the chance of being immortal? From the bottom of an alleyway, in the shadows of which I could see without being seen, there was the front of the building facing me in which my mother lived and worked; lorries were parked outside it; Brownshirts were standing around the lorries. The windows of the building were lighted so that it was like the backdrop to a stage: I thought - But I have seen this before - where? - in that courtyard of the ruined castle: they were playing Faust, yes, about what good can come out of evil: then there was that play by Brecht in which two people were wandering through a town in which there is a bloody revolution; they meet, wander away, meet again; and so there are patterns. Through the lighted windows of the building I could catch glimpses of Brownshirts swarming like invading ants; they were capturing files, stores, secrets; they appeared beyond the windows here and there with their arms full of papers. I thought - And now my mother will feel justified in her feelings about betrayal! Then - But surely I should be thinking of something more useful. The inhabitants of the building were being led out in ones and twos to the waiting lorries; they were being held by the arms; some were protesting; some were half-collapsed between Brownshirts. I thought - But I cannot be just an observer of this: can I not get at least some message through to a suffering world. There was still the red glow above the rooftops. I thought - Dear God, but what are the images I have myself harboured about this: about bodies being carried to the bonfire. I saw my mother being led out into the street between two Brownshirts; she was like a doll; she had her head down. I had an image - She has been hit on the head like Rosa Luxemburg. Then - Oh but now must I not rush out and be heard to cry Mother! Mother! What else can I do, even if I get myself arrested: did I imagine that I could escape the bonfire? I began walking across the road towards my mother. My mother was dangling like some out-of-use puppet between the arms of two Brownshirts. She looked so small: she was like some bird caught on a hook: I was being pulled by some line from my insides towards her. Or was it that my mother and I were two climbers fastened together by rope on a rockface; she had fallen; either one of us would die or, unless I cut the rope, both of us would. But still, was there not something practical to be done? I went up to one of the Brownshirts who was holding my mother and I said 'Where are you taking them?' My mother still had her head down so that I could not see her face. I could see - Nothing. I said to the
Brownshirt That much you can tell me!' He had a rough, wet face like the inside of a rubber ball. I thought - Perhaps I should smile and put a hand up and touch his face: then - Probably he is homosexual. I was standing quite close to my mother. She did not lift her head up. The Brownshirt whom I had spoken to said 'You get out of here.' I thought - My mother may still think I am betraying her: or by not acknowledging me, is she trying to help me? The other Brownshirt said 'The Reichstag's burning.' I said 'The Reichstag's burning?' I thought - I am acting like my mother. My mother still would not look at me. The two Brownshirts lifted and pushed her into the back of one of the lorries. I said loudly 'I will find my father and perhaps he will be able to do something.' When she was in the back of the lorry my mother did turn and look at me: the hair on one side of her head was slightly matted; she frowned, as if she wanted me to go. I was holding my hands against my stomach and I opened my mouth: it was as if, after all, I might scream. There were more people being led out of the building and brought to the back of the lorries. I thought - After all, my mother must love me! One of the Brownshirts stretched out a hand as if to grab me. I said 'She is my mother!' I thought - Well I have said that: what more can I do? I turned and began to walk away. I thought the Brownshirt would come after me. He did not. They were pushing people on to the lorries. I thought - But this is no trick: I am just walking away from my mother. Then - Is this just everything I have ever been or done? But I am going over the rim of the world to where there might be no gravity.
I had begun to walk in the direction of the Adlon Hotel. This was my usual round. I thought I could try to find Franz: I would telephone my father: what else was there to do? There was nothing, nothing. Then - At least I will see the Reichstag burning! There were indeed sparks like souls flying up over rooftops. I was walking through streets, keeping away from the sound of lorries. I wondered if the Reichstag had been set on fire by some of the people in the Rosa Luxemburg Block; or by those with my mother, and so they were being put on to lorries. But I had gone forwards, in some sort of style, hadn't I, crying Mother! Mother! But had I not cut the cord? and now was I seeing what happens when there is no gravity. There is indeed nothing, nothing; you are just falling. My father had said once (or was it you?) that the only emotions worth having are ecstasy and despair. I thought - Well yes, but there is also a terror at this nothing. I was walking towards the Reichstag and every now
and then I could glimpse the outline of the huge dome which was lit like the mantle of a gaslamp; I thought - Indeed it might be some message: we are dying! I had wanted to arrange a meeting between you and me and Franz and Bruno at the Adlon Hotel. I was walking in the direction of the Adlon Hotel. I thought - But you used to have an image of the whole world burning; or will these sparks settle down like light that comes from a painting? I was moving along streets on the north side of Unter den Linden. There were people in the streets now moving in the same direction as me: they were going to watch the bonfire. I thought - What you and Franz and Bruno and I would have talked about is physics: the transmutations that might go on in an atom; in the sun; some secret like that behind the closed door in a courtyard. Or that which connects this particle to that across the universe. I had reached a place from which, if I was to get to the Adlon Hotel, I had to go down and cross Unter den Linden; there were sure to be lorries with Brown-shirts there: I thought - With one great leap - what? - there can be mutation? On each side of Unter den Linden there were, yes, lines of police and Brownshirts: crowds were piling up; they were settling to watch the bonfire. I could see it quite clearly now; the whole of the enormous building was on fire. I thought - It is a construction like a nest: what monster will arise from the ashes? It did not seem possible to get across the road: I had pushed my way through the crowd and was standing at the back of the line of Brownshirts. I thought - And anyway, why do I want to get to the Adlon Hotel? Because there is nothing else to do? Because I used go there with my father; with Franz? Because if there is nothing, you find yourself drawn to where you have once or twice felt at home? I said to one of the Brownshirts 'Can you help me get through to the Adlon Hotel? It is urgent.' He too had a round rough face like the inside of a rubber ball. He looked at me and then looked away: I thought -Dear God, are they all homosexual? There were cars going past in the road with motorcycle outriders: it seemed that this might be Hitler, being carried home to a bonfire. A policeman turned to me and said 'You want to get to the Adlon Hotel?' I said 'Yes please.' The policeman took hold of me by the arm as if to help me; then the Brownshirt spoke to him and he let go. I thought - Well, what trick did Josephus do: his people were homosexuals? Then I saw you on the other side of the road. I mean I saw you beneath the trees in the middle of Unter den Linden. I was sure it was you. I
had not seen you for three or four years. You were talking to a Brownshirt.
I thought - Well dear God, on what strange planet have we landed!
The Brownshirt you were talking to was holding a card or document; you were leaning by his shoulder and pointing to it; there was an intensity about this scene, as if you were figures in a painting. I thought - The document is your passport? Then you looked up and saw me. Or it was as if you had already seen me: you looked so pleased. You waved. The Brownshirt looked up from the document he was holding; then he beckoned to the Brownshirt who was with me on my side of the road. This Brownshirt took hold of me by the arm and said 'Wait.' There were cars coming along Unter den Linden. I thought - You arrange things like this on this strange planet? When there was a gap in the traffic the Brownshirt gave me a push and I began running. I thought - So after all, you mean
, one or two get through? I ran to the space where there were trees in the middle of the road. Then -But these things are in the mind: they are in the outside world too? When I got to where you were standing you took me in your arms. I thought - Ah well, this is like a painting. Then you said 'He found you!' I thought I might say - Who found me? You talk about yourself like this on this strange planet? Or about God? The Brownshirt who was beside you was giving you back the document he had been holding; it was your passport; he smiled and saluted. I thought - Oh but you are not all homosexuals on this planet! You seemed so much more confident and grown-up; you had your hair in a fringe like a Roman Emperor. I said 'Who found me?' You said 'Your father.' I thought I might say - My father? Then - This is some code for the sake of the Brownshirts on this planet? We began walking across the far side of the road towards the Adlon Hotel. You had your arm around me. I said 'But what are you doing here?' You stopped and held me at arm's length and stared at me. I thought - All right, all right, you know I do love you! You said 'Didn't you get my letter?' I said 'No.' Then - 'What letter?' You said 'The letter that told you I would be here: I sent it to the address given me by Franz.' You took me by the arm and we went on towards the entrance to the Adlon Hotel. We pushed our way through the crowd, who were watching the bonfire. You did not seem to be interested in the fire. I thought - But if you sent a letter to the Rosa Luxemburg Block, yes, they might have taken it and opened it.
Then you said again 'You haven't seen your father? So how did you know we'd be here?' You said this quietly as if it were something not really to be heard, let alone answered. I wanted to say - But I didn't know you would be here! We went on and up the steps and into the Adlon Hotel. I said 'But what is this about my father? He is in Heidelberg.' You said 'No, he came to get you.' There was a crowd in the hallway of the Adlon Hotel: they were standing with bright smiles and talking excitedly about the bonfire. I thought -But you, haven't you come to get me? You were standing on tiptoe looking round the lounge of the hotel. Then we sat down at a table. You held my hand; you gazed at me. I thought - Well, why didn't you come before? You said 'You didn't get my letter and you didn't get your father's letter.' I said 'No.' You didn't even say this time - Then how on earth are you here?' I thought I might say -But I have always been coming here: with my father, with Franz: it is you who need the explanation. We were sitting facing each other in the hotel with our knees almost touching; there were the things like the bonfire going on elsewhere: I thought - But it is we ourselves who are the enormous events! You said 'I've been in touch with Franz: I think he got in touch with your father.' I said 'Have you seen my father?' You said 'Yes.' I thought - What things go on on this strange planet! I said 'I think the people with whom I have been living must have been intercepting my letters.' You said 'You've got to get out.' I thought I might say - Yes, I've got to get out. I said 'My mother has been arrested.' You said 'I see.' You were looking round the lounge of the hotel as if you might tell the future from bits of bone and entrails. The lounge of the hotel was like a railway station. Then I saw Franz coming towards us through the lounge. Franz was wearing his grey suit with the swastika badge in the buttonhole. He came up to us and said 'Oh you've found her.' You said 'Yes, we've found her.' Franz said to me 'Why weren't you here?' You said 'She never got our letters.' Franz said 'I see.' He didn't even bother to say - Then how did she know we were here? He looked away across the hallway. I thought I might say - You mean, you and Franz and my father have all come to rescue me? You said 'Hurry; we must hurry.' I said 'But where is my father?' Franz had sat down at our table; we three were facing each other; it was as if the events were unimportant elsewhere. Franz said 'He went to look for you at the Rosa Luxemburg Block.' I said 'Is he coming back here?' Franz said 'Yes.' Then I said 'But we can't leave my mother.' You said 'Her mother has been arrested.'
There was a clatter and a roar from the crowd outside: I thought -Perhaps the roof of the Reichstag has fallen in: perhaps Hitler has turned up and has at last managed to get himself put on a bonfire. Franz said 'Yes, they're rounding up the Communists. You've got to get out.' I said 'Where do you think one can get out to?' You said 'Switzerland.' I said 'Switzerland!' I thought - This is ridiculous. Franz said 'I understand your father has relations in Switzerland.' I thought - But this is not possible; it is happening too quickly. We were sitting round the table in the lounge of the Adlon Hotel. Franz was looking towards the side entrance to the hotel which led out into Wilhelmstrasse. There was a group of high-up Nazis by the door who were talking and looking towards us across the lounge. I thought -But what are we waiting for: my father? Then - Things do not seem to get filtered, on this strange planet. I said 'How are we going to get to Switzerland?' You said 'I'm taking you.' I imagined that you were talking about me and my father. I thought - That is extraordinarily kind! I said 'But what about my mother.' You said 'Franz can try to find out about your mother.' I thought - But could we be together, for a time, you and I, in Switzerland? I said 'But we can't go without my mother.' Franz said to you 'You didn't tell her about Bruno?' You said nothing. There was a noise from loudspeakers out in Pariser Platz; it was the sound of a voice hugely amplified; it was like someone being sick, like someone's insides being torn out. I said 'What about Bruno?' I was thinking - I am indeed like those Jews, with Josephus, in that town called Jotapata; but I do not want to be trapped in a cellar of the mind. The loudspeakers in the square outside seemed to be saying that the Reichstag had been set on fire by the Communists, the enemies of the state; they would be weeded out and ruthlessly punished. I thought - Oh but why couldn't those people in Jotapata get out; they had guilt about their mothers? You stood up. You said again 'We must go.' I thought - Dear God, will I really have to act. We can't go! Franz said 'Your father had a letter from your mother about Bruno.' I said 'My father had a letter from my mother about Bruno?' I thought - Now listen! I must listen! You sat down. You looked round the lounge. I thought - But you will promise, won't you, to get me out? I said 'What did my mother say about Bruno?' Franz said 'She said she thought that Bruno wasn't suitable for you and she hoped that what she had done was right.' I said 'Why, what has she done?' I thought - You mean, she did betray Bruno? The loudspeakers were going on and on in the Pariser Platz: I thought - Oh for God's sake, why does not whoever
it is being sick never quite get his insides all torn out! Franz said 'She told your people in the Rosa Luxemburg Block that she thought Bruno was a Nazi spy.' I thought - She might as well have told them that I was a Nazi spy! Then - But you mean, so Bruno got out? Bruno was betrayed in turn by the people in the Block and handed over to the Nazis? I stood up. Franz said 'Bruno has been arrested.' I said 'But why, if he was said to be a spy?' Franz said 'But he wasn't.' I said 'Oh no.' Franz said 'So now you must get out.' We had all stood up. We were going to the door of the hotel which led into Wilhelmstrasse. I thought - So you mean, all this has happened so that I can get out? You said to me 'Have you got papers? A student's card? A passport?' Franz said 'I will do what I can about Bruno.' I said 'But what about my father?' Franz said 'He went to look for you in the Rosa Luxemburg Block.' I said 'My papers are in the Rosa Luxemburg Block.' Franz said to you 'Perhaps at the frontier you can say that she's your girlfriend.' You said 'Oh at the frontier I can say we're married!' We went out through the door into Wilhelmstrasse. I saw my father coming towards us on the pavement. He was carrying my satchel. I mean, this was the satchel in which there were all the bits and pieces of my life: my papers and letters. I thought I might act putting my hand over my eyes, as if I could not bear this. My father looked so pleased. I wondered - You mean, this is the sort of thing behind the closed door in that courtyard! When my father came up he said 'You've found her!' We stood on the pavement like one of those groups in a painting. My father looked older and more frail; his hair was brushed up above his forehead as if he were like sparks on their way to heaven. I took my satchel. I said 'How did you get it?' He said 'I've been to the Rosa Luxemburg Block.' I said 'They
are being arrested?' My father put his arms around me and I put my head against his chest. We were standing on the pavement of Wilhelmstrasse as we had done so many years ago when crowds had rushed past us laughing to the Brandenburg Gate and then had been shot. Franz said 'She knows about her mother and Bruno.' My father said 'Oh, so then you will go, you will be all right.' But I thought I still had to say - 'But I don't know if we can just leave my mother!' My father said 'I'm not going to leave her.' I said 'But you're coming to Switzerland.' My father said 'No, I'm staying here; it is you who are going to Switzerland.' I said 'Why?' My father said 'Because I am her husband and you are her child.'
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