The Berlin Connection

by Johannes Mario Simmel

  Shirley, dearest Heart, you know I'm making this movie here in Hamburg for both of us. J must, 7 will be as good an actor as I can possible be. Don't despair. Be as brave as J know you can be and believe me when I say this is for both of us.

  In my thoughts I am alwavs with vou — united with you on the b^nrh, on our boat, in th'^ hi/n'^nlnw and the dunes: evervw^pre where we were happy together. Soon we will be again. Forever.

  Peter P.s. As always, destroy this letter at once.

  "In his speech before the First Soviet in Moscow, Prime Minister Khrushchev again threated Berlin . . ." The voice of the newscaster came softly through the dark little restaurant.

  Mrs. Gottesdiener and I were sitting at one of the scrubbed tables. She was having sandwiches and a beer. I had ordered whisky.

  The contents of Mrs. Gottesdiener's package, a heavy scrapbook, was before me. "Surely there isn't another collection like this anywhere," she said, her mouth stuffed with food. "Take your time. There are pictures from all your movies and travels."

  Old magazine stills, postcards, pictures cut from newspaper had been carefully sorted and pasted in, bordered with colored pencils, decorated with little stars and flowers. There I was, sitting on Mayor La Guardia's lap. There was the tickertape parade on Broadway. There was my mother, her smile distorted after her face operation. There were the premieres of Huckleberry Finn, Oliver Twist and Treasure Island. These yellowed pages were my youth. This old book, emitting the smeU of mothballs, evanescence and poverty reflected the years of my fame.

  "Algeria. A new wave of terror hit several towns. Bombs killed 17 people, injured 65 . .."

  "This is only the first of three scrapbooks," said Mrs. Gottesdiener.

  She spoke between quick, hungry bites, while eyeing other sandwiches stacked on the bar. Food had not eased her unhappiness; she ate greedily, without enjoyment, her knife and fork in staccato movements.

  "Where did you get those scrapbooks?"

  "Good God! My husband owned the largest newspaper

  clipping service in North Germany!" She used a finger to capture an elusive bit of ham. "A very successful business with branches overseas . . ." Now her face was flushed.

  "Wouldn't you like to take off your coat and hat?"

  "I have very little hair. And I have pawned all my dresses. Vm wearing a duster. Oh, I'm so ashamed . . ." A piece of cucumber. "We were rich once, Mr. Jordan. We had a villa in Cuxhaven. And now . . . now . . . no, I must not think about it. We started the scrapbooks for Victoria . . ."

  "Your daughter?"

  "Yes. She admired you greatly! She treasured her scrapbooks, even when she was grown." Another sandwich on her plate, yet she kept her eyes on those on the bar.

  "Would you like—"

  "You must think me brazen ..."

  "Waiter!"

  "Perhaps I could also have another beer?"

  More sandwiches, another beer, and whisky for me. Another drink then I would feel better. I was uneasy and restless. I was sympathetic to this old woman. But did I not have my own problems? T was just wasting my time here. That's what I thought. A few minutes later I had changed my mind.

  Mrs. Gottesdiener attacked her last sandwich. "I have a lot of debts, Mr. Jordan. The erocer won't give me credit any more. The electricity has been cut off. If I don't pay my rent I will be sent to an institution. Charity! For me? and we once had the largest clipping service . . ." The waiter came. She pushed the empty plate away, took the full one from his hands and ate and talked with little pause. "Victoria's death used up the last of my savings. You iust don't know how much a reasonably decent funeral costs!"

  "When did your daughter die?"

  "On the twenty-fifth of April. Why shouldn't I tell you

  the truth? She was a morphine addict." Another bite. "Out of the hospital. Back in the hospital." A bite of bread. "At the end she loathed herself." A bite of ham. "In one of her lucid moments she drowned herself in the Elbe." A drink of beer. "He is responsible, that man!"

  "Who?"

  "Schauberg."

  "Her husband?"

  "Yes, her husband, God help us! This criminal, this scoundrel. He was addicted first! Then he made an addict of her. Many doctors who are addicted do that, I've read a book about that. They want the people close to them to sink as low as they themselves."

  "Your son-in-law is a doctor?"

  "He was. He is not allowed to practice now."

  "Why not?"

  "WeU, because of this addiction. And something happened in his office. He was an internist. He gave a wrong injection. The man died. His wife demanded an investigation. Mr. Jordan, please buy those scrapbooks from me. Help a poor old woman. Do a good deed for a woman who is the last member of a once respected family ..." She continued to talk. That I could see. But I could not hear her any more.

  Mrs. Gottesdiener's son-in-law is a doctor. He has violated his oath and the law. He is probably willing to transgress again.

  Shirley now needs a person like that. On the other side of the world, in California, Gregory will find such a person for her. Here in Hamburg I have almost found such a man for myself. How curious that Shirley and I should

  simultaneously be in need of illegal services by unscrupulous people.

  If Shirley were here now Schauberg could probably help both of us. As it is I alone can hope for his help. A million is at stake. My movie is at stake. Shirley's and my future is at stake.

  The day after tomorrow is my examination by the insurance company. "Every student in his third year of medical school could make the same diagnosis." Natasha said. What if this Schauberg were to treat me first? A doctor without scruples has so many possibilities. And this Schauberg obviously has no conscience. I hope. This is my only chance.

  And here sits Mrs. Gottesdiener, of all those people in Hamburg, eating and talking. Were I to read this in a script I would think it unbelievable and improbable.

  Chance?

  Whatever occurs outside our believable concepts is surely chance. But I think I recognize a law in all that is happening to me! I have provoked and blasphemed God. So He—assuming He exists—first dealt me a victory and then these blows. Now He lets this woman cross my path. And perhaps He is showing me a way out of my need, my darkness. I am convinced He is directing me to a definite goal.

  But if He does not exist I am just another individual.

  Among millions of destinies only my fate is unique; it is mine alone, different from all others—^by an incalculable difference, the nuance of a moment, different because I want it to be, because I, aware and of my own volition, am going toward my goal.

  Whether or not I am a toy in God's hand, there is the hand indicating the path I am to travel. I am still alive and I can still think, do, choose. Or God acts, chooses and thinks for me and pushes me toward the next break in my journey.

  Its name is Dr. Schauberg.

  "That man made her life miserable. He gambled, deceived her. And when he came back wounded from Russia she had to nurse him for two years." Mrs. Gottesdiener's voice brought me back to reality.

  "And she could have married a general!"

  "Who?"

  "My poor Victoria. He admired her greatly. And is there something better for a woman than a general? No. Not in war or in peace. Even if he loses the war! Friend and enemy show him respect. He always receives his money, his wife, his pension. No one would ever fire him." Mrs. Gottesdiener siehed. "But she wouldn't listen to me. She practically threw herself at Schauberg .. ."

  "How much do you want for the scrapbooks?"

  "Five hundred marks." She said it too quickly and coughed, holding both hands to her mouth. After calming down she said weakly, "Well, all right, three hundred. But I need three hundred. My rent alone .. ."

  "I'll give you five hundred."

  She clutched my hand and kissed it. "I knew it! I didn't pray in vain!"

  "When did you see your son-in-law the last time?" I had to be careful now. Luckily the money had divert
ed her attention.

  "See him. Whom? Oh. Before the funeral. I went to see him to become reconciled."

  "Where did you go?"

  "To an old house near the harbor. There it stinks of fish and dirt and, sin. He lives there wfth a blonde. I'm sure she is a whore. You know what he did? He threw me out!" Her voice rose. "Get out of here! I don't want to

  ever see you again!" Her voice broke. 'That's how it ended. And she could have had a general."

  She had drunk a lot of beer. I had to find out. "And he still lives at Mottenburger Street?"

  "Mottengurger Street, why?"

  "Number thirty-four; you just said so.**

  "I never said that!"

  "But—"

  "Why should I say that? He lives near the slaughterhouse. Number four. Right near the fish market. With this painted whore. Gehzuweit is her name."

  It had worked at the first try.

  6

  "Mrs. Gehzuweit?"

  "Are you from the police?" Her voice was husky as if she had a cold.

  "No."

  "Then what is it?" She was big and indeed heavily made up. Violet eyeshadow, a black beauty mark, mascara and darkly penciled eyebrows. Her mouth was a slash of red.

  "I would like to speak to Dr. Schauberg," I said.

  "He doesn't live here any more." Mrs. Gottesdiener's description of the house had been accurate: stinking of dirt and sin. The green-gray paint was peeling off the wooden hall and stairs. Bare lightbulbs hung from the damp ceiling. Waterpipes were exposed in the hallways. Bathrooms were there too.

  "Could you give me his new address?"

  "No." And hurriedly she wanted to slam the dirty door with the chipped enamel sign:

  E. GEHZUWEIT. ARTISTE

  But I already had my foot inside.

  "Are you crazy? Get lost!"

  Behind me water was flushed and an old, emaciated man shuffled closer, stopped, stared. Very loudly I said, "I guess then I'll have to go to the police!"

  The dreaded word did the trick. Mrs. Gehzuweit shrank visibly. On my right and left, behind me doors were opened. People looked out, curious and greedy.

  "Is he from the cops?"

  "Now what happened?"

  I pressed a fifty-mark bill in Mrs. Gehzuweit's hand. She sneezed thunderously. "Come in." At the curious in the hall she yelled "Why don't you mind your own business!" and slammed her door. Outside they began to whisper.

  The apartment was small. Everywhere were suitcases and trunks, boxes and rolled-up carpets. A single bulb in a pink glass shade was giving a weak light.

  Mrs. Gehzuweit stood there, breathless. She seemed close to tears and despair. Her dark red robe had opened and I could see youthful breasts and smooth white skin. She wore trousers, the suspenders hanging, and a pair of man's shoes.

  "Where did you get my address?"

  "From Dr. Schauberg's mother-in-law. She spoke of a Mrs. Gehzuweit."

  "The old woman was me in costume."

  "You are—"

  "Eric Gehzuweit, female impersonator," he introduced himself with a short, military bow. He even clicked his heels. With a feminine gesture he pushed his blond wig into place. A door to my left opened and Isaw a very pretty girl in a pale blue silk dress. She looked at me with curiosity and said affectedly, "Can I help you, Erika?"

  "The gentleman only wants some information."

  "Oh, what a pity!" Giggling, she disappeared.

  "My partner," said Gehzuweit. He first looked at the fifty marks in his hand, then at me and sighed. "Not a cop. Then you surely need—"

  "No."

  "No what?"

  "No drugs."

  "Sh . .." Frightened he pointed to the door. "Miserable bums," he yelled. Someone ran away outside. "Everybody here thinks us very peculiar."

  "I must find the doctor. That's all."

  "But I told you—"

  "Tell me about him." I pulled another fifty marks. "Who were his friends? What did he look like? Perhaps then I can find him ..."

  "I really don't know much more ..." He walked ahead of me into a bedroom with twin beds. "Excuse me, I have to get dressed." He threw off his robe. Again I saw the firm breasts of a young woman, a wide back, narrow hips, soft white skin. "Our first show is at seven-thirty."

  "That early?"

  "Special performance. A British destroyer is in the harbor. Those boys are just crazy about Raoul and me." He sneezed loudly and sat in front of a dressing table. "Imagine. We have to do our show six times." He said it with pride. He began to shave his underarms with a small electric shaver. And sorrowfully he said, "It's awful. The more one shaves the faster the hairs grow. And it shows in evening dresses."

  "When did Schauberg leave here?"

  "He didn't leave. I threw him out."

  "Why?"

  "I don't want anything unlawful in my house." He spat into a box of mascara and stirred with a small brush. "I swear, I didn't know about it at first."

  "About his drugs?"

  "Yes. As soon as T found out I threw him out. My partner, Raoul, and I earn our living as decent artistes. We didn't have anything to do with Schauberg's dirty business."

  "I'm sure you didn't."

  But he would not stop: he continued to lament, while he applied mascara to his lashes. "We have our license. We pay our taxes . . .'* "All right."

  ". . . We are being examined at regular intervals." A small stove gave oflf heat. It smelled of powder, make-up, cheap perfume. Stuffed dolls, boxes of chocolate and silken cushions were strewn around. Photographs of the female impersonator and different partners hune on the walls. On the bed were silk stockings, ladies' undergarments, a decollete black cocktail dress.

  "Of course I thought it strange when so many people came. But he said thev were his friends and T believed him. That's my trouble, I believe anybody. That's why I'm never a success."

  "How did you find out about the doctor's business?" "One of his customers had an attack here. You know, complete with screaming, frothing at the mouth, and all that. Very pleasant, something like that, right?" Plaintively he called out, "Where is my bra then?"

  Raoul's droll voice answered from the adjacent room. "Just another moment, Erika."

  I began to feel ill. The fist. No. No. Not here. Not now. I opened the window a little.

  "What are you doing? My cold—" "Just for a second. I don't feel very well." The cold air I inhaled smelled of the close-by harbor.

  Gehzuweit paled. "Good God, then you are one of those!" "No . . ." "Just don't have an attack here!"

  The fist rose. I held on to the window. Suppose I were to have an attack. I was inhaling deeply.

  "You want a cognac?"

  "Yes ..."

  I gulped the cognac. I felt better. From the window I could see the now deserted fish market. There, every Sunday morning at five, stalls and booths were erected. At the Hamburg Fischmarkt one can buy not only fish but groceries, housewares, toys, dresses—cheaper than anywhere else. Until ten o'clock. Then a siren wails and the booths have to close.

  Every Sunday, at daybreak, the Fischmarkt looks like the set of a surrealistic film. The poorest and saddest humanity appears in rags, unshaven, drunk; whores, stragglers from the Reeperbahn, foreign sailors, ordinary people, busy housewives trying to stretch a penny; beautiful women in evening dresses and mink coats, jewelry-laden, excitedly laughing, escorted by gentlemen in tuxedos.

  Then the bars are crowded. Now they are empty. Empty the *Eierkorb' where I had eaten fried fish and drunk beer with Kostasch one Saturday night when jazz blared from loudspeakers, churchbells summoned believers to Mass, and the two girls we had picked up argued.

  "Eh, you!"

  Gehzuweit looked at me. "Please go. I don't want any trouble here." He was half-naked, made-up, powdered, and looked troubled.

  "I'm all right now." I gave him the second fifty marks. He hesitated, torn between his greed and fear that I might have another attack.

  "You never saw Schauberg again?"
/>   "Never. I'm going crazy with the telephone ringing. It rings day and night. At three in the morning. And they are always dying . . . threatening to kill themselves ... to kill me if I don't tell them where the doctor is . . . And they all have code names!" He took off his pants and

  shoes. "Blue page! Dwarf! Strict teacher! It's a regular nuthouse! I wish I'd never met the guy!" The door opened. His partner, swishing his silkeji skirt over many petticoats, came in and handed Gehzuweit a black bra.

  "Well, it's about time."

  "I sewed on both straps, Erika. Now the boys can go wild aeain." Raoul wore a black wiq with braids. Coquet-tishlv he pressed his index finder to his cheek and came close to me. "You like me, sweety?"

  "Stop your nonsense and help me," said Gehzuweit. Reaching for the black panties on the bed, he became embarrassed and asked me to turn around.

  "This damn bra." he propned behind me. "You can't ima<"*ne. T can't breathe freely."

  "You have such beautiful breasts," I said. "You don't need a bra."

  "But I do. It's part of the act. We do a striptease. Good God. and now the girdle! After I threw him out I told the cops."

  '"Well, and?"

  "Thev looVed into it but thev can't prove anvthine. Ouch, wh^' don't vou watch wh?t von're doine, Raoul!"

  "Don't feel so sorry for yourself," said the little fellow grufflv.

  "Did he have a ^rlfriend?"

  "Yes. he did. A blonde. Her name was Kathe." .

  "KHthe what?"

  "I don't know. She was lust known as Kathe."

  "Did she walk the streets?"

  "Yes. but she never brou^^ht a man up here. I wouldn't have allowed that. You can tn^n around aoa'n."

  He stood there in silk stockin^^s. hif^h heels, and underclothes. He spraved him«:elf with perfume, put on large earnn
  "Kathe disappeared with him. Without a trace. I locked for her rnvcMf because I ro^^^^n't ct^nd all those phone calls. I thought she might know where to find

  Schauberg. But I had no luck." I took out another fifty marks. "Leave the money; you already paid me." He stepped into the dress Raoul held for him. Pulling up the zipper, the little fellow said, "Give me the money. I know where she is."