The Dancing Bear

by Frances Faviell

  “I live on my sisters,” he said bitterly. “If I were a pretty girl as they are, or even a pretty boy, I could earn enough once or twice in a week to keep me in comfort—but, as you see, I’m just an ordinary ugly fellow—and there’s no work for me.”

  I don’t know if Frau Altmann realized the full implication of this remark, but she was very angry indeed. Her pale face flushed. “How dare you speak like that, Fritz, and in front of our guest!”

  Lilli merely gave him a look which said plainly what she thought of him. I said I was sorry, that I had only asked because it was possible that we could do something to help him get employment.

  “I will never work for the Occupation,” he sneered.

  “Then you will not get any work at all, my boy,” commented his father quietly, “for everything is now under the control of the Allies; even if you are actually working under German supervision, it will be under orders from the Allied Occupation.”

  Fritz said that Lilli was in the Staatsoper and that it was still German.

  “No it is not”, she retorted with spirit. “We are entirely under Russian control really, as we would soon find out if we did not fall in with their wishes.”

  I asked her what she was dancing in at present. They were doing Sadko, which was the Russians’ favourite—the troops loved it. It was very long and began early, and she would soon have to leave us. I told her that I had been to the opera the previous week, and had seen her dancing in it. Did I like it? she asked. I said that the music was enchanting, but that it had seemed more like a pantomime full of transformation scenes than pure opera, but that I liked the theme—the search for happiness.

  Frau Altmann smiled. She said she preferred the more conventional operas.

  “I like Sadko immensely,” said Fritz violently; “it is full of fire, imagination, colour and movement. One gets sick of people dying all over the stage with daggers and swans.” He was another person when discussing something in which he was interested, showing an intelligence and appreciation of music which were astonishing.

  It was getting late—Lilli kept fidgeting and looking at the clock, but we could not open the bottle of wine and drink Pappi’s health because Ursula had not come.

  Frau Altmann was most punctilious about such things, and made a great ceremony of birthdays. I could see that she was uneasy herself. She went twice to the door when she thought she heard Ursula’s step. She had promised to be home by five o’clock, and although untidy and careless, she usually kept her word, said her mother.

  “She’s probably earning another coat,” said Fritz spitefully. “She doesn’t get them for nothing, you know.”

  And just then Ursula came, as she always did, in a little flurry, and out of breath from her haste. She was apologetic as she kissed her father on the top of his head, dropping a small packet into his lap, and greeted me charmingly as she flung off her coat. There were tear-stains on her flushed face in spite of her laughter. Frau Altmann looked from the tear-stains to me meaningly, but merely signalled to Fritz to open the wine, which had been put outside the window to cool. The cake was cut, and we drank the old man’s health. There was much chaffing as he untied his small gifts, for they were of a very utilitarian nature, but he was as pleased as a child with two razor-blades, some home-made cigarettes and the handkerchiefs which the girls had made and initialled from old linen.

  Stampie, it seemed, had sent quite a large parcel, which they considered magnificent. I dared not think how he had acquired all the things—I had already shut my eyes to his activities. They were not really my business. He had already been engaged on them for more than a year, and I was forced to admit, as he said sheepishly, that Occupation men much higher in rank and more important than he were engaged in far more dubious traffic.

  Lilli got up to go—and suddenly Ursula, who had been laughing and drinking her wine, burst into tears and told us why she was late. Things were missing from the house where she worked. One of the four Americans had missed a large quantity of cigarettes, chocolate and coffee from the cupboard in his room. The things had been bought the previous day at the U.S. Commissariat. There were only herself and the cook employed in the house. She had been kept for questioning by the four gentlemen. The things had not been found. The cook’s room had been searched. Ursula slept at her mother’s. They had informed the police who would shortly be arriving to search the house. The cook had insisted on this, since she herself had been searched. Ursula was obliged to warn us about it at once, although it was her father’s birthday, for they would be arriving at any minute now. There was a stunned silence.

  “Surely they don’t think that my daughter is a thief?” whispered Frau Altmann indignantly. “We are very poor—but we haven’t come down to that. We are not thieves.” She put her arms round the sobbing Ursula protectively.

  I got up to leave—it seemed to me that I was an intruder in this scene. The old man’s face was piteous in his effort to take it all in. Just then there were two loud knocks at the door, and Fritz admitted a U.S. Military Policeman and a member of the German police. He ushered them into the room, saying loudly,

  “Here are two uninvited fairies to your feast, Pappi!”

  The German spoke sharply to him and, apologizing to Frau Altmann, asked if her daughter had explained matters to her.

  The old lady spoke calmly and with immense dignity. “She has told me that you wish to search this house. Please look anywhere you like—you will not find any stolen goods here.”

  The Military Policeman, who was only a boy, looked miserably ill at ease when he saw the birthday table, the cake and the wine. He began apologizing too, saying that he had to perform his duty, however unpleasant it might be. His eyes went from Ursula’s flushed, tense face to Lilli’s lovely calm one and then to Fritz, who looked murderous.

  “It is unnecessary to apologize—please proceed. You will need candles, we have no electricity left.” Frau Altmann’s placid voice was quite steady. I admired her control. The hatred on Fritz’s face as he watched the two men go into the next room was appalling.

  Ursula sat quite still, beside her father. I gave her a cigarette which she accepted gratefully. Frau Altmann had implored me to stay when I had again tried to leave.

  I asked how many rooms they had. There were two bedrooms, one for the parents and one for the girls. Fritz slept on a divan in the sitting-room. There was the small kitchen and a bathroom. All the other rooms were too damaged to be safe. I asked Herr Altmann if the house was their own. He nodded.

  “I bought it for Maria when we were first married,” he said; “she loved the garden—you can’t imagine what it was like. It was a beautiful garden—but now ...”

  Now it was a mass of rubble and stones and pieces of iron girders. The small part they had cleared and cultivated was used for vegetables.

  The police came back with Frau Altmann. They had found nothing, but they wished to search this room.

  We all stood up as they looked in the two cupboards’ opened all the drawers in the cabinet, and then began questioning Frau Altmann about the times of Ursula’s comings and goings. I tried again to leave but she said that unless I was in a hurry she would be grateful if I would stay with her. She was so very sorry that it should have happened to spoil the gemütlichkeit on Pappi’s birthday.

  The young American M.P. asked me if the car outside was mine. I nodded, realizing that by this time Stampie would have arrived to fetch me. He seemed terribly embarrassed and said to the other policeman in atrocious German, “Come on, we’re wasting our time—the things were only missed today. The girl’s only just come in from her former questioning; she couldn’t have got rid of them that fast.”

  I looked at Ursula sitting expressionless, smoking. Her face told nothing now. The German policeman was not satisfied at giving up the search so soon. He said that she could easily have handed the goods to someone in the street. The faintest flicker crossed Fritz’s face as he said this. A muscle moved in that lean young j
aw—or maybe I was mistaken and it was just the candlelight.

  “So! You know nothing about the things? Nein?” insisted the German, writing in his notebook.

  “I haven’t the faintest idea where they are,” said Ursula in perfect American.

  “Answer in German, please,” said the man stiffly. She repeated the words in German.

  “Sign this,” he commanded.

  “Read it first, Ursi,” shouted Fritz, “don’t sign until you have read it—they’re all swine and will get you somehow!”

  “Guard your tongue!” barked the man.

  She read it carefully. “He can actually write,” she said shakily, and signed her name with a flourish.

  The German policeman looked at the table, the wine, the cigarettes, and the old man’s cigar which I had brought him.

  He said slowly, “You seem to have money enough here.”

  Fritz started to shout something, but his mother cut him short. “It is my husband’s birthday,” she explained. “What we have is our own affair—our British friend here is very good to us.”

  I offered the man a cigarette which he accepted. I saw him look carefully at the brand as he thanked me.

  “It’s English, not American,” said Fritz belligerently.

  I offered him a lift, telling Frau Altmann that I would be expected at home—it was John’s bed-time. I saw that she was near to tears. She had been disgraced in her own house on her husband’s birthday. I pressed her hand and told her not to worry.

  Stampie cursed all police after we had dropped the two on the Hohenzollerndamm. He hated all police—especially the Redcaps, as the Military ones were called.

  “A darned shame on the old boy’s birthday,” he said, when I told him about it. “I’m going down there after duty tonight—I’ll cheer him up a bit.”

  I was thinking of the expression on Ursula’s face when they asked her if she knew where the missing things were, and of the flicker on that of Fritz.

  I thought of how I would feel if I worked in a place where each man brought home every week great cartons containing thousands of cigarettes, worth a fortune in starving Berlin, whole cases of coffee, and box upon box containing bars of chocolate. Every tin of coffee could be sold for 500 or 600 marks, every packet of cigarettes for 200 to 250, and each small bar of chocolate for 30 marks.

  Had these men who were well fed and even pampered with their snack bars and ice cream parlours open all day, in addition to their three good meals, any idea of the temptation they were putting before these starving people? Our own rations were small, but even they were worth a fortune. The private soldier was worth £25 a week on his cigarette, chocolate and soap ration alone, and one single act of immorality would provide a girl with enough cigarettes to buy her food for the rest of the week.

  It was a mad, terrible world, and a very tough one here in Berlin. Girls like Lilli and Ursula could easily make money if they wished. But what if they didn’t wish? Not every girl whose standards had perhaps been lowered by rape had descended to prostitution. Many had a boy friend or “regular” protector who provided the necessary cigarettes. Some girls might prefer to steal.

  I saw Ursula two days later on Kurfürstendamm as I was coming out of the hairdresser’s. She was wearing the blue coat, and her hair was blowing about her face; as usual she was hurrying.

  I called her into the car to talk to me; it was too cold to stand about. I asked how things were.

  “All right,” she said. “They decided not to go on with the questioning—they called the whole thing off when the Military police began going into the question of the disposal of the rations on the Black Market. You see, I do the selling for them now. They didn’t want too many questions asked—so they called it off.”

  “And where did the stuff really go?” I asked.

  Ursula looked away then burst out angrily, “They didn’t give me enough rake-off. It’s a lot of trouble, and Fritz has to get his share—he passes the stuff on—they get thousands and thousands of marks. We got barely enough to buy bread and potatoes. Mutti and Pappi don’t have enough food, and I’m not willing to sleep with them for a packet of cigarettes or a bar of chocolate. I’m worth more than that. I’d rather ...” Her voice trailed off.

  “Steal,” I said quietly. “Tell me, how did you get rid of the things so quickly?”

  She said that Fritz had met her in the street at lunch-time and she had slipped the things to him. “I had noticed for some days that the cupboard was left open,” she said dolefully. “Anyone could have taken the stuff, but I’m sorry now—I feel beastly—I suppose I must tell them before I’ll feel any better.”

  I asked her how she got the coat. She looked away again, muttering that she had paid for it all right, it had been well earned. She would not look at me when I said: “So what you did to get a coat, you are not willing to do for a packet of cigarettes or a bar of chocolate—is that it?”

  “That’s it,” she said firmly. “This coat is worth all of fifty dollars.”

  She had clearly worked out her own value and her own code.

  “Why don’t you keep up your music?” I asked, noting the misery in her young face. “Your teacher told me you are very talented.”

  For answer she held out her hands. They were rough, red and hard. “The cook won’t do any cleaning,” she said briefly; “it all falls on me.”

  Her logic was incomprehensible to me. If she were willing to sleep with one of the Americans for a coat, surely that same man would have paid her enough to save her from scrubbing floors and washing dishes.

  “It’s Mutti,” she explained, a deep flush flooding her face. “She has no idea what I do. She doesn’t see things as they are. I am obliged to have a daily job to satisfy her. She wouldn’t believe that I earn money unless I were out at work all day. You saw how suspicious she was about the coat.”

  “Fritz didn’t help you about that,” I said drily.

  “It’s not his business—he’s getting altogether too inquisitive,” she said angrily.

  She got out of the car, holding out her hand persuasively. “I guess you think I’m a slut,” she smiled sadly, “and I don’t know why I tell you all this—but you do understand, don’t you?” Her accent was so Middle West that it was amazing. It was almost impossible to tell her from an American girl.

  She was gone before I could answer, with her coat swirling round her slim legs and her hair flying in the wind.

  VI

  THE fifteenth of November was cold, grey and miserable. A fitting day for executions. Today the Nuremberg war criminals were to be hanged, Göring, von Ribbentrop, Keitel, Rosenberg, Frank, Frick, Streicher, Jodl, Sauckel and Seyss Inquart.

  I had asked the Altmanns what they thought about it. They knew me well enough to speak more freely now. Frau Altmann was quite definite that they were all war criminals and deserved death. The others were silent—even old Oskar. Frau Altmann was positive about the existence of those concentration camps without having to be shown the photographs of the revolting horrors of Belsen, Buchenwald and Ravensbruck. She had helped some very dear friends to escape one of them. Their only “crime” had been that they had a little Jewish blood in them. She had hidden them. Someone had known and had reported her. She had only just escaped being sent to one of those terrible places herself; after weeks in prison being “questioned” she had suddenly been released. She shuddered as she recalled the indignities she had suffered, and I saw Ursula look quickly at Lilli when her mother said that someone had betrayed her.

  Frau Altmann said that she thought it had been criminal of the Goebbels to murder their six children. What right had any parents to take the lives of their children? I said that the Goebbels had stated that the reason for the act was that a world without the Third Reich would be a world unfit for those children to live in.

  It was then that Fritz said violently that the world was in any case no fit place to live in—there was no room in it for anyone with imagination and intelligence.<
br />
  “I suppose by that you mean yourself,” said Ursula tartly.

  Lilli said slowly, “Lots of people have thought that. It’s up to you. There are plenty of ways of getting out of it.”

  Frau Altmann was still sighing over the Goebbels children. She had known Frau Goebbels—maybe it was that which had saved her from the concentration camp. “She was a good woman,” she affirmed stoutly, “but completely under her evil husband’s thumb. But they were lovely children. All the Berliners loved them. Helga, Hilde, Helmut, Holde, Helda and Heide. I knew them all—and Helmut was the sweetest. It was wicked to murder them.”

  Autumn was rapidly giving way to winter. The mornings and evenings were bitterly cold. Fuel was very scarce, and our radiators barely warm. But we were lucky to have any heating at all.

  John had a heavy cold and Lotte had been reading to him when I reached home that day. I knew that she had been in Berlin during the siege and sacking of the city. I asked her what she thought of the hanging of the war criminals. She thought it was wrong, she said. The men had only been doing what they had been ordered to do. Germans were brought up to be obedient—and indeed she and Gisela were examples of that. They carried out orders to the letter.

  I asked her what it had been like during those last weeks before the capitulation of Berlin. For answer she fetched her diary for the months of April and May 1945. I sat there reading it—and could not put it down.

  I read of those last weeks during April when the Berliners realized that things were hopeless, of the broadcasts telling them that Hitler would remain in the capital and that every man must help defend it to the last; of Lotte’s life with her friends in the cellars without light, water, or food; of the lack of news; of the rumours, fantastic rumours. The terrifying land torpedo, the Stalinorgel, used by the advancing Russian army pounded them ceaselessly day and night, and street-fighting going on all around them. I read of Lotte going out to forage for food—for they were starving—and of her seeing the bodies of nine young Germans, scarcely more than children, hanging from the street lamp posts. They had been hanged as deserters by the S.S. for trying to do what their leaders had already done—escape from the doomed city. On each was stuck a notice saying that he was not fit to be a German.