Circles of Time (47 page)
Authors: Phillip Rock
“I gather Alex is happy there.”
“Why shouldn't she be? Little Colin racing around on the beach all day, brown as an Indian. And the new baby ⦠and the new house in La Jolla with the most breathtaking view of cliffs and the sea ⦠and James's business growing by leaps and bounds. Happy? That's a bit of an understatement. But she deserves it. Plucky girl, my Alex.”
Martin had come to look on Abingdon Pryory as a retreat. If it had been Lord Stanmore's design to create a sanctuary from the turmoils of the second decade of the twentieth century, he had succeeded. The harsher realities of the world were screened out by the gates. In the great, rambling house, in the stables and gardens, orchards and lawns, it was Edwardian England at the zenith of its opulence and grace. It was not the best place for a news correspondent to spend much time. The temptation to pluck lotus from the trees was too great. He came for an occasional weekend, or to rest up after some particularly grueling assignment. He had come back from two months in Greece and the Balkans, had seen Zankov's murder squads gunning down the Communists in Sofia, and had watched the Italian fleet bombard Corfu and land troops in a fishing village filled with dead Greeks. All in all, a harrowing summer. And here at the Pryory the leaves fell soundlessly in the woods, and sheep inched across the lawns near the tennis court, keeping the grass clipped, and the horses trotted from the stables into the dawn pastures. There was peace, harmonyâand honey still for tea.
“I wish you'd stay another week, Martin,” the earl said as he turned the car into the gravel road leading to the house. “We so enjoy having you.”
“Not half as much as I enjoy being here, Tony. But things are piling up in London, and Kingsford arrives Monday from New York.”
“This chap Kingsford. A go-getter, I understand. Fellow I met at a golf club in San Diego advised me to buy a few hundred shares in his company. Not the news agency, the other oneâCBC Radio. I bought five hundred shares and the ruddy things went up a dollar a share a week later. Seems to have the touch.”
“I wouldn't say
touch.
Scott Kingsford knows just what to
grab
and how to squeeze the hell out of it.”
H
E HAD BOUGHT
Jacob's old flatâa ninety-nine-year lease. The neighborhood was becoming seamier as more and more clubs and restaurants crowded into Soho, but he felt comfortable in the place and appreciated the convenience of being so close to the center of things. It took him a day and a night to get used to the ceaseless rumble of traffic along Regent Street after the stillness of Abingdon. Finding sleep to be impossible, he pored over the accumulated dispatches from INA field reporters and the tips and leads from scores of stringers, looking for a story he could cover in depth. He decided on Turkeyâthe withdrawal of the Allies' Army of the Orient, the imminent proclamation of Mustapha Kemal as first president of the new republic....
“Germany,” Kingsford said, cutting into a double-thick mutton chop at the Savoy Grill. “I want you to go back to Germany at the end of the month.”
Martin played with his own food, moving a grilled lamb kidney from one side of his plate to the other. “Why there?”
Kingsford chewed thoughtfully, then downed the mouthful with a swallow of Guinness. “Number of factors. First of all, as of this afternoon, the mark dropped toâare you ready for this?âtwenty-five billion, two hundred sixty million, one hundred eighty thousand and no cents to the
buck.
And they bitch in New York because hot dogs went up a nickel.” He sliced off another chunk of meat. “The German monetary system no longer exists. The zeroes are fantasies. They could print a ten-trillion-mark note and it wouldn't buy an English sixpence. That's one reason you're goingâor, rather, living up to our agreement, why I would
like
you to go. It's your decision.”
“I'm open-minded about it, Scott. But I've written about the inflation. It's yesterday's news.”
Kingsford waved his fork at Martin's nose. “I'm not talking about
writing.
You won't be writing a line in Berlin. You'll be talkingâon the radio.”
Martin gaped at him. “Radio?”
“Radio Berlin. They have a honey of a station. Telefunken equipmentâa damn near two-thousand-kilowatt arc converter, the works.”
Martin took a slurp of burgundy. “I've never talked into a microphone. I wouldn't know how to go about it.”
“Simple. You open your mouth and move your lips.”
“No point in being facetious.”
Kingsford's grin was huge. “I love, admire, and respect you, Marty, but you're an old-fashioned sonofagun. It's a wonder you don't wear celluloid collars and high-button shoes. Radio is the future, and that future is right here, alive and kicking.” He waved his fork like a baton. “It's a new kind of journalism. The news coming into a million living roomsâhell, ten million living rooms. Fresh, immediateâwhile it's happening. Can you imagine reporting a
war
over the radioâthe sound of guns in the background, screams and yells? Reality. There is nothing more real than the sound of the human voice. There's greater impact in that
sound
than in a newspaper headline a foot high printed in red.”
“I imagine you're right.”
“Of course I'm right. I haven't pumped millions into CBC because I think radio's a toy.”
“I still don't see how you can make money. Everything you broadcast is free.”
“You've been away from the States too long, Marty. Sure, it's freeâfree music, baseball games, news. People getting something for nothing every time they turn on their sets. But America isn't Europe. The government doesn't own the radio stations. We can sell air time to companies who have a product they want to move. A short message over the radio can sell a lot of toothpaste or long winter underwear. There isn't too much of that yet, but it's growing steadily. It'll take some time to pay off, but don't worry your head about my going broke.”
“That's the least of my worries. This broadcast from Berlinâ”
“Two broadcastsâ
two.
One in German at about six
P.M.
Berlin time; the other at midnight, in English, for transmission to New York.”
“You can do that?”
“You bet. If I showed you the radio tower I just built at Sandy Hook, you wouldn't believe your eyes. This is going to be a historic broadcast, and an important one.” He leaned closer toward Martin and lowered his voice. “A lot of things are taking place in Washington these days. I'm not one to speak ill of the dead, but it was a blessing for progress when Harding dropped dead. Coolidge may look like a sour apple, but he's a smart, honest guy and not afraid to ask for advice. He wants stability in Germany and he wants it now. So do the financiers in America and here. They want to invest in Germany and do business, but not with the mark sliding like a pig on ice. There's a plan being worked out between Washington, the Bank of England, and the new German finance ministers. I don't know the details yet, no one does, but you'll be told the whole story when you get to Berlin in November.”
“When is the broadcast to take place?”
“Saturday, November third.”
“Will you be there?”
“I'd like nothing better, but I have to be back in New York by the first.” A wistful look came into his eyes. “Berlin won't be the same when the inflation's over, will it? You know, Marty, I once spent over two hundred
million
for a piece of ass.”
T
HE WANING DAYS
of October brought a warning of winter in bitter winds and low, sullen clouds. It was too dangerous to fly. He took the channel steamer to Rotterdam and then traveled by train to Berlin. Dix met him at the station with his car and drove him to the Hotel Bristol, through a city bleak and cold, but crowded with people. There was an air of delirium in the rushing throngs. Those who had jobs were being paid daily, or even twice daily, and then hurried to the shops with their thick bundles of marks, hoping to buy something, anything, before the money turned useless in their hands. The mark, on this first day of November, had plummeted to one hundred and thirty
billion
to the dollar. Kingsford's two hundred million wouldn't have bought much of a woman now.
“Did you find Herr Kingsford in good spirits?” Dix asked.
“Happy as a fed tiger,” Martin said gloomily. “Are you up to date on what this broadcast is all about?”
“Reasonably. Herr Schacht will be sending me more data tomorrow.”
“I'm not familiar with the name.”
“You soon will be. Hjalmar Horace Greeley Schacht. Head of the Darmstadt National Bank. He's giving advice to the new finance minister, Hans Luther, on a plan to go into effect on the fifteenth of the month. It's simple but brilliant. There'll be a new currency called the rentenmark, backed by a supposed mortgage on what gold there is left and on
all
of Germany's land and assets. It'll be pegged at the prewar rate of the old mark, four point two to the dollar. The rumor is that the Bank of England will participate in underwriting the new marks and that the Americans will rework the reparation agreements to be more realistic and less punishing. Thank God this madness is coming to an end. Democracy never stood a chance while a postage stamp cost a year's salary.”
“And the broadcast, Dix. What am I to talk about?”
“On the German broadcast you'll interview Schacht and Luther, starting off by saying that America is deeply concerned about the deteriorating financial condition of the country. Schacht and the minister will then go into details on their plan. All very dry and formal. The midnight beaming to New York will be what you do best, a kind of verbal article about what inflation means in human terms. Pull out all stops, as Kingsford would say. Pluck a few heartstrings. The Yanks may have talked about hanging the Kaiser and General Ludendorff, but they don't like to hear of women and children starving to death because they can't afford the price of bread. It's a public-relations broadcast, Martin, to pave the way for whatever conciliatory plan President Coolidge is working on.”
“It sounds simple enoughâif I don't get stage fright at the last minute.”
“You won't. Forget about the microphone. Simply pretend you're in your own living room talking to friends.” He pulled up in front of the Bristol and a uniformed doorman hurried to the side of the car. “I'll drop by later if you'd likeâwe could go to the Romanische for a taste of the low life.”
“I had enough low life in London with Kingsford.”
Dix laughed. “I know what you mean. He told me once, quite seriously, that he required two women a dayâfor health reasons!”
     Â
Hotel Bristol, Berlin. Sunday, November 4, 1923
     Â
Observations and reflections.
            Talking over the radio is like jumping into a chilly lake. The idea of going into the water is repellent, even terrifying, but once inâwell, the water's fine. I couldn't hear myself, naturally, but Dix and a dozen or more people came into the studio after the broadcast and patted me on the back. They all said my voice sounded deep and resonantâa voice of
authority!
            Hello, America. This is Martin Rilke speaking to you from Berlin, Germany....
            I can't for the life of me understand why I started out that way. It just seemed like a natural thing to say, like talking to a friend. Hello, John ⦠Hello, America. Well, it's overâand I hope that was the last time. Not as unpleasant an experience as I thought it would be, but I still prefer shorthand, the typewriter, and the cable office. Scott Kingsford was right. I'm old-fashioned.
            Hjalmar Horace Greeley Schacht. Extraordinary name for an extraordinary man. Prickly, brilliant, a chain smoker; not much for small talk, but sure of what he's after and what he intends to getâwhich is financial health for Germany. He expects the mark to tumble to four trillion by the middle of the month. When it does, he will permit it to drop to exactly four point two trillion and then wipe out twelve zeros. A theatrical touch. He's in his early forties, but likes to be referred to as the Old Wizard. After the broadcast he handed me one of the new rentenmarks as a souvenir. It's still nothing but printed paperâbut nicely printed paper, he told me with a wink.
            And so it will end soon. Order and stability, the matrix of any nation, will return. But how much damage has been done? Can the scars ever be erased? Stability, even if it comes tomorrow, will be too late for millions of people. The once solid middle class has been wiped out, the young have pinched faces and rickety legs, and the vaunted Lutheran morality of the old days is now a painted whore's face along the Kurfürstendamm.
His eyes were getting tired and he put pen and notebook away, poured a glass of Cognac, and sat in bed to drink it. Wind drove a thin, cold rain against the windows. He sipped the brandy, listened to the wind, and thought of ragged people huddled on the subway steps of Spittelmarkt, and of men curled under their wagons in the leafless Tiergarten while their unsheltered horses nuzzled the freezing grass.