*
Thank God that’s over with! was Gunther’s thought. He was rid of him and he had money. He drew out the bill—again five marks. He could eat nothing more, but now he wanted to finally see that swell film, which he had not gone to again yesterday because of Atze. He hoped it was still running today.
On Friedrichstrasse where he was waiting for the bus to the Stettin Train Station, Gunther was stopped by Saxon as he was about to get on.
Saxon was a little guy three years older but hardly taller than himself, with a pale, vicious face that seemed to pop up everywhere. He did everything and therefore always found lovers. None of the other boys could stand him, but no one ever got rid of him. With his long stride and swinging arms, he was on his legs the whole day, and he never came out of the Passage. He knew how to talk and, if not better than Atze, could outlast him. Nothing got him down: He shook off rudeness as a duck does water, and he was so used to beatings that he did not feel them anymore. He always maintained that he had not a penny in his pocket, but he was always flush.
He knew Gunther of course, and the latter knew him.
“Chick, where ya headed for?”
Although he was from Saxony—hence his nickname—Berlin had wiped out the friendly accent of Saxon’s home.
Gunther was angry, but had to answer.
“I’ll go with you!” And he followed Gunther to the top of the bus before he could be refused.
Naturally Gunther had to pay for both of them at the movie—and pay again when they were sitting and drinking together afterwards. When he finally wanted to go to his hotel, he saw that not enough was left of the five marks to be able to sleep there.
“Well, what does that hurt! Just come along with me to the flop.”
“Where?”
“Why, to the flop, where I always sleep.”
What else was there left!
The flophouse was a foul lodging house whose doors never stood still, night or day. There they and four others had three unclean beds, two men to each, Gunther and Saxon together, one mark the night per head. One would be glad if he came out the next day without having caught crabs (or something worse).
In the morning—for here they had to be out of the beds by nine—they were again knocking about together, for it was simply not possible to get away from Saxon, and so naturally he too learned the story of Gunther’s latest acquaintance.
He saw it from a purely businesslike standpoint.
“Course ya gotta go, when ya get five marks every time.”
Gunther realized that too, especially since between them they did not have twenty pennies and had to roam around the streets and the Friedrichstrasse Train Station, hungry, until three o’clock.
Three o’clock came.
“When will ya be done?” asked Saxon. “You can get it over with in an hour. Then let’s go to Uncle Paul’s and in the evening to the Adonis Lounge. I’ll wait here.”
Who was Uncle Paul? What was the Adonis Lounge? Gunther knew neither the one nor the other.
“Well, if you don’t already know them, then it’s really high time you got to know them,” was Saxon’s opinion.
Now Gunther really was curious.
It was agreed that Saxon would wait nearby.
At three he was on the bridge. What he intended to say in order to get away again as soon as possible, he had already more or less figured out.
4
Again his odd friend was already there, and again joy seemed to come over his serious face as he saw him approach.
In the morning, reluctantly—for he usually spoke with his colleagues and employees only when necessary—he had consulted with the manager of the packaging department, asking if some kind of position was available for a young person as apprentice, or if nothing else, as office boy.
The manager had shaken his head. Not to be thought of. Everything taken. He did not hide the fact that in this slack season, from now until summer, a position for a young boy was probably not readily found anywhere. In Berlin there were thousands of young boys around. Here in Berlin was not like in the provinces, though Herr Graff might not want to believe it.
So there was no chance of a position where he might keep an eye on him.
But today he did not want to let him leave, like yesterday, entirely unquestioned. They would be together the whole afternoon until evening. He wanted to take him somewhere into the open air and discuss everything calmly and thoroughly: how everything was to be now—with him and between them.
It happened differently.
For as soon as he began: “Well now, shall we spend the whole afternoon—” Gunther cut him short:
“I don’t have a long time today. I have to leave right away—”
“Well for heaven’s sake, whatever for?”
Well, his uncle had arrived and had written him that he should expect him.
His uncle? He had said nothing at all about an uncle: “I thought you had no relatives?”
No, not here. But he did outside the city. His uncle had written.
“To where did he write? You don’t have any kind of fixed address.”
Oh yes. When he had gone by his landlady’s yesterday evening, the letter had been there. A letter from the uncle who was coming through Berlin on a trip and whom he was supposed to meet at the train station at four o’clock. But he was traveling on already this evening. Only he had to go there without fail.
His listener became very serious and looked at him as he spoke.
But the now almost blue eyes were looking up at him so innocently that he rejected every suspicion as wicked and unworthy.
But he still remained serious and kept silent.
Finally, while the boy stood waiting before him, he said as determinedly as was possible for him (looking into this face!):
“Alright! If it must be, then go on. I realize that you can’t keep your relative waiting. But tell me one thing, Gunther! Are we really to become friends now? Do you want me to help you and find work for you? Then say so plainly. And if not, then say that just as frankly. I will not force myself on you.”
Then somewhat softer and only hesitantly: “For, the way it was yesterday and is today—you realize yourself that it can’t go on like this.”
Again the eyes, those beautiful eyes, looked up at him.
The five marks threatened to vanish.
“Of course I want it. I’m really happy that I have a friend to help me.”
“Good. Then come to my house tomorrow for the whole afternoon. In a pub or here on the street we can’t talk things over as we must. So, will you come tomorrow or not?”
Again the eyes looked guileless and the same answer came: “Of course I will.”
“Come along then and I’ll show you where I live. I can’t describe it. You have to see the house.”
“Is it far?”
Graff looked at his watch.
“When did you say your uncle is coming? At four? At the Stettin Train Station? It’s not yet half past three. No, it’s not far. Scarcely a quarter of an hour. If we go right away, you can be at the train station punctually at the proper time. I’ll show you the way and then take you to the tram, although it’s only ten minutes’ walk.”
They walked on, the one inwardly afflicted, the other inwardly angry. But there was no other way. Saxon would surely wait until four (and if not, that was just as well). Both kept silent.
They walked north, to Luisenplatz, and in fact hardly a quarter hour had passed when they stood at the entrance to the street that ended in a wall.
They stopped.
“Note the street, please, and that house, Gunther. It’s the last one. There, where the street ends and the wall begins. And be there tomorrow at three o’clock, there at the wall opposite the house. Just stand there. You won’t have to wait. I’ll be at the window. When you see me, come up and I’ll let you in. One flight of steps, to the left. Alright, have you understood everything correctly?” He repeated the details.
&
nbsp; Gunther had neither listened nor understood. For sure he would never come here and he had only one thought: finally to be free.
The older man looked at him with concern: “And you will definitely come?”
“Haven’t I always come?”
Yes, that was true. He had always come—yesterday and today, and punctually.
They walked on to the nearest tram stop. The car would come soon.
Graff had just enough time left to say:
“Today I looked around for work for you. You were right, it is very difficult to find work. But we mustn’t lose heart.”
He laid his hand on his shoulder. He felt, despite the warmth of the day, the cool, smooth skin of his cheek on his fingers, and he continued, urgently, as if imploring, so that the boy, keeping still and not moving under the hot hand, in spite of himself heard and remembered the words:
“One more thing, Gunther! Listen to me carefully.
“If your uncle, despite his original intention, should stay longer in Berlin and you can’t get away, or if something else should come up, so that you can’t come tomorrow, then remember that on Monday and each day of next week, somewhat after five o’clock, I’ll be on the bridge and will wait for you there. Are you listening—each day at five or a little later on the bridge!”
A tram car rattled up. It was the right one. They shook hands hastily. Gunther felt a paper bill in his hand and jumped onto the tram.
The man left behind walked slowly down the misty streets, his head lowered and without looking around him.
*
This new disappointment pained him more than he was willing to admit.
What was this now, this unexpected hindrance because of this uncle so suddenly dropped down from the skies!
He did not want to go out again. The day he had looked forward to was now spoiled. So he bought some food for his supper and walked on home.
He sat at his desk and propped his forehead in his hot hands.
What was to become of all this? How was he to find a position for him? How could he support him until one was found? The boy could not just spend night after night in one of these certainly objectionable hotels, which were at any rate not cheap. He needed things besides! That suit, so unsuitable for him, like his shoes, was already worn and covered with spots. And his underwear especially! From what he had seen of it, it was urgently in need of replacement. He must have a job, a place where he belonged, a room with dependable people who looked out for him.
He made a calculation.
If it went on this way and he gave Gunther five marks daily, by the end of the month that would amount to almost his whole salary. It was therefore unthinkable that the two of them could get along on his salary, not even if Gunther had a position (which probably would be as miserably paid as all those positions).
He himself lived quite simply, and his innate sense of order compelled him to get along with what he had. But he had, as he himself knew, one great trait: like on his first day in Berlin he had stopped at a large hotel, even if only in its cheapest and smallest room (it had cost a couple of marks more, but was still so much better than the best room in a second-rate hotel). So, too, he paid a lot only for good things, for good material and good underwear, and when he went to a concert or to the theatre, it was not the seats up in the third balcony that he took. He bought only the most necessary things for himself, but when he bought, he bought the very best (because, as he knew, that was at the same time always the most economical).
To be sure, he still had a couple thousand marks in the bank, the inheritance from his parents. But that money had to stay in there: for emergencies, his own unemployment, sickness.
Thus he calculated, or at least tried to calculate. But then he shoved everything away from him.
He did want to help him. He was really fond of him. It just had to work out, one way or another.
If he was fond of him—and how fond of him he was already!—then he had to put his trust in him. There really was no reason to doubt his sincerity or to mistrust him. That he wanted to go to his landlady yesterday, to pick up his things, was understandable: he really needed them. And this visit today—what was so remarkable about it? Everyone comes to Berlin sometime, why not his uncle?
No, he wanted to be glad—glad that he had found him again, glad that he had come, and had returned, and that they had been together, if only so briefly and quickly. Above all, he wanted to look forward to tomorrow, when he would have him here, here in this room and then all to himself alone! For the whole afternoon!
He wanted to think only about tomorrow!
*
There were still all kinds of things to take care of.
At first he thought of asking his landlady to set the coffee table for the afternoon for two people, but he immediately dropped the idea.
His relationship to her in these first weeks had become ever more distant. They often did not see each other for whole days. In the mornings his breakfast was set on a chair outside his room punctually at eight o’clock, and he took it in himself. Then when he came home in the afternoon or evening, he found his room made up, everything in flawless order: never was there a paper on his desk touched, he never had to ask a question or for a favor, there was never cause for any kind of complaint or grievance. He fetched fresh water from across the hall himself when he needed it, and he made his own tea. Punctually on the first of every month, his bill lay on his table. Just as punctually the next day he would leave the amount beside it.
Thus everything was just as he liked to have it, just as he wished. And yet, he felt there was something uncanny about the house. He was here, she was there—in the back rooms, which he never entered, of whose number and size he had no idea.
And it was quiet here. Almost too quiet. Hardly a car wandered into the street, where it was difficult to turn around. He seldom heard the doorbell ring. Then, always only a light shuffle and a muffled whispering could he hear (so as not to disturb him, he supposed). He never saw a soul on the stairs—in this forlorn house on a hidden city street. And then, over there stood the eternally silent, windowless wall.
Before the shops closed, he went out once more to shop for the next day: another cup (for him—his from now on, to drink from when he was here), especially good cigarettes, and a half-bottle of sweet wine (for it should be pretty lively—tomorrow!). He came back loaded with parcels and for the remainder of the evening gave himself over to his dreams.
His dreams were all woven around a blond, young head, a small, pale, and already beloved face, a tender, slim, figure, which soon—soon now!—was to sit there, opposite him, in that chair—in the comfortable one there. And this hand, his hand, would again be allowed to lie against the soft, cool, and smooth cheek and softly caress it.
5
Saxon waited patiently in hopes of a repeated, generous share in a five-mark bill. He would have waited until evening and then half the night, without wasting a word over it, if there was something to be gained.
Gunther finally arrived.
“Well, how was it?” Saxon inquired. “Did ya get it, yes? Well then, let’s go on to Uncle Paul’s. You’ll be amazed. There’s not another plate of pig’s knuckle for eighty pennies like it in Berlin.”
Uncle Paul’s saloon was quite close to the Friedrichstrasse Train Station.
All the chauffeurs and cab drivers of the whole region, with all the doormen and porters of the numerous neighboring hotels, plus a colorful group of other guests filled the saloon from early morning until closing time in the evening. It was a pure gold mine, and its fame was well founded.
Behind the bar stood the proprietor himself. Why he was called Uncle Paul by everyone from time immemorial, probably neither he nor any other person knew. His name was not Kruger and he had not the slightest resemblance to the great Boer leader. He had a fat, good-natured pug face, and his oversized, red, fleshy hands dripping constantly with beer. He did not know the word tired. He was always ready for a loud laugh, but
he could be damned nasty if a bill was not settled the way it had to be—at his place!
In the farthest corner of the large pub stood a round table. This was the famous Hustler Table.
Uncle Paul tolerated the table, its name, and the customers at it, because they always ate well and plenty. Nor were they louder there than was usual in the pub, and finally, the little crooks did want to live too. So why not at his place? He was not a crooked father, just a father to crooks, as he laughingly said.
The cops came here just as seldom as the johns did. The boys were among themselves, and safe from both.
*
It was still early in the day when Saxon arrived with Gunther so that there was sitting at the Hustler Table only a small, runty boy, at most fifteen years old, his nose hardly reaching over the table’s edge, so that he was not immediately visible.
He cried out with joy when he saw the two.
“Where did you come from? Hello Saxon! Hello Chick!” He gave each his little hand, for he knew them both from working the street.
Saxon, of course, could not contain himself.
“Gunther has got a steady relation. He was just now with him.”
Gunther became angry and gave Saxon an ungentle jab in the side.
“Oh, leave off the baloney. It’s not really a relationship.” They would have argued further, if there had not appeared just behind them three more boys: Tall Willy, Hamburger, and Brown George.
The last was a strikingly handsome boy, with thick, smooth, coal-black hair, eyes just as black, and splendid teeth, which he showed on every occasion (for he laughed easily and often). He bore his name not without right—his skin was like bronze, and the blood shone rosy through the smooth and flawless brown of his cheeks. The gentlemen “didn’t matter” to him, and he only went along when need required, but on the other hand, he could hardly rescue himself from them—or from women—and altogether was as lazy as a hippopotamus. Brown George was not without a healthy wit, although not a genuine Berliner.
Hamburger was no match for him. To be sure, he was likewise a quite handsome boy, but coarser, always in a good humor, however badly things were going for him (and often enough they went very badly for him). At the same time he was always obliging and ready to help, thoroughly honest, and armed with such a big mouth that no one lightly opposed him.
The Hustler: The Story of a Nameless Love From Friedrichstrasse Page 8