’

  ‘Then why don’t you take a hike and come back in ten minutes?’

  Hummel looked up. Glanced quickly around. The SA all had what looked to be pick-axe handles. The one doing the talking, a stout man with a jagged red scar down one cheek, clutched a very old pre-war revolver. Trager had unslung his rifle and was holding it across his chest, barrel up, stock down, in a way that suggested he could point and aim at the drop of a hat.

  ‘I ain’t going nowhere. You’ve had your fun. Now bugger off.’

  Scarface turned as though about to say something funny to his mates, but the voice Hummel heard was that of Beckermann’s grandson, Adam.

  ‘Pigs, pigs, pigs!’

  The boy was in front of his grandfather’s shop holding a blunderbuss – the sort of gun Hummel had seen only in story books when he was a child. The logical part of his mind wondered where the boy could have found anything to load it with. Young Beckermann cocked the hammer, aimed at the mob of Brownshirts, producing a communal flinching as he did so, pulled jerkily on the trigger . . . and nothing happened. He pulled again, and before he could try a third time they were on him, all seven of them, beating him to a bloody mess with their pick-axe handles.

  Hummel did not wait to see young Beckermann die. He ran, head down, feet and heart pounding, back down the alley and straight into the chest of a man at least as tall as himself and twice as wide. The man spun with the impact sending Hummel skidding across the cobbles to land at the feet of a Brownshirt coming the other way – one more pair of black leather jackboots.

  Young Beckermann was dead – he had to be or they would not have stopped. Hummel backed away from the Nazi coming down the alley, bumped gently into the back of the big man in the black overcoat who’d sent him spinning. As the rest of them advanced the big man gently steered Hummel to the imagined safety of the space between himself and the wall – physically blocking the way between Hummel and the Nazis. One against eight. Perhaps one against nine. Who could tell which side Trager was on?

  S
carface approached.

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’

  The big man flourished a piece of paper in his face – a piece of paper bearing enough swastikas to give Scarface cause to pause.

  ‘Presse aus London,’ the big man said in accented, Berlinish German. ‘I have papers signed personally by Dr Goebbels.’

  Scarface stared at the paper as though he’d never learnt to read. Hummel wondered if his rescuer was bluffing, but Scarface moved no closer, no more certain than Hummel was himself.

  ‘So what? Is this your kike then? Your personal, private kike? The English love their kikes so much they have ’em as pets? Is that it? He’s your kike is he?’

  With one hand the Englishman pocketed his papers, with the other he gestured protectively towards Hummel.

  ‘Not quite . . . he is God’s kike. And God has sent me to protect him.’

  The Brownshirts split their sides laughing at this. If there hadn’t been the new arrival in the alley, Hummel would have chosen this moment to run for it.

  Scarface recovered his breath, tears of laughter streaming down his face.

  ‘Marvellous. Absolutely fucking marvellous. And who has God sent to protect you?’

  And out of nowhere a voice said, ‘Me.’

  The latecomer jerked forward, prodded by a gun barrel in the small of his back. Enough sense to raise his hands.

  Hummel watched as a small man in a grubby raincoat and a battered trilby came out of the darkness, pushing the Brownshirt forward with the end of his automatic pistol. Hummel could say this for Scarface, he didn’t scare easily.

  ‘Not another one. Now, who the fuck are you?’

  It seemed to be his catchphrase.

  The shabby little man held up a card in a small leather wallet. Perhaps Scarface could read after all. Perhaps he’d merely been arrested enough times to know the signs. He turned to the gang and said, ‘Would you believe it . . . never one around when you need one . . . always one when you don’t. He’s a copper, boys! A common Viennese flatfoot!’

  ‘The party’s over. Go and trash some other street.’

  ‘No . . . you’re wrong there copper . . . it’s over when I say it’s over.’

  Scarface had stood clutching his revolver at his side. Now he aimed it vaguely in the direction of the policeman. The policeman shoved the latecomer forward and aimed his gun at Scarface’s head.

  ‘You touch the Englishman, you’re dead. I don’t care about the Jew, but you take one step closer to the Englishman and I’ll blow your brains out.’

  ‘Then tell your Englishman to move.’

  Nobody moved. Nobody spoke. Hummel saw Scarface’s hand wave unsteadily. He had the gun at arm’s length. The policeman was using both hands, one on the gun, the other supporting his elbow – his arm didn’t wave and the barrel of his gun stayed unerringly aimed at Scarface’s head.

  Scarface lowered his gun, turned to the mob and said, ‘Hans . . . the bottle.’

  A young Brownshirt, a boy no older than young Beckermann, stuck a bottle in his hand, a bottle with a dirty rag stuffed in the neck. Then the young man flicked a cigarette lighter and the rag burst into flame and Hummel realised it was what was known as a Molotov cocktail, a bottleful of sand and petrol.

  ‘You don’t care about the kike?’

  The policeman said nothing.

  ‘Cos if you don’t care about the kike . . . you won’t give a toss about his shop neither . . . will you?’

  Scarface holstered his pistol, strode towards Hummel’s shop, raised his arm. Hummel screamed, ‘Noooooo!!!’, charged past the Englishman only to find the Englishman’s arms around his neck and his voice saying, ‘Don’t be a bloody fool.’

  Hummel squirmed. The Englishman tightened his grip.

  Scarface lowered his arm.

  ‘You,’ he said to Trager. ‘You do it.’

  Trager? Hummel had almost forgotten Trager was there.

  ‘No,’ Trager said softly.

  ‘You do it, soldier boy. Just for us. You’ve done your bit for the kike here. We all heard your little speech. We all want to see you do something this night. Something for the real Germans, something for the Reich, something for . . . the boys in shit-brown.’

  Trager looked at Scarface, looked from Scarface to Hummel, back to Scarface and then he smashed a hole in the front window of the shop with the butt of his rifle, took the blazing bottle and hurled it through the hole. The workshop behind erupted into blue and orange flames.

  Hummel screamed. But for the Englishman’s grip he would have sunk to his knees. The Brownshirts cheered and jeered. Then, as if by some secret signal, they stormed off down the alley trampling young Beckermann’s body as they went.

  The Englishman let go of Hummel. Hummel flopped to earth, raised his head to look at Trager. Trager did not meet his look, shouldered his rifle and walked off in the opposite direction to the Nazis.

  The glass on the shop front pinged and shattered – a crystal rain around Hummel. He felt a hand on his shoulder, heard the Englishman saying, ‘You can’t stay here.’

  Then the copper: ‘Yes he can. It’s you who must leave.’

  The shop was well ablaze, the heat blasting out across the cobblestones.

  ‘Troy. For God’s sake. We must go now.’

  Hummel felt the Englishman finally let go, heard the clatter of feet as the policeman bundled him off down the alley. Then he was alone. He curled into a foetal ball and wished for the world to end, for the earth to open up and swallow him like Jonah into the belly of the whale. Down the street a dog was barking, but all the noise of the night now seemed so far away. As though he had lived this night in another place and another time. He felt as though he could sleep now, in the cold early light of morning, exactly where he was on the cold, cold stone, under the hot, hot breath of his burning shop.

  A soft sound, near at hand, nearer than the wretched dog, crept into his senses. Somewhere a man was weeping. Hummel opened one eye, at ground level. Down the street old Beckermann was hunched over the broken body of his grandson, the pool of blood seeping outward, ever nearer Hummel. The boy’s words at Passover came back to Hummel.

  ‘God has gone deaf. Either that or he is dead.’

  Down the street a dog was barking.

  § 33

  Siebert was hunched over the basin in the bathroom of Rod’s suite at the Meissl und Schadn, rinsing the blood out of the matted hair on the back of his head.

  Rod looked at the wound, said, ‘Doesn’t need stitching. It’s quite a lump though. You were lucky you weren’t out cold.’

  ‘I was,’ Siebert said, his face still in the basin. ‘Did you think I’d let you escape if I were conscious?’

  ‘Come through when you’re ready. I ordered lunch as soon as we got in.’

  Rod went back into the sitting room.

  ‘Lunch? What happened to breakfast?’

  Rod called back, ‘The night ran away with you . . . it’s past noon.’

  Rod lifted up the silver domes to look at the meal. Siebert came in, head buried in a hotel towel, rubbing at the wound on his skull. The sound of a cork popping made him flip up the towel and look.

  ‘Champagne?’

  ‘Champagne, blue trout, black truffles.’

  ‘Good God, do you always eat like this?’

  ‘If at all possible. Otherwise what’s the point of staying in a joint like this?’

  Siebert dropped the towel and accepted the glass of champagne.

  ‘Well . . . it can hardly be the company.’

  ‘The Germans stay here for the food . . . makes it the right place to eavesdrop. Bad company, good food. Let’s eat.’

  Siebert was surprised, pleasantly, at how hungry he was. They ate and chatted. Afterwards he realised he’d kill for a fag, only to find that the Englishman had read his mind and flipped a napkin off an unopened packet of Astas.

  ‘My God . . . you think of everything. Tell me, have you thought what you’re going to write about
the night’s . . . what shall I call them . . . happenings . . .?’

  A waiter with a pot of coffee interrupted any answer for a moment or two, but when the Englishman sat down it was obvious to Siebert that he was going to answer.

  ‘Yes. Of course. In fact I think I’m going to write two pieces at rather differing speeds. One I’ll get down to as soon as we’re through here, and it’ll be in the morning edition tomorrow if I can get it out. In black and white . . . everything we saw. I’ll file from Berlin. I’m leaving on the sleeper tonight. The other . . . something for the Sunday Post. More of an essay . . . something on the nature of mob mentality . . . the instinct to survive . . . to survive by destroying . . . to pass on the humiliation. That’s what kikes and niggers are for . . . the whole point of such notions of the alien . . . to make damn sure there’s some poor bugger who’s worse off than you are yourself. Some poor bugger who can be blamed for all your ills. It’s sort of what makes the world go round.’

  Siebert had no facial reaction to this. No shrugs, no twist in the lips to say it was beyond him. He simply sat back with his brauner – a strong cup of coffee with a thick head of cream – stuck a cigarette between his lips, lit up once more – drag, sip, drag – and said, ‘Could you leave me out? Whichever one I might be in, could you just leave me out?’

  § 34

  Little had burnt. Little but enough. The packed swatches of cloth, dense and heavy, had resisted flame in much the way the pages of a telephone directory would if one tried to light the inch thick edge. They had scorched and smouldered but not burnt. His sewing machine in contrast was a train-wreck. A small tortured sculpture in twisted iron and steel. Hummel could still make out the word ‘Singer’ on the frame, stripped of its black and gold. For all his adult life and much of his childhood the old Singer, which had been his father’s before it was his, had seemed like an extension of Hummel himself. His big flat feet rhythmically worked the treadle, and through the treadle Hummel connected to the earth, the universe, the everything and the all. The small Antaeus of the sewing machine. As a boy he had sat and pedalled, no cloth no thread, and stared at nothing and found it easy enough to think of nothing, almost mesmerised by the motion. His father would come in and tell him how the sun was shining and that he should go out and play. A limb had been severed. Two arms, two legs, but treadleless. It was a moment to weep and had Hummel been a weeping man he might well have wept.