by MARY HOCKING
At night there was little peace. The floors in the hotel were stone-flagged and a regiment marched up and down the corridors each night, the water for the whole hotel was piped through his room, and the toilet was next door. There was one hour in the middle of the night when there was peace, and then a man came out on the terrace and began to sweep it with an incredibly hard broom. Soon the man was joined by a maid; the two held excited conversations punctuated by moments of silence which were almost more disturbing. The heat pulsed and he could hardly breathe.
But in that one hour of peace he came to realize how much his decision meant to him. It was his last chance, his last hope of sanity, respect . . . The more he looked back on the world he had left, the more he saw that he must never return. Power was all that mattered in that world. Everything was subordinated to the need to dominate, there was hardly a man there with the genuine scientific curiosity, the disinterested thirst for truth. Those, like himself, who were not equipped for the power struggle, were crippled. He must get away to a country which still tried to live by an ideal. And if the ideal was harsh and alien, what did that matter? The climate would be one in which he could breathe, where results alone counted. And he could bring results enough! Other men’s results. But, who knew, might he not recapture in this new, sympathetic atmosphere something of the promise of his early years? They had thought he would do better than he had done. Now, he would surprise them all by fulfilling that early promise.
Night after night in that one hour of peace he had comforted himself with this thought. But now he could think only of Mitchell outside in the dusk with someone who was of more interest to him than Alperin. His spirits spiralled down. Soon he was aware only that his head ached and his mouth tasted foul. He went across to the wash basin to brush his teeth before going down to dinner; the water was lukewarm and there was a cockroach in the basin. He would be glad when he could leave this place.
After dinner he strolled along the esplanade. It was hotter than ever, the air pressed on every nerve in his head. There would be a storm in the night. He went back to his room feeling sick. It was no use trying to sleep. He must do something to relieve this intolerable pressure on his skull. Perhaps there were certain steps he should take? The gods, they say, are kind to those who help themselves. He decided to write to Professor Schaffer at Bonn saying how much he was looking forward to seeing him in Montreux. He tried to think of subtle ways of hinting at his commitment. ‘Cambridge has become intolerable, I feel I must make a break.’ He was uneasy about that. Finally he wrote, ‘Cambridge no longer suits me. I feel the need for a change.’ As he read the letter through, wondering if he had said too much even now, he realized that he had accepted the fact that he was bound to be watched by his own people.
While he was addressing the envelope he heard the first heavy spots of rain hiss on the hot stone of the balcony. The curtains billowed into the room. He went to the window and looked out. Lightning scrawled a strange pattern and for a second a fantastic, skeletal figure danced across the bay. He decided not to go out, but he stayed at the window for a few minutes. The man, Mitchell, and his new companion were sitting at a table. As he watched, Mitchell got to his feet and went indoors. An abrupt leave-taking. The stranger remained sitting hunched over the table. Another flash of lightning ripped across the bay. The lights in the hotel flickered and went out, the lake disappeared; there was only the wall of rain and the one figure sitting unmoving, the head bowed, the hands clenching the sides of the table. Alperin watched in amazement until the rain came down like a blind across the window.
Chapter Six
Mitchell said to Miriam Kratz, ‘How did you get here?’
‘By train.’
‘But the fare?’
‘I took some money.’
‘From that café where you work?’
‘Yes.’
‘I see.’
But he didn’t see. The fact that she had stolen money did not surprise him; honesty was not a luxury Miriam Kratz could afford. What puzzled him was that she should steal in order to come here. Her raincoat was threadbare, but she would still be wearing it in the bitter Berlin winter; no doubt it would hang even more loosely then. If you deny yourself the essentials of life, you don’t fritter money away on travel.
‘When did you last eat?’ he asked.
‘In Berlin.’
He turned towards the hotel and she spat at him, ‘I don’t want to eat, I want to talk.’
‘After you’ve eaten.’
He didn’t care what she wanted, he wanted time. Miriam Kratz’s problems were no concern of his; there were many separated families in Berlin, it was a commonplace situation. Nevertheless, he had always found her rather disconcerting: born in a concentration camp, reared in a displaced persons’ camp, she was a reminder of things it would be more comfortable to forget. Her arrival in this lazy, sun-bright town had a quality of nightmare. He went into the bar and automatically used his charm on the waitress who quickly produced salad, cold meats, a loaf of French bread and two bottles of lager. He insisted on carrying the tray himself.
Miriam was sitting at one of the tables. She had taken off her raincoat and in her straight, black shift she looked like a schoolgirl—the sullen, unwashed kind. The ragged dark hair added to the illusion; but the sallow face was dominated by eyes that were old as her people’s history. Big, dark eyes, fringed with thick lashes, eyes that must always have drawn attention to her: even as a child she would never have been able to escape a man’s attention. Those dark eyes aroused dark things. Even Mitchell, who hated hurting people, could imagine the intense pleasure some men would have found in hurting Miriam Kratz. Whenever he looked at her he felt the need to expiate something—other men’s guilt or his own indifference.
Now, as he put the tray down in front of her, he wished her many miles away. In spite of this, good nature prompted him to say:
‘Take your time. We’ve the whole evening before us.’
She tackled the food obediently, but without relish; it was a long time since she had shown any interest in the material side of existence. A man passing glanced at them; he walked on, turned, looking at Miriam, his eyes exploring the black shift. Mitchell had known Miriam Kratz for a long time and had never lusted after her; it was as though for him despair had cloaked her in a nun’s habit. But now, sitting here in the close, violet dusk, his interest was quickened. She was thin, but not frail; and though the face had little animation, the body did not lack vitality. Not feminine, he thought, but definitely female. He wondered how often she had been raped in her long journey through the camps.
When she had finished the meal she sat passively, staring at him, waiting permission to speak in a way that disgusted him. A passenger boat on an evening trip approached the jetty. The sky was dark and bruised and the water was green. Only a man and a boy boarded the boat. Mitchell watched it move away, the prow cutting into water smooth as coloured glass. He wanted to say to Miriam Kratz, ‘Go away! You are no concern of mine.’ It had been bad enough in Berlin; but in Berlin there were so many desperate people, one gained a certain immunity from their contaminating despair. Here he felt alone and vulnerable. But he was always weak against this kind of emotional pressure, so instead of telling her to go away he offered her a cigarette. They smoked for a while in silence while the clouds massed over the lake. Eventually he said:
‘Now, tell me.’
‘A man has said he will help Mikail to escape.’ Her hand was unsteady and ash dropped from her cigarette on to the table. ‘He says I must pay him . . .’
‘And who is this man?’
‘Curt Lesser.’
She would not look at him; perhaps she was afraid of what she might read in his eyes.
‘Curt Lesser!’ he repeated. ‘But . . . why are you here?’
‘I must know if I can depend on him. It is all the money I have.’
‘But you could have asked anyone,’ he said angrily. ‘You have friends.’
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��No!’
‘But you know people . . .’
‘Yes.’ She nodded her head wearily, ‘I know people. That is why I had to ask you.’
He stared at her incredulously and she said, ‘You are different.’ There was no flattery in the dry statement. He felt as angry as though she had told him he had leprosy.
‘This is beyond all reason! You mean to tell me that you stole money, lost your job, travelled all this way, just to ask me if you could trust Curt Lesser?’
Her face was blank, but he could understand only too well what this meant to her. All the money she had saved, all her hope . . . He felt himself engulfed in the great darkness which seemed to possess her. Perhaps this was why she had said he was different, because he understood too much. He looked across the bay. The boat was quite a long way out now, riding rough; the surface of the lake was combed with tiny waves, but here on the esplanade the air was taut as a stretched nerve. He said with uncharacteristic crispness:
‘You can’t trust Curt Lesser.’
Her lips trembled and her voice had a wheedling quality which was not pleasant.
‘But other people escape . . . every day someone escapes . . .’
‘Not from prison. Curt Lesser can’t get your husband out of prison. He hasn’t the contacts, the resources, or the guts. He’ll take your savings and that’s the last you’ll see of him this side of hell.’
It was stupid of her ever to have had dealings with the little rat! But then, in this trade across the border, who but the rats would bother with Miriam Kratz? It was probably the only hope she had been offered in the four years since her husband had been arrested and she had been separated from her child. Even the Miriam Kratzes of this world can’t live without hope. He said wearily: ‘Anyone could have told you this.’
‘But I would not have known whether to believe them.’
‘Then why should you believe me?’
This unsolicited trust needed to be killed, for his own sake as much as for hers. He braced himself for the answer. Integrity? There were stories he could tell her; in Eliot’s regime integrity did not rate high. Reliability? No woman had ever found him reliable. She was looking at him; the dark eyes nailed to his face. He said uneasily:
‘Well? It’s a long way to come without knowing why.’
‘I think perhaps you are . . . a little good.’
‘Is goodness something of which you have so much experience?’
‘I have my husband.’
The eyes shone with a fierce pride. Pride was something he had not expected in Miriam Kratz. He was too surprised to comment. He picked up his glass; the lager was warm and flat. Thunder rumbled in the distance and a gust of wind shook the plane trees and blew dust in his face. Only a green rim of water was visible, the rest of the lake was blotted out by cloud. How quickly these storms blew up! he thought. And then, with shocking irrelevance, another thought came to him. He said to Miriam Kratz:
‘How did you know that I was here?’
‘Dan Burke sent a postcard to Lottë.’
‘He did what!’
‘He sent a postcard to Lottë.’
Mitchell put his glass down on the table. The first spots of rain began to fall; he watched them gradually darkening the dusty road. It was a moment or two before he could trust himself to speak casually, then he said:
‘I can’t imagine what one would say on a postcard to Lottë.’
‘He said, “Having wonderful time in this lovely little place”.’
‘And what did Lottë make of that?’
‘She thought it was silly.’
The rain was much heavier now, he could feel it stinging his shoulders; he looked at Miriam Kratz, the rain glistening on her bare arms, her head slightly bowed. His questions did not appear to be making any impression on her.
‘Did Lottë know you were coming here?’ he asked.
She did not bother to answer. No one in their senses would confide in a little fool like Lottë. Burke must be mad. Mitchell got to his feet and walked into the hotel.
The lights were out and the staff were scurrying about carrying candles. Mitchell went up the stairs and encountered a woman in a wrap peering from the bathroom.
‘There aren’t any lights in here,’ she told him accusingly.
‘There aren’t any lights anywhere.’
She continued to peer at him.
‘But I’m having a bath. Can’t you do something?’
‘For example?’
She retreated and slammed the door. There was no window in the passage where Burke’s room was situated and he had to feel his way along the wall. Burke’s door was unlocked and Burke was lying on the bed reading The Brothers Karamazov by torchlight.
‘I trust you are keeping an eye on our problem,’ he said.
Mitchell shut the door and locked it. ‘I’ve been attending to your problem.’ He went across to the window. Burke watched him.
‘How very dramatic! I hope you’re not going to lock that, too? This is the first breath of air we have had in this place.’
Burke’s room had no balcony and the windows of the rooms on either side had been firmly closed against the storm; the rain was sluicing down. Not a good night for eavesdroppers. Mitchell turned away from the window.
‘One can’t be too careful, can one?’ he said.
Burke closed the book and laid it on the table; he snapped out the torch and laid that beside the book.
‘You sound like a secret agent,’ he said. ‘One cryptic remark after another.’
There was a pause. The darkness was disconcerting. Mitchell had the feeling of having lost command of the situation. Burke said rather edgily:
‘What’s all this about my problem? I rather thought that what was mine was thine—in this case, at least.’
‘How many postcards did you send?’
Burke’s head moved against the pillow; Mitchell sensed that he was looking in his direction. Thunder crashed overhead and a gust of wind sent the curtains streaming into the room. Burke said:
‘What are you getting at?’
Burke was fumbling in the darkness, too. Mitchell spoke with an authority he was far from feeling.
‘Answer my question.’
‘Very well.’ A brilliant flash of lightning revealed Burke sitting up, his small body arched like that of a wary cat. In the ensuing darkness, his voice had a feline quality. ‘I’m afraid it’s not a very interesting story—hardly worthy of the buildup you’ve given it. However, if you insist . . . I bought some postcards while I was waiting for our friend to come out of the gents at Porto Ronco. I started writing them on the boat because I was so bloody bored. I tried to see how many clichés I could record—an absorbing pastime, you should try it sometime, I feel you are developing quite a talent for it. I wrote cards to myself and to you. For some reason—the scenery probably, all that slovenly charm—I had been thinking about Lottë; so I amused myself by jotting down a few clichés for her benefit. At Brissago, our friend went into the post office and produced a few clichés of his own. I tagged along in case he did anything interesting; but he is not very enterprising. Personally, I doubt whether he would ever make the journey East unless someone parcelled him up and sent him there! He wrote cards to his sister and Sir Harry Gethryn. As I had bought stamps it would have looked silly not to post my cards. Unfortunately, I forgot about the one to Lottë and that went, too.’ He reached out a hand, found cigarettes on the table, lit one. ‘Now. Perhaps you could tell me what this is all about.’
‘Miriam Kratz is here.’
There was a long pause, then Burke said:
‘Miriam Kratz! But why should she come here?’
It had not occurred to Mitchell until this moment that an explanation might be required of him. Burke repeated:
‘Why should she come here?’
What was he to say? Because she could trust no one but me to answer a question that any of a dozen people could have answered? Because she thinks I am ‘a l
ittle good?’ The lights came on again; they seemed very bright. Mitchell had not felt so helpless and exposed since the Gestapo had questioned him. Only this time, he had trapped himself. He said:
‘Lottë showed her your card.’
‘And she came here, immediately, just like that?’
Burke looked at Mitchell. ‘Every mongrel bitch comes sniffing after you,’ the look said. Mitchell felt the palms of his hands becoming moist.
‘I always thought it odd that someone who was so drearily devoted to her husband and child should choose to stay in West Berlin,’ Burke said.
‘It’s her only chance of getting help.’ Mitchell managed to keep his voice level. ‘You know that.’
‘On the contrary, I know very little about her.’ Burke’s eyes travelled over Mitchell’s face and down his body as though he was stripping him. ‘That little Hebrew slut is not my style. Not my style at all.’
Mitchell felt the blood throb in his face. ‘You surely can’t imagine . . .’
‘Then why is she here?’
‘Because you sent Lottë a card.’
Burke laughed. ‘You’ll have to do better than that.’ He waited, poised between belief and unbelief, wanting to think the worst, still unable to credit it. Now, if ever, was the moment to explain. If he spiced the tale with sufficient ridicule, Mitchell could convince Burke. But he remained obstinately silent. They stared at each other, engaged in a strange battle; the feeling between them was intense, although neither knew what they were doing or why or, least of all, where it would lead them. In a brief, intuitive moment, Mitchell saw that Burke would like to destroy him. The realization helped him to control his temper.
‘Don’t make too much of this, Dan,’ he said steadily. ‘She wanted a rest, that’s all.’
‘And she came to you!’
Mitchell dug his nails into the palms of his hands until the pain cleared his mind. It took quite an intellectual effort to decide to say nothing.
Burke shrugged his shoulders. ‘Oh well, we’ve been a long time in Berlin . . .’ He got off the bed and strolled across to the wash basin; he washed his hands and face fastidiously. It was not often that he had the advantage of Mitchell where a woman was concerned and he meant to get the maximum pleasure out of it. He reached for the towel and said: