The Berlin Connection (39 page)

A friendly registrar in a black robe passed out a few routine jokes as he checked the marriage papers. Then he went into a brief formal address. The family, he said, is the foundation of the state; marriage, the most perfect bond between two people. He concluded, "Man and wife are complete in their togetherness, the happiness of marriage is an essential condition for your future. This is the happiness I wish both of you."

We rose and Schauberg's "yes" in response to the registrar's formal question about his acceptance of Kathe as his wife was very solemn.

Kathe tried twice; her response was a sob. In a third effort she managed an almost inaudible "yes."

When they exchanged rings Kathe's hand shook so much that Schauberg dropped the ring. I picked it up.

We signed our names to several documents and then a general kissing began. It was an emotional spree. Even the registrar had his share of kisses.

The Mousetrap could not seem to control herself. I led her to the empty dark anteroom where I gave her a drink from my pocket flask. The overwrought girl calmed down gradually while the other guests left the registrar's office.

Suddenly Schauberg, very excited, appeared by my side. "Follow me, quickly.'*

He pulled me into the registrar's office. A telephone receiver was lying next to the phone on a desk. "My student is on the phone. The registrar was nice enough to leave us alone for a few moments."

"What's the matter?"

"Your stepdaughter. This time he didn't lose her."

I picked up the receiver.

"Yes?"

An anxious voice inquired, "Mr. Jordan?"

"Yes. Speaking."

"I hope I'm not going to get into any trouble if I tell you . . . listen, I would deny everything if the police got onto this!"

"You'll get money if you tell me! You'll get trouble only if you don't talk! Where are you?"

"Lietzenburger Street, corner of Laeiz-Allee. They parked the car a little farther down the road. The man and your . . . and the girl went into the house there."

"What does the man look like?"

"I only saw his back. Still young, I think. He drives a red Jaguar. My taxi driver said—"

"What?"

". . . that he drove much too fast. Once—"

"Hold it! The car. Can you read its number?"

"HH-HClll."

"I'll be there as soon as I can. Stay where you are. Only if they leave the house are you to follow them." I dropped the receiver and ran from the office without a word to Schauberg. I hurried down the stairs. Started ray car. I realized that Fd just gone through a stop sign.

Jaguar. Red and small.

HH-HClll.

An easy number to remember.

The car belonged to the good-lookine Hennessv. Jakv's assistant: The man who was going to marrv the cutter Ursula Konig who reminded him so much of Shirley.

6

He was standing on the corner in his thin worn coat, his nose red and swollen. He sneezed often. "Down there." Schauberg's friend pointed with his chin.

The street was a wide busy street with manv new buildings. Between them, spared by the war, a few old low-storied houses. Traffic was heavy. Streetcars, cars and buses raced past us.

It was snowing large watery flakes. The skv, the street, the houses, the lights were gray and drearv. Slush covered the street. The dirty brown water collected in manv places and every time a car went through one of those little lakes fountains sprayed in all directions.

"They're still inside," said the student.

"Which house?"

"The green one."

The little one-storied house about a hundred vards away was squashed between two modem high-rise build-

ings of steel and glass, lost, pathetic, unable to breathe. Many years had bleached and eroded its pale-green paint. Gates were on all its windows, each with sheer curtains. There was a small door within a larger green wooden door. Both were closed.

"How long have they been there?"

"Since twelve-forty-eight."

A half hour.

"How did they get in?"

"You see the old bell pull? The young man rang and somebody opened the little door."

"Who opened?"

"I couldn't see that." He sneezed again. "Do you still need me?"

"No." I gave him some money. "Go to bed. Drink a hot toddy."

He nodded sullenly and slunk away, his head bowed, his shoulders bent. I walked down the street. Traffic had become heavier. Thousands of people were going home. The weekend had begun.

There was no name under the old bell pull. No name anywhere. It was a house from a different time, a time long past, a house without life. A dead house.

I was going to ring the bell but I felt strangely uneasy and I did not. I leaned against the green door and waited. A church bell chimed one-fifteen.

I was still there at two o'clock.

The traffic had not abated. It was snowing more heavily and the snow did not melt. I was cold. Ten minutes past two my patience was exhausted. Just as I reached for the bell I heard the voices of two men and Shirley's too.

Laughing. They came closer. Steps approached the other side of the door.

I dropped my hand from the bell and stepped to the left. The Uttle door within the large one was on the right. It opened. Laughing, Shirley and Hennessy stepped out. Shirley said, *'Auf Wiederschen. And thank you very much."

Young Hennessy, his face a healthy pink, said, "Bye, Thomas."

I could not see the man they were talking to. I only heard his voice. "Take care, you two."

It was a young voice.

The little green door closed. Shirley pushed her arm through Hennessy's. She was wearing her white lamb fur coat, black stockings and black, low-heeled shoes. She had tied a black scarf over her auburn hair.

Hennessy said, "Shall we have a quick cup of coffee?"

Shirley began, "No, I have to get back to the hotel. My stepfather—" They turned to leave and Shirley saw me. Hennessy took a step backward. His ruddy complexion had become very pale. Shirley said softly, "How terrible."

"Is it terrible?" I could hardly speak.

"It's too soon. It's just too soon!"

A passing bus splashed us.

"What's too soon?"

"I did ask you to be patient for a little longer . . . just a few more days ... I would have told you everything ..."

I was silent.

"Now look, Mr. Jordan—" began Hennessy.

"If you don't keep quiet I'm going to knock your teeth in!"

"Well now, just a minute!"

He was taller; he was younger; he was stronger. I did not care. With my left hand I grabbed the front of his coat and pulled back my right fist.

"Peter," screamed Shirley.

"You have it all wrong, Mr. Jordan." Hennessy was

very pale. He made no move to defend himself; his arms hung down his sides.

"You're meeting secretly. You disappear together for hours. This has been going on for weeks. But I have it all wrong, eh?'*

"Yes," said Shirley. "Oh, my God, why didn't you give me a little more time?"

"What did you do here?"

"We came to see my brother."

"You have a very hospitable brother. Saves you going to a hotel."

He blushed and his hands too were fists now.

"Don't," said Shirley to him. "Please, don't, Werner."

Werner!

I hit him.

He crashed against the green door. His nose began to bleed. He was going to lunge for me but Shirley threw herself between us. People stopped and watched. A httle boy was dehghted. "Mommy, look! Look at those two guys!"

Shkley pushed Hennessy back. "Please . . . leave hun be..."

"If he thinks he can beat me up—"

"I'll give you some more in a minute!"

The httle green door was opened again by a man of about thirty-five, slim, tall, with closely cropped hair. "What happened? What's going on?"

"I'm sorry. Please forgive us!" Shirley's voice quavered. "This is my stepfather. He ... he waited for me here. I have to explain a lot to him ... and to you too ... Peter, this is Father Thomas ,. ."

"You . . . you are his brother?" I stammered.

"That's right, sir," answered the slim young man in the [black garb of the Catholic priest, "I'm Werner's brother."

"He lives in the little house. The old church is in back of it, one street over. You can't see it from here. The new high-rise building blocks the view of it," said Shirley. It was ten minutes later. We were sitting in a modem ice cream parlor opposite the green little house. It was stiU snowing and traffic was still heavy. The parlor was empty save for a very young couple far too much in love to be aware of us. Their bookbags were on chairs next to them. From the jukebox came the screeching voice of a German juvenile recording star. "This is the rhythm of our time ..."

I remember everything exactly: the giggling couple, the reverberating music, the colorful steel furnishings, the tUed floor, the newspaper on the next table. Alarm at the Riviera. Dam Bursts at Frejus. Three Hundred Fifty Dead. Mass Grave under Mud. Town Threatened by Epidemics.

Hennessy had returned to his brother's house. His nose had bled furiously. I had apologized to him and to the young priest. Then I had said to Shirley, "Let's go to the place across the street."

Now we sat by a window.

"So," I said.

Her eyes were pleading. "You . . . you won't let me have a few more days?"

"No."

"And if I swear—"

"Shirley, you must teU me. Now. Here. We are not going to leave here until you've told me the truth."

"The truth will be painful for you."

"It doesn't matter."

"I don't want to hurt you."

"You'll hurt me more if you don't tell me the truth."

378

"My Gcxi," said Shirley. "Good God, why did You let this happen?"

"What?"

"That you found us. That you force me to tell you today. Must I really?"

"Yes," I said. "You must. I know you won't lie to me. The truth, Shirley. Right now."

"The truth," she repeated helplessly. "The truth is very simple." She had taken off her coat. Her black wool dress was one of my great favorites. Her auburn pony tail fell forward over her right shoulder. "But I could never tell it to you."

"Why not?"

"You would have forbidden me to come here. You forbade me to see Father Horace at home too."

Fear made me freeze. Hoarsely I said, "You confessed to the priest?"

The waitress came.

"A chocolate milk," ordered Shirley.

"And you, sir?"

"Whisky."

"I'm sorry, we don't serve alcohol here."

"Something else then."

"Excuse me, but something else—"

"Something else! I don't care what!"

"Another chocolate milk," said Shirley. The waitress shrugged her shoulders and left. "Why are you shouting at her? It's not her fault."

"I asked you a question.*'

"No, Peter, I did not go to confession. Never. I wanted to many times. I almost did the day ... the day the child was ..."

"What stopped you?"

"You."

"I?"

"I had promised you not to go to confession, you remember? That time I called you at the hotel. You told

me: Don't tell anybody. You must not go to Father Horace! You must not go to confession! Do you remember?"

I nodded.

"I never did. I never will. Because I promised you; because I love you." The hand she placed on mine was cold yet in her green eyes I saw boundless love.

The waitress served us.

"I'll always love you, Peter. Never another man. Only you."

"I love you too, Shirley! I love only you. Just a few more days, a few insignificant days, then our movie will be finished, then we'll talk to Joan and leave her. Then we'll live together, for always."

"No, Peter," she said.

"No, what?"

Looking out into the swirling snow she whispered, "Why do I have to tell you today? Why today? I can't... it's too soon ... what if something happens ..."

"Shirley, come on! Tell me!"

"I was going to tell you when you had finished your work. When nothing else could go wrong with the movie."

"What were you going to tell me then?"

"That I'm leaving you."

"You ... what?"

"I'm leaving you. We're not going to see each other again."

I tipped my glass. The chocolate milk spread over the table.

"Shirley, you are crazy!'*

"I'm very much sane."

"You said that you love me! Only me!"

"Only you. Always you."

"Then why would you want to leave me?"

She mumbled something.

"I didn't hear what you said."

She blushed, embarrassed. "I can't say it out loud."

"Tell me!"

"I promised God," she answered almost inaudibly. "You—"

"Because you are so ill," she said "I am what?" "You know what I mean."

The waitress came and cleaned up the spilled drink. She mumbled. Now she was angry too.

9

Buses. Streetcars. Trucks.

The snow was falling even heavier now.

I am very calm.

Perfectly calm.

I am truly ill. I hear words which are not really spoken. I experience scenes which are not really happening. It is one of those dreams. One of those dreadful dreams which recur more and more frequently. I hope it is a dream.

It is a dream!

Shirley and I are talking in a dream. I have spoken with Natasha in my dreams. In dreams one talks with many people.

Is it a dream?

"I noticed how different you were as soon as I arrived in Hamburg," Shirley said.

"Different—in what way?"

"You were so tense, restless, nervous, and you did not look well."

"Did Joan notice that too?"

"I don't know. She never mentioned it to me." She swallowed hard, again looking out of the window.

"Go on!"

"It's so difficult..."

"Go on!"

"Then ... then this Mrs. Petrovna ..." • "Petrovna?"

"Dr. Natasha Petrovna."

"What do you know about Dr. Natasha Petrovna?"

"Everything." She stroked my hand. "You only denied knowing her so that we would not worry, that we would not find out."

"Find out what?"