Unbelieving, Gehzuweit stuttered, "But... but, Raoul!"
"Where is she?"
"First the fifty," said Raoul.
I gave him the money.
"Do you know the Herbertstrasse?"
"No."
"It's near here. Everybody can tell you. That's where she is now. In a brothel."
Gehzuweit's voice was shrill. "How do you know that?"
"Because I was there."
"You were ..."
"Ah, shut your mouth," said the little suy with the braids and gave the tall one a shove. Gehzuweit fell on the bed. Tearfully he cried, "Why are you so mean to me?"
"You'll have to ask around," said Raoul to me. "There are several houses. The entire street is nothing but brothels."
"Thank you." I walked to the door. I heard Raoul say, "She talks a Saxon dialect!"
Leaving the apartment I heard Gehzuweit's unhappy voice. "You're deceiving me!"
"Shut up!"
"I found you in the gutter ... I've given you everything • . . and now . . . now you go to the Herbertstrasse, you lousy bum!"
"What did you call me?" And I heard a resounding slap. Gehzuweit squealed. Sobbing, he stuttered, "Oh, how mean you are to me. You've broken my pretty necklace . .."
I opened the door. Outside stood a rachitic child, one
leg in an iron bar. He moved away from me slowly, looking at me, his eyes knowing and cunniing as those of the dead seagull.
My hands shook when I opened the black bag, took out the bottles and thermos, and fixed a large drink. The bag was on the seat next to me. I had parked the black Mercedes Jorkos Productions had put at my disposal at the lower end of the Reeperbahn. Neon lights, advertisements, pictures, and billboards tempted and extoUed.
Genuine Paris nightlife, extravagant costuming. Eva, Paradise of the night. Continuous striptease. South American sex movies. Eat all you can for two marks. I had had the car brought from the hotel garage after Mrs. Gottes-diener had left. I had ordered whisky, soda and ice. I had taken my money from the hotel safe. I was certain that I would need a lot of money. Now I was here drinking while the storm raged around the Mercedes.
The weather had not kept the people away. The streets were crowded; men and women were pushing and shoving. Barkers stood in front of the bars, giving out leaflets, yelling and puUing undecided ones by their coatsleeves.
Lady Wrestlers in Mud. Lingerie Show. Taxi Girls. The Seven Deadly Sins. PigaUe. Nights in the Harem. The Bath in the Champagne Glass. Beauty Dances. Lola Montez.
I could hear the percussive force of riveting in the shipyards; the sounds of busy cranes, the bustle of the ni^tshift working as they did in industrial plants throughout this country, which lived in a fever, labored in a frenzy, enjoyed, earned and wasted.
Today! Today! What would tomorrow bring?
"Attack on Berlin means World War III, says Eisenhower ..."
I saw sailors in the street, noisy, drunk; Chinese, Americans, Indians, Italian, Neeroes. Girls lauehed shrilly. Whores smiled lewdly. The wind wafted loud music from open entrance doors. Here they were greedy for the excitements of life. Today! Who knows what mieht happen tomorrow in Algeria, China, Mexico and India? What new disasters, dictators, wars could be expected?
Whistling, then howling and dving down to a high-pitched whine, a formation of iets raced across the harbor. And music flooded through the doors of the dance-halls.
Watching the flood of people pass bv, I drnnk and erew calmer. I had to be very calm, very sure before going to the Herbertstrasse.
Better have another whisky.
8
Juveniles were standing outside the metal walls, trying to catch a glimpse of the bawdy-house street. They were prevented by the solicitors, all of a pattern, turned up collars, cigarettes dangling from lips, leaning against the enclosed entrances. My blue flannel overcoat, cufiless trousers, and short cropped hair was evidence that I was a foreigner. Half a dozen rushed toward me.
"Come with me, sir. First class yum-yum girls . . ."
"You want two girls?"
"Lesbians? Private show, just for you?"
I pulled one of the men into the street. The others remained. No one here interfered with another's business.
"You want the two girls?"
"No. There is supposed to be a blonde from Saxony. Her name is Kathe."
"What about her?"
"I want her."
"Why especially her?"
"Because I like her dialect."
He looked at me, then grinned. All kinds of gentlemen come here. "Give me ten marks and I'll take you to her."
The street was short, without sidewalks, paved with ancient cobblestones. The low paneled framework houses with little gables looked idyllic. At street level, each had large brightly lit windows at which sat half-naked women. Suitors knocked on the windows, called out laughing. Some girls signaled. Others were knitting. A redhead, dressed only in panties, sat in a velvet chair reading.
"Over here." My guide stopped at the entrance to a brothel. "Would you tell your mother I found you on the Reeperbahn? It doesn't matter to you. And I get a percentage."
Only after entering could one see how old the house
really was. Low-beamed ceilings, creaking stairs, small
upstairs windows. Worn furniture. Much velvet. Stained
—silken drapes, pornographic drawings. Photographs on
buckling wallpaper.
The bar was crowded with sineing, drinking men. A record player supplied music. Girls sat on men's laps. Couples walked up stairs to the second floor. Others were coming down.
I had hardly taken three steps when the Madam in a high-necked black dress embroidered with pearls welcomed me. She was stout but graceful and effusively polite.
"Bonsoir, Monsieur."
I indicated the pimp with my chin. "We had a beer. He says you have a girl here who talks with a Saxon dialect."
"Kathe, that's right. But you'll have to wait for just a little while."
"Good luck," said the pimp to me. And to Madam, "Don't forget me, mother."
"I have never forgotten even one single percent,
George," she said with dignity. Then she helped me out of my coat. "You have chosen a bad time, sir. Why didn't you come eariier? After lunch? Or after breakfast?"
"You are open that early?"
"We are always open," she said gravely. "Many gentlemen come regularly. Many before they go to their offices. A good husband has no time at nicht, isn't that so? Would you like to order some champagne while you are waiting?"
"If you would have a glass with me . .."
She led me into another room with better furniture, many mirrors, and a heavy carpet. A huge waiter served. Mrs. Misere—Madam's name—drank, her little finger extended, smoked a cigar, and talked about her business.
"This is where we have our champagne breakfasts. We work in two shifts, you know. So some of the girls are always rested. Of course I always accept telephone reservations." The business was doing well; she could not complain. "Mainly tourists and sapors. But more and more gentlemen were coming now with their wives."
"The wives watch?"
"What do you mean? The gentlemen watch."
Madam Misere acquired this house in 1933. "My parents owned the Silver Ball. I'm sure you've heard of it."
"Unfortunately, no."
"That's strange, we were world-famous. The Danish Kine, Frederick the Eighth, died there."
"No!"
"But, yes! He was the king's grandfather. Heart attack. When he was with Edeltraut. That was the girl's name. Incidentally, shfe was from Saxony too. On May fourteenth, 1912. I was seven years old and lived with my grandparents. My parents came at nieht and talked about it. You just can't imagine the excitement. They closed off the house. Diplomatic couriers. I tell you, my parents were glad when they were rid of Frederick the Eighth.
And he had been a respected regular guest. Came every time he was in Hamburg. Naturally at t
hat time no one knew he was his majesty." She laughed. "On the other hand, it was great advertising. Edeltraut was busy for months."
There was a knock. A voluptuous blonde entered. She was dressed to look like a little girl in a short skirt with suspenders. Her large breasts were visible through the open blouse. Her voice was affectedly high. "I was supposed to see you as soon as I could, Madam Misere." She curtsied to me. Madam emptied her glass, suggested we finish the champagne before going upstairs and excused herself.
"You like me, uncle?" Kathe played her part as an actress would after her hundredth performance. She was at most twenty-five years old, a pretty face, plump cheeks, pouting lips, a look of continual surprise in her wide eyes. She gave the impression of a generous nature and of naivete.
"Yes, I like you."
"Cheers, uncle." Her dialect was indescribable. She wore flat shoes, ankle socks, a bow in her hair.
"I hope you are a good uncle. You know, I'm afraid. Because Fm still a little girl, I have never before—" She broke off and stared at the roll of money I pulled from my pocket. I gave her a hundred marks.
"This is for you. You can have more."
"Eh! But what do I have to do for that?" She pressed closer to me; now her breasts were outside her blouse. "Is it very bad what I have to do?"
"No."
"Whisper it into your little baby's ear ..."
"You must tell me where Dr. Schauberg is."
The reaction was startling. She seemed so trusting and defenseless in her naivete. At the mention of the name she paled and dropped her glass. It rolled across the carpet.
"Schauberg?" She had forgotten about her high-pitched voice, her childish manner. Now she was a ridiculously dressed up frightened woman. "I don't know any Dr. Schauberg!"
"Don't tell lies. Gehzuweit told me about both of you." She began to cry. "Don't be afraid, I'm not a cop." I gave her my passport. Only truth would help me now. Slowly she read, "Peter Jordan ... you're an American?"
"Yes." -
Haltingly she read, "Profession: Actor."
"Yes." Even twenty years later it said so in my passport. I had insisted on that every time my passport had been renewed.
"What. . . what do you want from him?"
"Then you do know him."
"Yes ... no ... please, leave me alone!"
"Don't cry. You know him. You love him, I know all that." I showed her the money. "He can make a lot of money. Look."
"I don't know where he is! You can lock me up! You can beat me! I don't know!"
"Here. Another hundred for you." I stroked her hair. She cowered. She had probably never known gentleness. Still fearful but already half-trusting, she looked up to me. "He is not in Hamburg . . ."
"But you do see him. He comes to see you."
"Yes . . ." Choked, she said, "We are engaged . . . we're going to get married. Walter gave me his word of honor. As soon as he gets ahead a little. Then I don't have to . . ."
I stroked her face with the money. "This would help him."
"I ... I could call some of his friends, if it is really important."
"It is very important."
"Perhaps they would know where he is."
"Well, find out. Where is the telephone?"
"In Madam's office. But you must not come unless I call you."
"Okay. Tell his friends I have money. A lot of money." I drank a glass of champagne. Just in case. My car with my black bag was at the lower end of the Reeperbahn. For a man in my condition, even short distances became trying.
"Come, make the call," I said to Kathe. Champagne ran down my chin. I had drunk too fast.
Madam's offixe was next to the stairs. Through the glass in the upper part of the door, I saw Kathe make her call. When she put down the receiver and came to the door, her cheeks glowed with excitement.
"Come in. He'll call in a few minutes."
"Schauberg?"
"Yes."
The office was small. A typewriter and many binders in shelves gave evidence of a well-run business. We sat on an old couch. Kathe's blouse was still open. She looked at me, her hands folded. We could hear the noise and music from the bar.
"I hope it is true ... that Walter can really earn some money .. . honestly, I mean..."
"Naturally, honestly."
"He doesn't do anything dishonest, you know."
"I know."
"I love him so. And I would love to get married." She sighed. "Naturally, something will go wrong."
"Why should it?"
"I'm just unlucky. He ... he is well-educated, such a good man ... a doctor . .. and I..."
Sadly, she chewed her lower lips. "Fm sure you've noticed what's the matter with me."
"What is the matter with you."
"I'm stupid. Clumsy. Every time I open my mouth, I talk nonsense. And I believe everybody. When I came to the West—"
"When did you escape?"
"Two years ago. I was a tram conductress in Leipzig. As soon as I arrived in the West, I fell for the greatest scoundrel."
"You did?"
"He was good-looking, had a big car. He promised me my own apartment and fifteen hundred marks a month. I was only supposed to perform as a dancer. After three weeks, he made me sleep with the guests who came to his joint. And beat me black and blue if I said no. I'm just too stupid, too stupid!" Sadly, she touched her hand to her forehead. "If I hadn't met Dr. Schauberg, who knows what else would have happened to me ... Don't laugh!"
"I didn't laugh."
"I know what you're thinking. But I'm not like the others here. I have a future. I have his promise of marriage. The others don't have that."
Noise from above, and a woman screamed; I heard slaps.
"That's Nelly. Her fat guy is there today. He beats her."
"That's nice."
"It's only half as bad as it sounds. She puts on an act. If you knew what comes here . . . You should talk with the Mousetrap."
"Mousetrap?"
"That*s what we call Olga. She has a very rich guy from Dusseldorf. He comes every month. Gives her anything she wants. He always brings some mice."
"What kind of mice?"
"Cute little white mice with red eyes. She has to put
them into the tips of her shoes and walk around until they are all dead. Olga is always sick for two days after he's been here. It upsets her stomach, you know. She feels so sorry for the poor little animals. Besides, she is always going to the doctor because of her toes."
The telephone rang.
Kathe jumped for the receiver.
"Hello!" She practically cowered when she heard his voice. "Yes, yes it's me, Walter ... yes ... I hope I did the right thing ... here he is ..." She held out the receiver to me. It was wet with perspiration.
"This is Peter Jordan."
"Good evening, Mr. Jordan." The voice was deep and somewhat mocking. I knew this voice. From where? "Were you in the movies when you were a child? Are you the famous child star?"
"Yes."
"You wanted to speak to me?"
"Yes." This voice. Why did it sound so familiar?
"Have you a car?"
"Yes."
*TCathe wiH explain how to go. Fm in Reinbeck. It is southeast of Hamburg. Just before you reach the village, you will see an old cemetery. Wait there for me."
"AU right."
"Just one word of warning. Unless you are alone, you won't see me. You can be here in forty-five minutes."
I replaced the receiver. I asked Kathe to explain how to get there.
"Have you a piece of paper?"
I looked for some in my wallet. Shirley's photograph fell out. Kathe picked it up. "Is that your love?"
"Here is paper."
"I hope you are going to be happy with your love, if you'll really help Walter and me," said Kathe.
I drove toward Liibeck and Travemunde.
Houses now were lower, streetlights rarer. I saw few people. The waning moon shed its unreal light where no shado
ws seemed to exist. I drove along a canal, along railroad tracks. Roads were poorer now and had large potholes.
Then I passed the last houses. Tree trunks were close to the sides of the road, crippled, black, and fearsome. Locomotives whistled. Dogs barked. I drove through a few small villages. In the yellow light of my car beams, I read signs: rothenburgsort, tiefstack, moorfleth. Out here, I heard the storm again, pushing and pressing against the car. The time on my dashboard showed eight-fifty.
I opened a window. It smelled of brackish water and peat. Then I saw the low white wall and beyond it stone crosses. The old wrought iron door was hanging crookedly in its hinges. I saw withered flowers, dead grass, and wreaths.
I stopped the car. I switched off my headlights and used the parking lights. Somewhere behind those tree trunks, behind that waU, was Dr. Schauberg who surely had good reason to be so cautious of his guests.
The storm chased leaves, branches, flowers across the cemetery. It brought to mind the cemetery scene when I, as a little boy, played Oliver Twist. That other cemetery had been built in the studio in California. Black earth had been brought. Machines made the storm, special-effects men, the fog. Lights with complicated lenses produced the eerie Ught. Only to the eye of the camera was that other cemetery deserted, for behind the lights, behind the machines, were about eighty people: electricians, prop
98
men, script girls, cutters, my mother, my director, sound trucks, generators, mobile wardrobes.
And yet, at every new take that night, I had to fight fear and ice-cold terror which no one tried to calm. They were all delighted at how real my terror came across.
I did not only think of this while I was waiting here for Dr. Schauberg, but also of two hours last May. Of an afternoon when I replayed my OUver Twist.
In Pacific PaUsades, in the large house where I lived with Joan and Shirley, I had sixteen-millimeter copies of all my films, which I often watched in the viewing room.
On that hot afternoon in May, I watched my past, my Oliver Twist. Heavy drapes kept out the daylight, the life of 1959.
Inside, m the cool darkness, it was 1934.1, thirty-seven years old, on a couch next to the whirring projector, watched the silver screen where I, then twelve years old, a lonely, frightened Oliver Twist evading criminals, stumbled across that storm-whipped cemetery.
The Berlin Connection Page 8