Death in Rome (5 page)

She was in a small room, the smallest one in the hotel, that had been her desire, for brother-in-law
Friedrich Wilhelm,
who wouldn't understand that it was she who had to remove the blot from the name of Germany,
Friedrich
Wilhelm
had undertaken the journey for her sake, so Anna said too, and
Friedrich Wilhelm
Pfaffrath patted Eva
Judejahn
gently on the shoulder and said, 'There, there, Eva, we'll get our Gottlieb back, just you see,' and she shuddered and bit her lip because he had said Gottlieb, he'd never dared to do that before, and it was treason to call the standard-bearer, SS-general and one of the highest figures in the godless Party Gottlieb, because
Judejahn
hated the name, priestly slime left on him by the schoolmaster his father, and he didn't want to love God. Family and friends called him
Götz,
while officially and in public he was G.
Judejahn, Götz
was an abbreviation of Gottlieb dating from his wild
Freikorps
days, but
Friedrich Wilhelm,
the pedant and owner of the leather-bound edition of Goethe, had found
Götz
unworthy, though it was pithy and Germanic, but it also summoned up the famous lines in his mind,
{*}
and it was a borrowed, occupied name, one should just carry whatever name one was baptized with, and so, daring and flush with confidence, he again said Gottlieb, although he too found the name ridiculous and unmanly. Black-clad she walked. Walked clad in black from the window overlooking the courtyard to the mirror over the wash-basin, stalked like a caged beast in a cell. She had kept her mourning all through the years, except in the detention, camp, because she'd been arrested in her travelling-clothes, but once she was released, she borrowed a black dress from her sister, because her own clothes had disappeared, her wardrobes looted, and the houses
Judejahn
had owned had been taken away from her. And when her husband got in touch, to the perplexity of the family she did not put aside her mourning, because she hadn't been mourning her husband, the hero missing in action, and the fact that he was alive only added to the reason for mourning, he would ask after their son, she had been unable to safeguard him, and maybe
Judejahn
himself had gone to Canossa and was living like a prince; she didn't mind him sleeping with other women, he had always done that and told her about it, that was part of a warrior's life, and when he made babies, then they were warrior babies and good stock, recruits for the storm troopers and the
Führer,
but it disturbed her that he had hidden away in the Levant. She guessed that he too had perpetrated treason, blood-treason and racial betrayal in the soft enemy climate, in rose-scented harem darkness, in garlic-reeking caves with Negresses and Jewesses, who had been waiting for revenge, and were panting for German sperm. Eva would have liked to raise an army to fetch these children, Judejahn's bastards, home: to put them to the test, and have them live as Germans or die as half-castes. The kitchen boy in the yard was whistling again, it was another nigger song, brash and cheeky and scornful, and the laughter in the lobby rolled up the stairs and along the corridor to her, plump, complacent, and sometimes cackling.

Oberbürgermeister Friedrich Wilhelm Pfaffrath was sitting with Anna his wife and Dietrich his younger son in the lounge of the German hotel, and already they had made contact with visiting compatriots, with Germans of similar background and outlook, fortunate survivors but with short memories like themselves. VW-owners, drivers of Mercedes, redeemed by German efficiency and now once more valued bringers of foreign currency, they were conversing and drinking sweet vermouth, and on the table were street maps and guidebooks, because they were planning expeditions to Tivoli and to Frascati, but also to the rebuilt monastery of Monte Cassino; they meant to visit the battlefields, which held no terrors for these people, and one of their number would look and find and shout, 'This was our battery position, we were spitting down from here, here is where we were dug in, here is where we held the line. ' And then he would show what a fine fellow he was, hats off, because he admired himself as an upright warrior, a sporting killer, so to say, he would talk about Tommy Atkins and GI Joe, and maybe even about Anders and his Polish army, but only maybe because Polacks were still Polacks. And in the military cemetery they would pay tribute to themselves and the dead with exalted feeling all round. The dead didn't laugh, they were dead; or they had no time and didn't care who among the living came to see them, they were changing phases, they climbed out of life dirty and guilty, perhaps not even personally guilty, into the wheel of births to a new repentance, a new guilt, a new pointless incarnation. Friedrich Wilhelm Pfaffrath thought it rude of Judejahn to be late. But perhaps he wasn't yet in Rome, perhaps he had experienced difficulties getting there, trouble with a passport maybe, his case was sensitive and required careful handling. Things shouldn't be rushed, but Pfaffrath was convinced that the time had come, seeing as his brother-in-law had succeeded in staying alive, to lose the file on Judejahn, carefully, discreetly, without fuss—one might still be compromised, some unpatriotic type might squeal—but the time of hanging was definitely over, for them at least, the Americans had come to their senses, they now had a truer measure of German circumstances and German usefulness, and vengeful judgements and hatred were no longer wise or appropriate. Roosevelt was dead and suspected of Communist collaboration. And who was Morgenthau? A nebbish! Anyone who'd survived up until now would survive in future. And maybe Judejahn could be found a job in the Agricultural Union, just to begin with, and Eva would snap out of her craziness, because, no question, he, Friedrich Wilhelm Pfaffrath, was a nationalist, but mistakes had been made, you had to own up to them and make a fresh start. Hunger had made Prussia great! And wouldn't that apply to the rest of the country too? They'd come on a lot already. Not in terms of hunger—that was a figure of speech, a fortifying legend from past times of pride and shortages—because hunger was just the rumbling of empty bellies after wars that had been lost through deceit, best not to think about that, but in terms of prosperity, that was real and tangible and worth pursuing. And might the new standard of living not finally convince the sons, the lost sheep of the break-up of Germany, those driven away by a happily brief period of chaos, to come home to the ancestral way of their people? The Federal Republic had its democratic weaknesses, certainly, and for the moment it was hard to do anything about them, but overall there was order in the occupied land, and everything was ready for a tighter rein. Soon they would be able to see a little further, prospects weren't bad, and Pfaffrath had the right kind of track record; but as far as the sons were concerned, their lack of common sense, their neuroses, the way they followed their so-called consciences, that was just a sign of the times, a sickness of the times, and in time it would be cured like an overlong puberty. Friedrich Wilhelm Pfaffrath had in mind less his nephew Adolf Judejahn than Siegfried, the elder of his two sons, who had left him, while with Dietrich, the younger, he was content: he was now a Goth, had joined his father's fraternity, had learned corps regulations, acquired connections, was approaching his final exams, and was looking forward to the visit to the battlefield at Monte Cassino, as was only right for a young person. But Siegfried was somehow degenerate. All right, if he had to—let him be a kapellmeister: there were well-paid jobs in music too. Friedrich Wilhelm Pfaffrath was a well-informed man, and it had come to his ears that Siegfried was in Rome. That seemed to him like a good omen for a possible clearing of the air and reconciliation. It wouldn't be easy, because Siegfried still seemed to be wading in a swamp, figuratively speaking, and the programme of the musical congress was full of surrealism, cultural Bolshevism and negroid newfangledness. Was the boy blind? But perhaps that was the way you made your name nowadays, now that the Jews were back in business internationally, dishing out fame and prize-money once again. Pfaffrath had also read somewhere that Kürenberg would be conducting Siegfried's symphony, and it came back to him. 'Do you remember that Kürenberg,' he asked his wife, 'who was our General Musical Director in '34, and was all set to go on to Berlin?' 'He married that Aufhäuser woman,' replied Anna. 'Yes,' said Pfaffrath, 'that's why he couldn't go to Berlin, and we weren't able to keep him, either. ' And Pfaffrath had the impression that at that time, before the gauleiters had acquired all power for themselves, when he was Oberpresident of the province, he had supported Kürenberg, and that pleased him now, because it suggested that in choosing to conduct and promote the work of the son, Kürenberg was gratefully acknowledging the help of the father. But

up in the cage of her room, Eva listened out for the avenger's footfall.

Spinning out of the revolving door, the porter's hand, white-gloved lackey's hand, hangman's hand, death's hand had given the carousel of ingress and egress momentum, most respectfully, your humble servant, always at your service, sir, a tip for death, sir. Spun by his hand out of the revolving door, Judejahn felt he'd been thrown out of the hotel, out of the security of money and rank, out of the safety of power that stood behind him, borrowed power to be sure, foreign power, the power of another race even, dusky Levantine power, but nevertheless state power with suzerainty and its own flag—all at once he felt powerless. It was the first time in a very long time that Judejahn had stepped out, a man among men, a civilian, without protection, without an escort, without a weapon, a stout elderly fellow in a dark suit. It threw him the way no one paid him any attention. Passersby touched him, brushed past him, knocked into him and muttered a quick desultory 'Pardon'. Pardon for Judejahn? He took a couple of strides. No one was keeping a respectful distance. Judejahn could have gone back inside the hotel, he could have rung the diplomatic mission of his employers, and he would have been sent the automobile with the Arab licence plates. Or he could have merely waved to the hotel porter, and the white-gloved and serviceable fellow would have whistled up a taxi-cab with his shrill little flute. Back then—how stiffly they had stood, his guard of honour! Two lines of black uniforms. Twenty outriders, a car in front of him, another behind him. But he wanted to walk. He probably hadn't walked through a city for thirty years. When Berlin was a glowing inferno, when the whole world was on Judejahn's heels, he had walked a little, had crawled through debris, climbed over bodies, romped through ruins and then he'd been rescued. How? Brought low by chance, or, as his Führer would have said, by fate, doused with petrol, burned to ashes, and then not finished after all, the Phoenix resurrected itself, fate had rescued Judejahn and led him to the Promised Land, not the land of Israel, but that of some other dusky tribe. And there Judejahn hadn't been on foot either, only on the exercise ground, taking a few steps in the desert.

He got a grip on himself of course, old dreadnought, and if he fell, here was a railing to hand. Wrought-iron palings rose like spears into the sky—a palisade of power, wealth and rejection. A large automobile slid across the gravel drive.
Judejahn
remembered. He too had driven up here, more sweep, more gravel crunch, but he had once driven up here. A sign informed him that he was standing in front of the United States Embassy. Of course,
Judejahn
hadn't been to see the Americans; they hadn't invited him, they hadn't even been there at the time. But he had, definitely, so there must have been something Fascist in the building, some big production, and they had failed to exercise the necessary rigour. What was the
Duce?
A sentimental indulgence on the part of the
Führer. Judejahn
had a particular loathing for Southerners. He approached the
cafés
on the Via Veneto, and there they all were, not just the despised Southerners, the whole international clique was sitting there, sitting together as they had once done on the Kurfurstendamm, sitting there playing peace on earth, cooing in each other's ears, the deracinated ones, international, homeless golden jetsam, flying, restless and greedy, from one city to another, snooty vultures, escapees from German order and discipline.
Judejahn
detected mainly English spoken, the American version predominated, they were the ones who had benefited from the war, but he also heard Italian, French and other sounds, occasionally German—not so much here, for they were off on their own patch, making themselves pleasant to one another. Scum, rabble, Jews and Jew-slaves! The words frothed in his mouth like gall, and coated his teeth. He beheld no uniforms, no insignia on chest or shoulders, he looked out into a world without distinction or honour; there were only the epaulettes on the monkey jackets worn by employees of the gastronomic trade. But hello, what was this formation, scarlet-red, advancing against the street of the exploiters, against the plutocratic boulevard? Was the scarlet column a symbol of authority, an emblem of power? Was it the golden horde, the Young Guard, the Giovinezza, coming to clean up? Alas, it was a bitter deception that had been practised on
Judejahn;
they were surplices, drifting about the gaunt forms of young priests, and, far from marching, the red horde was walking in a disorderly rout, and to
Judejahn
it even appeared as though they had a swaying and effeminate walk, because it had escaped his notice, while in power, the manly and determined way priests faced death under a dictatorship, and fortunately he did not guess that the scarlet-robed ones were alumni
of
the German Seminary in Rome—that would have disturbed him even more. Money governed the Via Veneto. But didn't
Judejahn
have money? Could he not throw his weight around and buy as others bought? Some chairs stood outside a bar, extraordinarily flimsy-looking yellow chairs, they were ridiculous, chairs not built to be sat on, they looked like a flock of crazy canaries, you could almost hear them twittering. And
Judejahn
felt drawn to this bar, because, for some reason, it was empty at this hour. He didn't take a seat outside, he scorned the perilous chairs, went into the gaping interior and stood by the bar. He propped his elbow on it, he felt weary, it must be the climate that was sapping his strength, and he ordered a beer. An effeminate fellow in a purple tailcoat indicated to him that if he wanted to drink his beer standing at the bar, he would have to buy a coupon for it first, from the cashier. Behind the cash-desk sat the smiling Laura. Her lovely smile was famed up and down the street, and the owner of the bar would not let her go because of this smile that shone in his bar, which gave it a friendlier atmosphere and made the cash-desk a font of joy, even though Laura was stupid and couldn't add. What did it matter? No one cheated Laura, because even the homosexuals who made up the clientele of the bar late at night and on Sunday afternoons felt graced by Laura's steady smile.
Judejahn
was struck by it too. But inhumanity made him blind, and so he failed to realize that here was a childlike creature who was giving her best for no return. He thought, Nice-looking cunt. He saw hair black as lacquer, a doll's face lit up by the smile, he saw her red lips and red fingernails, he wanted to buy her, and in this moneyed street you had to buy or be bought. But again he stood there helpless and foolish and didn't know how to behave, how to address her, he wasn't in uniform now, the girl showed no fear, merely beckoning wouldn't do it. He was ready to shell out a lot of money for her, and in lira any sum seemed enormous. But how should he talk to her? In German? She wouldn't understand.
Judejahn
spoke no Italian. He had picked up a little English. So he asked her in English, not for a beer, but for a large Scotch. Smiling automatically, Laura gave him his token and directed him automatically to the fellow in the purple tails. 'A large King George.' 'Ice?' 'No.' 'Soda?' 'No.' The conversation didn't develop.
Judejahn
drank his whisky down. He was angry. He could only give orders. He couldn't even say a couple of friendly words to a whore. Maybe she was a Jewess? You couldn't spot them so easily in Italy. But he was little Gottlieb again, the son of the primary schoolteacher, who couldn't keep up with his class. He stood there, as he had once stood in one of his father's hand-me-down suits among his richer classmates in their sailor suits. Should he have another whisky? Whisky was a man's drink. Great lords drank their Scotch in silence, became drunks and lost the war.
Judejahn
decided against another whisky, though he wanted one; he was afraid the barman and the beautiful girl behind the cash-desk would laugh at him for being tongue-tied. But how many times had the taciturn customer seen the laughter freeze on the faces of others? That was the question!
Judejahn
made a note of the bar. He thought, I'll get you, see if I don't. And Laura expended her sweet smile on his broad back. Nothing told her he was a killer. She thought (if she thought anything at all, because thinking was not in her nature; instead she went in for a kind of vegetative musing), Family man, here on business, straight, chance client, showing off with those dark glasses. He was bored here, he won't be back. And if he did come back, he would come back on her account, and she would realize that it was on her account, and she would like him in spite of the dark glasses, because the homosexuals who came here in the evening bored Laura, they put their trust in any man who smelled of man, even if she had nothing against homosexuals, who, after all, provided her with a living.