by Pierre Frei
She waved to the waiter and gave him a book. 'Would you take that over to Dr Kastner, please?' The waiter did as she asked, and put The Family Visit in front of the writer, murmuring a few words and discreetly indicating Marlene. She had slipped a note inside the book: 'My name is Marlene Neubert. I specially like the character of Arnold Wagenfeldt. Could I ask you to sign this for me?'
Kastner wrote a few words in the book and handed it back to the waiter. 'For Marlene Neubert, from Arnold Wagenfeldt, who doesn't appear in this book,' she read. She had mixed up Erwin Kastner's Family Visit with The Giraffe's Guide.
This time he returned her glance. He had an amused expression on his face. She shrugged apologetically, and paid her bill. A man with neatly parted fair hair put down the newspaper holder containing the Vossischer Zeitung and followed her. She had noticed him before on the S-Bahn, on her way into town.
'I made contact with Kastner at the Romanesque,' she told Fredie that evening. 'But you know that already.'
'For Marlene Neubert, my enchanting young reader, from Erwin Kastner, September 1933,' was the inscription in the copy of The Giraffe's Guide that the waiter took over to Marlene's table next afternoon, asking, 'Dr Kastner would like to know if he can offer you a cup of tea.'
The writer rose courteously. He came up to Marlene's shoulders. 'This is very nice of you. Do sit down. Do you come here often?'
'Yesterday was the first time. I wanted to meet you.'
'Well, now you have. A China tea?'
'I'd rather have a coffee.'
And why did you want to meet me?'
Let's simply say that I like mature men.'
'Just like that?'
'I'll tell you tomorrow if you'll invite me round to your place. There are too many eavesdroppers here.'
'Will my collection of first editions do as an excuse? I live on Bayerischer Platz. At four o'clock?' He gave her his card.
That evening Marlene handed the card to Fredie. 'He's invited me to his place tomorrow.'
'Make yourself out to be an ardent Young Communist who wants to help her idol Talberg.'
'Kastner's no fool.'
'You'll soon get him where you want him, with your abilities in bed.'
'Don't you mind it when I sleep with other men?'
'No, why should I?' was his surprised answer.
Erwin Kastner made coffee in a kind of double glass balloon over a spirit flame. Marlene watched, fascinated, as the water rose in the device and the dark-brown brew flowed down again. A bachelor needs these little household gadgets,' her host told her, rather apologetically.
She pointed to the book-lined walls around them. Have you read all those?'
'Most of them. Do you take sugar?'
'Yes please. And how many books have you written?'
'Just under a dozen.'
'Is writing fun?'
'Hellish hard work. I avoid it as soon as I come up with a good excuse.
Sharpening pencils, for instance. I can spend a whole morning sharpening pencils and never get a line down on paper. Wonderful!'
She scrutinized him, not sure whether he was being serious. 'What are you writing at the moment?'
A children's book. I'm forbidden to write for adults now. I could always go to Austria. I'm told there are some very fine coffee houses in Vienna. But I'm attached to the Romanesque and this apartment of mine.'
A real children's book?'
'It's called Lucie the Snake, about an anaconda who escapes from the zoo. A class of schoolchildren protect her from the keepers' search parties.'
'The way you're protecting your friend?'
What friend?' he asked warily.
'Eddie Talberg the Communist leader. The Geheime Staatspolizei want to know where he's hiding.'
'You are either very clever or very stupid, my dear.'
Neither. I just don't want to send anyone to his doom, least of all myself.'
'Well, you can tell your masters that Talberg has been in Warsaw for a week, on his way to Moscow.'
'Spoilsport!' she complained, smiling.
How do you mean?'
'I wasn't supposed to worm that information out of you over a cup of coffee, I was meant to do it in bed:
He kissed her hand. 'Then you've been spared a disappointment, and I have acquired a charming fan. May I ask why you are working for our new masters?'
'No, you may not!' she said firmly. Anyway, I must go now.'
Dr Noack praised her. He had come to supper. 'Good work, even if Talberg has eluded us. You ought to give your wife her reward for that, Hauptsturmfiihrer.'
Fredie took Marlene on the carpet. Then he forced her between Noack's knees. She did what was expected of her.
It was a June morning, and Fredie was getting dressed: pale-grey worsted trousers, white shirt, blue cotton tie. Marlene handed him his lightweight, cream linen jacket. No one would have suspected that this elegant apparition in his mid-twenties was a member of the Gestapo.
'Would you like scrambled eggs or fried?'
'Scrambled, please. And a buttered roll.'
'The coffee's ready. Eggs coming in a minute. I'll just fetch the papers in.' All was well with the world today. The property beside the water, the pretty, roomy house, breakfast with her husband - it was sunny pictures like these that made her think there could be such a thing as good fortune and happiness.
The newspapers were sticking out of the letterbox on the garden fence: the Volkischer Beobachter, the official and thus unreadable organ of the Party, and the Morgenpost, which so far had retained its comfortable everyday character, apart from a few dutiful political pieces.
Fredie was on the phone. 'Yes, Obersturmbannfiihrer. The Hotel Bristol, room 221. I can guarantee that the operation will be conducted swiftly and smoothly. I'll report back to you personally. Over.'
'Would you like to have breakfast in the garden?'
'My uniform. Come along, get a move on.' He flung off his jacket, tore the tie from his neck, took off his trousers. She helped him into the black breeches made by Benedict, and put the hooks into the tongues of the smart riding boots from Mahlmeister's so that he could pull them on over his calves. Fredie hated uniform, but as it couldn't always be avoided it might at least be tailor-made.
'Fredie, what's up?'
He put on his belt and shoulder strap, took the 7.65 Mauser out of the desk drawer and put it in its holster. 'Get that black dress and white apron on,' he ordered. 'Don't forget the lace cap. And hurry.' She had last worn that costume for a guest who liked to have a housemaid tickle him with a feather duster. Was Fredie taking her to a client with similar tastes? But why the uniform and the pistols? Anxiety took hold of her.
As she straightened the seams of her stockings, he was getting the Ford out of the garage. The car had belonged to a Communist Reichstag deputy who had been beaten to death while in 'protective custody'.
They entered the Bristol through a side door. Fredie raced to the back stairs. He knew every corner of this building from his days as a hotel pageboy. A room-service waiter was wheeling his trolley past on the second floor. Fredie stopped him. 'I'll take that.'
'It's the breakfast for Room 230.'
'It's the breakfast for Room 221 now.'
'But you can't just ...'
Fredie took out his pistol and loaded it. 'Give me your key to Room 221.' White as a sheet, the man took the key off his bunch. And now get out.' The waiter rushed away, panic-stricken.
Fredie wheeled the trolley over to Marlene. He lowered his voice. 'Knock on the door of 221, open it and say: "Chambermaid with your breakfast, sir."' He gave her the key. 'Then you push the trolley in and get over to one side straight away. Go on.' She obeyed, although she guessed that something terrible was going to happen.
'Chambermaid with your breakfast, sir.' She heard her own voice as if from far away. She pushed the trolley into the room. Brown uniform garments lay strewn around the floor. There were two men in the bed, a pretty, fair boy and an older
, dark-haired man. The older man put on his glasses. 'You haven't forgotten the orange juice, I hope?'
Suddenly Fredie was standing at the foot of the bed. 'Get out of there!' he snarled at the boy, who obeyed, trembling. Fredie raised the pistol. He saw the terrified face of the man in the bed. To him, it was the smooth, self-satisfied countenance of Trevelyan the pederast. The shots echoed agonizingly in Marlene's ears. The man jerked this way and that, as Fredie emptied the magazine into him in cold blood. The bed was drenched and red.
The naked boy stood in a corner, weeping. 'Put your clothes on and get out,' said Fredie, in a gentle voice. 'Come on, Lene.'
'SA Chief of Staff Rohm personally arrested by the Fiihrer. Seven more treacherous SA leaders arrested at perverted orgies in Bad Wiesensee and Berlin and summarily shot,' announced the evening edition of the paper. Fredie let it fall to the floor and reached for the cognac bottle, in high good humour. 'They'll promote Noack, and he'll be grateful.'
Standartenfiihrer Dr Noack took his time to demonstrate his gratitude. He had many new jobs to be done. When summoned, Fredie would put his 7.65 Mauser in his toilet bag, often staying away for days. Marlene asked no questions, because she didn't want to hear the answers.
Instead she took refuge in her dream. She was floating weightlessly through a truly beautiful cinema, showing members of the audience to their seats. She wore a scarlet uniform with gold braid. Ahead of her she carried a tray of vanilla ices on sticks, and she could lick as many as she wanted. All the people around her were really nice.
She would wake to find herself back in the cold light of reality. Reality meant strangers, to whom Fredie handed her over for his and his boss's purposes whenever it suited. Reality meant Fredie's sexual attacks on her. Her body was greedy for them, while her mind despised them.
The only bright spots were her carefree hours with Frank Saunders. But even he would remind her of reality by unthinkingly handing her the fee in public instead of discreetly putting it in her bag.
Frank Saunders lived in Tiergartenstrasse. On her way to him this Tuesday Marlene went through the park as usual. She heard shouting and laughing behind the bushes. A boy of about ten was tied to a tree, weeping, with a crowd of adolescents prancing around him. They had pulled his trousers and underpants down. 'Jew-boy, Jew-boy!' they sang in time to their prancing, and spat on his circumcised penis.
At the Neuer See she had passed a policeman on his beat, and now she ran back to fetch him. He didn't seem to be in a hurry. 'Do something!' she cried, with the terrible scene fresh in her mind.
'But he wouldn't lift a finger,' Marlene told Saunders indignantly. 'Luckily a young park keeper came along. He grabbed the ringleader and gave him a good shaking. And what do you think the young lout shouted? "We'll get all you Jew-lovers!" I untied the little boy and comforted him as best I could. You ought to write about that sort of thing in your American newspaper. No one's allowed to in ours.'
Saunders was not much impressed. 'No one at home would be interested. And we don't want to harm good relations with our German hosts by writing up some story about silly boys.'
'How bad does it have to get before you all wake up out there?'
`The world is wide awake, sweetheart. It admires your wonderful economic upturn. There is anti-Semitism everywhere, always has been. At least the Nazis admit it.' He drew her close. And right now I can think of something much nicer to occupy our minds.'
'That's what you're paying for,' she said dryly.
'Ton francais nest pas mal,' Fredie remarked one evening. He had come home late from a meeting at the office.
'Remember how you drummed it into me? I could polish it up a bit, don't you think?'
'You'll soon have an opportunity to do just that. The opportunity is called Andre Favarel and he speaks hardly any German. He's taking up his post as French military attache next month. Dr Noack thinks we ought to get him on our side in good time.'
'You want me to go to bed with him.'
'Not exactly. You'll meet Favarel at the Five O'Clock in Eden. He fancies young blonde women with a certain touch.'
'What kind of certain touch?'
According to our information, Colonel Favarel has a liking for stern treatment. We've hired the Blue Salon at Kitty's. It's wired for hidden cameras. Think something up.'
'You want to blackmail him with photographs.'
'Reichsfiihrer Himmler would like us to stay just ahead of the Wehrmacht's intelligence service.'
'So I'm to play the dominatrix in Kitty Schmidt's whorehouse.'
'You said it.'
She felt hurt and humiliated, and summoned up the very last of her selfrespect. 'Well, I won't, understand? And you can tell your friend Noack so too.'
He undid his fly. 'Then we'll have to make the lady a little more willing.' She did not defend herself: it would have been no use. He took her as ruthlessly as ever. The dreaded orgasm came. Afterwards she lay there breathing hard, the victim of her own addiction. He casually did up his trousers. 'Well, darling, have we thought better of it?'
She called on all her strength. 'Not if you stand on your head. I just won't go along with a thing like that.'
Then he beat her, cold as ice, systematically, until she was a whimpering heap. She dragged herself into the bathroom. A swollen, bloodstained horror mask looked back at her from the mirror. 'You'll be as good as new by the time Favarel arrives,' he told her.
The swelling went down, the wounds healed. Her black eye lasted longer, and her injuries gave her time to think, not that she needed it. The will to survive that she had developed in Riibenstrasse told her it was time. Time to go, she thought, just as she had when she set out from Moabit to the smarter area of Berlin.
She packed her things one Monday, folding her most precious possession, Grandmother Mine's white lace scarf, and putting it at the top of her suitcase. Fredie wouldn't be home before seven. That gave her the advance on him she needed. She got a Reich Railways timetable, and put a cross beside a connection from Berlin to Hanover and on to Essen, laying a false trail to be on the safe side. She didn't think Fredie would weep many tears over her, though. He'd just train some other girl. On the other hand, she mustn't underestimate his possessive instincts. He had spent a good deal on her, and he might not be ready simply to wave goodbye to his investment.
She had kept the old passport that gave her name as Marlene Kaschke, a memento of a short trip to Austria. Fredie had found some old Archduke in Baden near Vienna, totally gaga, but he paid well. She'd had to dress up as a schoolgirl and sit on His Royal-and-Imperial Highness's lap.
She had long ago found out where Fredie kept a supply of cash: in the lavatory cistern, packed in oilskin. She took far less than the considerable amount due to her after all these years.
She was briefly tempted to turn to Frank Saunders for help, but quickly rejected the idea. Frank was a paying customer. Paying customers, however nice they might be, wanted a short-term playmate with no strings attached, not someone's runaway wife.
There was a note stuck in the passport. She took it out and read the firm, slightly clumsy handwriting. It was the address that Franz Giese had written down for her back in the past. She had entirely forgotten it, but now it was like a sign from Fate. Of course, Giese would help her. She was about to put the note back where she had found it when the telephone rang. It was Anita, an acquaintance: would she like to go to the movies? 'Sorry, I can't today. See you soon!' Marlene hung up and put the passport in her handbag. The note dropped to the floor.
She took the S-Bahn to Schoneberg. It wasn't far from the station. The entrance hall of the building still smelled of soft soap. She pressed the doorbell on the second floor. It was a little while before he opened the door. 'Fraulein Lene?' he asked, surprised. 'Come in.' He was wearing braces and a collarless, striped, blue wool shirt. His friendly, boyish face had grown thinner, but it was as calm and full of good sense as ever. A man you could rely on, Marlene's instincts told her.
He
spoke slowly and deliberately. That hadn't changed either. 'It's pure chance you found me in. I'm just getting the papers ready for my next trip with the truck. They check up on me quite often, my rival Meier sees to that. He's a fanatical Party member, grudges a former Socialist like me the least little thing. Well, never mind that. I'm not interested in politics these days. How are you, Fraulein Lene?'
'Frau Marlene Neubert. I married Fredie. He still makes me go with other men, and he beats me. Herr Giese, I have to get away.'
'Franz to you, Fraulein Lene. Let me make us a coffee. The truck can wait.'
Everything in the living room was as it had been on her first visit: the round dining table, the chairs with their dark-red, velour upholstery, the rutting stag in his gilt frame, the lace covers on the plush sofa, the pot plant in the window.
He had put on a collar and tie, and now carried a tray with the coffee pot, cups, and a tin of biscuits to the table. 'So you've started up your haulage business.'
'With a three-wheeled Tempo. As a one-man outfit I couldn't afford more. You want to get away from him?'
Can I stay here? I mean just for the time being, until I find somewhere else. I'm sure we'd get on all right. And I owe you a hundred and fifty marks,' she said boldly.
He lowered his gaze. 'I don't like to hear you say such things. And I don't want you to stay either. Not the way you mean. I want everything to be right and proper between us. If you want me at all, then I'll wait, if you don't mind.'
'You're the nicest man I know.'
He cleared his throat, embarrassed. A lady I know keeps a boarding house in Charlottenburg. I'll give you a note to take her. What are you planning to do?'