The Phoenix Land (15 page)

That evening, when Mr and Mrs Andorján and I sat down to dinner, we found the hotel restaurant almost empty, while there also seemed to be fewer waiters about. The hotel’s main entrance had been locked and barred far earlier than usual. We wondered then what we should do, finding it somewhat ironic that as
foreigners
in Berlin we should be trapped there by a revolution with which we had nothing to do.

Mrs Andorján was anxious to get to Paris by way of Copenhagen, and so her husband decided to accompany her as far as Holland before going on to Sweden in his capacity as
correspondent
of the Budapest evening paper
Az Est
. I also wanted to go to Sweden, but here we were, three of us – or rather four of us counting Lolotte – stuck in Berlin, unable to budge either forwards or backwards.

There was something ineffably comical about our situation, which that night proved to be noisier than ever before, with the
sound of artillery fire from the direction of the imperial palace. We could see, too, flames that meant either a burning building or that the combatants were using flame-throwers.

The following morning it was impossible to leave the hotel since a battle was raging round the gates of the Tiergarten. We were then told that the Spartacists had occupied the park during the night and were now being besieged there by government troops. Sounds of fighting were also heard from behind the
university
and from one of the army barracks. Our hotel was
strategically
placed right at the epicentre of all this, and so on that day Berlin could not have offered us any place more interesting!

Andorján then went to see the Berlin correspondent of
Az Est
who lived somewhere near the Tempelhoferfeld
36
, while his wife and I spent the day gazing out of our windows and, whenever there was a brief lull in the hail of bullets, taking Lolotte for a walk. At midday the hotel’s manager told us that we could only stay until that evening or, at the latest, the next morning as the food supply depot had been taken by the Spartacists, which meant he would no longer be able to feed us. He had decided, in these
circumstances
, to shut up shop, and we could go wherever we chose!

When Andorján came back we discussed this new situation. A little later he went out again and by evening was back with the joyful news that he had managed to hire a private taxi whose driver was prepared to take us to Warnemünde, where one could take a ship to Copenhagen. The taxi driver had demanded a huge sum of money but as by then none of us was in a bargaining mood we at once agreed to split the fare and hop! Away we would go, whatever the cost!

As we had to quit the hotel the following morning we decided to send all our luggage as early as possible to the
Az Est
offices at the south end of Friedrichstrasse, while I would try to get Danish visas in the forenoon and rejoin the others as soon as
possible
at the newspaper office. From there we could set off
unobtrusively
.

The next day was 9 January. I entrusted my own small amount of luggage to the care of the Andorjáns and started off to find the Danish Embassy, which was somewhere behind the parliament building and between the river Spree and the Tiergarten.

First of all I had to head north because it was obvious that no one could go directly through Pariser Platz and the park gates as that was where two opposing forces were face to face.
Accordingly
I had somehow to get to the other side of the Spree and approach the embassy from behind.

After waiting for a moment of calm I managed to get across Unter den Linden, where all the shops were shut, and walked briskly along the almost deserted sidewalk. Just beyond the Friedrichstrasse station, in that already suburban district, the atmosphere changed dramatically.

Everywhere there was bustle and movement. Everyone seemed to be in the street. Butchers’ shops, bakeries and other shops were all open. The bars were full of people, men, women and children, in groups, all talking away and eagerly discussing the news. Everybody seemed to be gazing to the east, in the direction of the Reichsrath, as if they were expecting something from there. Mingling with the crowd were some officers of the guard with great clanking swords (their barracks were not far off) and some other soldiers too, none too clean. I was surprised to note that they were not in battledress. They behaved in a friendly fashion with all the people they met, shaking hands and chatting; and although I was walking at some speed through the crowd, I had the impression that they were telling everyone that they would not fight either for the government or with the Spartacist rebels. Come what may, they did not care! Perhaps to underline their indifference some started flirting with some of the women in a most marked manner, so much so that the girls responded by tripping about, giggling and laughing.

Suddenly the crowd split apart to make way for a sombre group of workers to pass between them.

There were about two hundred of them, marching in rows of four, sombre of countenance and resolute, looking neither to the right nor to the left. They marched in total silence: not a cry, not a sound.

They were all dressed in shabby threadbare working clothes, but the rifles on their shoulders were brand new, their barrels as shiny as if they had just been polished. They looked as if they had been freshly issued from some arsenal that morning.

On they went, with heavy resounding steps, marching southwards in the direction of Unter den Linden and the Brandenburg Gate, marching towards their destiny, silent and serious.

And as they passed by, the gaping crowd fell silent too, as if even they could hear above their heads the rush of wings as the Angel of Death flew over them.

As I continued on my way I met two more such groups.

It was fascinating to be allowed this sight of a revolution in the making. I would have loved to have had more information and, with the writer’s eternal curiosity, badly wanted to stop and ask questions as to what was happening. But I needed to hurry to finish my task. Still, I should mention that the people around me all seemed friendly.

In that part of Berlin there are many streets that spread out star-shaped from the Reichsrath, all starting from the axle of the windows of the palace. I had intended to use one of these on my way to the embassy, but as I reached the corner I was stopped and warned that it was impossible to pass that way because ‘those scoundrels’ were firing their machine-guns there. ‘Don’t
go that
way!’ they said.

I thanked them for their kindness and then reflected that it was possibly my Methuselah hat, so old and battered that it had removed any suspicious hint of the prosperous middle class from my appearance.

Accordingly I made a wide detour by crossing the bridge over the Spree and plunging deep into the Moabit district before
recrossing
the river by the other bridge at the Busch circus. And so I finally got behind the Reichsrath to the Danish Embassy.

Count Moltke, the ambassador, was at home and received me at once. I knew him well from the time, eighteen years before, when he had been one of the junior secretaries at the embassy, and we had spent many merry evenings together. Even though he was now an ambassador he had not changed at all. He came
forward
to greet me with just the same eager smile and simple kindly, gentlemanly manner.

He was much amused at the irony of my finding myself in Berlin and being obliged to make my way to Denmark by taxi,
and immediately gave orders for my visa to be prepared. While the necessary formalities were being completed, we had a pleasant talk.

Outside the noise of gunfire grew louder, and now, from quite close by, there was shouting too. It sounded like a bayonet charge in the trenches.

In fact this was the day on which the Spartacists attacked the parliament building and, perhaps for the sake of variety, had chosen to do it from the Tiergarten side. And so, with my usual unfailing instinct, I had managed to drop myself right in the middle of it all – just where ‘something was going on’!

Moltke most kindly made me stay with him until the fighting died down; and so we went on talking until some degree of peace seemed to have returned to the streets.

It was already one o’clock by the time I had reached the other side of Friedrichstrasse and out to the Tempelhofeld. I had managed to hobble there in a good old-fashioned Berlin
droschke
, which I had been lucky to catch. As the old nag trotted calmly through the city I could imagine him muttering to himself:
‘I’ve
seen things much odder than this!’ As it was, he never hurried nor seemed in the least unnerved.

The taxi, fully loaded, was already waiting, and so we set off at once.

We were filled with joy, not because of the seats, which were execrable, but simply because we were on our way at last.

The car was a small, old-fashioned, closed taxi. Our luggage was piled high on the roof and on the seat beside the driver. Inside there were two folding seats – one also piled high with luggage, while on the other perched Andorján. On the back seat I sat with Mrs Andorján. On my lap was a travelling bag and a rolled and strapped plaid rug. On Mrs Andorján’s lap was a basket and, on top of that, the dog Lolotte. Until that moment I had not noticed how grossly fat the dog was; she was like a
hippopotamus
in that tightly packed space.

It was two o’clock in the afternoon when we finally took to the road.

When we first started I was disconcerted to see that we were not heading north, where our destination lay, but driving further and further towards the west. On and on we went, further and further from the road to Strelitz, where we would have been going, passing along little-used streets in the wrong direction!

As far as I could tell by peering round our mountains of
baggage
, we seemed to be somewhere in Charlottenburg, as indeed we were, for in a few moments we drove past the royal palace there. The suddenly we turned north, still by way of narrow deserted side streets.

At first I had wondered if our man was not just driving at random, but Andorján had assured me that he had already agreed to these detours, for otherwise we might not have been able to get out of the city.

Their strategy proved right and soon gave us proof of what an intelligent driver we had. Taking always deserted side-streets he would turn off the moment he saw three or four men standing about, turning left or right and doubling back to rejoin his route further on. He repeated this manoeuvre God knows how many times without a flicker of hesitation. In this way we zigzagged across the city suburbs for about two hours before we were able to join the highway north.

A couple of times some sinister-looking men tried to bar our way – on one occasion even grabbing at the car door – but our driver just cursed them in the best Treptow manner (Berlin’s most colourful dialect!) and put his foot down, leaving them behind as we sped on.

This was when nemesis caught up with Lolotte. The moment those men came to the car window she started to bark – and what a slapping her fat back then got from her frightened mistress! This was no little satisfaction to me.

It was a great relief when we finally found ourselves out in the open country with fields and woodlands on either side of the road.

Finally night fell, the ink-black darkness of a January night, a darkness to cloak the fugitives’ flight.

We motored on like this for a long time, sometimes managing to doze off in spite of the discomfort.

For a long time nothing untoward happened.

Then, suddenly, we stopped. We were surrounded by moving lights, some of which were directed at the inside of the car. All around were soldiers in battledress and tin helmets. An officer stepped up and asked for identification.

When our passports were returned to us he asked where we had come from.

‘From Berlin,’ we replied.

He then declared we could go no further, and when we asked why, since our visas were in order, he replied: ‘The Berlin Police Department’s certificate of residence is missing. This confirms the length of your stay. You should have reported your arrival and your departure. That is the law!’

We tried to explain that there was a revolution going on in Berlin and that even if police headquarters was still standing, the chief commissioner’s office was under siege and no one not bent on suicide could have got anywhere near it.

None of this interested him. It was as if nothing we had said had even penetrated his head!

‘Laut Verordnung müssen Sie sich das Polizeiattest verschaffen!’
– ‘It is clearly ordered that you must produce the Police certificate!’ From this he would not budge and repeated his demand that we return at once Berlin to obtain the necessary
certificate
.

The obduracy of this officer in his determination to apply the letter of the law put us in a hellish position from which we were saved only by a tremendous bluff on the part of Andorján. He said he knew all about this
Verordnung
but that, according to its text, he had not been bound to declare his presence to the police since he was the new Hungarian government’s ambassador to Copenhagen.

Upon this the officer stood back aghast, totally unable to remember what the
Verordnung
had said about diplomats, and began to falter. Andorján at once said menacingly that if we were not let through immediately he would at once send a dispatch to his government from where they stood!

The risk was too great for the German, who stood back and saluted.

All this took place at Neu-Strelitz. It was then about 8 p.m., and we were a hundred kilometres or so from Berlin.

Our original plan had been to have dinner there, but now we did not dare stop and give time for the officer to start thinking for himself. So we rushed on into the night.

Again it was a long, long road and it was about one o’clock when we finally arrived at Warnemünde.