The Berlin Connection

by Johannes Mario Simmel

  "I guess so."

  "We're almost there. Then, when the war started, the political prisoners were removed and it became a POW camp. Poles and Czechs, Belgians, Dutch, French, English. Then in 1943, these people were moved to Flensburg and the camp here was used as a stockade for

  the Luftwaffe. Subverting the military potential—^you remember? Oh, I forgot, you're an American. Your comrades-in-arms, incidentally, the British, were just as impressed by the ideal location and used the camp for big shots. At that time, it was crowded with Gauleiter and SS."

  "Not for very long, I expect."

  "Only until the change in our monetary system, naturally. Then the gentlemen had to return to politics and economy. Just a moment." He stopped at a heap of stones and hurriedly removed stones, pieces of cement and bricks. In a little while, he had cleared the entrance to a little cavern and pulled out a green metal box with the inscription United States Army —Rainbow Division. It had a heavy padlock. "Help me carry it."

  "What is it?"

  *^y tools. I can't leave anything in the barrack." Between us, we dragged the box along. The air vibrated with the noise of jets zooming across us.

  "Night exercises. Happens often. It's not far to the East Zone." We had reached a barrack with shutters. It also had a roof and a door which Schauberg opened now. He entered; I followed. "Shut the door." For a moment it was dark. Then an oil lamp shed its light on an army bed, a table, three chairs, an oilstove. Long-legged spiders ran along the beam from which the lamp was hanging.

  Schauberg took off his old coat. With a sweeping gesture he said, "It's going to be warm in a moment. You can get undressed."

  I looked at my watch.

  It was nine-fifty-five.

  I was sitting on the bed. Schauberg had just examined me and was now fixing two large drinks from my black bag. The green box, filled with instruments, syringes, medications, bandages, and a few books, was now open. There was even a microscope. Schauberg offered me the drink.

  "Well, cheers."

  "Prosit. Well?"

  "Fifty thousand."

  "You're crazy." ,

  In his frayed trousers and worn shoes, he was leaning against a beam in the manner of a lord leaning against a fireplace. "The drink is good. Naturally, the fifty thousand will cover the entire treatment. Just fixing you up for the insurance company will not be enough. You'll need my help to finish your movie too."

  "And you think you can do it?"

  "For fifty thousand, I can."

  He was still wearing his beret.

  "I'm not going to pay that much."

  "Is there enough ice in your drink? Tell me, dear Mr. Jordan, how much would your company lose if you couldn't make the movie?"

  "I'll give you twenty thousand marks."

  "Fifty."

  "Twenty-five."

  "Fifty."

  "Thirty."

  "Get dressed. We'll drive back to Reinbeck," he said with my father's tired, ironical voice. I suddenly felt my father really had been a miserable character!

  "Okay," I said. "Okay. I'm not going to be black-

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  mailed." I got up and reached for my shirt. The room spun around me and ridiculously close, I saw the long-legged spider near the oil lamp.

  The fist.

  I broke out in sweat and dropped my shirt. My mouth stood open. Breathing hard, I stared at Schauberg.

  "What's the matter, dear Mr. Jordan?"

  "This fear ... I'm . .."

  He sipped his whisky. "Fear is a subjective concept, you know. You don't actually feel this fear now. You are at most afraid of this fear."

  My legs buckled. I fell on the bed. The fist rose. I stammered. "You're a doctor .. . help me ..."

  "You really must pull yourself together!"

  "Fear ... this fear ..."

  "Fear of what?"

  "I don't know ... to die ..."

  "We all die. But not just yet. You're not going to die right now, I promise."

  I reached for my drink; it slipped from my hand. Whisky spilled on the dirty floor. Schauberg said, "I hope you'll make it home all right. You don't honestly believe you can shoot even one single scene in your condition. Not to mention the insurance examination."

  I closed my eyes. I thought of having to walk to my car and driving back to Hamburg. I knew I could never make it. Here, here in this dirty room, I would suffer another attack soon. Now. I knew I could not go through it again. Slowly I opened my eyes. Schauberg stood there, a little sympathetic, a little arrogant, just Uke my father when he had seen my Spanish-style house. I whispered, "Thirty-five ..."

  "Dear Mr. Jordan, don't think I want to torture you. As soon as we come to an agreement, I'll help you. Immediately. But I need fifty thousand. You know my circumstances. I must leave Germany. For you, everything is at stake—well, for me too." A moment ago I had seen a

  spider. Now I could not see any. I groaned. Had there never been spiders? Had there really been a dead seagull at the hotel?

  "I know you are going to be reasonable,*' said Schau-berg. He kneeled before the metal box, searched for a certain box and readied an injection. "You don't have to pay fifty thousand now. Listen. Right now, you give me three thousand. Two after I get you through the insurance examination. That's worth the money, isn't it? And the forty-five thousand, we'll divide by the weeks you have to make the movie." He expelled the air from the syringe. My breathing was quick, shallow. "You'll pay me the end of each week you've successfully completed with my help. If you collapse, the agreement is void. I can't be any fairer than that. Consider that I risk prison helping you." He cjime to the bed, the syringe ready. "Well?"

  "And ... you... can ... really ... help ... me?"

  "Would I suggest this if I didn't think I could?"

  Damn, what was fifty thousand if he could help me? If he did not, I would need half a million. This character was clever and cunning. He would surely help me. Then I would have my chance to make the movie. To get my divorce. To have Shirley. Damn, what was fifty thousand?

  "Then, you agree?"

  "Okay..." My head lolled to one side.

  He really did not want to torture me, he just needed the money. His position was as bad as mine. He injected my arm. "Now," he said smiling, "if in five minutes you don't feel as well as if you were perfectly healthy, you don't have to have any trust in me."

  Five minutes later, I felt better than ever before.

  I know it sounds incredible.

  But it was true. Five minutes later I felt no more fear, no pain, no depression. I felt great. With this doctor to help me, I could do anything!

  "What did you give me?"

  "You don't have to know everything." He smiled. He looked for some instruments in his box. He was working methodically now. It was hard to believe this man was a drug addict and his wife had killed herself.

  The cilstove was humming; the storm rattled the shutters of the barrack. Schauberg used a large syringe and took blood from the vein in my other arm. He removed the needle and divided the blood into three test tubes. He put patches over the needle marks on my arms. Then he took blood from the tip of my thumb. He set the test tubes aside. "Now, for some urine."

  I got up.

  I felt like singing, embracing a woman, fighting against the storm. With every breath, I felt better, more optimistic, stronger. Fear? I had been afraid? Laughable. Surprised, I said, "You've really helped me."

  "That was not difficult. How long before your film is finished?"

  "Forty-three shooting days are estimated."

  "That's going to be more difficult. Early tomorrow morning, you will go to the Hamburg Polyclinic to get an electrocardiogram. I must know how much your heart can take."

  "But my name—"

  "Social Welfare. Anyone can go there. They won't ask for identification. You don't mind if I help myself to another drink? Thank you. They will give you the cardio-

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  gram. Country doctors don't always h
ave the necessary equipment, you know. Would you like another drink too?"

  "Please."

  "As soon as you have the cardiogram, you come right out here. Leave your car in Reinbeck and walk the rest of the way. I need you for injections and all that."

  "You start tomorrow?"

  "We start tonight. Every hour counts. Now we must concentrate on the insurance examination. Everything else will come later." Feeling good now, I could look at him more objectively. I almost felt the effort his intensely active mind was making to avoid any possible mistake. Apparently it sapped his energy. His vitality alternated with short periods of fatigue. He sometimes looked like a person in neon lighting. Had he used morphine? Probably. How long would the effect last?

  "First we have your edema, which is retention of fluid in the tissues. Drink does that. You have it mostly in your legs. Thank God we have some excellent diuretics which will get rid of the fluid. Take two tablets now and another two every three hours until the examination. Drink it down with whisky."

  "You think the edema will be gone in two days?"

  "At any rate it will be much less noticeable. Now, every six hours, you'll also take two nitroglycerine tablets." He raised his hands. "I'm a poor man, I was not prepared for your treatment. I do not have all the medication I need." "Yes?"

  "I'll have them tomorrow, don't worry. Diphenylamine derivatives and other wonderful, expensive things. Before the examination, 111 give you a large dose of strophantin. In a week or two, your heart will be much better. Unfortunately, there is not much one can do in a day. It is very difficult to substitute an EKG. But we have to risk it.

  Your heart is not bad. The insurance won't reject you for that. Your liver is in worse shape.'*

  "Can you do anything about that?"

  "Nothing at aU."

  "Then, what?"

  "So the doctor will order tests. Which means they will take blood the way I just did."

  "And?"

  "Mostly, this is done by a nurse. Til explain how; possibly it can be substituted. I'm going to give you healthy blood when you go for your examination. As soon as I know your blood group, I'll look for a suitable donor."

  "Where?"

  "At Madam Misere's in the Herbertstrasse. The girls there are all healthy. I will give you suitable urine too."

  "If the blood groups match, no one can prove anything?"

  "No one." His red face now paled. He drank. Now he was red again. "I'll have to calm you down and speed you up at the same time for the examination. I'll give you those pills for the moment."

  "What are they?"

  He smiled. "You'll find out. Two every three hours. Take two now." I swallowed them. "Don't ever take more. Don't be surprised if suddenly you should feel the tirge to set the world on fire.'*

  "I felt like that after your injection."

  "Go ahead and go to the Herbertstrasse. But don't

  think it is going to last six weeks. There will be other

  periods. Now. Your blood pressure. It is much too high.

  * I'll have to get some more medicines to bring it down.

  Where, by the way, is the money?"

  I counted out thirty hundred-mark bills and placed them on the table. The last two slipped from my hand and fell to the floor. He bent down to pick them up and his beret fell off. From his forehead to the back of his head,

  through the gray short dair, ran a deep red shiny scar. It was so deep I could see the blood pulsating.

  Schauberg picked up his beret and the bills. He looked strange now: up to the hairline he was a ladies' man and playboy; above the hairline, a devastated, horrible victim of the war. "Russia," said the charming monster. "Doesn't hurt any more, but at first it brought me to morphine." He put away the bills and put on his beret. Now I could see my father in him again, darling of the ladies, the man without worries or troubles. "To each his own," said Dr. Schauberg.

  16

  Jets again roared above the barracks. The glasses on the table tinkled. Schauberg raised his glass and looked up to the ceihng. "To a third time, then, gentlemen!"

  "Listen, will your treatment be very harmful to me?"

  "Did you expect to become healthier?"

  "And if I die?"

  "You can still stand a lot."

  "AU right. Okay. And if I do die?"

  "Then we both lost." He pulled at his mustache. "Dear Mr. Jordan, you know I'm not a quahfied doctor now. I'll tell you exactly what's wrong. I'm not concerned with ethics or morals. I hope you appreciate that."

  "Naturally."

  "So. You came to me; I did not come to you. Don't be dramatic. I'm not Satan tempting you. I'm merely an experienced mechanic—excuse the comparison—who is fixing up a car, a very damaged car, so no one detects the fraud when it is sold. Of course, in six weeks you will feel worse than today. Naturally, then you'll have to go to a hospital."

  "And you really believe I will regain my health then?"

  "Organically, you will be healthy." "Does that mean—"

  "I don't think you can be cured of your alcoholism. In ninety percent of those cases, it is hopeless. I, myself, have eone through several cures." "Then, I will die of my illness?" -

  "Not necessarily. Morphine is not going to kill me either." . „

  "Most people die as a result of their addiction.'

  "Because most people are stupid.'^ he said. "Because most people have no structure. Take my poor wife."

  "My poor wife." Just like my father! "She had no structure at all. Unfortunately." His face changed color again; every word seemed to be an effort. "But you have structure. Why? You are intelligent. You are strong enoueh to be realistic. You will understand that there is no cure. And you will learn what I've learned."

  "Which is?"

  "To live with the addiction. To control it, to limit it, to be as strong as it. It's a kind of marriage."

  With a feeling of relief, I was suddenly aware that this man was crazy. As long as I could not detect any signs of anomaly, I had felt ill at ease. How reassuring that Dr. Schauberg w^as no superman. Though probably his theory of humans with structure was only one step removed from a religion of drug-addicted supermen.

  I thought: The last war has destroyed more brains than buildings.

  He was leaning against the beam, brilliant in his diseased intellectuality. Solicitously he said, "So, for God's sake, don't try to stop drinking while I'm treating you."

  "I'm supposed to carry on drinking?"

  "You must, dear friend. Within limits, if you can. You would just waste your energy—^which you'll need for other things."

  I finished my drink.

  "During the next few weeks, we'll talk more. That will be the most important part of the treatment."

  "What will?"

  "My—I don't want to sound cynical, but I can't think of a more suitable word—my care of your soul, dear Mr. Jordan." He placed one hand on my shoulder and smiled. "You must not have any secrets from me. We're in the same boat. You'll have to trust me as one brother another. Or better: as a son, his father?"

  As a son, his father?

  17

  Music came from the car radio when, at ten-twenty, I passed the dilapidated cemetery again. I heard Louis Armstrong's trumpet, his hoarse voice. I whistled the song which had now been on the American Hit Parade for three years. Schauberg's injections were working. I drove too fast, I could tell by the potholes.

  So what. Who cared?

  "I feel like a million." That had been the title of one of my movies. I felt like a milhon. Like a million which had been saved, thanks to Dr. Schauberg. I had left him in his barrack working with his instruments and equipment. A clever man. An anomalous man. I did not need a normal man now. As long as he was clever. And that he was.

  I did not know Hamburg. Still I found the right roads through the dark suburbs which, fifteen years later, were still destroyed and in ruins. The incessant jets of a new German Luftwaffe roared above them.

  By the time I
arrived at the hotel the storm had calmed down. I found a parking space right away. Humming, I got out of the car, the black bag in my hand. The reflection of thousands of lights glittered on the Alster.

  Humming, I crossed the street and entered the hotel.

  A bellboy took my bag.

  The foyer was crowded with people from all nations. "Ladies and gentlemen, the bus to the airport is about to leave." I stood, humming, and let them pass.

  "Mr. Jordan."

  I turned and saw Dr. Natasha Petrovna.

  I had completely forgotten her.

  "I have been waiting for you since eight o'clock." Natasha wore a dark red, easy-fitting dress. A beige flannel coat was thrown across her chair. She looked pale and angry. "It is almost eleven now. I would have notified the hotel manager at eleven that you were dangerously ill and missing."

  Everything had gone so well. And now—

  "You are very ill. You promised you would stay in bed." Her blue-black hair glistened in the light of the chandelier above her.

  "Yes, but I had to—"

  "You broke your promise." Why was she so incensed? Why was she so excited? She was capable of going to the manager. Or to Kostasch. In two days she was leaving Germany. But even in only two days she could destroy everything. I remembered Schauberg: "The moment I become suspicious, I'U discontinue treatment."

  Then what?

  Smiling, I said, "I*m fine again. Doctor."

  "I don't believe that."

  "Really."

  "I would like to examine you once more," she said, looking steadily at me with half-closed shining black eyes.

  I don't want to appear better than I am, but truthfully, it gave me a jolt seeing those veiled prompting eyes. I thought: So I really have to continue my path from one meanness to another?

  I had seen eyes like that. I knew the meaning of such looks.

  At sixteen I fell in love with an older married woman. Her husband, once a director, hoped to find new work through me. He encouraged me to enjoy his hospitality, though, without a doubt, he knew I admired his wife. I had arranged to drive him to the studios. When I reached his house, his wife came to the door in a dressing gown. Her husband had left unexpectedly; he would be away for a few days. I felt hot and cold when her black eyes, veiled and half-closed, looked at me. I had kissed girls before, petted in parked cars, but I had never possessed a woman up to then.