The Berlin Connection

by Johannes Mario Simmel

  I tried to put my arm around her, to hold her, kiss her. I did not care if someone came and. saw us. Shirley pushed me away. "Please don't. Don't touch me. I feel nauseous at the slightest..."

  I stepped back, suddenly feeling chilly. Was that love? Had we both come to this?

  "Don't be angry, Peter. When the child is—"

  "Yes," I said. "Of course."

  "Now I've hurt your feelings."

  "No, I understand," I said.

  Jaky and his assistant appeared. The chief cutter showed his elation. "Boy, oh, boy, what sound! I must say I'm a genius! You know where we got those pigs' heads from,

  Mr. Jordan? From the slauehterhouse in Wandsbeck. I hope you're not going to take offense now!"

  "Why should I?"

  "Because I thought of a pig's head as a substitute for your head!" He roared with laughter. "But to make sure we'll do it once more, Shirley."

  "All right, Mr. Jaky." Shirley rose and, picking up the heavy hammer, she said to me, "That woman called."

  "Excuse me?"

  "This morning. You weren't here."

  "But—"

  "They transferred the call to me. I guess they think I'm your real daughter. Or they thought it was Joan."

  "It couldn't have been this woman!"

  "It was."

  "How do you know?"

  "She asked for you."

  "Well, that's no proof."

  "She gave me her name.".

  "What's her name?"

  "Mrs. Petrovna."

  I stared at Shirley.

  "You see, Peter. That's why I don't want you to explain anything. You would have to lie."

  Red and green lights flashed on.

  "Ready, Shirley?"

  "Yes, Mr. Jaky."

  "Shirley, that's crazy! It couldn't have been that woman! I don't know a Mrs. Petrovna!"

  "The mike is live, Peter."

  I turned to leave when Jaky asked me to stand still.

  "Okay, Shirley!"

  Shirley kneeled down. She raised the hanmier. The impact smashed the head.

  "Marvelous!" Jaky's voice was ecstatic. I looked at Shirley. She shook her head and looked aside. There was nothing I could say or do. I walked to the exit.

  Mrs. Petrovna.

  Damn, why had she called? Resentment and anger rose in me. How could she? She was a woman. She had intuition. She should have known—

  Known what?

  What should she have known?

  Nothing, nothing at all.

  In the telephone booth outside the sound department I looked up her telephone number. Her serene, gentle voice answered.

  "This is Jordan." I was still angry. "I'm at the studio. You called this morning."

  "Yes."

  "Why?"

  "Good God, did I do something wrong?"

  "Yes."

  "I'm sorry. I had no idea your daughter was working at the studio too."

  "What was it you wanted from me?" I asked. While I was talking I felt my anger and resentment abate under the influence of her gentle, soft voice.

  "I wanted to thank you."

  "To thank me?"

  "For the lovely flowers, the crayons, the sketch pad."

  The flowers and crayons. I had completely forgotten.

  She had wanted to thank me. For a person like Natasha Petrovna that was the natural thing to do. If only she were here, I thought. Perhaps then I could have told her the true story I had to keep from Shirley. I had told lies all my life. For the first time I experienced the torture of not being able to disclose the truth to anyone. If Natasha were here now...

  No!

  It was madness. This line of thinking was folly.

  "I must see you; I must talk with you, Natasha." I did not call her Mrs. Petrovna. I hardly knew her and I called her by her first name.

  Her voice was calm. "When?" "As soon as possible."

  "Tell me when and where." Was her voice still calm? Was I wrong or was her voice breathless? No, I was not wrong. I said, "I'll meet you ..."

  Rome, April fourteenth, 1960.

  Professor Pontevivo said, "Alcoholism is a prop for the mind. Most people in this day and age are unhappier, less free and satisfied than they will admit to, or rather than they are aware of. Albert Camus called this the century of fear. People try to banish fear with alcohol. That is why this is also the century of alcoholism."

  "Don't you think, Professor, that in all other centuries people thought their time the most frightening?" I asked. "Don't you think that we too are just victims of this distorted historical view which makes the present appear worse than any past?"

  "No, Mr. Jordan, I don't. The impact and resulting momentous effects are greater in our present than at any time in the past. We have objective human and scientific proof of that."

  "The objective human proof?"

  "In only twenty-five years, between 1922 and 1947, seventy million men, women and children were deported, uprooted or murdered. There were two world wars; revolutions and concentration camps are too numerous to count. Systematic brainwashing and mass propaganda are as much part of our everyday life as is the existence of the hydrogen bomb."

  "The objective scientific proof?"

  "Can be derived from findings of psychiatrists, theol-

  ogists, and sociologists who have examined the behavior of people; above all, the artists of these decades. Shall we talk about the artist for a moment? It was the traditional duty of the artist throughout the centuries to shoulder all the fears, the guilt and the problems of humanity and, with his spirit, his talent, kis genius, create a work of art which would bring understanding, relief and release to the viewers, listeners or readers. That was his role. For that, he was admired, revered—and paid.

  "And the artist today? With abstract art and atonal music he intentionally destroys any recognizable reality and creates a world in which he is the master, for no one else can understand this, his world.'*

  "That's why he is the master!"

  "Certainly, Mr. Jordan. But why does he create this world which does not really exist? Only because he can no longer master the one he lives in. What do the writers do? For a long period, on stage, screen and in books, they could only work under the influence of psychoanalysis. Now they have begun to break the bridges between themselves and their audiences. They no longer want to move, to exalt, or release. More and more they try to involve their public in their own fears, their own inability to solve their problems. Artists no longer want to relieve their public of its fears, troubles, and doubts; they want to make their readers, their audience, their viewers as fearful, despairing, and helpless as they are themselves—and have to be."

  "Do you think this inevitable?"

  "I think so. We really live in a time different from any other time we know about. Past eras have been even more turbulent, more insecure, and more bloody—for instance the mass migrations following the fall of the Roman Empire, the era of discovery, the days of Galileo and Copernicus, or the industrial revolution. But our century is the product of the culmination of all those enormous changes. Our time, Mr. Jordan, does not only require us to accept

  a completely new world but also that we search it out. We are only at the beginning of knowledge. There has never been anything like this. The old religions, the old isms have failed. It is a critical situation. Who or what can seemingly relieve our many fears, the fears borne by many of us who cannot manage our lives—our life in this century?"

  "Alcohol," I said.

  He nodded. "This is the time of regeneration of our world. The new ideas are not yet accepted by the masses; they are not sufficiently tried or proven. There is still chaos. But this is the age of reason. So we fear chaos. The people of the Bible, especially the Old Testament, were living in the age of faith . . ."

  Faith and thought. Thought and faith.

  Oh, Doctor Schauberg!

  "... for them the question was not, 'Why does chaos exist?' but *Why is there order?' "


  "What answer did those people find?"

  "In their daily living order was the fruit of their endeavor to be and do good. It was the natural result of that effort. We, in these chaotic days, must try to do something similar to accelerate the victory of clear thinking and order for humanity. That is only possible if we do not try to evade our responsibility—by using drugs, or drink, by self-destruction. Each one of us has something to give to another human being. It must be given and received. Plain thinking is the end of fear. I've said that before and I'll probably say that many more times." He shook my hand and walked to the door. There he turned and smiled.

  "By the way—our little Bianca is much better."

  "Will she recover?"

  "I hope so. Some of my animals seem to think clearer than many of my patients." Had he been Schauberg he would probably have added, 'Which would hardly require

  any great exertion.' He merely said, "Good morning, Mr. Jordan."

  This had been the second lecture.

  10

  "Please sit down," said Madam Misere. She indicated the couch in her office. Through the window in the upper part of the door I could see part of the bar. Even at this early hour of the evening many guests were already there. The undressed girls, getting in and out of the show windows, danced and screeched and laughed. Only the blonde Kathe appeared subdued. She was sitting on an old man's lap listening to the story he was relating.

  Madam Misere, elegantly dressed in a cream-colored dress, her gray hair as immaculate as her make-up, noticed my glance. "The poor dear. She is so unhappy. I offered to give her today off but she thought working the evening shift would take her mind off this situation."

  The old man whispered something in Kathe's ear. She took his hand and they walked to the stairs leading to the second floor. The red bow in her hair quivered with each step.

  I sat down. Now I could only hear the noise from the bar.

  Madam Misere served cognac. The drapes were drawn. On the nearby Elbe River tugs whistled and ships* sirens sounded. The night was foggy.

  "Your health, Mr. Jordan."

  "And yours, Madam." We drank. I held a lighter to her thick Brazil cigar she held between two ring-adorned fingers. The large diamonds sparkled. Exhaling a cloud of the spicy smoke, Madam said, "I'm sorry to have to tell you that things have not gone well."

  From the bar I could hear snatches of verses of a song

  telling of a nymphomanic innkeeper's wife who lived near a river called Lahn.

  "My lawyer has been to court."

  It was worse than I had expected. "He has already been committed to trial?"

  "Unfortunately. The detectives have been in a great hurry. They were here for hours too."

  "And?"

  Solemnly, Madam said, "There is nothing to hide in my house." She could have said as readily, 'In my house and at the English Palace.' And with conviction I would have replied', 'More likely there. Madam'!

  In the bar they had come to another verse.

  "The lady also had a salamander who could do it ten times in a row ..."

  "I'm sure you understand that my lawyer is just as interested in his reputation as you are. It would not be good if the detectives saw you with him, and it also would not be good for my lawyer if—need I say more?"

  "No, Madam."

  "Not that the thought ever occurred to me that you and Schauberg were engaged in some unlawful business and that that was the reason for your interest in him. I know you are doing this for Kathe's sake."

  "Yes, Madam."

  "How touching. Then I might ask you to give me ten thousand marks. Tomorrow will do; I'm sure you don't have that much on you right now."

  "Now, listen—"

  "Mr. Jordan, I, too, have my reputation to consider. If I am to be the go-between, something not without risk, for you and my lawyer, in which case both of you remain perfectly anonymous, then, according to the most elementary laws of economy— "

  "You have studied at the university?"

  "Three terms; the risk must be covered hy a sum in the

  event of failure. It is just like an insurance. You know how insurance companies work, Mr. Jordan?"

  More and more I came to respect this cathouse madam.

  "Two thousand."

  "Ten thousand."

  "Madam, a lady does not blackmail a gentleman."

  "Mr. Jordan, a gentleman does not bargain with a lady. Give me eight thousand and we won't talk about it any further."

  "Five thousand."

  "Five thousand, all right. But I'm a little disappointed in you. Are you a man who would risk his reputation for a mere five thousand marks?"

  ". . . then the salamander stood upright and whistled the Marseillaise," they were singing in the bar.

  11

  "Now."

  "Schauberg and this Charley stole five thousand liters of cough medicine. In glass containers of fifty liters each. Three truckloads. The drivers helped load. The cough medicine has been recovered. The drivers are in jail. Charley too. Schauberg sang like a canary."

  "He must have lost his mind!"

  "I would not say that." Madam savored the smoke of her cigar. "He could have made a lot of money with the cough medicine. And he needs money."

  "I know that."

  "Exactly. And it seemed to me he was afraid that dreams, connected with you, would not come true. Am I correct?"

  "Yes."

  "That's what I thought. I know nothing about pharma-

  ceuticals but this cough medicine—a new kind of cough medicine, it was just coming on the market—"

  "Don't say cough medicine any more! The word is driving me mad!"

  "—well then, this s)naip supposedly contains a particular chemical substance, codeine, caffeine, I don't know which, one cannot know everything. This substance is reputed to have a similar euphoric effect upon many morphine addicts."

  "The syrup was to be sold to addicts?"

  "That is what my lawyer was told by the detectives of the narcotics division. Every year hundreds of new nonprescription medicines are marketed. Addicts test their effectiveness. They know right away if one particular medicine has the desired effect or not. It would take months of work for doctors and chemists in laboratories or hospitals to discover it. Then there is a run on the product. The narcotics division becomes suspicious only when pharmacists notice how well any such new product sells. The medicine is , then added to the list of prescription drugs; the addicts look around for something new. It is a game without an end. Dr. Schauberg obviously thought to make a killing with this syrup."

  "What an idiot!"

  "Don't say that. He was worried about his future. Don't you know what one is capable of then? My lawyer thinks that the pohce would like to keep our friend in jail as long as possible, hoping to get together sufficient material about other dark incidents in his Ufe. You know the German proverb *Time brings wisdom'?"

  "No."

  "I would say the police think, Time brings betrayal.'"

  "You mean, someone Schauberg betrayed will rat on him?"

  "Man is his own worst enemy, Mr. Jordan."

  "Can we have Schauberg released if we post bail?"

  "Yes."

  "How much?"

  "Thirty thousand at least, says my lawyer."

  "If bail is put up—does anyone ask where the money came from?"

  "No. Of course you realize that even if the doctor is released he will have to report to the police regularly. He will be under close surveillance which will make his business with you not exactly easy. And, naturally, his investigation will be continued."

  "It makes no difference," I said. Since I had drunk the cognac I had not felt well. I thought of Schauberg still behind bars, of myself and the instructions that dealt with a boxful of drugs. I had a sense of panic. Another attack. Then what? "It makes no difference," I said. "We must get him out."

  "You would risk the money?"

  "Yes."

  "Very well."


  "Just supposing your lawyer is asked about the origin of the money?"

  "I am prepared to say that I lent it to Kathe; because she is my best worker; because I feel for her as a mother would; because I am convinced of Schauberg's innocence. Either the investigation is dropped or he is arrested again. In both cases the money will be returned to me. Or do I look like a woman who could not afford thirty thousand marks?"

  "You look like a woman who can afford thirty thousand marks and at the same time make five thousand," I said full of admiration.

  "When can I have the bail money?"

  "Tomorrow."

  "There is still the possibility bail will be refused or at least delayed." She rose, her smile benign. "But we must keep our spirits up. God helps the courageous! Since you will be coming to see me more frequently I would like you to spend at least half an hour with Kathe upstairs.

  Just to alleviate any doubts any informer here might have that you are coming here for your amusement."

  She simply thought of everything!

  We could not find Kathe. The Mousetrap, a beautiful dark-haired girl clad in only a bra, tiny pants and silk stockings told us, *^She is in her room."

  "Alone?"

  "Yes, Madam Misere." The Mousetrap did not wear shoes; a few of her toes were bandaged and she hmped.

  "Room seven, monsieur."

  I climbed the creaking stairs to room seven on the second floor and knocked. There was no answer. I opened the door. Kathe, in a very short yellow robe was kneeling before a picture of the Madonna hanging above the bed. The only Ught came from a red-shaded bedside lamp.

  Kathe had not heard me. Her hands were folded in prayer and her voice low and fervent. "Please, dear Mother in heaven, help my poor Walter. I'll do anything you want. Help him. Let him be free again so we can get married and go away, away from here. Please, please, dear Mother of God, please, please, please."

  I gently closed the door.

  12

  Rome, April sixteenth.

  The Httle white cat, Bianca, has had a relapse. After drinking milk for five days she again drinks the milk and alcohol mixture.

  She does not eat; her eyes are glassy and her fur unkempt. Professor Pontevivo told me the reason for her relapse. Virginia creepers cover the walls of the clinic. Below the windows of the laboratory where Bianca's cage stands a pair of swallows that have built a nest. Bianca