Circle Around the Sun

by M. D. Johnson

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ‘The Cave’ was a student ‘lokale’ near Heidelberg’s Kramergasse where Ghulam and Emily would, at her insistence, for he was never comfortable there, hang out when their work day and studies were over. The club was situated on a dark and somewhat malevolent street. After a careful scrutiny by their security through the grill of the oak, hand carved, medieval style door, one was allowed in and had to negotiate a steep and dangerous downward spiraling staircase, at the end of which was a dimly lit, overcrowded, smoke filled bar with a tiny dance floor.

  The bartender was a skinny young German with waist length hair named Arno, who bore a strong resemblance to the American musician Frank Zappa. He claimed to be a professional student of Mandarin Chinese. Arno knew everyone, from Polizei to student radicals. If you needed anything, brochure distribution, communist print shops, American, German, British or Soviet Intelligenzia, PX or U.S. commissary items, diamonds from South Africa, or arms to and from anywhere, for the right amount of money he could procure it within seventy-two hours. Political economics, he maintained, was based on contacts and favors. He was, in 1969, thirty-five years old and apart from the ‘The Cave’ and a few random classes, Arno was for all intent and purpose a man of considerable leisure and very valuable to the Communist Party, whose views he upheld, whose membership he increased and whose money he lived on quite comfortably.

  On her first visit to ‘The Cave’, Emily couldn’t help thinking how much it looked like ‘The Cavern’ in Liverpool, where she had watched The Beatles play many times as a Merseyside teenager. However this place, unlike Liverpool’s Cavern, had a slick sophistication despite its leftist overtones. There was a feel of raw energy within its walls. The music was always good. Les McCann or Eddie Harris for the jazz inclined, and ‘Osibisa’, a band gaining popularity among the African student body who seemed to live at the club.

  Rufus Thomas’ ‘Sixty Minute Man’ was blasting though the speakers this evening when Emily made her nightly stop, alone because Ghulam had yet another paper to write. The song, with its throbbing beat was a great favorite of Emily’s and it pleased her to hear it as she walked down the rickety, spiral staircase.

  On this evening she had taken more care than usual with her appearance, wearing a chocolate colored wool pant suit with wide elephant bell-bottoms. She bought the outfit to impress Ghulam, who hadn’t noticed it anyway. Everything Emily did at that age was to impress Ghulam. She lived through him. Emily Byron Desai was a young woman who had not yet discovered herself or her potential. She had few friends, no lingering interest in other men, just her studies, her job at Firma Scholl and her beloved Ghulam.

  The wool suit she wore was alpaca and came from Peru. Emily had a friend who owned a boutique not far from the club on the Heidelberg Haupstrasse. Unusual hand-knit clothing would be selected for Emily, usually based on her love of earth tones and the color purple. These would be held back from the store’s general stock, and as Emily was affluent and a good customer, a sale was pretty much guaranteed. The owner, Ulla Frank told Emily she had escaped from East Berlin and was the girlfriend of a wealthy Cameroon student named Julian Mbutu. Like many students in Heidelberg at this time, he was also a communist and the party had financed a club he owned called ‘Catacombe’ in nearby Eppelheim. It was a recruitment center of sorts and had a large American serviceman membership by design. Mbutu’s other interest was arms trading, selling weapons stolen generally from the United States Military and since written off their property books, for a hefty fee. Both businesses yielded excellent profits for Julian, who laundered thousands of Deutche Marks and U.S. Dollars, sending them home regularly to finance the revolution.

  Emily had visited the boutique two days earlier and made several purchases, including the African amber beads and earrings she wore that evening. Mustard in color matching her suede floor length coat, it created the effect she desired, making her stand out from the crowd of students in their dark sweaters and jeans. Her blonde hair was picked out into a shoulder length Afro and her exotic features generally made people ask where she was from. She could be an any race or culture she desired. Emily was, unbeknownst to herself at this time, a “natural” for espionage. Despite standing out in an average crowd, she had the capability and the allure to create an identity whenever she felt like it. This talent had served her well in the past. Her language skills enabled her to mingle in any European or North African environment. Emily’s looks, though not traditionally beautiful were so cosmopolitan she could, with a little enhancement pass for a European or a mixture of any race. Her Arab coloring, hazel eyes and full mouth lent a certain exotic appeal to her overall appearance. People always looked twice when she passed them.

  When she entered ‘The Cave’ she was actually pondering Ulla’s boutique. In all innocence, she never ceased to be amazed at its unusual clientele. Wealthy diplomats from Frankfurt as well as students living in Heidelberg frequented the place. There was always a strange diversity, perhaps it was the odd American or British tourist whose visit somehow seemed contrived. The place was always crowded. One could sit outside on a balcony and watch the crowds scurrying around the narrow cobblestone streets. Ulla would often appear with a bottle of Russian Crème Sekt, the elitist drink of the day, or a good Trockenbeeren Auslese and one could idly drink a little wine, smoke a French cigarette or even get some decent Turkish hash and pass the time of day before or after making a purchase. Ulla’s was the place to be, to share information, and to meet beautiful, well-educated and cultured people.

  Emily had learned after selecting her winter wardrobe that the student troubles in Heidelberg were just beginning. The escalating war in Viet Nam led more and more European students to voice their opinion and to become involved with the antiwar movement. It was the “in” topic of conversation of Heidelberg’s beautiful people.

  Another shopper that day was a young Russian professor who worked at a prestigious scientific research institute. They shared a Gaullois and a glass of most delicious Russian champagne and spent much time discussing the American involvement in Viet Nam. Emily shared his viewpoint entirely. It was an amusing site to the onlookers across the street, these two fashionably dressed people, discussing communism in between sips of expensive imported champagne and eating smoked salmon hors d’oevres, while their overstuffed shopping bags were filled with designer clothes made in third-world countries.

  The professor was picking up some dresses his wife had selected earlier that day. He introduced himself as Dimitri Schulkin and sat down with Ulla and Emily to explain his understanding of communism in South East Asia. “The people of Viet Nam and Cambodia,” he said, “have every right to choose their own political structure without American interference. Hadn’t the French done enough to exploit those poor people? Even the American people want out! It was the armchair cowboys who perpetuated the war. So typiche! They move in, rape the country’s resources and get out again, leaving the country without a culture but very addicted to McDonalds and the rest of the capitalist bullshit.” Emily found his attitude so very Russian. Caustic and oppressed while at the same time sporting a love for the very things he should abhor. Out of politeness she had given him her phone number when he suggested that she and Ghulam should meet him and his wife at ‘The Cave’ later in the week. In retrospect, she noted his insistence at getting together again as a bit unusual, but she just was so full of the joy of living, drinking champagne and smoking perfect hashish that she just couldn’t be bothered saying no. Schulkin, it appeared, even knew Mustafa. He couldn’t be that bad! Germany was such fun, so full of life, so quaint, she mused. Who would want to live anywhere else?

  She was however, later surprised when Ghulam was almost hysterical in his refusal to get together with any Russian, professor or otherwise. She was more alarmed when Schulkin called, as if on cue after Ghulam had only just disappeared in to the apartment building’s sauna downstairs. Schulkin had a business dinner that evening quite near ‘The Cave’. Could they,
he wanted to know, meet a few hours later, perhaps about 9:30? Ghulam refused to go with her, preferring to work on a class project on the wealth of Nazi Party in pre-World War II Germany.

  And so Emily drove her cream Mercedes sedan to Kramergasse where she mercifully found a place to park and entered ‘The Cave’ alone, knowing she would not stay that way for long and that she would dance, have a few glasses of wine, make small talk, meet her commitment and then drive home.

  The atmosphere in ‘The Cave’ was unlike anything else in Heidelberg. The music was invariably based on oppression, blues or jazz, but its audience was alive with revolution and certainly as anti-establishment as any of those found on any student campus in the United States. Unlike its American counterparts, ‘The Cave’ was completely desegregated. There was no fear.

  Black American students talked openly of Angela Davis and the Chicago Eight, who dared to challenge the political machine at last years Democratic convention. Abbie Hoffman, Jerry Rubin, Tom Hayden, David Dellinger, Rennie Davis, Lei Weiner, John Froines and Bobby Seale had been accused of inciting riots. In an unprecedented breach of judicial decorum, Bobby Seale had been removed bound and gagged from the courtroom to face a separate trial, and the media stars known as “the Chicago Seven” were born. The battle cry of “We can change the world” reached far beyond Mayor Daley’s jurisdiction. The American establishment drew battle lines and students all over the world began to revolt in support. The European students, who gave support politically, emotionally and financially, also protested American involvement in Viet Nam. They shared a common revulsion of any form of superpower. Students united on an intellectual front to support The American Indian Movement, American Civil Rights Movement, in fact, any and all political struggles of the underdog. But it was NATO, or as it was then termed, the ‘Occupiers of Germany’, the ‘Sheiss Amerikaners’, which was the passion of the German student radicals.

  The only neutral territory was music and American rock bands were frequently heard in student lokales. Rare Earth’s ‘Get Ready’ or Santana’s ‘Evil Ways’ blasted out of high powered speakers any night of the week.

  One of the blessings of the leftist recruiting efforts at ‘The Cave’ was that the club was for the most part closed to American GIs and non-students, so there was a good deal of non-restrictive anti-American Establishment sentiment within. But because of the selective membership, there was little perceived threat and speech was always unguarded, despite the occasional infiltration of American Intelligence Agents posing as African students.

  Pot was smoked freely, as there was no fear of the Deutche Politizei raiding the club. Pot or fine Turkish Hash was also a form of local student currency. It was readily understood that one could trade rides home with the ‘herb superb’ from ‘The Cave’ to anywhere in the City of Heidelberg and surrounding areas. There were no street corner pimps or drug dealers. It wasn’t that type of trade environment. Simply students, ready to change the world. having fun, dancing, letting off steam, “doing their thing.” Each nodding their head to the beat with proverbial smiles on their faces. Some read poetry, although no one knew why with all the surrounding noise. Others talked revolution. Most were inner-bourgeoisie trying very hard to assimilate into a working class mentality. It was “in” to be an activist. “But, dig,…everybody partied…” it was understood.

  While most of the Germans students came from middle-class families, the African and Arabs were easily the wealthiest, and it was this contingent who brought the latest Afro-jazz from their homeland to Arno the Bartender. Many of the Africans expressed real fears over the political conflicts in Nigeria or Cameroon. All this mixed with dread over whether their new Benzes, Porches, Jaguars, and Ferraris would have to be sold if and when they received the summons home. Conflict or not, they did not stop ordering their whiskey or good wine and they did not live like European students.

  It was the Central Asian students who seemed to be lost in the cultural fray. They always seemed outside of the mainstream German radical groups. The young Saudis preferred the more familiar Beirut as a place to party but Central Asians rarely socialized at all and while they were at that time feared and respected, they remained largely ignored. So it would remain until the rising activism of Mustafa Jalil and his growing friendship with Ulrike Meinhof changed Emily Desai’s life forever.

  Emily ordered a Cola-Cognac and observed the diversity of the crowd nodding their heads rhythmically to Rare Earth’s ‘Get Ready’ while she waited for Schulkin and his wife to arrive. There were at least twenty couples on the tiny dance floor, German students waving their arms, stomping their feet and Africans in their long robes with turtle neck sweaters underneath to keep out the cold German night air, all broad grins and black laughter. There was something about black laughter, Emily had always thought. It was pure. When Europeans laughed it was usually insincere or sarcastically based, often accompanied by a cutting comment or even some self-depreciating remark. But when an African laughed the soul was bared, it was so musical. Amid the black laughter, deep and resonant came a Nigerian accented voice. “I tell you Obi, that Meinhof woman is barking mad. They say her husband’s magazine was financed by the Russians. Ifeyanwa told me that the Russkys were paying them one million marks a year for that trash to get written and out on the street. And why, my man? Because long term they will lose, and they know it now. Communism, I tell you, has a survival of ten to twenty years at the most. It simply doesn’t work, because people are too greedy by nature. You have to have a middle-class to buffer the sounds of the others.” The speaker was Mike Otu, an Ibo whose wife Rose was the granddaughter of a Scottish Missionary and an Ibo tribeswoman of royal blood.

  Rose joined in the discussion. “I agree. There’s no doubt that Ulrike Meinhof is gaining in popularity among students, but I think the woman is dangerous! They say she has a metal plate in her head. Did you know that? She had a brain tumor, I hear. She’s brilliant, no doubt, but she is a pawn, I tell you. A commie pawn. She has, of course, a certain appeal to international students, because she is older and more experienced than most. She is very conversant, but sadly misinformed. Her rhetoric, unfortunately is not readily understood by the people she wishes to speak on behalf of. What does she know of oppression, colonialism or even poverty? She has been raised entirely by an idealist academic as a Roman Catholic. I understand she wanted to become a nun.” Rose spoke with the eloquence of a foreigner learned in Oxford English devoid of Americanisms. She was Emily’s closest female friend.

  Emily moved towards the bar where the group of wealthy Nigerians was seated. Rose Otu was a medical student in her final year and her husband was completing his residency in the local hospital. Before moving in with Ghulam, Emily had frequently looked after their daughter Isioma and her little brother Sochi when the couple, who were active in the Student Union went to meetings or worked late.

  Hearing the name Meinhof, Emily joined the conversation. “Isn’t that the older woman from Bonn who has been hanging out with Mustafa?” she asked Rose. “She’s supposed to be coming over to the cheese and wine thing at our place next week.”

  “Meinhof isn’t a Socialist, Emily. She really is an active communist. There’s rumor that she’s an agent,” Rose said quietly. “You watch your step with her.”

  “Oh right, Rose, an agent!” Emily replied sarcastically, spluttering her drink. “Ghulam will be thrilled. I agreed to meet a Russian couple here tonight, the Schulkins, and he actually refused to come out here and went off on a tirade on Russians wanting to control Afghanistan. He got lost in that precious bloody homeland bag again.”

  “Look Emily, we have warned you about him and Mustafa. They are both bloody weird. But you seem blinded by the beauty. If you have to date ‘out’, why not a nice Nigerian boy? Interracial marriages are not uncommon in Africa. Nigeria is not South Africa you know. Osita Udokamma is always asking about you. He is a doctor, you know, from a very good family. There have been others in our families who have married out
. What is this thing you have with Ghulam and Mustafa? I think they’re both queer, actually.”

  “Rose, don’t be silly. I’m living with Ghulam. We’re getting married this year. He’s not queer. Even his parents know about it. They are not overjoyed, but there it is. As for his political beliefs, he is passionate about Afghanistan severing all ties with Russia. He is nationalistic.”

  “Emily, how nationalistic can he be with you for a wife? Ask yourself that. What about his friend Mustafa? When they get together, it’s like Tweedledum and Tweedledee from the Alice in Wonderland that my grandfather used to read to me. Are you sure they’re not lovers? I mean, it’s normal in that culture, you know. There’s a name for it. Having “a beautiful boy” to show off to your friends. I did a study on it years ago. Maybe if they’re not, my dear friend, they’ve missed their true vocation,” Rose said, assuming an effeminate British accent.

  “Rose Otu, you are terrible,” retaliated Emily in an equally comic Liverpool accent, “Very nice! Imagine our Ghool a shirt lifter. Go on there, our kid.”

  Looking across the smoke filled room she caught sight of the Schulkins. He was short, and balding with a rounded stomach and attire more befitting a German banker than a professor in a dark jacket with a grey turtle neck sweater. His wife was taller, with shoulder length straight blonde hair heavily fringed and covering her eyebrows. Her eyes sparkled over her aquiline nose and wide full mouth. She was totally beautiful, simply yet expensively dressed in what looked like a dark green wool dress with a row of brilliant crystals around her neck. Dr. and Mrs. Schulkin looked extraordinarily out of place in a student club.